Even in the extremity of his mortal agony, Chamdar the Grolim recoiled from that blazing hand. With a hoarse, despairing cry he tried to cover his blackened face, staggered back a few steps, and then, like a burning house, he collapsed in upon himself and sank back to earth.
"It is done!" Aunt Pol's voice came again. "They are avenged!" And then her voice rang in the vaults of his mind with a soaring exultation. "Belgarion!" she sang. "My Belgarion!"
Ashen-faced Kador, trembling in every limb, backed in horror from the still-burning heap that had been Chamdar the Grolim. "Sorcery!" he gasped.
"Indeed," Aunt Pol said coolly. "I don't think you're ready for this kind of game yet, Kador."
The frightened legionnaires were also backing away, their eyes bulging at what they had just seen.
"I think the Emperor's going to take this whole affair rather seriously," Aunt Pol told them. "When he hears that you were going to kill his daughter, he'll probably take it personally."
"It wasn't us," one of the soldiers said quickly. "It was Kador. We were just following orders."
"He might accept that as an excuse," she said doubtfully. "If it were me, though, I'd take him some kind of gift to prove my loyalty - something appropriate to the circumstances." She looked significantly at Kador.
Several of the legionnaires took her meaning, drew their swords and moved into position around the Grand Duke.
"What are you doing?" Kador demanded of them.
"I think you've lost more than a throne today, Kador," Aunt Pol said.
"You can't do this," Kador told the legionnaires.
One of the soldiers put the point of his sword against the Grand Duke's throat. "We're loyal to the Emperor, my Lord," he said grimly. "We're placing you under arrest for high treason, and if you give us any trouble, we'll settle for just delivering your head to Tol Honeth - if you take my meaning."
One of the legion officers knelt respectfully before Ce'Nedra. "Your Imperial Highness," he said to her, "how may we serve you?"
The princess, still pale and trembling, drew herself up. "Deliver this traitor to my father," she said in a ringing voice, "and tell him what happened here. Inform him that you have arrested the Grand Duke Kador at my command."
"At once, your Highness," the officer said, springing to his feet. "Chain the prisoner!" he ordered sharply, then turned back to Ce'Nedra. "May we provide you an escort to your destination, your Highness?"
"That won't be necessary, captain," she told him. "Just remove this traitor from my sight."
"As your Highness wishes," the captain said with a deep bow. He gestured sharply, and the soldiers led Kador away.
Garion was staring at the mark on his palm. There was no sign of the fire that had burned there.
Durnik, released now from the grip of the soldiers, looked at Garion, his eyes wide. "I thought I knew you," he whispered. "Who are you, Garion, and how did you do this?"
"Dear Durnik," Aunt Pol said fondly, touching his arm. "Still willing to believe only what you can see. Garion's the same boy he's always been."
"You mean it was you?" Durnik looked at Chamdar's body and pulled his eyes quickly away.
"Of course," she said. "You know Garion. He's the most ordinary boy in the world."
But Garion knew differently. The Will had been his, and the Word had come from him.
"Keep still!" her voice warned inside his head. "No one must know."
"Why did you call me Belgarion?" he demanded silently.
"Because it's your name, " her voice replied. "Now try to act natural and don't bother me with guestions. We'll talk about it later. " And then her voice was gone.
The others stood around awkwardly until the legionnaires left with Kador. Then, when the soldiers were out of sight and the need for imperial self possession was gone, Ce'Nedra began to cry. Aunt Pol took the tiny girl in her arms and began to comfort her.
"I guess we'd better bury this," Barak said, nudging what was left of Chamdar with his foot. "The Dryads might be offended if we went off and left it still smoking."
"I'll fetch my spade," Durnik said.
Garion turned away and brushed past Mandorallen and Hettar. His hands were trembling violently, and he was so exhausted that his legs barely held him.
She had called him Belgarion, and the name had rung in his mind as if he had always known that it was his - as if for all his brief years he had been incomplete until in that instant the name itself had completed him. But Belgarion was a being who with Will and Word and the touch of his hand could turn flesh into living fire.
"You did it!" he accused the dry awareness in one corner of his mind. "No, " the voice replied. "I only showed you how. The Will and the Word and the touch were all yours. "
Garion knew that it was true. With horror he remembered his enemy's final supplication and the flaming, incandescent hand with which he had spurned that agonized appeal for mercy. The revenge he had wanted so desperately for the past several months was dreadfully complete, but the taste of it was bitter, bitter.
Then his knees buckled, and he sank to the earth and wept like a broken-hearted child.
Part Three - NYISSA
Chapter Twenty-three
THE EARTH WAS STILL THE SAME. The trees had not changed, nor had the sky. It was still spring, for the seasons had not altered their stately march. But for Garion nothing would ever again be the way that it had been.They rode down through the Wood of the Dryads to the banks of the River of the Woods which marked the southern boundary of Tolnedra, and from time to time as they rode he caught strange glances from his friends. The looks were speculative, thoughtful, and Durnik - good, solid Durnik - behaved as if he were almost afraid. Only Aunt Pol seemed unchanged, unconcerned. "Don't worry about it, Belgarion, " her voice murmured in his mind.
"Don't call me that," he replied with an irritated thought.
"It's your name, " the silent voice said. "You might as well get used to it.
"Leave me alone. "
And then the sense of her presence in his mind was gone.
It took them several days to reach the sea. The weather remained intermittently cloudy, though it did not rain. A stiff onshore breeze was blowing when they rode out onto the wide beach at the mouth of the river. The surf boomed against the sand, and whitecaps flecked the tops of the waves.
Out beyond the surf, a lean, black Cherek war-boat swung at anchor, the air above her alive with screeching gulls. Barak pulled his horse in and shaded his eyes. "She looks familiar," he rumbled, peering intently at the narrow ship.