Chapter 15
Durnik stared out into the dark night, silently awake as he contemplated many things. Polgara shifted in his arms restlessly, and he looked at her, half amazed that she really loved him, that she was really married to him. He remembered the first time he had seen her: carrying a little bundle of a baby, leading a nanny goat on a string, the same dark hair and glowing white lock, her eyes lined with a strange sadness and grief.
He had fallen in love with her then, though he hadn't known it. He hadn't realized how he felt for her until gradually he noticed that he was always watching her, always looking at her. It wasn't a aggressive or noticeable love. It was just something in the way he felt when he looked at her, something of awe and respect. As the little Garion had gotten older, he had hung around his smithy a lot, always asking questions, always curious, his sandy hair flopping untidily over his forehead and his serious eyes watching him.
Pol had come sometimes to drag Garion away, apologizing for him bothering the smith, but he had only shrugged and said it was no problem. Anything for you, he had thought, looking at her tall, proud form and those eyes that had seemed to hold centuries in them. She was a great lady, he knew. He didn't know how he knew it, but somehow she was part of this world and another at the same time. Outwardly, he had been as practical as ever, mending horseshoes with his usual skill. But he had always watched her.
Durnik remembered the time Garion had fallen into the pond, and he had been forced to rescue the little boy as he sunk after being clobbered on the head with a log from the raft. How Pol's eyes had flashed as she looked at the dripping little boy! But he knew she was only angry because of how much she loved the little boy, and how he had recklessly endangered himself.
Durnik's mind passed over the events following their departure from Faldor's farm, how they always seemed to be following something that no one could see, how Pol took on another identity, and somehow seemed to drop the façade of a farm cook and become the great lady he had always known she was. The discovery that she was Polgara the Sorceress did not surprise him, he had known there was always something about her. It didn't matter what the world called her, she was just Pol.
And Garion. A smile came to Durnik's eyes as he remembered how the young man had first found out he was the long-lost Rivan king, his dismay and uncertainty. Durnik had been rather startled, at first, that the little boy who used to scrub pots was now a king, but he took it all in stride, always fixing his eyes on the star that had drawn him on, with this strange group, involved in strange events.
Durnik remembered the Battle of Thull Mardu, and Cthol Mishrak, and how he had felt a burning rage at Zedar as he had insulted Pol, how he had leapt at the sorcerer, and the rushing darkness that overcame him. His mind skipped ahead to when he had awoken, and found that he had begun his second life, and Pol loved him, and she was going to be his forever. And the growing feeling that he had felt pushing at him from inside, and how Belgarath, his father-in-law, had showed him how to use that feeling, that he too could do beautiful things with his mind and his will.
He had brought up Eriond, who was now the God of the Angaraks, been almost a father to him, as he and Pol had lived in her mother's cottage together. And he had left once again on another quest, to approach the final confrontation of the Light and the Dark. He remembered his mind opening to encompass new things, at Kell and as they traveled, and he remembered the warm, wonderful feeling he had felt as he had defeated Nahaz and had become Aldur's disciple, and finally found his place.
And the birth of his twins. Durnik smiled as he thought of them, little Belgarik and Poldara, dancing with each other around the great Tree in the Vale. His smile slowly faded as his mind roamed back over his memories. Was it really him? Had he really lived through all that, done all that. He didn't feel as if he had changed at all. And yet he had.
A soft glow came to the area left of the bed, and Durnik raised himself slightly as the misty form of Eriond took shape. The young god smiled slightly at the smith, his face portraying the innocence that it had held since he was a little boy.
"Don't wake her," he said softly, motioning to Pol. Then his voice was grave. "I've come to ask you something, Durnik. I feel you're the one who I should ask permission to do so. It's the only way we'll be able to save the world from these Morindim."
"Of course, then," Durnik said, puzzled. "I wouldn't hold back."
"Let me explain first, old friend. This will not be an easy decision."
Durnik listened, and as he did, his face was grave as well.
"No!" raged Belgarath. "Absolutely not! I'm not going to do it!"
"You're the only one who can, Belgarath," Eriond told him, glowing slightly. His face was serious, yet reflected with sadness and innocence. "Durnik was the one who should decide, and he has said yes." He went on in a quieter tone, "It means saving the world from the Morindim, Belgarath. I know that what happened in the past was horrible, but we can't change that."
"NO!" roared Belgarath. "To let him loose on the world again!"
"He did what he had to do, Belgarath. Torak's gone. He holds no more sway over him. And he's the only one who can help us now."
"He won't help us," Belgarath snarled. "You let him loose, the world's doomed."
"You don't let him loose, the world's doomed anyway," Eriond said calmly. "I know him, Belgarath. You know him, though you don't want to admit it."
Belgarath bit his lip, searching for a way out. "Pol won't allow it."
"Durnik talked to her."
"Why did Durnik agree to this?" asked Belgarath, pacing back and forth. "He, of all people..."
"He knows what has to be done, Belgarath. He's got a great sense of responsibility. He's willing to give up personal feelings to save the world."
Belgarath sunk into a chair. "You've got me backed into a corner, don't you?" He reached for a tankard of ale and took a long drink, shuddering a little at the bitter taste. "All right, I'll do it."
"What?" asked Garion, walking into the room. "What are we going to do?"
Eriond turned to him, his face calm. "We're going to save the world, Garion. We're going to get the tenth sorcerer."
"You don't mean-" gasped Garion.
"Yes. We're going to release Zedar."