Drawn together by what had happened, the little group silently gathered about Aunt Pol and Durnik. To the east, the sky had begun to lighten, and the rosy blush of dawn touched the few last remaining tatters of the cloud that had covered Cthol Mishrak. The events of the dreadful night had been titanic, but now the night was nearly over, and they stood together, not speaking as they watched the dawn.
The storm that had raged through the long night had passed. For years beyond counting, the universe had been divided against itself, but now it was one again. If there were such things as beginnings, this was a beginning. And so it was, through broken cloud, that the sun rose on the morning of the first day.
Epilogue
THE ISLE OF THE WINDS
Chapter Twenty-five
BELGARION OF RIVA slept very fitfully the night before his wedding. Had he and Ce’Nedra been married in some simple, private little ceremony shortly after his meeting with Torak, things might have gone more smoothly. At that time both he and his flighty little princess had been too tired and too overwhelmed by the events which had taken place to be anything but absolutely honest with each other. During those few short days he had found her to be almost a different person. She had watched his every move with a kind of patient adoration, and she was forever touching him – his hair, his face, his arms – her fingers gentle and curious. The peculiar way she had of coming up to him, no matter who was present or what was going on, and worming her way into the circle of his arm had been, on the whole, rather nice.
Those days had not, however, lasted. Once she had reassured herself that he was all right and that he was really there and not some figment of her imagination which might be snatched away at any moment, Ce’Nedra had gradually changed. He felt somehow like a possession; following her initial delight in ownership, his princess had rather deliberately embarked upon some grand plan of alteration.
And now the day upon which her possession of him was to be formalized was only hours away. His sleep came in fits and starts with dreams mingling peculiarly with memories as he dipped in and out of sleep like a sea bird skimming across the waves.
He was at Faldor’s farm again. Even in his sleep he could hear the ringing of Durnik’s hammer and smell the odors coming from Aunt Pol’s kitchen. Rundorig was there – and Zubrette – and Doroon – and there was Brill, creeping around a corner. He half woke and turned restlessly in the royal bed. That wasn’t possible. Doroon was dead, drowned in the River Mardu, and Brill had vanished forever over the parapet of mile-high Rak Cthol.
And then he was in the palace at Sthiss Tor, and Salmissra, her blatant nudity glowing through her filmy gown, was touching his face with her cold fingers.
But Salmissra was no longer a woman. He had watched her himself as she had changed into a serpent.
Grul the Eldrak hammered at the frozen ground with his iron-shod club, bellowing, “Come ‘Grat, fight!” and Ce’Nedra was screaming. In the chaotic world of dreams half mixed with memories he saw Ctuchik, his face contorted with horror, exploding once more into nothingness in the hanging turret at Rak Cthol.
And then he stood once again in the decaying ruin of Cthol Mishrak, his sword ablaze, and watched as Torak raised his arms to the rolling cloud, weeping tears of fire, and once again he heard the stricken God’s final cry, “Mother!”
He stirred, half rousing and shuddering as he always did when that dream recurred, but dipped almost immediately into sleep again.
He was standing on the deck of Barak’s ship just off the Mallorean coast, listening as King Anheg explained why Barak was chained to the mast.
“We had to do it, Belgarath,” the coarse-faced monarch said mournfully. “Right during the middle of that storm, he turned into a bear! He drove the crew to row toward Mallorea all night long, and then, just before daybreak, he turned back into a man again.”
“Unchain him, Anheg,” Belgarath said disgustedly. “He’s not going to turn into a bear again – not as long as Garion’s safe and well.” Garion rolled over and sat up. That had been a startling revelation.
There had been a purpose behind Barak’s periodic alterations.
“You’re Garion’s defender,” Belgarath had explained to the big man. “That’s why you were born. Any time Garion was in mortal danger, you changed into a bear in order to protect him.”
“You mean to say that I’m a sorcerer?” Barak had demanded incredulously.
“Hardly. The shape-change isn’t all that difficult, and you didn’t do it consciously. The Prophecy did the work, not you.”
Barak had spent the rest of the voyage back to Mishrak ac Thull trying to come up with a tastefully understated way to add that concept to his coat of arms.
Garion climbed out of his high, canopied bed and went to the window. The stars in the spring sky looked down at the sleeping city of Rivan and at the dark waters of the Sea of the Winds beyond the harbor. There was no sign that dawn was anywhere near yet. Garion sighed, poured himself a drink of water from the pitcher on the table, and went back to bed and his troubled sleep.
He was at Thull Zelik, and Hettar and Mandorallen were reporting on the activities of ‘Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor. “He’s laying siege to Rak Goska right now,” hawk-faced Hettar was saying. There had been a peculiar softening in Hettar’s face since Garion had last seen him, as if something very significant had happened. The tall Algar turned to Garion. “Eventually you’re going to have to do something about ‘Zakath,” he said. “I don’t think you want him roaming around at will in this part of the world.”
“Why me?” Garion asked without thinking.
“You’re Overlord of the West, remember?”
Once again Garion awoke. Sooner or later he would have to deal with ‘Zakath; there was no question about that. Maybe after the wedding, he’d have time to consider the matter. That thought, however, stopped him. Strangely, he had no conception of anything that might happen after the wedding. It stood before him like some huge door that led into a place he had never been. ‘Zakath would have to wait. Garion had to get through the wedding first.
Half asleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, Garion relived a significant little exchange between himself and her Imperial Highness.
“It’s stupid, Ce’Nedra,” he was protesting. “I’m not going to fight anybody, so why should I ride in waving my sword?”
“They deserve to see you, Garion,” she explained as if talking to a child. “They left their homes and rode into battle at your summons.”
“I didn’t summon anybody.”
“I did it in your behalf. They’re a very good army, really, and I raised them all by myself. Aren’t you proud of me?”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“You were too proud to ask. That’s one of your failings, Garion. You must never be too proud to ask the people who love you for help. Every man in the army loves you. They followed me because of you. Is it too much trouble for the great Overlord of the West to reward his faithful soldiers with just a little bit of a display or appreciation? Or have you become too grand and lofty for simple gratitude?”
“You’re twisting things, Ce’Nedra. You do that a lot, you know.” But Ce’Nedra had already moved on as if the entire matter were settled. “And of course you will wear your crown – and some nice armor. I think a mail shirt would be appropriate.”
“I’m not going to make a clown of myself just to satisfy your urges toward cheap theatricality.”
Her eyes filled. Her lower lip trembled. “You don’t love me any more,” she accused him in a quavering little voice.
Garion groaned even in his sleep. It always came down to that. She won every single argument with that artful bit of deception. He knew it was not genuine. He knew that she only did it to get her own way, but he was absolutely defenseless against it. It might have nothing whatsoever to do with the matter under discussion, but she always managed to twist things around until she could unleash that devastating accusation, and all hope of his winning even the smallest point was immediately lost. Where had she learned to be so heartlessly dishonest?
And so it was that Garion, dressed in mail, wearing his crown and self consciously holding his flaming sword aloft, had ridden into the forts atop the eastern escarpment to the thunderous cheers of Ce’Nedra’s army.
So much had happened since Garion and Silk and Belgarath had crept from the citadel at Riva the previous spring. The young king lay musing in his high, canopied bed, having almost given up on sleep. Ce’Nedra had in fact raised an army. As he had heard more of the details, he had been more and more astonished – not only by her audacity but also by the enormous amount of energy and sheer will she had expended in the process. She had been guided and assisted, certainly, but the initial concept had been hers. His admiration for her was tinged slightly with apprehension. He was going to marry a very strongminded young woman – and one who was not overly troubled by scruples.