Enchanters' End Game by David Eddings

Belgarath nodded gravely.

  ‘It’s just that he was so alone at the end. I took everything away from him before I killed him. I’m not very proud of that.’

  ‘As you say, it had to be done. It was the only way you could beat him.’

  ‘I just wish I could have left him something, that’s all.’

  From the ruins of the shattered iron tower, a sad little procession emerged. Aunt Pol, Silk, and Ce’Nedra were bringing out the body of Durnik the smith, and walking gravely beside them came Errand.

  A pang of almost unbearable grief ran through Garion. Durnik, his oldest friend, was pale and dead, and in that vast internal upheaval that had preceded the duel with Torak, Garion had not even been able to mourn.

  ‘It was necessary, you understand,’ Belgarath said sadly.

  ‘Why? Why did Durnik have to die, Grandfather?’ Garion’s voice was anguished, and tears stood openly in his eyes.

  ‘Because his death gave your Aunt the will to resist Torak. That’s always been the one flaw in the Prophecy – the possibility that Pol might yield. All Torak needed was one person to love him. It would have made him invincible.’

  ‘What would have happened if she had gone to him?’

  ‘You’d have lost the fight. That’s why Durnik had to die.’ The old man sighed regretfully. ‘I wish it could have been otherwise, but it was inevitable.’

  The three who had borne Durnik from the broken tomb gently laid his still form on the ground, and Ce’Nedra sadly joined Belgarath and Garion. Wordlessly, the tiny girl slipped her hand into Garion’s, and the three of them stood, silently watching as Aunt Pol, past tears now, gently straightened Durnik’s arms at his sides and then covered him with her cloak. She sat then upon the earth, took his head into her lap and almost absently stroked his hair, her head bowed over his in her grief.

  ‘I can’t bear it,’ Ce’Nedra suddenly sobbed, and she buried her face in Garion’s shoulder and began to weep.

  And then there was light where there had been only darkness before. As Garion stared, a single beam of brilliant blue light descended from the broken and tattered cloud rolling overhead. The entire ruin seemed bathed in its intense radiance as the light touched the earth. Like a great, glowing column, the beam of light reached down to the earth from the night sky, was joined by other beams, red and yellow and green and shades Garion could not even name. Like the colors at the foot of a sudden rainbow, the great columns of light stood side by side on the other side of Torak’s fallen body. Then, indistinctly, Garion perceived that a glowing, incandescent figure stood within the center of each column of light. The Gods had returned to mourn the passing of their brother. Garion recognized Aldur, and he could easily identify each of the others. Mara still wept, and dead-eyed Issa seemed to undulate, serpentlike, as he stood within his glowing column of pale green light. Nedra’s face was shrewd, and Chaldan’s proud. Belar, the blond-haired, boyish God of the Alorns, had a roguish, impudent look about him, though his face, like those of his brothers, was sad at the death of Torak. The Gods had returned to earth in glowing light and with sound as well. The reeking air of Cthol Mishrak was suddenly alive with that sound as each colored beam of light gave off a different note, the notes joining in a harmony so profound that it seemed the answer to every question that had ever been asked.

  And finally, joining the other columns of light, a single, blindingly white beam slowly descended, and within the center of that radiance stood the white-robed form of UL, that strange God whom Garion had seen once in Prolgu.

  The figure of Aldur, still embraced in its glowing blue nimbus, approached the ancient God of Ulgo. ‘Father,’ Aldur said sadly, ‘our brother, thy son Torak, is slain.’

  Shimmering and incandescent, the form of UL, father of the other Gods, moved across the rubble-strewn ground to stand over the silent body of Torak. ‘I tried to turn thee from this path, my son,’ he said softly, and a single tear coursed its way down his eternal cheek. Then he turned back to Aldur. ‘Take up the form of thy brother, my son, and place it upon some more suitable resting place. It grieves me to see him lie so low upon the earth.’

  Aldur, joined by his brethren, took up the body of Torak and placed it upon a large block of stone lying amid the ancient ruins, and then, standing in a quiet gleaming circle about the bier, they mourned the passing of the God of Angarak.

  Unafraid as always, seemingly not even aware that the glowing figures which had descended from the sky were not human, Errand walked quite confidently to the shining form of UL. He reached out his small hand and tugged insistently at the God’s robe. ‘Father,’ he said.

  UL looked down at the small face.

  ‘Father,’ Errand repeated, perhaps echoing Aldur, who had in his use of that name, revealed at last the true identity of the God of Ulgo. ‘Father,’ the little boy said again. Then he turned and pointed at the silent form of Durnik. ‘Errand!’ It was in some strange way more a command than a request.

  The face of UL became troubled. ‘It is not possible, child,’ he replied.

  ‘Father,’ the little boy insisted, ‘Errand.’

  UL looked inquiringly at Garion, his eyes profoundly unsettled. ‘The child’s request is serious,’ he said gravely, speaking not to Garion but to that other awareness, ‘and it places an obligation upon me – but it crosses the uncrossable boundary.’

  ‘The boundary must remain intact,’ the dry voice replied through Garion’s lips. ‘Thy sons are passionate, Holy UL, and having once crossed this line, they may be tempted to do so again, and perhaps in one such crossing they may change that which must not be changed. Let us not provide the instrumentality whereby Destiny must once more follow two divergent paths.’

  UL sighed.

  ‘Wilt thou and thy sons, however, lend of your power to my instrument so that he may cross the boundary?’

  UL looked startled at that.

  ‘Thus will the boundary be protected, and thy obligation shall be met. It can happen in no other way.’

  ‘Let it be as thou wilt,’ UL agreed. He turned then and a peculiar look passed between the father of the Gods and his eldest son, Aldur.

  Aldur, still bathed in blue light, turned from his sad contemplation of his dead brother toward Aunt Pol, who was still bowed over Durnik’s body.

  ‘Be comforted, my daughter,’ he told her. ‘His sacrifice was for thee and for all mankind.’

  ‘That is slight comfort, Master,’ she replied, her eyes full of tears. ‘This was the best of men.’

  ‘All men die, my daughter, the best as well as the worst. In thy life thou hast seen this many times.’

  ‘Yes, Master, but this is different.’

  ‘In what way, beloved Polgara?’ Aldur seemed to be pressing her for some reason.

  Aunt Pol bit her lip. ‘Because I loved him, Master,’ she replied finally.

  The faintest touch of a smile appeared on Aldur’s lips. ‘Is that so difficult to say, my daughter?’

  She could not answer, but bowed again over Durnik’s lifeless form.

  ‘Wouldst thou have us restore this man to thee, my daughter?’ Aldur asked then.

  Her face came up sharply. ‘That isn’t possible, Master,’ she said. ‘Please don’t toy with my grief like this.’

  ‘Let us, however, consider that it may be possible,’ he told her. ‘Wouldst thou have us restore him?’

  ‘With all my heart, Master.’

  ‘To what end? What task hast thou for this man that demands his restoration?’

  She bit her lip again. ‘To be my husband, Master,’ she blurted finally with a trace of defiance in her voice.

  ‘And was that also so very difficult to say? Art thou sure, however, that this love of thine derives not from thy grief, and that once this good man is restored, thy mind might not turn away from him? He is, thou must admit, most ordinary.’

  ‘Durnik has never been ordinary,’ she flared with sudden heat. ‘He is the best and bravest man in the world.’

&
nbsp; ‘I meant him no disrespect, Polgara, but no power doth infuse him. The force of the Will and the Word is not in him.’

  ‘Is that so important, Master?’

  ‘Marriage must be a joining of equals, my daughter. How could this good, brave man be husband to thee, so long as thy power remains?’

  She looked at him helplessly.

  ‘Couldst thou, Polgara, limit thyself? Wouldst thou become his equal? With power no more than his?’

  She stared at him, hesitated, then blurted the one word, ‘Yes.’

  Garion was shocked – not so much by Aunt Pol’s acceptance but rather by Aldur’s request. Aunt Pol’s power was central to her very being. To remove it from her would leave her with nothing. What would she be without it? How could she even live without it? It was a cruel price to demand, and Garion had believed that Aldur was a kindly God.

  ‘I will accept thy sacrifice, Polgara,’ Aldur was saying. ‘I will speak with my father and my brothers. For good and proper reasons, we have denied ourselves this power, and we must all agree to it before any of us might attempt this violation of the natural order of things.’ And he returned to the sorrowful gathering about Torak’s bier.

  ‘How could he do that?’ Garion, his arm still about Ce’Nedra, demanded of his grandfather.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Ask her to give up her power like that? It will destroy her.’

  ‘She’s much stronger than you think, Garion,’ Belgarath assured him, ‘and Aldur’s reasoning is sound. No marriage could survive that kind of inequality.’

  Among the glowing Gods, however, one angry voice was raised. ‘No!’ It was Mara, the weeping God of the Marags, who were no more. ‘Why should one man be restored when all my slaughtered children still lie cold and dead? Did Aldur hear my pleas? Did he come to my aid when my children died? I will not consent.’

  ‘I hadn’t counted on that,’ Belgarath muttered. ‘I’d better take steps before this goes any further.’ He crossed the littered ground and bowed respectfully. ‘Forgive my intrusion,’ he said, ‘but would my Master’s brother accept a woman of the Marags as a gift in exchange for his aid in restoring Durnik?’

  Mara’s tears, which had been perpetual, suddenly stopped, and his face became incredulous. ‘A Marag woman?’ he demanded sharply. ‘None such exist. I would have known in my heart if one of my children had survived in Maragor.’

  ‘Of a certainty, Lord Mara,’ Belgarath agreed quickly. ‘But what of those few who were carried out of Maragor to dwell in perpetual slavery?’

  ‘Knowest thou of such a one, Belgarath?’ Mara asked with a desperate eagerness.

  The old man nodded. ‘We discovered her in the slave pens beneath Rak Cthol, Lord Mara. Her name is Taiba. She is but one, but a race may be restored by such a one as she – particularly if she be watched over by a loving God.’

  ‘Where is Taiba, my daughter?’

  ‘In the care of Relg, the Ulgo,’ Belgarath replied. ‘They seem quite attached to each other,’ he added blandly.

  Mara looked at him thoughtfully. ‘A race may not be restored by one,’ he said, ‘even in the care of the most loving God. It requires two.’ He turned to UL. ‘Wilt thou give me this Ulgo, Father?’ he asked. ‘He shall become the sire of my people.’

  UL gave Belgarath a rather penetrating look. ‘Thou knowest that Relg hath another duty to perform,’ he said pointedly.

  Belgarath’s expression was almost impish. ‘I am certain that the Gorim and I can work out the details, Most Holy,’ he declared with utmost self-confidence.

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something, Belgarath?’ Silk asked diffidently, as if not wanting to intrude. ‘Relg has this little problem, remember?’

  Belgarath gave the little man a hard look.

  ‘I just thought I ought to mention it,’ Silk said innocently.

  Mara looked sharply at them. ‘What is this?’

  ‘A minor difficulty, Lord Mara,’ Belgarath said quickly. ‘One I’m certain Taiba can overcome. I have the utmost confidence in her in that particular area.’

  ‘I will have the truth of this,’ Mara said firmly.

  Belgarath sighed and gave Silk another grim look. ‘Relg is a zealot, Lord Mara,’ he explained. ‘For religious reasons, he avoids certain – ah – forms of human contact.’

  ‘Fatherhood is his destiny,’ UL said. ‘From him will issue a special child. I will explain this to him. He is an obedient man, and he will put aside his aversions for my sake.’

  ‘Then thou wilt give him to me, Father?’ Mara asked eagerly.

  ‘He is thine – with but one restriction – of which we will speak later.’

  ‘Let us see to this brave Sendar, then,’ Mara said, and all traces of his weeping were now gone.

  ‘Belgarion,’ the voice in Garion’s mind said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The restoration of your friend is in your hands now.’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘Must you always say that? Do you want Durnik’s life restored?’

  ‘Of course, but I can’t do it. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.’

  ‘You did it before. Remember the colt in the cave of the Gods?’

  Garion had almost forgotten that.

  ‘You are my instrument, Belgarion. I can keep you from making mistakes – most of the time anyway. Just relax; I’ll show you what to do.’

  Garion was already moving without conscious volition. He let his arm fall from about Ce’Nedra’s shoulders, and, his sword still in his hand, he walked slowly toward Aunt Pol and Durnik’s body. He looked once into her eyes as she sat with the dead man’s head in her lap, and then he knelt beside the body.

  ‘For me, Garion,’ she murmured to him.

  ‘If I can, Aunt Pol,’ he said. Then, without knowing why, he laid the sword of the Rivan King upon the ground and took hold of the Orb at its pommel. With a faint click, the Orb came free in his hand. Errand, smiling now, approached from the other side and also knelt, taking up Durnik’s lifeless hand in his. Holding the Orb in both hands, Garion reached out and put it against the dead man’s chest. He was faintly conscious of the fact that the Gods had gathered about in a circle and that they had reached out their arms, palm to palm, forming an unbroken ring. Within that circle, a great light began to pulsate, and the Orb, as if in answer, glowed between his hands.

  The blank wall he had seen once before was there again, still black, impenetrable, and silent. As he had before in the cave of the Gods, Garion pushed tentatively against the substance of death itself, striving to reach through and pull his friend back into the world of the living.

  It was different this time. The colt he had brought to life in the cave had never lived except within its mother’s body. Its death had been as tenuous as its life, and it lay but a short distance beyond the barrier. Durnik, however, had been a man full grown, and his death, like his life, was far more profound. With all his strength, Garion pushed. He could feel the enormous force of the combined wills of the Gods joining with his in the silent struggle, but the barrier would not yield.

  ‘Use the Orb!’ the voice commanded.

  This time Garion focused all the power, his own and that of the Gods, upon the round stone between his hands. It flickered, then glowed, then flickered again.

  ‘Help me!’ Garion commanded it.

  As if suddenly understanding, the Orb flared into a coruscating eruption of colored light. The barrier was weakening.

  With an encouraging little smile, Errand reached out and laid one hand upon the blazing Orb.

  The barrier broke. Durnik’s chest heaved, and he coughed once.

  With profoundly respectful expressions upon their eternal faces, the Gods stepped back. Aunt Pol cried out in sudden relief and clasped her arms about Durnik, cradling him against her.

  ‘Errand,’ the child said to Garion with a peculiar note of satisfaction. Garion stumbled to his feet, exhausted by the struggle and nearly staggering as he moved awa
y.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ce’Nedra demanded of him, even as she ducked her head beneath his arm and firmly pulled it about her tiny shoulders.

  He nodded, though his knees almost buckled.

  ‘Lean on me,’ she told him.

  He was about to protest, but she put her hand firmly to his lips. ‘Don’t argue, Garion,’ she told him. ‘You know that I love you and that you’re going to be leaning on me for the rest of your life anyway, so you might as well get used to the idea.’

  ‘I think my life’s going to be different now, Master,’ Belgarath was saying to Aldur. ‘Pol’s always been there, ready to come when I called her – not always willingly, perhaps – but she always came. Now she’ll have other concerns.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose our children all grow up and get married sometime.’

  ‘This particular pose doth not become thee, my son,’ Aldur told him.

  Belgarath grinned. ‘I’ve never been able to slip anything past you, Master,’ he said. Then his face grew serious again. ‘Polgara’s been almost like a son to me,’ he told Aldur, ‘but perhaps it’s time that I let her be a woman. I’ve denied her that for too long.’

  ‘As it seems best to thee, my son,’ Aldur said. ‘And now, I pray thee, go apart a little way and permit us our family grief.’ He looked at Torak’s body lying on the bier and then at Garion. ‘I have but one more task for thee, Belgarion,’ he said. ‘Take the Orb and place it upon my brother’s breast.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ Garion replied immediately. He removed his arm from about Ce’Nedra’s shoulders and walked to the bier, trying not to look at the dead God’s seared and twisted face. He reached out and laid the round blue stone upon the motionless chest of Kal Torak. Then he stepped back. Once again his little princess wormed her way beneath his arm and clasped him about the waist. It was not unpleasant, but he had the brief, irrational thought that things would be awkward if she were going to insist on this close embrace for the rest of their lives.

  Once again the Gods formed their circle, and once again the Orb began to glow. Gradually, the seared face started to change, its maiming slowly disappearing. The light surrounding the Gods and the bier grew stronger, and the glow of the Orb became incandescent. The last Garion saw of the face of Torak, it was calm, composed and unmarked. It was a beautiful face, but it was nonetheless still a dead face.