David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“You’ve been busy, Chamdar,” she replied.

Kador, in the act of dismounting, seemed startled. “You know this woman, Asharak?”

“His name is Chamdar, Duke Kador,” Aunt Pol said, “and he’s a Grolim priest. You thought he was only buying your honor, but you’ll soon find that he’s bought much more than that.” She straightened in her saddle, the white lock at her brow suddenly incandescently bright. “You’ve been an interesting opponent, Chamdar. I’ll almost miss you.”

“Don’t do it, Polgara,” the Grolim said quickly. “I’ve got my hand around the boy’s heart. The instant you start to gather your will, he’ll die. I know who he is and how much you value him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “An easy thing to say, Chamdar.”

“Would you like to test it?” he mocked.

“Get down off your horses,” Kador ordered sharply, and the legionnaires all took a threatening step forward.

“Do as he says,” Aunt Pol ordered quietly.

“It’s been a long chase, Polgara,” Chamdar said. “Where’s Belgarath?”

“Not far,” she told him. “Perhaps if you start running now, you can get away before he comes back.”

“No, Polgara.” He laughed. “I’d know if he were that close.” He turned and looked intently at Garion. “You’ve grown, boy. We haven’t had a chance to talk for quite some time, have we?”

Garion stared back at the scarred face of his enemy, alert, but strangely not afraid. The contest between them for which he had been waiting all his life was about to begin, and something deep within his mind told him that he was ready.

Chamdar looked into his eyes, probing. “He doesn’t know, does he?” he asked Aunt Pol. And then he laughed. “How like a woman you are, Polgara. You’ve kept the secret from him simply for the sake of the secret itself. I should have taken him away from you years ago.”

“Leave him alone, Chamdar,” she ordered.

He ignored that. “What’s his real name, Polgara? Have you told him yet.

“That doesn’t concern you,” she said flatly.

“But it does, Polgara. I’ve watched over him almost as carefully as you have.” He laughed again. “You’ve been his mother, but I’ve been his father. Between us we’ve raised a fine son—but I still want to know his real name.”

She straightened. “I think this has gone far enough, Chamdar,” she said coldly. “What are your terms?”

“No terms, Polgara,” the Grolim answered. “You and the boy and I are going to the place where Lord Torak awaits the moment of his awakening. My hand will be about the boy’s heart the entire time, so you’ll be suitably docile. Zedar and Ctuchik are going to destroy each other fighting over the Orb—unless Belgarath finds them first and destroys them himself—but the Orb doesn’t really interest me. It’s been you and the boy I’ve been after from the very beginning.”

“You weren’t really trying to stop us, then?” she asked.

Chamdar laughed. “Stop you? I’ve been trying to help you. Ctuchik and Zedar both have underlings here in the West. I’ve delayed and deceived them at every turn just so you could get through. I knew that sooner or later Belgarath would find it necessary to pursue the Orb alone, and when that happened, I could take you and the boy.”

“For what purpose?”

“You still don’t see?” he asked. “The first two things Lord Torak sees when he awakens will be his bride and his mortal enemy, kneeling in chains before him. I’ll be exalted above all for so royal a gift.”

“Let the others go then,” she said.

“The others don’t concern me,” Chamdar said. “I’ll leave them with the noble Kador, I don’t imagine he’ll find it convenient to keep them alive, but that’s up to him. I’ve got what I want.”

“You swine!” Aunt Pol raged helplessly. “You filthy swine!”

With a bland smile Chamdar slapped her sharply across the face. “You really must learn to control your tongue, Polgara,” he said. Garion’s brain seemed to explode. Dimly he saw Durnik and the others being restrained by the legionnaires, but no soldier seemed to consider him a danger. He started toward his enemy without thinking, reaching for his dagger.

“Not that way!” It was that dry voice in his mind that had always been there, but the voice was no longer passive, disinterested.

“I’ll kill him!” Garion said silently in the vaults of his brain.

“Not that way!” the voice warned again. “They won’t let you—not with your knife. ”

“How, then?”

“Remember what Belgarath said—the Will and the Word.”

“I don’t know how I can’t do that. ”

“You are who you are. I’ll show you. Look!” Unbidden and so clearly that it was almost as if he were watching it happen, the image of the God Torak writhing in the fire of Aldur’s Orb rose before his eyes. He saw Torak’s face melting and his fingers aflame. Then the face shifted and altered until it was the face of the dark watcher whose mind had been linked with his for as long as he could remember. He felt a terrible force building in him as the image of Chamdar wrapped in seething flame stood before him.

“Now!” the voice commanded him. “Do it!”

It required a blow. His rage would be satisfied with nothing less. He leaped at the smirking Grolim so quickly that none of the legionnaires could stop him. He swung his right arm, and at the instant his palm struck Chamdar’s scarred left cheek, he felt all the force that had built in him surge out from the silvery mark on his palm. “Burn!” he commanded, willing it to happen.

Taken off guard, Chamdar jerked back. A momentary anger began to appear on his face, and then his eyes widened with an awful realization. For an instant he stared at Garion in absolute horror, and then his face contorted with agony. “No!” he cried out hoarsely, and then his cheek began to smoke and seethe where the mark on Garion’s hand had touched it. Wisps of smoke drifted from his black robe as if it had suddenly been laid on a red-hot stove. Then he shrieked and clutched at his face. His fingers burst into flame. He shrieked again and fell writhing to the damp earth.

“Stand still!” It was Aunt Pol’s voice this time, sounding sharply inside Garion’s head.

Chamdar’s entire face was engulfed in flames now, and his shrieks echoed in the dim wood. The legionnaires recoiled from the burning man, and Garion suddenly felt sick. He started to turn away.

“Don’t weaken!” Aunt Pol’s voice told him. “Keep your will on him!” Garion stood over the blazing Grolim. The wet leaves on the ground smoked and smoldered where Chamdar thrashed and struggled with the fire that was consuming him. Flames were spurting from his chest, and his shrieks grew weaker. With an enormous effort, he struggled to his feet and held out his flaming hands imploringly to Garion. His face was gone, and greasy black smoke rolled off his body, drifting low to the ground. “Master,” he croaked, “have mercy!”

Garion’s heart wrenched with pity. All the years of that secret closeness between them pulled at him.

“No!” Aunt Pol’s stern voice commanded. “He’ll kill you if you release him!”

“I can’t do it,” Garion said. “I’m going to stop it.” As once before, he began to gather his will, feeling it build in him like some vast tide of pity and compassion. He half reached toward Chamdar, focusing his thought on healing.

“Garion!” Aunt Pol’s voice rang. “It was Chamdar who killed your parents!”

The thought forming in his mind froze.

“Chamdar killed Geran and Ildera. He burned them alive just as he’s burning now. Avenge them, Garion! Keep the fire on him!”

All the rage and fury he had carried within him since Wolf had told him of the deaths of his parents flamed in his brain. The fire, which a moment before he had almost extinguished, was suddenly not enough. The hand he had begun to reach out in compassion stiffened. In terrible anger he raised it, palm out. A strange sensation tingled in that palm, and then his own hand burst into flames. There was no pain, not even a feeling of heat, as a bright blue fire burst from the mark on his hand and wreathed up through his fingers. The blue fire became brighter—so bright that he could not even look at it.