David Eddings: Enchanter's End Game

“Then it was all worth it, wasn’t it, father?”

“Yes, Pol, it really was.”

They danced on.

“What did he say to you?” Garion whispered to Ce’Nedra.

She blushed. “Never mind. Maybe I’ll tell you—later.”

There was that word again.

The dance ended, and an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Ce’Nedra went to her father, kissed him lightly, and then returned. “Well?” she said to Garion.

“Well what?”

She laughed. “Oh, you’re impossible.” Then she took his hand and very firmly led him from the hall.

It was quite late—perhaps two hours past midnight. Belgarath the Sorcerer was in a whimsical mood as he wandered about the deserted halls of the Rivan Citadel with a tankard in his hand. Belgarath had done a bit of celebrating, and he was feeling decidedly mellow—though not nearly as much as many of the other wedding guests, who had already mellowed themselves into insensibility.

The old man stopped once to examine a guard who was snoring in a doorway, sprawled in a puddle of spilled ale. Then, humming rather tunelessly and adding a couple of skipping little dance steps as he proceeded down the hall, the white-bearded old sorcerer made his way in the general direction of the ballroom, where he was certain there was a bit of ale left.

As he passed the Hall of the Rivan King, he noted that the door was ajar and that there was a light inside. Curious, he stuck his head through the doorway to see if anyone might be about. The Hall was deserted, and the light infusing it came from the Orb of Aldur, resting on the pommel of the sword of the Rivan King.

“Oh,” Belgarath said to the stone, “it’s you.” Then the old man walked a trifle unsteadily down the aisle to the foot of the dais. “Well, old friend,” he said, squinting up at the Orb, “I see they’ve all gone off and left you alone too.”

The Orb flickered its recognition of him.

Belgarath sat down heavily on the edge of the dais and took a drink of ale. “We’ve come a long way together, haven’t we?” he said to the Orb in a conversational tone.

The Orb ignored him.

“I wish you weren’t so serious about things all the time. You’re a very stodgy companion.” The old man took another drink.

They were silent for a while, and Belgarath pulled off one of his boots, sighed and wriggled his toes contentedly.

“You really don’t understand any of this, do you, my friend?” he asked the Orb finally. “In spite of everything, you still have the soul of a stone. You understand hate and loyalty and unswerving commitment, but you can’t comprehend the more human feelings—compassion, friendship, love—love most of all, I think. It’s sort of a shame that you don’t understand, really, because those were the things that finally decided all this. They’ve been mixed up in it from the very beginning—but then you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

The Orb continued to ignore him, its attention obviously elsewhere. “What are you concentrating on so hard?” the old man asked curiously.

The Orb, which had glowed with a bright blue radiance flickered again, and its blue became suddenly infused with a pale pink which steadily grew more and more pronounced until the stone was actually blushing.

Belgarath cast one twinkling glance in the general direction of the royal apartment. “Oh,” he said, understanding. Then he began to chuckle.

The Orb blushed even brighter.

Belgarath laughed, pulled his boot back on and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Perhaps you understand more than I thought you did,” he said to the stone. He drained the last few drops from his tankard. “I’d really like to stay and discuss it,” he said, “but I’ve run out of ale. I’m sure you’ll excuse me.”

Then he went back up the broad aisle.

When he reached the doorway, he stopped and cast one amused glance back at the still furiously blushing Orb. Then he chuckled again and went out, quietly closing the door behind him.

Thus concludes The Belgariad, which began with Pawn of Prophecy . And while History, unlike mortal pen, does not cease, the records beyond this point remain as yet unrevealed.

Editor’s Note: This version, said to be from the dread Book of Torak, is one of several circulated among the Nadraks. Since only the high Grolims were permitted official copies of the work, it is impossible to establish that this version is authentic, though internal evidence suggests that much of it may be. A true copy of the complete Book of Torak is believed to be in the library of King Anheg of Cherek, but this was not available for comparison.