Enchanter's End Game

once again in the decaying ruin of Cthol Mishrak, his sword ablaze, and watched as Torak raised his arms to the rolling cloud, weeping tears of fire, and once again he heard the stricken God's final cry, "Mother!"
    He stirred, half rousing and shuddering as he always did when that dream recurred, but dipped almost immediately into sleep again.
    He was standing on the deck of Barak's ship just off the Mallorean coast, listening as King Anheg explained why Barak was chained to the mast.
    "We had to do it, Belgarath," the coarse-faced monarch said mournfully. "Right during the middle of that storm, he turned into a bear! He drove the crew to row toward Mallorea all night long, and then, just before daybreak, he turned back into a man again."
    "Unchain him, Anheg," Belgarath said disgustedly. "He's not going to turn into a bear again - not as long as Garion's safe and well." Garion rolled over and sat up. That had been a startling revelation.
    There had been a purpose behind Barak's periodic alterations.
    "You're Garion's defender," Belgarath had explained to the big man. "That's why you were born. Any time Garion was in mortal danger, you changed into a bear in order to protect him."
    "You mean to say that I'm a sorcerer?" Barak had demanded incredulously.
    "Hardly. The shape-change isn't all that difficult, and you didn't do it consciously. The Prophecy did the work, not you."
    Barak had spent the rest of the voyage back to Mishrak ac Thull trying to come up with a tastefully understated way to add that concept to his coat of arms.
    Garion climbed out of his high, canopied bed and went to the window. The stars in the spring sky looked down at the sleeping city of Rivan and at the dark waters of the Sea of the Winds beyond the harbor. There was no sign that dawn was anywhere near yet. Garion sighed, poured himself a drink of water from the pitcher on the table, and went back to bed and his troubled sleep.
    He was at Thull Zelik, and Hettar and Mandorallen were reporting on the activities of 'Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor. "He's laying siege to Rak Goska right now," hawk-faced Hettar was saying. There had been a peculiar softening in Hettar's face since Garion had last seen him, as if something very significant had happened. The tall Algar turned to Garion. "Eventually you're going to have to do something about 'Zakath," he said. "I don't think you want him roaming around at will in this part of the world."
    "Why me?" Garion asked without thinking.
    "You're Overlord of the West, remember?"
    Once again Garion awoke. Sooner or later he would have to deal with 'Zakath; there was no question about that. Maybe after the wedding, he'd have time to consider the matter. That thought, however, stopped him. Strangely, he had no conception of anything that might happen after the wedding. It stood before him like some huge door that led into a place he had never been. 'Zakath would have to wait. Garion had to get through the wedding first.
    Half asleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, Garion relived a significant little exchange between himself and her Imperial Highness.
    "It's stupid, Ce'Nedra," he was protesting. "I'm not going to fight anybody, so why should I ride in waving my sword?"
    "They deserve to see you, Garion," she explained as if talking to a child. "They left their homes and rode into battle at your summons."
    "I didn't summon anybody."
    "I did it in your behalf. They're a very good army, really, and I raised them all by myself. Aren't you proud of me?"
    "I didn't ask you to do that."
    "You were too proud to ask. That's one of your failings, Garion. You must never be too proud to ask the people who love you for help. Every man in the army loves you. They followed me because of you. Is it too much trouble for the great Overlord of the West to reward his faithful soldiers with just a little bit of a display or appreciation? Or have you become too grand and lofty for simple gratitude?"
    "You're twisting things, Ce'Nedra. You do that a lot, you know." But Ce'Nedra had already moved on as if the entire matter were settled. "And of course you will wear your crown - and some nice armor. I think a mail shirt would be appropriate."
    "I'm not going to make a clown of myself just to satisfy your urges toward cheap theatricality."
    Her eyes filled. Her lower lip trembled. "You don't love me any more," she accused him in a quavering little voice.
    Garion groaned even in his sleep. It always came down to that. She won