‘I don’t think the story’s over yet, dear,’ Garion told her. ‘We all know what happened at Faldor’s Farm, though, so grandfather didn’t think he’d have to go over it again for us.’ He leaned back reflectively. ‘An awful lot was going on that none of us were even aware of, you know. Grandfather doesn’t even live in the same world with the rest of us. He let it slip a few times in there toward the end. I wish I had time to go to Mal Zeth and talk with Cyradis. There’s another world out there that we don’t even know about.’
‘Well, of course there is, you ninny! Don’t pester Cyradis. Talk with Eriond instead. He’s what this was all about!’
And that rang some bells in the Rivan King’s mind. Ce’Nedra was right! Eriond had been at the center of everything they’d done! Torak and Zandramas had been error. Eriond was truth. The struggle between the two Necessities had been that simple. Torak had been the result of a mistake. Eriond was the correction of that mistake. Ce’Nedra, perhaps instinctively, had seen that. The Godslayer had somehow missed it. ‘Sometimes you’re so clever that you almost make me sick,’ he told his wife with just a hint of spite.
‘Yes,’ she replied blandly, ‘I know. But you still love me, don’t you?’ She gave him that winsome little smile that always made his knees go weak.
‘Of course,’ he replied, trying to look stern and regal. ‘What did grandfather have to say in the letter he sent you?’
‘I thought it was pure nonsense, but now that I see how he ended this thing, I can see what he was driving at. Here.’ She handed him a folded sheet of paper.
‘Yes, Ce’Nedra,’ the letter began, ‘I know that the story’s not complete. You all got together and bullied me into doing this. You’ve got this much out of me, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go. If you want the rest, go bully Polgara. I wish you all the luck in the world with that little project. Don’t expect much help from me, though. I’m old enough to know when I’m well off.
‘Belgarath.’
‘I’d better start packing,’ Ce’Nedra said after her husband had finished reading the letter.
‘Packing? Where are we going?’
‘To Aunt Pol’s cottage, of course.’
‘That went by me a little fast, Ce’Nedra. This isn’t that urgent, is it? Do we really have to dash off to the north end of the Vale in the dead of winter?’
‘I want the rest of the story, Garion. I don’t really care about how drunk Belgarath got after he lost his wife. I want to know about Polgara. That’s the part of the story that your disreputable old grandfather left out.’ She slapped her hand rather disdainfully down on Belgarath’s manuscript. ‘This is only half of it. I want Polgara’s half - and I am going to get it, even if I have to drag it out of her.’
‘We’ve got responsibilities here, Ce’Nedra, and Aunt Pol’s busy with her children. She doesn’t have time to write her life story just for your entertainment.’
‘That’s just too bad, isn’t it? Is Greldik still sober?’
‘I doubt it. You know how Greldik is when he makes port. Can’t we talk this over a bit?’
‘No. Go find Greldik and start sobering him up. I’ll go pack. I want to leave on the morning tide.’
Garion sighed. ‘Yes, dear,’ he said.