“It’s only logical, Garion,” Durnik toid him quite seriously. “When you’re starting something—even the future—you almost have to go back to the beginning, don’t you?”
“Why don’t we just assume that’s the explanation,” Belgarath said. “Things got stopped. Now they’re moving again, and everybody got what he deserved. We got the good things, and the other side got the bad ones. It sort of proves that we picked the right side, doesn’t it?”
Garion suddenly laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Durnik asked him.
“Just before our baby was born, Ce’Nedra got a letter from Velvet—Liselle. She’s managed to push Silk into naming a day. It’s probably what he deserves, all right, but I imagine his eyes get a little wild every time he thinks about it.”
“When’s the wedding?” Durnik asked.
“Next summer sometime. Liselle wants to be sure that everybody can be in Boktor to witness her triumph over our friend.”
“That’s a spiteful thing to say, Garion,” Durnik reproved.
EPILOGUE
373
“It’s probably the truth, though.” Belgarath grinned. He reached inside his tunic and drew out an earthenware flagon. “A touch of something to ward off the chill?” he offered. “It’s some of that potent UIgo brew.”
“Grandmother won’t like that,” Garion warned.
“Your grandmother isn’t here right now, Garion. She’s a little busy at the moment.”
The three of them stood atop the snowy hill looking down at the farmstead. The thatched roof was thick with snow, and icicles hung like glittering jewels from the eaves. The small panes of the windows glowed with golden lamplight that fell softly out over the gently mounded snow in the dooryard, and the ruddy glow from the forge where the menfolk had spent the afternoon boiling unneeded water came softly from the shed. A column of blue woodsmoke rose straight and unwavering from the chimney, reaching so high that it seemed almost to be lost among the stars.
A peculiar sound filled Canon’s ears, and it took him awhile to identify it. It was the Orb, and it was singing a song of unutterable longing.
The silence seemed almost palpable now, and the glittering stars seemed to draw even closer to the snowy earth.
And then from the cottage there came a single cry. It was an infant voice, and it was not filled with that indignation and discomfort so common in the cries of most newboms but rather with a kind of wonder and ineffable joy.
A gentle blue light suddenly came from the Orb, and the longing in its note turned to joy.
As the song of the Orb faded, Durnik drew in a deep breath. “Why don’t we go down?” he said.
“We’d better wait a bit,” Belgarath suggested. “There’s always some cleaning up to do at this point, and we should give Pol a chance to brush her hair.”
“I don’t care if her hair’s a little mussed,” Dumik said.
“She does. Let’s wait.”
Strangely, the Orb had renewed its yearning melody. The silence remained as palpable as before, broken now only by the thin, joyous wail of Polgara’s baby.
The three friends stood on the hilltop, their breath steaming in the cold night air as they listened to that distant, piping song.
“Good healthy lungs,” Garion complimented the new father.
Durnik grinned briefly at him, still listening to the cry of his child.
374
SEERESS OF KELL
And then that single cry was not alone. Another voice joined in.
This time the light that burst from the Orb was a sudden blaze of blue that illuminated the snow around them, and its joyous song was a triumphant organ note. -“I knew it!” Belgarath exclaimed with delight.
“TWo?” Durnik gasped. “Twins?”
“It’s a family trait, Durnik.” Belgarath laughed, catching the smith in a rough embrace.
“Are they boys or girls?” Durnik demanded.
“What difference does it make right now? But we might as well go on down there and find out, I suppose.”
But as they turned, they saw that something seemed to be happening in the vicinity of the cottage. They stared at the single shaft of intensely blue light descending from the starry sky, a shaft that was soon joined by one of a paler blue. The cottage was bathed in their azure light as the two lights from the heavens touched the snow. Then those lights were joined by other lights,. red and yellow and green and lavender and a shade Garion could not even put a name to. Last, the lights from the sky were joined by a single shaft of blinding white. Like the colors of the rainbow, the lights stood in a semicircle in the dooryard, and the brilliant columns from which they had descended rose above them to fill the night sky with a pulsing curtain of many-hued, shifting light.
And then the Gods were there, standing in the dooryard with their song joining with that of the Orb in a mighty benediction.
Eriond turned to look up the hill at them. His gentle face glowed with a smile of purest joy. He beckoned to them. “Join us,” he said,
“Now it is complete.” UL’s voice was also joyous. “All is well now.”
Then, with the God-light bathing their faces, the three friends started down from the snowy hilltop to view that miracle, which, though it is most commonplace, is a miracle nonetheless.
And so, my children, the time has come to close
the book. There will be other days and other stories,
but this tale is finished.
About the Author
David Eddings was born in Spokane, Washington, in 1931 and was raised in the Puget Sound area north of Seattle. He received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Reed College in Portland, Oregon, in 1954 and a Master of Arts degree from the University of Washington in 1961. He has served in the United States Army, worked as a buyer for the Boeing Company, has been a grocery clerk, and has taught English. He has lived in many parts of the United States.
His first novel, High Hunt (published by Putnam in 1973), was a contemporary adventure story. The field of fantasy has always been of interest to him, however, and he turned to The Belgariad in an effort to develop certain technical and philosophical ideas concerning that genre.
Eddings currently resides with his wife, Leigh, in the Southwest.