“What are you talking about?” she demanded sharply.
“He was very ill last winter,” Garion replied. “He and Ctuchik fought each other for possession of the Orb. Ctuchik was destroyed, but Belgarath nearly died too. It’s quite possible that his power was destroyed by his illness.”
Silk’s gasp was clearly audible. “Why didn’t you tell us?” he exclaimed.
“Aunt Pol said that we didn’t dare,” Garion said. “We couldn’t take any chance of word of it getting back to the Angaraks. Belgarath’s power is the one thing that’s held them in check all these years. If he’s lost it and they find out, they’ll feel free to invade the West.”
“Does he know?” Vordai asked quickly.
“I don’t think so. Neither one of us said anything to him about it. We couldn’t let him think for a moment that anything might be wrong. If he has one single doubt, it won’t work for him. That’s the main thing about sorcery. You have to believe that what you want to happen is going to. Otherwise, nothing happens at all—and each time you fail, it gets worse.”
“What did you mean when you said that this might ruin him?” Vordai’s face looked stricken, and Garion began to have some hope. “He may still have his power—or some of it,” he explained. “But not enough to do what you’ve asked of him. It takes a tremendous effort to do even simple things, and what you’ve asked him to do is very difficult. It could be too much for him; but once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. And the effort may drain his will and his life energy until he cannot ever recover—or until he dies.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Vordai demanded, her face anguished.
“I couldn’t—not without his hearing me, too.”
She turned quickly toward the door. “Belgarath!” she cried. “Wait!” She spun back to Garion. “Go after him! Stop him!”
That was what Garion had been waiting for. He jumped to his feet and ran to the door. As he swung it open and was about to call out across the rainy yard, he felt a strange oppression as if something were almost happening—almost, but not quite. The shout froze on his lips.
“Go on, Garion,” Silk urged him.
“I can’t,” Garion groaned. “He’s already begun to pull in his will. He wouldn’t even hear me.”
“Can you help him?”
“I don’t even know exactly what he’s trying to do, Silk,” Garion replied helplessly. “If I went blundering in there now, all I’d do is make things worse.”
They stared at him in consternation.
Garion felt a strange echoing surge. It was not at all what he expected, and so he was totally unprepared for it. His grandfather was not trying to move anything or change anything, but instead he was calling out—reaching across some vast distance with the voice of his mind. The words were not at all distinct, but the one word, “Master,” did come through once quite distinctly. Belgarath was trying to reach Aldur. Garion held his breath.
Then, from infinitely far away, Aldur’s voice replied. They spoke together quietly for several moments, and all the while Garion could feel the force of Belgarath’s will, infused and magnified by the will of Aldur, growing stronger and stronger.
“What’s happening?” Silk’s voice was almost frightened.
“He’s talking with Aldur. I can’t hear what they’re saying.”
“Will Aldur help him?” Vordai asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if Aldur can use his will here any more. There’s some kind of limitation—something that he and the other Gods agreed to.”
Then the strange conversation ended, and Garion felt Belgarath’s will mounting, gathering itself. “He’s begun,” Garion said in a half whisper.
“His power’s still there?” Silk asked.
Garion nodded.
“As strong as ever?”
“I don’t know. There’s no way to measure it.”
The tension of it grew until it was almost intolerable. What Belgarath was doing was at once very subtle and very profound. There was no rushing surge or hollow echo this time. Instead, Garion felt an odd, tingling whisper as the old man’s will was unleashed with agonizing slowness. The whisper seemed to be saying something over and over—something Garion could almost understand, but which tantalizingly eluded him.
Outside, the young fenlings stopped their game. The ball dropped unnoticed as the players all stood, listening intently. Poppi and Tupik, returning hand in hand from their swim, froze in their tracks and stood with their heads cocked as Belgarath’s whisper spoke gently to them, reaching down into their thoughts, murmuring, explaining, teaching. Then their eyes widened as if in sudden understanding.
Belgarath emerged finally from the misty willows, his step heavy, weary. He walked slowly toward the house, stopping just outside to look intently at the stunned faces of the fenlings gathered in the dooryard. He nodded then and came back inside. His shoulders were slumped with exhaustion, and his white-bearded face seemed drained.
“Are you all right?” Vordai asked him, her tone no longer neutral. He nodded and sank into a chair by the table. “It’s done,” he said shortly.
Vordai looked at him, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“No tricks, Vordai,” he said. “And I’m too tired to try to lie to you. I’ve paid your price. If it’s all right with you, we’ll leave right after breakfast. We still have a long way to go.”
“I’ll need more than just your word, Belgarath. I don’t really trust you—or any human, for that matter. I want proof that you’ve paid.”
But there was a strange new voice from the doorway. Poppi, her furry little face contorted with the effort, was struggling with something. “M-m.m-m-,” she stammered. Her mouth twisted, and she tried again. “M-m-m-m—.” It seemed to be the hardest thing she had ever tried to do. She took a deep breath and tried once more. “M-m-m-motherrr,” Poppi said.
With a low cry, Vordai rushed to the little creature, knelt, and embraced her.
“Mother,” Poppi said again. It was clearer this time.
From outside the cottage there came a growing babble of small, squeaky voices, all repeating, “Mother, mother, mother.” The excited fenlings converged on the cottage, their voices swelling as more and more of them emerged from the swamps.
Vordai wept.
“You’ll have to teach them, of course,” Belgarath said wearily. “I gave them the ability, but they don’t know very many words yet.”
Vordai looked at him with tears streaming down her face. “Thank you, Belgarath,” she said in a faltering voice.
The old man shrugged. “Something for something,” he replied. “Wasn’t that the bargain?”
It was Tupik who led them from the fens. The little creature’s chirping to his fellows, however, now had words mixed in with it—faltering, often badly mispronounced, but words nonetheless.
Garion thought for a long time before he spoke, wrestling with an idea as he pushed on his pole. “Grandfather,” he said finally.
“Yes, Garion,” the old man replied from where he rested in the stern of their boat.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“Knew what?”
“That it was possible that you couldn’t make things happen any more?”
Belgarath stared at him. “Where did you get that idea?” he asked.
“Aunt Pol said that after you got sick last winter, you might have lost all your power.”
“She said what?”
“She said that ”
“I heard you.” The old man was frowning, his face creased with thought. “That possibility never even occurred to me,” he admitted. Suddenly he blinked and his eyes opened very wide. “You know, she might have been right. The illness could have had that sort of effect. What an amazing thing.”
“You didn’t feel any—well—weaker?”
“What? No, of course not.” Belgarath was still frowning, turning the idea over in his mind. “What an amazing thing,” he repeated, and then he suddenly laughed.