Pawn of Prophecy

12

In the gray first light of early morning they rode through the quiet streets of Sendar to the harbor and their waiting ship. The finery of the evening before had been put aside, and they had all resumed their customary clothes. Even King Fulrach and the Earl of Seline had donned plain garb and now resembled nothing quite so much as two moderately prosperous Sendars on a business trip. Queen Layla, who was not to go with them, rode beside her husband, talking earnestly to him with an expression on her face that seemed almost to hover on the verge of tears. The party was accompanied by soldiers, cloaked against the raw, chill wind off the sea.

At the foot of the street which led down from the palace to the harbor, the stone wharves of Sendar jutted out into the choppy water, and there, rocking and straining against the hawsers which held her, was their ship. She was a lean vessel, narrow of beam and high-prowed, with a kind of wolfish appearance that did little to quiet Garion’s nervousness about his first sea voyage. Lounging about on her deck were a number of savage-looking sailors, bearded and garbed in shaggy garments made of fur. With the exception of Barak, these were the first Chereks Garion had ever seen, and his first impression was that they would probably prove to be totally unreliable.

"Barak!" a burly man halfway up the mast shouted and dropped hand over hand down a steeply slanting rope to the deck and then jumped across to the wharf.

"Greldik!" Barak roared in response, swung down from his horse and clasped the evil-looking sailor in a bear hug.

"It would seem that Lord Barak is acquainted with our captain," the Earl of Seline observed.

"That’s disquieting," Silk said wryly. "I was hoping for a sober, sensible captain of middle years and a conservative disposition. I’m not fond of ships and sea travel to begin with."

"I’m told that Captain Greldik is one of the finest seamen in all of Cherek," the earl assured him.

"My Lord," Silk said with a pained look, "Cherek definitions can be deceptive." Sourly he watched Barak and Greldik toasting their reunion with tankards of ale that had been passed down to them from the ship by a grinning sailor.

Queen Layla had dismounted and she embraced Aunt Pol. "Please watch out for my poor husband, Pol," she said with a little laugh that quivered a bit. "Don’t let those Alorn bullies goad him into doing anything foolish."

"Of course, Layla," Aunt Pol said comfortingly.

"Now, Layla," King Fulrach said in an embarrassed voice. "I’ll be all right. I’m a grown man, after all."

The plump little queen wiped her eyes. "I want you to promise to wear warm clothes," she said, "and not to sit up all night drinking with Anheg."

"We’re on serious business, Layla," the kind said. "There won’t be time for any of that."

"I know Anheg too well," the queen sniffed. She turned to Mister Wolf, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his bearded cheek. "Dear Belgarath," she said. "When this is over, promise that you and Pol will come back for a long visit."

"I promise, Layla," Mister Wolf said gravely.

"The tide is turning, Lord King," Greldik said, "and my ship is growing restless."

"Oh dear," the queen said. She put her arms around the king’s neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Now, now," Fulrach said awkwardly.

"If you don’t go now, I’m going to cry right here in public," she said, pushing him away.

The stones of the wharf were slippery, and the slim Cherek ship bobbed and rolled in the chop. The narrow plank they had to cross heaved and swayed dangerously, but they all managed to board without accident. The sailors slipped the hawsers and took their places at the oars. The lean vessel leaped away from the wharf and moved swiftly into the harbor past the stout and bulky merchantmen anchored nearby. Queen Layla stood forlornly on the wharf, surrounded by tall soldiers. She waved a few times and then stood watching, her chin lifted bravely.

Captain Greldik took his place at the tiller with Barak by his side and signaled to a squat, muscular warrior crouched nearby. The squat man nodded and pulled a ragged square of sailcloth off a hide-topped drum.

He began a slow beat, and the oarsmen immediately took up the rhythm. The ship surged ahead and made for the open sea.

Once they were beyond the protection of the harbor, the swells grew so ponderous that the ship no longer rocked but ran instead down the back of each wave and up the face of the next. The long oars, dipping to the rhythm of the sullen drum, left little swirls on the surface of the waves. The sea was lead-gray beneath the wintry sky, and the low, snow-covered coastline of Sendaria slid by on their right, bleak and desolate-looking.

Garion spent most of the day shivering in a sheltered spot near the high prow, moodily staring out at the sea. The shards and shambles into which his life had fallen the night before lay in ruins around him. The idea that Wolf was Belgarath and Aunt Pol was Polgara was of course an absurdity. He was convinced, however, that a part of the whole thing at least was true. She might not be Polgara, but she was almost certainly not his Aunt. He avoided looking at her as much as possible, and did not speak to anyone.

They slept that night in cramped quarters beneath the stern deck of the ship. Mister Wolf sat talking for a long time with King Fulrach and the Earl of Seline. Garion covertly watched the old man whose silvery hair and short-cropped beard seemed almost to glow in the light from a swinging oil lamp hanging from one of the low beams. He still looked the same as always, and Garion finally turned over and went to sleep.

The next day they rounded the hook of Sendaria and beat northeasterly with a good following wind. The sails were raised, and the oarsmen were able to rest. Garion continued to wrestle with his problem.

On the third day out the weather turned stormy and bitterly cold. The rigging crackled with ice, and sleet hissed into the sea around them. "If this doesn’t break, it will be a rough passage through the Bore," Barak said, frowning into the sleet.

"The what?" Durnik asked apprehensively. Durnik was not at all comfortable on the ship. He was just recovering from a bout of seasickness, and he was obviously a bit edgy.

"The Cherek Bore," Barak explained. "It’s a passage about a league wide between the northern tip of Sendaria and the southern end of the Cherek peninsula—riptides, whirlpools, that sort of thing. Don’t be alarmed, Durnik. This is a good ship, and Greldik knows the secret of navigating the Bore. It may be a bit rough, but we’ll be perfectly safe unless we’re unlucky, of course."

"That’s a cheery thing to say," Silk observed dryly from nearby. "I’ve been trying for three days not to think about the Bore."

"Is it really that bad?" Durnik asked in a sinking voice.

"I make a special point of not going through it sober," Silk told him.

Barak laughed. "You ought to be thankful for the Bore, Silk," he said. "It keeps the Empire out of the Gulf of Cherek. All Drasnia would be a Tolnedran province if it wasn’t there."

"I admire it politically," Silk said, "but personally I’d be much happier if I never had to look at it again."

On the following day they anchored near the rocky coast of northern Sendaria and waited for the tide to turn. In time it slackened and reversed, and the waters of the Sea of the Winds mounted and plunged through the Bore to raise the level of the Gulf of Cherek.

"Find something solid to hold on to, Garion," Barak advised as Greldik ordered the anchor raised. "With this following wind, the passage could be interesting." He strode along the narrow deck, his teeth gleaming in a broad grin.

It was foolish. Garion knew that, even as he stood up and began to follow the red-bearded man toward the prow, but four days of solitary brooding over a problem that refused to yield to any kind of logic made him feel almost belligerently reckless. He set his teeth together and took hold of a rusted iron ring embedded in the prow.

Barak laughed and clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder. "Good boy," he said approvingly. "We’ll stand together and look the Bore right down the throat."

Garion decided not to answer that.

With wind and tide behind her, Greldik’s ship literally flew through the passage, yawing and shuddering as she was seized by the violent riptides. Icy spray stung their faces, and Garion, half blinded by it, did not see the enormous whirlpool in the center of the Bore until they were almost upon it. He seemed to hear a vast roar and cleared his eyes just in time to see it yawning in front of him.

"What’s that?" he yelled over the noise.

"The Great Maelstrom," Barak shouted. "Hold on."

The Maelstrom was fully as large as the village of Upper Gralt and descended horribly down into a seething, mist-filled pit unimaginably far below. Incredibly, instead of guiding his vessel away from the vortex, Greldik steered directly at it.

"What’s he doing?" Garion screamed.

"It’s the secret of passing through the Bore," Barak roared. "We circle the Maelstrom twice to gain more speed. If the ship doesn’t break up, she comes out like a rock from a sling, and we pass through the riptides beyond the Maelstrom before they can slow us down and drag us back."

"If the ship doesn’t what?"

"Sometimes a ship is torn apart in the Maelstrom," Barak said. "Don’t worry, boy. It doesn’t happen very often, and Greldik’s ship seems stout enough."

The ship’s prow dipped hideously into the outer edges of the Maelstrom and then raced twice around the huge whirlpool with the oarsmen frantically bending their backs to the frenzied beat of the drum. The wind tore at Garion’s face, and he clung to his iron ring, keeping his eyes averted from the seething maw gaping below.

And then they broke free and shot like a whistling stone through the churning water beyond the Maelstrom. The wind of their passage howled in the rigging, and Garion felt half suffocated by its force.

Gradually the ship slowed in the swirling eddies, but the speed they had gained from the Maelstrom carried them on to calm water in a partially sheltered cove on the Sendarian side.

Barak was laughing gleefully and mopping spray from his beard. "Well, lad," he said, "what do you think of the Bore?"

Garion didn’t trust himself to answer and concentrated on trying to pry his numb fingers from the iron ring.

A familiar voice rang out from the stern.

"Garion!"

"Now you’ve gone and got me in trouble," Garion said resentfully, ignoring the fact that standing in the prow had been his own idea. Aunt Pol spoke scathingly to Barak about his irresponsibility and then turned her attention to Garion.

"Well?" she said. "I’m waiting. Would you like to explain?"

"It wasn’t Barak’s fault," Garion said. "It was my own idea." There was no point in their both being in trouble, after all.

"I see," she said. "And what was behind that?"

The confusion and doubt which had been troubling him made him reckless. "I felt like it," he said, half defiantly. For the first time in his life he felt on the verge of open rebellion.

"You what?"

"I felt like it," he repeated. "What difference does it make why I did it? You’re going to punish me anyway."

Aunt Pol stiffened, and her eyes blazed.

Mister Wolf, who was sitting nearby, chuckled.

"What’s so funny?" she snapped.

"Why don’t you let me handle this, Pol?" the old man suggested.

"I can deal with it," she said.

"But not well, Pol," he said. "Not well at all. Your temper’s too quick, and your tongue’s too sharp. He’s not a child anymore. He’s not a man yet, but he’s not a child either. The problem needs to be dealt with in a special way. I’ll take care of it." He stood up. "I think I insist, Pol."

"You what?"

"I insist." His eyes hardened.

"Very well," she said in an icy voice, turned, and walked away. "Sit down, Garion," the old man said.

"Why’s she so mean?" Garion blurted.

"She isn’t," Mister Wolf said. "She’s angry because you frightened her. Nobody likes to be frightened."

"I’m sorry," Garion mumbled, ashamed of himself.

"Don’t apologize to me," Wolf said. "I wasn’t frightened." He looked for a moment at Garion, his eyes penetrating. "What’s the problem?" he asked.

"They call you Belgarath," Garion said as if that explained it all, "and they call her Polgara."

"So."

"It’s just not possible."

"Didn’t we have this conversation before? A long time ago?"

"Are you Belgarath?" Garion demanded bluntly.

"Some people call me that. What difference does it make?"

"I’m sorry," Garion said. "I just don’t believe it:"

"All right," Wolf shrugged. "You don’t have to if you don’t want to. What’s that got to do with your being impolite to your Aunt?"

"It’s just " Garion faltered. "Well—" Desperately he wanted to ask Mister Wolf that ultimate, fatal question, but despite his certainty that there was no kinship between himself and Aunt Pol, he could not bear the thought of having it finally and irrevocably confirmed.

"You’re confused," Wolf said. "Is that it? Nothing seems to be like it ought to be, and you’re angry with your Aunt because it seems like it has to be her fault."

"You make it sound awfully childish," Garion said, flushing slightly.

"Isn’t it?"

Garion flushed even more.

"It’s your own problem, Garion," Mister Wolf said. "Do you really think it’s proper to make others unhappy because of it?"

"No," Garion admitted in a scarcely audible voice.

"Your Aunt and I are who we are," Wolf said quietly. "People have made up a lot of nonsense about us, but that doesn’t really matter. There are things that have to be done, and we’re the ones who have to do them. That’s what matters. Don’t make things more difficult for your Aunt just because the world isn’t exactly to your liking. That’s not only childish, it’s ill-mannered, and you’re a better boy than that. Now, I really think you owe her an apology, don’t you?"

"I suppose so," Garion said.

"I’m glad we had this chance to talk," the old man said, "but I wouldn’t wait too long before making up with her. You wouldn’t believe how long she can stay angry." He grinned suddenly. "She’s been angry with me for as long as I can remember, and that’s so long that I don’t even like to think about it."

"I’ll do it right now," Garion said.

"Good," Wolf approved.

Garion stood up and walked purposefully to where Aunt Pol stood staring out at the swirling currents of the Cherek Bore.

"Aunt Pol," he said.

"Yes, dear?"

"I’m sorry. I was wrong."

She turned and looked at him gravely.

"Yes," she said, "you were."

"I won’t do it again."

She laughed then, a low, warm laugh, and ran her fingers through his tangled hair. "Don’t make promises you can’t keep, dear," she said, and she embraced him, and everything was all right again.

After the fury of the tide through the Cherek Bore had abated, they sailed north along the snow-muffled east coast of the Cherek peninsula toward the ancient city which was the ancestral home of all Alorns, Algar and Drasnian as well as Cherek and Rivan. The wind was chill and the skies threatening, but the remainder of the voyage was uneventful. After three more days their ship entered the harbor at Val Alorn and tied up at one of the ice-shrouded wharves.

Val Alorn was unlike any Sendarian city. Its walls and buildings were so incredibly ancient that they seemed more like natural rock formations than the construction of human hands. The narrow, crooked streets were clogged with snow, and the mountains behind the city loomed high and white against the dark sky.

Several horse-drawn sleighs awaited them at the wharf with savage-looking drivers and shaggy horses stamping impatiently in the packed snow. There were fur robes in the sleighs, and Garion drew one of them about him as he waited for Barak to conclude his farewells to Greldik and the sailors.

"Let’s go," Barak told the driver as he climbed into the sleigh. "See if you can’t catch up with the others."

"If you hadn’t talked so long, they wouldn’t be so far ahead, Lord Barak," the driver said sourly.

"That’s probably true," Barak agreed.

The driver grunted, touched his horses with his whip, and the sleigh started up the street where the others had already disappeared. Fur-clad Cherek warriors swaggered up and down the narrow streets, and many of them bellowed greetings to Barak as the sleigh passed. At one corner their driver was forced to halt while two burly men, stripped to the waist in the biting cold, wrestled savagely in the snow in the center of the street to the encouraging shouts of a crowd of onlookers.

"A common pastime," Barak told Garion. "Winter’s a tedious time in Val Alorn."

"Is that the palace ahead?" Garion asked.

Barak shook his head. "The temple of Belar," he said. "Some men say that the Bear-God resides there in spirit. I’ve never seen him myself, though, so I can’t say for sure."

Then the wrestlers rolled out of the way, and they continued.

On the steps of the temple an ancient woman wrapped in ragged woolen robes stood with a long staff clutched in one honey hand and her stringy hair wild about her face. "Hail, Lord Barak," she called in a cracked voice as they passed. "Thy Doom still awaits thee."

"Stop the sleigh," Barak growled at the driver, and he threw off his fur robe and jumped to the ground. "Martje," he thundered at the old woman. "You’ve been forbidden to loiter here. If I tell Anheg that you’ve disobeyed him, he’ll have the priests of the temple burn you for a witch."

The old woman cackled at him, and Garion noted with a shudder that her eyes were milk-white blankness.

"The fire will not touch old Martje," she laughed shrilly. "That is not the Doom which awaits her."

"Enough of dooms," Barak said. "Get away from the temple."

"Martje sees what she sees," the old woman said. "The mark of thy Doom is still upon thee, great Lord Barak. When it comes to thee, thou shalt remember the words of old Martje." And then she seemed to look at the sleigh where Garion sat, though her milky eyes were obviously blind. Her expression suddenly changed from malicious glee to one strangely awestruck.

"Hail, greatest of Lords," she crooned, bowing deeply. "When thou comest into throe inheritance, remember that it was old Martje who first greeted thee."

Barak started toward her with a roar, but she scurried away, her staff tapping on the stone steps.

"What did she mean?" Garion asked when Barak returned to the sleigh.

"She’s a crazy woman," Barak replied, his face pale with anger. "She’s always lurking around the temple, begging and frightening gullible housewives with her gibberish. If Anheg had any sense, he’d have had her driven out of the city or burned years ago." He climbed back into the sleigh. "Let’s go," he growled at the driver.

Garion looked back over his shoulder as they sped away, but the old blind woman was nowhere in sight.

13

The palace of king Anheg of Cherek was a vast, brooding structure near the center of Val Alorn. Huge wings, many of them crumbled into decay with unpaned windows staring emptily at the open sky through collapsed roofs, stretched out from the main building in all directions. So far as Garion could tell there was no plan to the palace whatsoever. It had, it seemed, merely grown over the three thousand years and more that the kings of Cherek had ruled there.

"Why is so much of it empty and broken down like that?" he asked Barak as their sleigh whirled into the snow-packed courtyard.

"What some kings build, other kings let fall down," Barak said shortly. "It’s the way of kings." Barak’s mood had been black since their encounter with the blind woman at the temple.

The others had all dismounted and stood waiting.

"You’ve been away from home too long if you can get lost on the way from the harbor to the palace," Silk said pleasantly.

"We were delayed," Barak grunted.

A broad, ironbound door at the top of the wide steps that led up to the palace opened then as if someone behind it had been waiting for them all to arrive. A woman with long flaxen braids and wearing a deep scarlet cloak trimmed with rich fur stepped out onto the portico at the top of the stairs and stood looking down at them. "Greetings, Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim and husband," she said formally.

Barak’s face grew even more somber. "Merel," he acknowledged with a curt nod.

"King Anheg granted me permission to greet you, my Lord," Barak’s wife said, "as is my right and my duty."

"You’ve always been most attentive to your duties, Merel," Barak said. "Where are my daughters?"

"At Trellheim, my Lord," she said. "I didn’t think it would be a good idea for them to travel so far in the cold." There was a faintly malicious note in her voice.

Barak sighed. "I see," he said.

"Was I in error, my Lord?" Merel asked.

"Let it pass," Barak said.

"If you and your friends are ready, my Lord," she said, "I’ll escort you to the throne room."

Barak went up the stairs, briefly and rather formally embraced his wife, and the two of them went through the wide doorway.

"Tragic," the Earl of Seline murmured, shaking his head as they all went up the stairs to the palace door.

"Hardly that," Silk said. "After all, Barak got what he wanted, didn’t he?"

"You’re a cruel man, Prince Kheldar," the earl said.

"Not really," Silk said. "I’m a realist, that’s all. Barak spent all those years yearning after Merel, and now he’s got her. I’m delighted to see such steadfastness rewarded. Aren’t you?"

The Earl of Seline sighed.

A party of mailed warriors joined them and escorted them through a maze of corridors, up broad stairs and down narrow ones, deeper and deeper into the vast pile.

"I’ve always admired Cherek architecture," Silk said sardonically. "It’s so unanticipated."

"Expanding the palace gives weak kings something to do," King Fulrach observed. "It’s not a bad idea, really. In Sendaria bad kings usually devote their time to street-paving projects, but all of Val Alorn was paved thousands of years ago."

Silk laughed. "It’s always been a problem, your Majesty," he said. "How do you keep bad kings out of mischief?"

"Prince Kheldar," King Fulrach said, "I don’t wish your uncle any misfortune, but I think it might be very interesting if the crown of Drasnia just happened to fall to you."

"Please, your Majesty," Silk said with feigned shock, "don’t even suggest that."

"Also a wife," the Earl of Seline said slyly. "The prince definitely needs a wife."

"That’s even worse," Silk said with a shudder.

The throne room of King Anheg was a vaulted chamber with a great fire pit in the center where whole logs blazed and crackled. Unlike the lushly draped hall of King Fulrach, the stone walls here were bare, and torches flared and smoked in iron rings sunk in the stone. The men who lounged near the fire were not the elegant courtiers of Fulrach’s court, but rather were bearded Cherek warriors, gleaming in chain mail. At one end of the room sat five thrones, each surmounted by a banner. Four of the thrones were occupied, and three regal-looking women stood talking nearby.

"Fulrach, King of Sendaria!" one of the warriors who had escorted them boomed, striking the butt of his spear hollowly on the rush-strewn stone floor.

"Hail, Fulrach," a large, black-bearded man on one of the thrones called, rising to his feet. His long blue robe was wrinkled and spotted, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt. The gold crown he wore was dented in a place or two, and one of its points had been broken off

"Hail, Anheg," the King of the Sendars replied, bowing slightly. "Thy throne awaits thee, my dear Fulrach," the shaggy-haired man said, indicating the banner of Sendaria behind the one vacant throne. "The Kings of Aloria welcome the wisdom of the King of Sendaria at this council."

Garion found the stilted, archaic form of address strangely impressive.

"Which king is which, friend Silk?" Durnik whispered as they approached the thrones.

"The fat one in the red robe with the reindeer on his banner is my uncle, Rhodar of Drasnia. The lean-faced one in black under the horse banner is Cho-Hag of Algaria. The big, grim-faced one in gray with no crown who sits beneath the sword banner is Brand, the Rivan Warder."

"Brand?" Garion interrupted, startled as he remembered the stories of the Battle of Vo Mimbre.

"All Rivan Warders are named Brand," Silk explained.

King Fulrach greeted each of the other kings in the formal language that seemed to be customary, and then he took his place beneath the green banner with its golden sheaf of wheat that was the emblem of Sendaria.

"Hail Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur," Anheg said, "and hail Lady Polgara, honored daughter of immortal Belgarath."

"There’s little time for all this ceremony, Anheg," Mister Wolf said tartly, throwing back his cloak and striding forward. "Why have the Kings of Aloria summoned me?"

"Permit us our little ceremonies, Ancient One," Rhodar, the grossly fat King of Drasnia said slyly. "We so seldom have the chance to play king. We won’t be much longer at it."

Mister Wolf shook his head in disgust.

One of the three regal-looking women came forward then. She was a tall, raven-haired beauty in an elaborately cross-tied black velvet gown. She curtsied to King Fulrach and touched her cheek briefly to his. "Your Majesty," she said, "your presence honors our home."

"Your Highness," Fulrach replied, inclining his head respectfully.

"Queen Islena," Silk murmured to Durnik and Garion, "Anheg’s wife." The little man’s nose twitched with suppressed mirth. "Watch her when she greets Polgara."

The queen turned and curtsied deeply to Mister Wolf. "Divine Belgarath," she said, her rich voice throbbing with respect.

"Hardly divine, Islena," the old man said dryly.

"Immortal son of Aldur," she swept on, ignoring the interruption, "mightiest sorcerer in all the world. My poor house trembles at the awesome power you bring within its walls."

"A pretty speech, Islena," Wolf said. "A little inaccurate, but pretty all the same."

But the queen had already turned to Aunt Pol. "Glorious sister," she intoned.

"Sister?" Garion was startled.

"She’s a mystic," Silk said softly. "She dabbles a bit in magic and thinks of herself as a sorceress. Watch."

With an elaborate gesture the queen produced a green jewel and presented it to Aunt Pol.

"She had it up her sleeve," Silk whispered gleefully.

"A royal gift, Islena," Aunt Pol said in a strange voice. "A pity that I can only offer this in return." She handed the queen a single deep red rose.

"Where did she get that?" Garion asked in amazement. Silk winked at him.

The queen looked at the rose doubtfully and cupped it between her two hands. She examined it closely, and her eyes widened. The color drained out of her face, and her hands began to tremble.

The second queen had stepped forward. She was a tiny blonde with a beautiful smile. Without ceremony she kissed King Fulrach and then Mister Wolf and embraced Aunt Pol warmly. Her affection seemed simple and unselfconscious.

"Porenn, Queen of Drasnia," Silk said, and his voice had an odd note to it. Garion glanced at him and saw the faintest hint of a bitter, self mocking expression flicker across his face. In that single instant, as clearly as if it had suddenly been illuminated by a bright light, Garion saw the reason for Silk’s sometimes strange manner. An almost suffocating surge of sympathy welled up in his throat.

The third queen, Silar of Algaria, greeted King Fulrach, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol with a few brief words in a quiet voice.

"Is the Rivan Warder unmarried?" Durnik asked, looking around for another queen.

"He had a wife," Silk said shortly, his eyes still on Queen Porenn, "but she died some years ago. She left him four sons."

"Ah," Durnik said.

Then Barak, grim-faced and obviously angry, entered the hall and strode to King Anheg’s throne.

"Welcome home, cousin," King Anheg said. "I thought perhaps you’d lost your way."

"Family business, Anheg," Barak said. "I had to have a few words with my wife."

"I see," Anheg said and let it drop.

"Have you met our friends?" Barak asked.

"Not as yet, Lord Barak," King Rhodar said. "We were involved with the customary formalities." He chuckled, and his great paunch jiggled. "I’m sure you all know the Earl of Seline," Barak said, "and this is Durnik, a smith and a brave man. The boy’s name is Garion. He’s in Lady Polgara’s care—a good lad."

"Do you suppose we could get on with this?" Mister Wolf asked impatiently.

Cho-Hag, King of the Algars, spoke in a strangely soft voice. "Are thou aware, Belgarath, of the misfortune which hath befallen us? We turn to thee for counsel."

"Cho-Hag," Wolf said testily, "you sound like a bad Arendish epic. Is all this theeing and thouing really necessary?"

Cho-Hag looked embarrassed and glanced at King Anheg.

"My fault, Belgarath," Anheg said ruefully. "I set scribes to work to record our meetings. Cho-Hag was speaking to history as well as to you." His crown had slipped a bit and perched precariously over one ear.

"History’s very tolerant, Anheg," Wolf said. "You don’t have to try to impress her. She’ll forget most of what we say anyway." He turned to the Rivan Warder. "Brand," he said, "do you suppose you could explain all this without too much embellishment?"

"I’m afraid it’s my fault, Belgarath," the gray-robed Warder said in a deep voice. "The Apostate was able to carry off his theft because of my laxity."

"The thing’s supposed to protect itself, Brand," Wolf told him. "You can’t even touch it. I know the thief, and there’s no way you could have kept him out of Riva. What concerns me is how he was able to lay hands on it without being destroyed by its power."

Brand spread his hands helplessly. "We woke one morning, and it was gone. The priests were only able to divine the name of the thief. The Spirit of the Bear-God wouldn’t say any more. Since we knew who he was, we were careful not to speak his name or the name of the thing he took."

"Good," Wolf said. "He has ways to pick words out of the air at great distances. I taught him how to do that myself."

Brand nodded. "We knew that," he said. "It made phrasing our message to you difficult. When you didn’t come to Riva and my messenger didn’t return, I thought something had gone wrong. That’s when we sent men out to find you."

Mister Wolf scratched at his beard. "I guess it’s my own fault that I’m here then," he said. "I borrowed your messenger. I had to get word to some people in Arendia. I suppose I should have known better."

Silk cleared his throat. "May I speak?" he asked politely.

"Certainly, Prince Kheldar," King Anheg said.

"Is it entirely prudent to continue these discussions in public?" Silk asked. "The Murgos have enough gold to buy ears in many places, and the arts of the Grolims can lift the thoughts out of the minds of the most loyal warriors. What isn’t known can’t be revealed, if you take my meaning."

"The warriors of Anheg aren’t so easily bought, Silk," Barak said testily, "and there aren’t any Grolims in Cherek."

"Are you also confident about the serving men and the kitchen wenches?" Silk suggested. "And I’ve found Grolims in some very unexpected places."

"There’s something in what my nephew says," King Rhodar said, his face thoughtful. "Drasnia has centuries of experience in the gathering of information, and Kheldar is one of our best. If he thinks that our words might go further than we’d want them to, we might be wise to listen to him."

"Thank you, uncle," Silk said, bowing.

"Could you penetrate this palace, Prince Kheldar?" King Anheg challenged.

"I already have, your Majesty," Silk said modestly, "a dozen times or more."

Anheg looked at Rhodar with one raised eyebrow.

Rhodar coughed slightly. "It was some time ago, Anheg. Nothing serious. I was just curious about something, that’s all."

"All you had to do was ask," Anheg said in a slightly injured tone.

"I didn’t want to bother you," Rhodar said with a shrug. "Besides, it’s more fun to do it the other way."

"Friends," King Fulrach said, "the issue before us is too important to chance compromising it. Wouldn’t it be better to be overcautious rather than take any risks?"

King Anheg frowned and then shrugged. "Whatever you wish," he said. "We’ll continue in private then. Cousin, would you clear old King Eldrig’s hall for us and set guards in the hallways near it?"

"I will, Anheg," Barak said. He took a dozen warriors and left the hall.

The kings rose from their thrones—all except Cho-Hag. A lean warrior, very nearly as tall as Barak and with the shaved head and flowing scalp lock of the Algars, stepped forward and helped him up.

Garion looked inquiringly at Silk.

"An illness when he was a child," Silk explained softly. "It left his legs so weak that he can’t stand unaided."

"Doesn’t that make it kind of hard for him to be king?" Garion asked.

"Algars spend more time sitting on horses than they do standing on their feet," Silk said. "Once he’s on a horse, Cho-Hag’s the equal of any man in Algaria. The warrior who’s helping him is Hettar, his adopted son."

"You know him?" Garion asked.

"I know everyone, Garion." Silk laughed softly. "Hettar and I have met a few times. I like him, though I’d rather he didn’t know that."

Queen Porenn came over to where they stood. "Islena’s taking Silar and me to her private quarters," she said to Silk. "Apparently women aren’t supposed to be involved in matters of state here in Cherek."

"Our Cherek cousins have a few blind spots, your Highness," Silk said. "They’re arch-conservatives, of course, and it hasn’t occurred to them yet that women are human."

Queen Porenn winked at him with a sly little grin. "I’d hoped that we might get a chance to talk, Kheldar, but it doesn’t look like it now. Did you get my message to Layla?"

Silk nodded. "She said she’d write to you immediately," he said. "If we’d known you were going to be here, I could have carried her letter myself."

"It was Islena’s idea," she said. "She decided that it might be nice to have a council of queens while the kings were meeting. She’d have invited Layla too, but everyone knows how terrified she is of sea travel."

"Has your council produced anything momentous, Highness?" Silk asked lightly.

Queen Porenn made a face. "We sit around and watch Islena do tricks—disappearing coins, things up her sleeves, that kind of thing," she said. "Or she tells fortunes. Silar’s too polite to object, and I’m the youngest, so I’m not supposed to say too much. It’s terribly dull, particularly when she goes into trances over that stupid crystal ball of hers. Did Layla think she could help me?"

"If anyone can," Silk assured her. "I should warn you, though, that her advice is likely to be quite explicit. Queen Layla’s an earthy little soul, and sometimes very blunt."

Queen Porenn giggled wickedly. "That’s all right," she said. "I’m a grown woman, after all."

"Of course," Silk said. "I just wanted to prepare you, that’s all."

"Are you making fun of me, Kheldar?" she asked.

"Would I do that, your Highness?" Silk asked, his face full of innocence.

"I think you would," she said.

"Coming, Porenn?" Queen Islena asked from not far away.

"At once, your Highness," the queen of Drasnia said. Her fingers flickered briefly at Silk. What a bore.

Patience, Highness, Silk gestured in reply.

Queen Porenn docilely followed the stately Queen of Cherek and the silent Queen of Algaria from the hall. Silk’s eyes followed her, and his face had that same self mocking expression as before.

"The others are leaving," Garion said delicately and pointed to the far end of the hall where the Alorn Kings were just going out the door.

"All right," Silk said and led the way quickly after them.

Garion stayed at the rear of the group as they all made their way through the drafty corridors toward King Eldrig’s hall. The dry voice in his mind told him that if Aunt Pol saw him, she’d probably find a reason to send him away.

As he loitered along at the rear of the procession, a furtive movement flickered briefly far down one of the side corridors. He caught only one glimpse of the man, an ordinary-looking Cherek warrior wearing a dark green cloak, and then they had moved past that corridor. Garion stopped and stepped back to look again, but the man in the green cloak was gone.

At the door to King Eldrig’s hall, Aunt Pol stood waiting with her arms crossed. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"I was just looking," he said as innocently as possible.

"I see," she said. Then she turned to Barak. "The council’s probably going to last for a long time," she said, "and Garion’s just going to get restless before it’s over. Is there someplace where he can amuse himself until suppertime?"

"Aunt Pol!" Garion protested.

"The armory, perhaps?" Barak suggested.

"What would I do in an armory?" Garion demanded.

"Would you prefer the scullery?" Aunt Pol asked pointedly.

"On second thought, 1 think I might like to see the armory."

"I thought you might."

"It’s at the far end of this corridor, Garion," Barak said. "The room with the red door."

"Run along, dear," Aunt Pol said, "and try not to cut yourself on anything."

Garion sulked slowly down the corridor Barak had pointed out to him, keenly feeling the injustice of the situation. The guards posted in the passageway outside King Eldrig’s hall even made eavesdropping impossible. Garion sighed and continued his solitary way toward the armory.

The other part of his mind was busy, however, mulling over certain problems. Despite his stubborn refusal to accept the possibility that Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol were indeed Belgarath and Polgara, the behavior of the Alorn Kings made it obvious that they at least did believe it. Then there was the question of the rose Aunt Pol had given to Queen Islena. Setting aside the fact that roses do not bloom in the winter, how had Aunt Pol known that Islena would present her with that green jewel and therefore prepared the rose in advance? He deliberately avoided the idea that his Aunt had simply created the rose on the spot.

The corridor along which he passed, deep in thought, was dim, with only a few torches set in rings on the walls to light the way. Side passages branched out from it here and there, gloomy, unlighted openings that stretched back into the darkness. He had almost reached the armory when he heard a faint sound in one of those dark passages. Without knowing exactly why, he drew back into one of the other openings and waited.

The man in the green cloak stepped out into the lighted corridor and looked around furtively. He was an ordinary-looking man with a short, sandy beard, and he probably could have walked anywhere in the palace without attracting much notice. His manner, however, and his stealthy movements cried out louder than words that he was doing something he was not supposed to be doing. He hurried up the corridor in the direction from which Garion had come, and Garion shrank back into the protective darkness of his hiding place. When he carefully poked his head out into the corridor again, the man had disappeared, and it was impossible to know down which of those dark side passageways he had gone.

Garion’s inner voice told him that even if he told anyone about this, they wouldn’t listen. He’d need more than just an uneasy feeling of suspicion to report if he didn’t want to appear foolish. All he could do for the time being was to keep his eyes open for the man in the green cloak.

14

It was snowing the following morning, and Aunt Pol, Silk, Barak, and Mister Wolf again met for council with the kings, leaving Garion in Durnik’s keeping. The two sat near the fire in the huge hall with the thrones, watching the two dozen or so bearded Cherek warriors who lounged about or engaged in various activities to pass the time. Some of them sharpened their swords or polished their armor; others ate or sat drinking—even though it was still quite early in the morning; several were engaged in a heated dice game; and some simply sat with their backs against the wall and slept.

"These Chereks seem to be very idle people," Durnik said quietly to Garion. "I haven’t seen anyone actually working since we arrived, have you?"

Garion shook his head. "I think these are the king’s own warriors," he said just as quietly. "I don’t think they’re supposed to do anything except sit around and wait for the king to tell them to go fight someone."

Durnik frowned disapprovingly. "It must be a terribly boring way to live," he said.

"Durnik," Garion asked after a moment, "did you notice the way Barak and his wife acted toward each other?"

"It’s very sad," Durnik said. "Silk told me about it yesterday. Barak fell in love with her when they were both very young, but she was highborn and didn’t take him very seriously."

"How does it happen that they’re married, then?" Garion asked.

"It was her family’s idea," Durnik explained. "After Barak became the Earl of Trellheim, they decided that a marriage would give them a valuable connection. Merel objected, but it didn’t do her any good. Silk said that Barak found out after they were married that she’s really a very shallow person, but of course it was too late by then. She does spiteful things to try to hurt him, and he spends as much time away from home as possible."

"Do they have any children?" Garion asked.

"Two," Durnik said. "Both girls—about five and seven. Barak loves them very much, but he doesn’t get to see them very often."

Garion sighed. "I wish there was something we could do," he said.

"We can’t interfere between a man and his wife," Durnik said. "Things like that just aren’t done."

"Did you know that Silk’s in love with his aunt?" Garion said without stopping to think.

"Garion!" Durnik’s voice was shocked. "That’s an unseemly thing to say."

"It’s true all the same," Garion said defensively. "Of course she’s not really his aunt, I guess. She’s his uncle’s second wife. It’s not exactly like she was his real aunt."

"She’s married to his uncle," Durnik said firmly. "Who made up this scandalous story?"

"Nobody made it up," Garion said. "I was watching his face when he talked to her yesterday. It’s pretty plain the way he feels about her."

"I’m sure you just imagined it," Durnik said disapprovingly. He stood up. "Let’s look around. That will give us something better to do than sit here gossiping about our friends. It’s really not the sort of thing decent men do."

"All right," Garion agreed quickly, a little embarrassed. He stood up and followed Durnik across the smoky hall and out into the corridor. "Let’s have a look at the kitchen," Garion suggested.

"And the smithy, too," Durnik said.

The royal kitchens were enormous. Entire oxen roasted on spits, and whole flocks of geese simmered in lakes of gravy. Stews bubbled in cart-sized cauldrons, and battalions of loaves were marched into ovens big enough to stand in. Unlike Aunt Pol’s well-ordered kitchen at Faldor’s farm, everything here was chaos and confusion. The head cook was a huge man with a red face who screamed orders which everyone ignored. There were shouts and threats and a great deal of horseplay. A spoon heated in a fire and left where an unsuspecting cook would pick it up brought shrieks of mirth, and one man’s hat was stolen and deliberately thrown into a seething pot of stew.

"Let’s go someplace else, Durnik," he said. "This isn’t what I expected at all."

Durnik nodded. "Mistress Pol would never tolerate all of this foolishness," he agreed disapprovingly.

In the hallways outside the kitchen a maid with reddish-blond hair and a pale green dress cut quite low at the bodice loitered.

"Excuse me," Durnik said to her politely, "could you direct us to the smithy?"

She looked him up and down boldly. "Are you new here?" she asked. "I haven’t seen you before."

"We’re just visiting," Durnik said.

"Where are you from?" she demanded.

"Sendaria," Durnik said.

"How interesting. Perhaps the boy could run this errand for you, and you and I could talk for a while." Her look was direct.

Durnik coughed, and his ears reddened. "The smithy?" he asked again.

The maid laughed lightly. "In the courtyard at the end on this corridor," she said. "I’m usually around here someplace. I’m sure you can find me when you finish your business with the smith."

"Yes," Durnik said, "I’m sure I could. Come along, Garion."

They went on down the corridor and out into a snowy inner courtyard.

"Outrageous!" Durnik said stiffly, his ears still flaming. "The girl has no sense of propriety whatsoever. I’d report her if I knew to whom."

"Shocking," Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik’s embarrassment. They crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow.

The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big as Garion’s thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith’s hammer. Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean, one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.

Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters, saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak he’d seen the night before. It wasn’t likely that the man would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the same.

About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.

"Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I’ve got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along."

"That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your cousin’s warriors dice badly, and I’m tempted to try a few rolls with them. It would probably be better if I didn’t. Most men take offense at losing to strangers."

Barak grinned. "I’m sure they’d be glad to let you play, Silk," he said. "They’ve got just as much chance of winning as you do."

"Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east," Silk said.

"Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.

"I’m sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let’s go," he said. "My fingers are starting to itch. Let’s get them away from temptation."

"Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed.

They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and the wind was brisk.

"I’m a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the central part of Val Alorn. "I’ve been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk, are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name."

"Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what’s most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren’t so honest, however, occasionally have to change one or the other."

"I don’t find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest," Durnik said stiffly.

"No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don’t apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we’re not honest, I simply mean that this business we’re in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious."

Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.

"Let’s take this street," Barak suggested. "I don’t want to pass the Temple of Belar today."

"Why?" Garion asked.

"I’m a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look, "and I’d rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don’t like being called down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn’t give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public."

The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.

There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.

"They’re old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all winter long. Pretty soon they’ll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches. They’ve been doing it for years now."

"What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.

"They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the benches stays the same, though."

"Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are you coming to see me again?"

Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn’t answer.

"That lady’s talking to you, Barak," Garion said.

"I heard her," Barak replied shortly.

"She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look.

"She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?"

Around another corner a group of men dressed in shaggy furs shuffled along in single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side to side, and people quickly made way for them.

"Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned.

"Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed stiffly.

"May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to Belar, Bear-God of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood until the procession had passed.

"Who were they?" Durnik asked.

"Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics."

"A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the Alorn kingdoms. They’re excellent warriors, but they’re the instruments of the High Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military training, and interfering in local politics."

"Where’s this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked.

"All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be all the Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists want to reunite them."

"That doesn’t seem unreasonable," Durnik said.

"Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had to be protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do that."

"Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked.

"It’s the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bear-cultists tend to forget that."

"Only now it’s been stolen, hasn’t it?" Garion blurted as that dry voice in his mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and Silk had just said and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It’s this thing that Mister Wolf is following."

Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said soberly.

"He’s a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it’s not hard to put it all together." His weasel face was grave. "You’re right, of course, Garion," he said. "We don’t know how yet, but somebody’s managed to steal it. If Belgarath gives the word, the Alorn Kings will take the world apart stone by stone to get it back."

"You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice.

"There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a good opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all."

"Let’s hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said.

"The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted.

"Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public street’s the place to discuss our alternatives."

Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing.

They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of Cherek rose as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge over a frozen stream and came to several large yards where the skeletons of ships lay in the snow.

A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in the center of one of the yards and stood watching their approach.

"Ho, Krendig," Barak called.

"Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.

"How does the work go?" Barak asked.

"Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It’s not a good time to work with wood. My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the boards, but we won’t be able to do much more until spring."

Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a ship prow rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he said, patting the prow. "She’ll be the finest ship afloat."

"If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She’ll be very big, Barak, and very heavy."

"Then I’ll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his ship.

Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and looked up quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on smooth planks. It was obvious that Barak and the others were going to spend most of the rest of the afternoon discussing the ship. While that might be all very interesting, Garion realized that he hadn’t spoken with anyone his own age for a long time. He drifted away from the others and stood at the foot of the hill, watching.

One blond girl particularly attracted his eye. In some ways she reminded him of Zubrette, but there were some differences. Where Zubrette had been petite, this girl was as big as a boy—though she was noticeably not a boy. Her laughter rang out merrily, and her cheeks were pink in the cold afternoon air as she slid down the hill with her long braids flying behind her.

"That looks like fun," Garion said as her improvised sled came to rest nearby.

"Would you like to try?" she asked, getting up and brushing the snow from her woolen dress.

"I don’t have a sled," he told her.

"I might let you use mine," she said, looking at him archly, "if you give me something."

"What would you want me to give you?" he asked.

"We’ll think of something," she said, eyeing him boldly. "What’s your name?"

"Garion," he said.

"What an odd name. Do you come from here?"

"No. I’m from Sendaria."

"A Sendar? Truly?" Her blue eyes twinkled. "I’ve never met a Sendar before. My name is Maidee."

Garion inclined his head slightly.

"Do you want to use my sled?" Maidee asked.

"I might like to try it," Garion said.

"I might let you," she said, "for a kiss."

Garion blushed furiously, and Maidee laughed.

A large red-haired boy in a long tunic slid to a stop nearby and rose with a menacing look on his face.

"Maidee, come away from there," he ordered.

"What if I don’t want to?" she asked.

The red-haired boy swaggered toward Garion.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I was talking with Maidee," Garion said.

"Who gave you permission?" the red-haired boy asked. He was a bit taller than Garion and somewhat heavier.

"I didn’t bother to ask permission," Garion said.

The red-haired boy glowered, flexing his muscles threateningly.

"I can thrash you if I like," he announced.

Garion realized that the redhead was feeling belligerent and that a fight was inevitable. The preliminaries—threats, insults and the like—would probably go on for several more minutes, but the fight would take place as soon as the boy in the long tunic had worked himself up to it. Garion decided not to wait. He doubled his fist and punched the larger boy in the nose.

The blow was a good one, and the redhead stumbled back and sat down heavily in the snow. He raised one hand to his nose and brought it away bright red.

"It’s bleeding!" he wailed accusingly. "You made my nose bleed."

"It’ll stop in a few minutes," Garion said.

"What if it doesn’t?"

"Nose bleeds don’t last forever," Garion told him.

"Why did you hit me?" the redhead demanded tearfully, wiping his nose. "I didn’t do anything to you."

"You were going to," Garion said. "Put snow on it, and don’t be such a baby."

"It’s still bleeding," the boy said.

"Put snow on it," Garion said again.

"What if it doesn’t stop bleeding?"

"Then you’ll probably bleed to death," Garion said in a heartless tone. It was a trick he had learned from Aunt Pol. It worked as well on the Cherek boy as it had on Doroon and Rundorig. The redhead blinked at him and then took a large handful of snow and held it to his nose.

"Are all Sendars so cruel?" Maidee asked.

"I don’t know all the people in Sendaria," Garion said. The affair hadn’t turned out well at all, and regretfully he turned and started back toward the shipyard.

"Garion, wait," Maidee said. She ran after him and caught him by the arm. "You forgot my kiss," she said, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips.

"There," she said, and she turned and ran laughing back up the hill, her blond braids flying behind her.

Barak, Silk and Durnik were all laughing when he returned to where they stood.

"You were supposed to chase her," Barak said.

"What for?" Garion asked, flushing at their laughter.

"She wanted you to catch her."

"I don’t understand."

"Barak," Silk said, "I think that one of us is going to have to inform the Lady Polgara that our Garion needs some further education."

"You’re skilled with words, Silk," Barak said. "I’m sure you ought to be the one to tell her."

"Why don’t we throw dice for the privilege?" Silk suggested.

"I’ve seen you throw dice before, Silk." Barak laughed.

"Of course we could simply stay here a while longer," Silk said slyly. "I rather imagine that Garion’s new playmate would be quite happy to complete his education, and that way we wouldn’t have to bother Lady Polgara about it."

Garion’s ears were flaming. "I’m not as stupid as all that," he said hotly. "I know what you’re talking about, and you don’t have to say anything to Aunt Pol about it." He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow.

After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter, and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets hurried to get home before dark.

Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he couldn’t see the hooded man’s face, there was no need of that. They had looked at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo’s presence here was very important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried another approach.

"Barak," he asked, "are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?"

"There aren’t any Murgos in Cherek," Barak said. "Angaraks aren’t allowed in the kingdom on pain of death. It’s our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering," Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen.

That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg’s central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a broadly exaggerated account of Garion’s encounter with the young people on the hillside.

"A great blow it was," he said in expansive tones, "worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the bright-eyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero’s greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid’s fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory’s true compensation."

The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the table and their knees and each others’ backs in their glee. Queen Islena and Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel, however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked at her husband.

Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and advice.

"Is that really the way it happened, nephew?" King Rhodar demanded of Silk, wiping tears from his eyes.

"More or less," Silk replied. "Lord Barak’s telling was masterly, though a good deal embellished."

"We should send for a minstrel," the Earl of Seline said. "This exploit should be immortalized in song."

"Don’t tease him," Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion.

Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.

"Isn’t it odd that three grown men can’t keep one boy out of trouble?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"It was only one blow, my Lady," Silk protested, "and only one kiss, after all."

"Really?" she said. "And what’s it going to be next time? A duel with swords, perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?"

"There was no real harm in it, Mistress Pol," Durnik assured her. Aunt Pol shook her head. "I thought you at least had good sense, Durnik," she said, "but now I see that I was wrong."

Garion suddenly resented her remarks. It seemed that no matter what he did, she was ready to take it in the worst possible light. His resentment flared to the verge of open rebellion. What right had she to say anything about what he did? There was no tie between them, after all, and he could do anything he wanted without her permission if he felt like it. He glared at her in sullen anger.

She caught the look and returned it with a cool expression that seemed almost to challenge him. "Well?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said shortly.

15

The next morning dawned bright and crisp. The sky was a deep blue, and the sunlight was dazzling on the white mountaintops that rose behind the city. After breakfast, Mister Wolf announced that he and Aunt Pol would again meet privately that day with Fulrach and the Alorn Kings.

"Good idea," Barak said. "Gloomy ponderings are good for kings. Unless one has regal obligations, however, it’s much too fine a day to be wasted indoors." He grinned mockingly at his cousin.

"There’s a streak of cruelty in you that I hadn’t suspected, Barak," King Anheg said, glancing longingly out a nearby window.

"Do the wild boars still come down to the edges of the forest?" Barak asked.

"In droves," Anheg replied even more disconsolately.

"I thought I might gather a few good men and go out and see if we can thin their numbers a bit," Barak said, his grin even wider now.

"I was almost sure you had something like that in mind," Anheg said moodily, scratching at his unkempt hair.

"I’m doing you a service, Anheg," Barak said. "You don’t want your kingdom overrun with the beasts, do you?"

Rhodar, the fat King of Drasnia, laughed hugely. "I think he’s got you, Anheg," he said.

"He usually does," Anheg agreed sourly.

"I gladly leave such activities to younger and leaner men," Rhodar said. He slapped his vast paunch with both hands. "I don’t mind a good supper, but I’d rather not have to fight with it first. I make too good a target. The blindest boar in the world wouldn’t have much trouble finding me."

"Well, Silk," Barak said, "what do you say?"

"You’re not serious," Silk said.

"You must go along, Prince Kheldar," Queen Porenn insisted. "Someone has to represent the honor of Drasnia in this venture."

Silk’s face looked pained.

"You can be my champion," she said, her eyes sparkling.

"Have you been reading Arendish epics again, your Highness?" Silk asked acidly.

"Consider it a royal command," she said. "Some fresh air and exercise won’t hurt you. You’re starting to look dyspeptic."

Silk bowed ironically. "As you wish, your Highness," he said. "I suppose that if things get out of hand I can always climb a tree."

"How about you, Durnik?" Barak asked.

"I don’t know much about hunting, friend Barak," Durnik said doubtfully, "but I’ll come along if you like."

"My Lord?" Barak asked the Earl of Seline politely.

"Oh, no, Lord Barak." Seline laughed. "I outgrew my enthusiasm for such sport years ago. Thanks for the invitation, however."

"Hettar?" Barak asked the rangy Algar. Hettar glanced quickly at his father.

"Go along, Hettar," Cho-Hag said in his soft voice. "I’m sure King Anheg will lend me a warrior to help me walk."

"I’ll do it myself, Cho-Hag," Anheg said. "I’ve carried heavier burdens."

"I’ll go with you then, Lord Barak," Hettar said. "And thanks for asking me." His voice was deep and resonant, but very soft, much like that of his father.

"Well, lad?" Barak asked Garion.

"Have you lost your wits entirely, Barak?" Aunt Pol snapped. "Didn’t you get him into enough trouble yesterday?"

That was the last straw. The sudden elation he’d felt at Barak’s invitation turned to anger. Garion gritted his teeth and threw away all caution. "If Barak doesn’t think I’ll just be in the way, I’ll be glad to go along," he announced defiantly.

Aunt Pol stared at him, her eyes suddenly very hard.

"Your cub is growing teeth, Pol." Mister Wolf chuckled.

"Be still, father," Aunt Pol said, still glaring at Garion.

"Not this time, Miss," the old man said with a hint of iron in his voice. "He’s made his decision, and you’re not going to humiliate him by unmaking it for him. Garion isn’t a child now. You may not have noticed, but he’s almost man high and filling out now. He’ll soon be fifteen, Pol. You’re going to have to relax your grip sometime, and now’s as good a time as any to start treating him like a man."

She looked at him for a moment.

"Whatever you say, father," she said at last with deceptive meekness. "I’m sure we’ll want to discuss this later, though—in private."

Mister Wolf winced.

Aunt Pol looked at Garion then. "Try to be careful, dear," she said, "and when you come back, we’ll have a nice long talk, won’t we?"

"Will my Lord require my aid in arming himself for the hunt?" Lady Merel asked in the stilted and insulting manner she always assumed with Barak.

"That won’t be necessary, Merel," Barak said.

"I would not neglect any of my duties," she said.

"Leave it alone, Merel," Barak said. "You’ve made your point."

"Have I my Lord’s permission then to withdraw?" she asked.

"You have," he said shortly.

"Perhaps you ladies would like to join me," Queen Islena said. "We’ll cast auguries and see if we can predict the outcome of the hunt."

Queen Porenn, who stood somewhat behind the Queen of Cherek, rolled her eyes upward in resignation.

Queen Silar smiled at her.

"Let’s go then," Barak said. "The boars are waiting."

"Sharpening their tusks, no doubt," Silk said.

Barak led them down to the red door of the armory where they were joined by a grizzled man with enormously broad shoulders who wore a bullhide shirt with metal plates sewn on it.

"This is Torvik," Barak introduced the grizzled man, "Anheg’s chief huntsman. He knows every boar in the forest by his first name."

"My Lord Barak is overkind," Torvik said, bowing.

"How does one go about this hunting of boars, friend Torvik?" Durnik asked politely. "I’ve never done it before."

"It’s a simple thing," Torvik explained. "I take my huntsmen into the forest and we drive the beasts with noise and shouting. You and the other hunters wait for them with these." He gestured at a rack of stout, broad-headed boar spears. "When the boar sees you standing in his way, he charges you and tries to kill you with his tusks, but instead you kill him with your spear."

"I see," Durnik said somewhat doubtfully. "It doesn’t sound very complicated."

"We wear mail shirts, Durnik," Barak said. "Our hunters are hardly ever injured seriously."

" ‘Hardly ever’ has an uncomfortable ring of frequency to it, Barak," Silk said, fingering a mail shirt hanging on a peg by the door.

"No sport is very entertaining without a certain element of risk." Barak shrugged, hefting a boar spear.

"Have you ever thought of throwing dice instead?" Silk asked.

"Not with your dice, my friend." Barak laughed.

They began pulling on mail shirts while Torvik’s huntsmen carried several armloads of boar spears out to the sleighs waiting in the snowy courtyard of the palace.

Garion found the mail shirt heavy and more than a little uncomfortable. The steel rings dug at his skin even through his heavy clothes, and every time he tried to shift his posture to relieve the pressure of one of them, a half dozen others bit at him. The air was very cold as they climbed into the sleighs, and the usual fur robes seemed hardly adequate.

They drove through the narrow, twisting streets of Val Alorn toward the great west gate on the opposite side of the city from the harbor. The breath of the horses steamed in the icy air as they rode.

The ragged old blind woman from the temple stepped from a doorway as they passed in the bright morning sun. "Hail, Lord Barak," she croaked. "Thy Doom is at hand. Thou shalt taste of it before this day’s sun finds its bed."

Without a word Barak rose in his sleigh, took up a boar spear and cast it with deadly accuracy full at the old woman.

With surprising speed, the witch-woman swung her staff and knocked the spear aside in midair. "It will avail thee not to try to kill old Martje." She laughed scornfully. "Thy spear shall not find her, neither shall thy sword. Go thou, Barak. Thy Doom awaits thee." And then she turned toward the sleigh in which Garion sat beside the startled Durnik. "Hail, Lord of Lords," she intoned. "Thy peril this day shall be great, but thou shall survive it. And it is thy peril which shall reveal the mark of the beast which is the Doom of thy friend Barak." And then she bowed and scampered away before Barak could lay his hands on another spear.

"What was that about, Garion?" Durnik asked, his eyes still surprised.

"Barak says she’s a crazy old blind woman," Garion said. "She stopped us when we arrived in Val Alorn after you and the others had already passed."

"What was all that talk about Doom?" Durnik asked with a shudder.

"I don’t know," Garion said. "Barak wouldn’t explain it."

"It’s a bad omen so early in the day," Durnik said. "These Chereks are a strange people."

Garion nodded in agreement.

Beyond the west gate of the city were open fields, sparkling white in the full glare of the morning sun. They crossed the fields toward the dark edge of the forest two leagues away with great plumes of powdery snow flying out behind their racing sleighs.

Farmsteads lay muffled in snow along their track. The buildings were all made of logs and had high-peaked wooden roofs.

"These people seem to be indifferent to danger," Durnik said. "I certainly wouldn’t want to live in a wooden house—what with the possibility of fire and all."

"It’s a different country, after all," Garion said. "We can’t expect the whole world to live the way we do in Sendaria."

"I suppose not," Durnik sighed, "but I’ll tell you, Garion, I’m not very comfortable here. Some people just aren’t meant for travel. Sometimes I wish we’d never left Faldor’s farm."

"I do too, sometimes," Garion admitted, looking at the towering mountains that seemed to rise directly out of the forest ahead. "Someday it will be over, though, and we’ll be able to go home again."

Durnik nodded and sighed once more.

By the time they had entered the woods, Barak had regained his temper and his good spirits, and he set about placing the hunters as if nothing had happened. He led Garion through the calf deep snow to a large tree some distance from the narrow sleigh track.

"This is a good place," he said. "There’s a game trail here, and the boars may use it to try to escape the noise of Torvik and his huntsmen. When one comes, brace yourself and hold your spear with its point aimed at his chest. They don’t see very well, and he’ll run full into your spear before he even knows it’s there. After that it’s probably best to jump behind a tree. Sometimes the spear makes them very angry."

"What if I miss?" Garion asked.

"I wouldn’t do that," Barak advised. "It’s not a very good idea."

"I didn’t mean that I was going to do it on purpose," Garion said. "Will he try to get away from me or what?"

"Sometimes they’ll try to run," Barak said, "but I wouldn’t count on it. More likely he’ll try to split you up the middle with his tusks. At that point it’s usually a good idea to climb a tree."

"I’ll remember that," Garion said.

"I won’t be far away if you have trouble," Barak promised, handing Garion a pair of heavy spears. Then he trudged back to his sleigh, and they all galloped off, leaving Garion standing alone under the large oak tree.

It was shadowy among the dark tree trunks, and bitingly cold. Garion walked around a bit through the snow, looking for the best place to await the boar. The trail Barak had pointed out was a beaten path winding back through the dark brush, and Garion found the size of the tracks imprinted in the snow on the path alarmingly large. The oak tree with low-spreading limbs began to look very inviting, but he dismissed that thought angrily. He was expected to stand on the ground and meet the charge of the boar, and he decided that he would rather die than hide in a tree like a frightened child.

The dry voice in his mind advised him that he spent far too much time worrying about things like that. Until he was grown, no one would consider him a man, so why should he go to all the trouble of trying to seem brave when it wouldn’t do any good anyway?

The forest was very quiet now, and the snow muffled all sounds. No bird sang, and there was only the occasional padded thump of snow sliding from overloaded branches to the earth beneath. Garion felt terribly alone. What was he doing here? What business had a good, sensible Sendarian boy here in the endless forests of Cherek, awaiting the charge of a savage wild pig with only a pair of unfamiliar spears for company?

What had the pig ever done to him? He realized that he didn’t even particularly like the taste of pork.

He was some distance from the beaten forest track along which their sleighs had passed, and he set his back to the oak tree, shivered, and waited.

He didn’t realize how long he had been listening to the sound when he became fully aware of it. It was not the stamping, squealing rush of a wild boar he had been expecting but was, rather, the measured pace of several horses moving slowly along the snow-carpeted floor of the forest, and it was coming from behind him. Cautiously he eased his face around the tree.

Three riders, muffled in furs, emerged from the woods on the far side of the sleigh-churned track. They stopped and sat waiting. Two of them were bearded warriors, little different from dozens of others Garion had seen in King Anheg’s palace. The third man, however, had long, flaxen-colored hair and wore no beard. His face had the sullen, pampered look of a spoiled child, although he was a man of middle years, and he sat his horse disdainfully as if the company of the other two somehow offended him.

After a time, the sound of another horse came from near the edge of the forest. Almost holding his breath, Garion waited. The other rider slowly approached the three who sat their horses in the snow at the edge of the trees. It was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak whom Garion had seen creeping through the passageways of King Anheg’s palace two nights before.

"My Lord," the green-cloaked man said deferentially as he joined the other three.

"Where have you been?" the flaxen-haired man demanded.

"Lord Barak took some of his guests on a boar hunt this morning. His route was the same as mine, and I didn’t want to follow too closely."

The nobleman grunted sourly.

"We saw them deeper in the wood," he said. "Well, what have you heard?"

"Very little, my Lord. The kings are meeting with the old man and the woman in a guarded chamber. I can’t get close enough to head what they’re saying."

"I’m paying you good gold to get close enough. I have to know what they’re saying. Go back to the palace and work out a way to hear what they’re talking about."

"I’ll try, my Lord," the green-cloaked man said, bowing somewhat stiffly.

"You’ll do more than try," the flaxen-haired man snapped.

"As you wish, my Lord," the other said, starting to turn his horse.

"Wait," the nobleman commended. "Were you able to meet with our friend?"

"Your friend, my Lord," the other corrected with distaste. "I met him, and we went to a tavern and talked a little."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing very useful. His kind seldom do."

"Will he meet us as he said he would?"

"He told me that he would. If you want to believe him, that’s your affair."

The nobleman ignored that.

"Who arrived with the King of the Sendars?"

"The old man and the woman, another old man—some Sendarian noble, I think, Lord Barak and a weasel-faced Drasnian, and another Sendar—a commoner of some sort."

"That’s all? Wasn’t there a boy with them as well?"

The spy shrugged.

"I didn’t think the boy was important," he said.

"He’s there then—in the palace?"

"He is, my Lord—an ordinary Sendarian boy of about fourteen, I’d judge. He seems to be some kind of servant to the woman."

"Very well. Go back to the palace and get close enough to that chamber to hear what the kings and the old man are saying."

"That may be very dangerous, my Lord."

"It’ll be more dangerous if you don’t. Now go, before that ape Barak comes back and finds you loitering here." He whirled his horse and, followed by his two warriors, plunged back into the forest on the far side of the snowy track that wound among the dark trees.

The man in the green cloak sat grimly watching for a moment, then he too turned his horse and rode back the way he had come.

Garion rose from his crouched position behind the tree. His hands were clenched so tightly around the shaft of his spear that they actually ached. This had gone entirely too far, he decided. The matter must be brought to someone’s attention.

And then, some way off in the snowy depths of the wood, he heard the sound of hunting horns and the steely clash of swords ringing rhythmically on shields. The huntsmen were coming, driving all the beasts of the forest before them.

He heard a crackling in the bushes, and a great stag bounded into view, his eyes wild with fright and his antlers flaring above his head. With three huge leaps he was gone. Garion trembled with excitement.

Then there was a squealing rush, and a red-eyed sow plunged down the trail followed by a half dozen scampering piglets. Garion stepped behind his tree and let them pass.

The next squeals were deeper and rang less with fright than with rage. It was the boar—Garion knew that before the beast even broke out of the heavy brush. When the boar appeared, Garion felt his heart quail.

This was no fat, sleepy porker, but rather a savage, infuriated beast. The horrid tusks jutting up past the flaring snout were yellow, and bits of twigs and bark clung to them, mute evidence that the boar would slash at anything in his path-trees, bushes or a Sendarian boy without sense enough to get out of his way.

Then a peculiar thing happened. As in the long-ago fight with Rundorig or in the scuffle with Brill’s hirelings in the dark streets of Muros, Garion felt his blood begin to surge, and there was a wild ringing in his ears. He seemed to hear a defiant, shouted challenge and could scarcely accept the fact that it came from his own throat. He suddenly realized that he was stepping into the middle of the trail and crouching with his spear braced and leveled at the massive beast.

The boar charged. Red-eyed and frothing from the mouth, with a deep-throated squeal of fury, he plunged at the waiting Garion. The powdery snow sprayed up from his churning hooves like foam from the prow of a ship.The snow crystals seemed to hang in the air, sparkling in a single ray of sunlight that chanced just there to reach the forest floor.

The shock as the boar hit the spear was frightful, but Garion’s aim was good. The broad-bladed spearhead penetrated the coarsely haired chest, and the white froth dripping from the boar’s tusks suddenly became bloody foam. Garion felt himself driven back by the impact, his feet slipping out from under him, and then the shaft of his spear snapped like a dry twig and the boar was on him.

The first slashing, upward-ripping blow of the boar’s tusks took Garion full in the stomach, and he felt the wind whoosh out of his lungs. The second slash caught his hip as he tried to roll, gasping, out of the way. His chain-mail shirt deflected the tusks, saving him from being wounded, but the blows were stunning. The boar’s third slash caught him in the back, and he was flung through the air and crashed into a tree. His eyes filled with shimmering light as his head banged against the rough bark.

And then Barak was there, roaring and charging through the snow—but somehow it seemed not to be Barak. Garion’s eyes, glazed from the shock of the blow to his head, looked uncomprehendingly at something that could not be true. It was Barak, there could be no doubt of that, but it was also something else. Oddly, as if somehow occupying the same space as Barak, there was also a huge, hideous bear. The images of the two figures crashing through the snow were superimposed, their movements identical as if in sharing the same space they also shared the same thoughts.

Huge arms grasped up the wriggling, mortally wounded boar and crushed in upon it. Bright blood fountained from the boar’s mouth, and the shaggy, half man thing that seemed to be Barak and something else at the same time raised the dying pig and smashed it brutally to the ground. The man-thing lifted its awful face and roared in earthshaking triumph as the light slid away from Garion’s eyes and he felt himself drifting down into the gray well of unconsciousness.

There was no way of knowing how much time passed until he came to in the sleigh. Silk was applying a cloth filled with snow to the back of his neck as they flew across the glaring white fields toward Val Alorn.

"I see you’ve decided to live." Silk grinned at him.

"Where’s Barak?" Garion mumbled groggily.

"In the sleigh behind us," Silk said, glancing back.

"Is he—all right?"

"What could hurt Barak?" Silk asked.

"I mean —,does he seem like himself?"

"He seems like Barak to me." Silk shrugged. "No, boy, lie still. That wild pig may have cracked your ribs." He placed his hands on Garion’s chest and gently held him down.

"My boar?" Garion demanded weakly. "Where is it?"

"The huntsmen are bringing it," Silk said. "You’ll get your triumphal entry. If I might suggest it, however, you should give some thought to the virtue of constructive cowardice. These instincts of yours could shorten your life."

But Garion had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

And then they were in the palace, and Barak was carrying him, and Aunt Pol was there, white-faced at the sight of all the blood.

"It’s not his," Barak assured her quickly. "He speared a boar, and it bled on him while they were tussling. I think the boy’s all right—a little rap on the head is all."

"Bring him," Aunt Pol said curtly and led the way up the stairs toward Garion’s room.

Later, with his head and chest wrapped and a foul-tasting cup of Aunt Pol’s brewing making him light-headed and sleepy, Garion lay in his bed listening as Aunt Pol finally turned on Barak.

"You great overgrown dolt," she raged. "Do you see what all your foolishness has done?"

"The lad is very brave," Barak said, his voice low and sunk in a kind of bleak melancholy.

"Brave doesn’t interest me," Aunt Pol snapped. Then she stopped. "What’s the matter with you?" she demanded. She reached out suddenly and put her hands on the sides of the huge man’s head. She looked for a moment into his eyes and then slowly released him. "Oh," she said softly, "it finally happened, I see."

"I couldn’t control it, Polgara," Barak said in misery.

"It’ll be all right, Barak," she said, gently touching his bowed head.

"It’ll never be all right again," Barak said.

"Get some sleep," she told him. "It won’t seem so bad in the morning."

The huge man turned and quietly left the room.

Garion knew they were talking about the strange thing he had seen when Barak had rescued him from the boar, and he wanted to ask Aunt Pol about it; but the bitter drink she had given him pulled him down into a deep and dreamless sleep before he could put the words together to ask the question.

16

The next day Garion was too stiff and sore to even think about getting out of bed. A stream of visitors, however, kept him too occupied to think about his aches and pains. The visits from the Alorn Kings in their splendid robes were particularly flattering, and each of them praised his courage. Then the queens came and made a great fuss over his injuries, offering warm sympathy and gentle, stroking touches to his forehead. The combination of praise, sympathy and the certain knowledge that he was the absolute center of attention was overwhelming, and his heart was full.

The last visitor of the day, however, was Mister Wolf, who came when evening was creeping through the snowy streets of Val Alorn. The old man wore his usual tunic and cloak, and his hood was turned up as if he had been outside.

"Have you seen my boar, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked proudly.

"An excellent animal," Wolf said, though without much enthusiasm, "but didn’t anyone tell you it’s customary to jump out of the way after the boar has been speared?"

"I didn’t really think about it," Garion admitted, "but wouldn’t that seem—well—cowardly?"

"Were you that concerned about what a pig might think of you?"

"Well," Garion faltered, "not really, I guess."

"You’re developing an amazing lack of good sense for one so young," Wolf observed. "It normally takes years and years to reach the point you seem to have arrived at overnight." He turned to Aunt Pol, who sat nearby. "Polgara, are you quite certain that there’s no hint of Arendish blood in our Garion’s background? He’s been behaving most Arendish lately. First he rides the Great Maelstrom like a rocking horse, and then he tries to break a wild boar’s tusks with his ribs. Are you sure you didn’t drop him on his head when he was a baby?"

Aunt Pol smiled, but said nothing.

"I hope you recover soon, boy," Wolf said, "and try to give some thought to what I’ve said."

Garion sulked, mortally offended by Mister Wolf’s words. Tears welled up in his eyes despite all his efforts to control them.

"Thank you for stopping by, Father," Aunt Pol said.

"It’s always a pleasure to call on you, my daughter," Wolf said and quietly left the room.

"Why did he have to talk to me like that?" Garion burst out, wiping his nose. "Now he’s gone and spoiled it all."

"Spoiled what, dear?" Aunt Pol asked, smoothing the front of her gray dress.

"All of it," Garion complained. "The kings all said I was very brave."

"Kings say things like that," Aunt Pol said. "I wouldn’t pay too much attention, if I were you."

"I was brave, wasn’t I?"

"I’m sure you were, dear," she said. "And I’m sure the pig was very impressed."

"You’re as bad as Mister Wolf is," Garion accused.

"Yes, dear," she said, "I suppose I probably am, but that’s only natural. Now, what would you like for supper?"

"I’m not hungry," Garion said defiantly.

"Really? You probably need a tonic then. I’ll fix you one."

"I think I’ve changed my mind," Garion said quickly.

"I rather thought you might," Aunt Pol said. And then, without explanation, she suddenly put her arms around him and held him close to her for a long time. "What am I going to do with you?" she said finally.

"I’m all right, Aunt Pol," he assured her.

"This time perhaps," she said, taking his face between her hands. "It’s a splendid thing to be brave, my Garion, but try once in a while to think a little bit first. Promise me."

"All right, Aunt Pol," he said, a little embarrassed by all this. Oddly enough she still acted as if she really cared about him. The idea that there could still be a bond between them even if they were not related began to dawn on him. It could never be the same, of course, but at least it was something. He began to feel a little better about the whole thing.

The next day he was able to get up. His muscles still ached a bit, and his ribs were somewhat tender, but he was young and was healing fast. About midmorning he was sitting with Durnik in the great hall of Anheg’s palace when the silvery-bearded Earl of Seline approached them.

"King Fulrach wonders if you would be so kind as to join us in the council chamber, Goodman Durnik," he said politely.

"Me, your Honor?" Durnik asked incredulously.

"His Majesty is most impressed with your sensibility," the old gentleman said. "He feels that you represent the very best of Sendarian practicality. What we face involves all men, not just the Kings of the West, and so it’s only proper that good, solid common sense be represented in our proceedings."

"I’ll come at once, your Honor," Durnik said, getting up quickly, "but you’ll have to forgive me if I say very little."

Garion waited expectantly.

"We’ve all heard of your adventure, my boy," the Earl of Seline said pleasantly to Garion. "Ah, to be young again," he sighed. "Coming, Durnik?"

"Immediately, your Honor," Durnik said, and the two of them made their way out of the great hall toward the council chamber.

Garion sat alone, wounded to the quick by his exclusian. He was at an age where his self esteem was very tender, and inwardly he writhed at the lack of regard implicit in his not being invited to join them. Hurt and offended, he sulkily left the great hall and went to visit his boar which hung in an ice-filled cooling room just off the kitchen. At least the boar had taken him seriously.

One could, however, spend only so much time in the company of a dead pig without becoming depressed. The boar did not seem nearly so big as he had when he was alive and charging, and the tusks were impressive but neither so long nor so sharp as Garion remembered them. Besides, it was cold in the cooling room and sore muscles stiffened quickly in chilly places.

There was no point in trying to visit Barak. The red-bearded man had locked himself in his chamber to brood in blackest melancholy and refused to answer his door, even to his wife. And so Garion, left entirely on his own, moped about for a while and then decided that he might as well explore this vast palace with its dusty, unused chambers and dark, twisting corridors. He walked for what seemed hours, opening doors and following hallways that sometimes ended abruptly against blank stone walls.

The palace of Anheg was enormous, having been, as Barak had explained, some three thousand years and more in construction. One southern wing was so totally abandoned that its entire roof had fallen in centuries ago. Garion wandered there for a time in the second-floor corridors of the ruin, his mind filled with gloomy thoughts of mortality and transient glory as he looked into rooms where snow lay thickly on ancient beds and stools and the tiny tracks of mice and squirrels ran everywhere. And then he came to an unroofed corridor where there were other tracks, those of a man. The footprints were quite fresh, for there was no sign of snow in them and it had snowed heavily the night before. At first he thought the tracks might be his own and that he had somehow circled and come back to a corridor he had already explored, but the footprints were much larger than his.

There were a dozen possible explanations, of course, but Garion felt his breath quicken. The man in the green cloak was still lurking about the palace, Asharak the Murgo was somewhere in Val Alorn, and the flaxen-haired nobleman was hiding somewhere in the forest with obviously unfriendly intentions.

Garion realized that the situation might be dangerous and that he was unarmed except for his small dagger. He retraced his steps quickly to a snowy chamber he had just explored and took down a rusty sword from a peg where it had hung forgotten for uncountable years. Then, feeling a bit more secure, he returned to follow the silent tracks.

So long as the path of the unknown intruder lay in that roofless and long-abandoned corridor, following him was simplicity itself; the undisturbed snow made tracking easy. But once the trail led over a heap of fallen debris and into the gaping blackness of a dusty corridor where the roof was still intact, things became a bit more difficult. The dust on the floor helped, but it was necessary to do a great deal of stooping and bending over. Garion’s ribs and legs were still sore, and he winced and grunted each time he had to bend down to examine the stone floor. In a very short while he was sweating and gritting his teeth and thinking about giving the whole thing up.

Then he heard a faint sound far down the corridor ahead. He shrank back against the wall, hoping that no light from behind him would filter dimly through to allow him to be seen. Far ahead, a figure passed stealthily through the pale light from a single tiny window. Garion caught a momentary flicker of green and knew finally whom he was following. He kept close to the wall and moved with catlike silence in his soft leather shoes, the rusty sword gripped tightly in his hand. If it had not been for the startling nearness of the voice of the Earl of Seline, however, he would probably have walked directly into the man he had been following.

"Is it at all possible, noble Belgarath, that our enemy can be awakened before all the conditions of the ancient prophecy are met?" the earl was asking.

Garion stopped. Directly ahead of him in a narrow embrasure in the wall of the corridor, he caught sight of a slight movement. The green cloaked man lurked there, listening in the dimness to the words that seemed to come from somewhere beneath. Garion shrank back against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe. Carefully he stepped backward until he found another embrasure and drew himself into the concealing darkness.

"A most appropriate question, Belgarath," the quiet voice of Cho-Hag of the Algars said. "Can this Apostate use the power now in his hands to revive the Accursed One?"

"The power is there," the familiar voice of Mister Wolf said, "but he might be afraid to use it. If it isn’t done properly, the power will destroy him. He won’t rush into such an act, but will think very carefully before he tries it. It’s that hesitation that gives us the little bit of time we have."

Then Silk spoke. "Didn’t you say that he might want the thing for himself? Maybe he plans to leave his Master in undisturbed slumber and use the power he’s stolen to raise himself as king in the lands of the Angaraks."

King Rhodar of Drasnia chuckled. "Somehow I don’t see the Grolim Priesthood so easily relinquishing their power in the lands of Angarak and bowing down to an outsider. The High Priest of the Grolims is no mean sorcerer himself, I’m told."

"Forgive me, Rhodar," King Anheg said, "but if the power is in the thief’s hands, the Grolims won’t have any choice but to accept his dominion. I’ve studied the power of this thing, and if even half of what I’ve read is true, he can use it to rip down Rak Cthol as easily as you’d kick apart an anthill. Then, if they still resist, he could depopulate all of Cthol Murgos from Rak Goska to the Tolnedran border. No matter what, however, whether it’s the Apostate or the Accursed One who eventually raises that power, the Angaraks will follow and they will come west."

"Shouldn’t we inform the Arends and Tolnedrans—and the Ulgos as well—what has happened then?" Brand, the Rivan Warder, asked. "Let’s not be taken by surprise again."

"I wouldn’t be in too much hurry to rouse our southern neighbors," Mister Wolf said. "When Pol and I leave here, we’ll be moving south. If Arendia and Tolnedra are mobilizing for war, the general turmoil would only hinder us. The Emperor’s legions are soldiers. They can respond quickly when the need arises, and the Arends are always ready for war. The whole kingdom hovers on the brink of general warfare all the time."

"It’s premature," Aunt Pol’s familiar voice agreed. "Armies would just get in the way of what we’re trying to do. If we can apprehend my father’s old pupil and return the thing he pilfered to Riva, the crisis will be past. Let’s not stir up the southerners for nothing."

"She’s right," Wolf said. "There’s always a risk in a mobilization. A king with an army on his hands often begins to think of mischief. I’ll advise the King of the Arends at Vo Mimbre and the Emperor at Tol Honeth of as much as they need to know as I pass through. But we should get word through to the Gorim of Ulgo. Cho-Hag, do you think you could get a messenger through to Prolgu at this time of the year?"

"It’s hard to say, Ancient One," Cho-Hag said. "The passes into those mountains are difficult in the winter. I’ll try, though."

"Good," Wolf said. "Beyond that, there’s not much more we can do. For the time being it might not be a bad idea to keep this matter in the family—so to speak. If worse comes to worst and the Angaraks invade again, Aloria at least will be armed and ready. There’ll be time for Arendia and the Empire to make their preparations."

King Fulrach spoke then in a troubled voice. "It’s easy for the Alorn Kings to talk of war," he said. "Alorns are warriors; but my Sendaria is a peaceful kingdom. We don’t have castles or fortified keeps, and my people are farmers and tradesmen. Kal Torak made a mistake when he chose the battlefield at Vo Mimbre; and it’s not likely that the Angaraks will make the same mistake again. I think they’ll strike directly across the grasslands of northern Algaria and fall upon Sendaria. We have a lot of food and very few soldiers. Our country would provide an ideal base for a campaign in the west, and I’m afraid that we’d fall quite easily."

Then, to Garion’s amazement, Durnik spoke. "Don’t cheapen the men of Sendaria so, Lord King," he said in a firm voice. "I know my neighbors, and they’ll fight. We don’t know very much about swords and lances, but we’ll fight. If Angaraks come to Sendaria, they won’t find the taking as easy as some might imagine, and if we put torches to the fields and storehouses there won’t be all that much food for them to eat."

There was a long silence, and then Fulrach spoke again in a voice strangely humble. "Your words shame me, Goodman Durnik," he said. "Maybe I’ve been king for so long that I’ve forgotten what it means to be a Sendar."

"One remembers that there are only a few passes leading through the western escarpment into Sendaria," Hettar, the son of King Cho-Hag, said quietly. "A few avalanches in the right places could make Sendaria as inaccessible as the moon. If the avalanches took place at the right times, whole armies of Angaraks might find themselves trapped in those narrow corridors."

"Now that’s an entertaining thought." Silk chuckled. "Then we could let Durnik put his incendiary impulses to a better use than burning turnip patches. Since Torak One-eye seems to enjoy the smell of burning sacrifices so much, we might be able to accommodate him."

Far down the dusty passageway in which he was hiding, Garion caught the sudden flicker of a torch and heard the faint jingling of several mail shirts. He almost failed to recognize the danger until the last instant. The man in the green cloak also heard the sounds and saw the light of the torch. He stepped from his hiding place and fled back the way he had come—directly past the embrasure where Garion had concealed himself. Garion shrank back, clutching his rusty sword; but as luck had it, the man was looking back over his shoulder at the twinkling torch as he ran by on soft feet.

As soon as he had passed, Garion also slipped out of his hiding place and fled. The Cherek warriors were looking for intruders, and it might be difficult to explain what he was doing in the dark hallway. He briefly considered following the spy again, but decided that he’d had enough of that for one day. It was time to tell someone about the things he’d seen. Someone had to be told—someone to whom the kings would listen. Once he reached the more frequented corridors of the palace, he firmly began to make his way toward the chamber where Barak brooded in silent melancholy.

17

"Barak," Garion called through the door after he had knocked for several minutes without any answer.

"Go away," Barak’s voice came thickly through the door.

"Barak, it’s me, Garion. I have to talk with you."

There was a long silence inside the room, and finally a slow movement. Then the door opened.

Barak’s appearance was shocking. His tunic was rumpled and stained. His red beard was matted, the long braids he usually wore were undone, and his hair was tangled. The haunted look in his eyes, however, was the worst. The look was a mixture of horror and self loathing so naked that Garion was forced to avert his eyes.

"You saw it, didn’t you, boy?" Barak demanded "You saw what happened to me out there."

"I didn’t really see anything," Garion said carefully. "I hit my head on that tree, and all I really saw were stars."

"You must have seen it," Barak insisted. "You must have seen my Doom."

"Doom?" Garion said. "What are you talking about? You’re still alive."

"A Doom doesn’t always mean death," Barak said morosely, flinging himself into a large chair. "I wish mine did. A Doom is some terrible thing that’s fated to happen to a man, and death’s not the worst thing there is."

"You’ve just let the words of that crazy old blind woman take over your imagination," Garion said.

"It’s not only Martje," Barak said. "She’s just repeating what everybody in Cherek knows. An augurer was called in when I was born—it is the custom here. Most of the time the auguries don’t show anything at all, and nothing special is going to happen during the child’s life. But sometimes the future lies so heavily on one of us that almost anyone can see the Doom."

"That’s just superstition," Garion scoffed. "I’ve never seen any fortune-teller who could even tell for sure if it’s going to rain tomorrow. One of them came to Faldor’s farm once and told Durnik that he was going to die twice. Isn’t that silly?"

"The augurers and soothsayers of Cherek have more skill," Barak said, his face still sunk in melancholy. "The Doom they saw for me was always the same—I’m going to turn into a beast. I’ve had dozens of them tell me the same thing. And now it’s happened. I’ve been sitting here for two days now, watching. The hair on my body’s getting longer, and my teeth are starting to get pointed."

"You’re imagining things," Garion said. "You look exactly the same to me as you always have."

"You’re a kind boy, Garion," Barak said. "I know you’re just trying to make me feel better, but I’ve got eyes of my own. I know that my teeth are getting pointed and my body’s starting to grow fur. It won’t be long until Anheg has to chain me up in his dungeon so I won’t be able to hurt anyone, or I’ll have to run off into the mountains and live with the trolls."

"Nonsense," Garion insisted.

"Tell me what you saw the other day," Barak pleaded. "What did I look like when I changed into a beast?"

"All I saw were stars from banging my head on that tree," Garion said again, trying to make it sound true.

"I just want to know what kind of beast I’m turning into," Barak said, his voice thick with self pity. "Am I going to be a wolf or a bear or some kind of monster no one even has a name for?"

"Don’t you remember anything at all about what happened?" Garion asked carefully, trying to blot the strange double image of Barak and the bear out of his memory.

"Nothing," Barak said. "I heard you shouting, and the next thing I remember was the boar lying dead at my feet and you lying under that tree with his blood all over you. I could feel the beast in me, though. I could even smell him."

"All you smelled was the boar," Garion said, "and all that happened was that you lost your head in all the excitement."

"Berserk, you mean?" Barak said, looking up hopefully. Then he shook his head. "No, Garion. I’ve been berserk before. It doesn’t feel at all the same. This was completely different." He sighed.

"You’re not turning into a beast," Garion insisted.

"I know what I know," Barak said stubbornly.

And then Lady Merel, Barak’s wife, stepped into the room through the still-open door. "I see that my Lord is recovering his wits," she said.

"Leave me alone, Merel," Barak said. "I’m not in the mood for these games of yours."

"Games, my Lord?" she said innocently. "I’m simply concerned about my duties. If my Lord is unwell, I’m obliged to care for him. That’s a wife’s right, isn’t it?"

"Quit worrying so much about rights and duties, Merel," Barak said. "Just go away and leave me alone."

"My Lord was quite insistent about certain rights and duties on the night of his return to Val Alorn," she said. "Not even the locked door of my bedchamber was enough to curb his insistence."

"All right," Barak said, Hushing slightly. "I’m sorry about that. I hoped that things might have changed between us. I was wrong. I won’t bother you again."

"Bother, my Lord?" she said. "A duty is not a bother. A good wife is obliged to submit whenever her husband requires it of her—no matter how drunk or brutal he may be when he comes to her bed. No one will ever be able to accuse me of laxity in that regard."

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" Barak accused.

"Enjoying what, my Lord?" Her voice was light, but there was a cutting edge to it.

"What do you want, Merel?" Barak demanded bluntly.

"I want to serve my Lord in his illness," she said. "I want to care for him and watch the progress of his disease—each symptom as it appears."

"Do you hate me that much?" Barak asked with heavy contempt. "Be careful, Merel. I might take it into my head to insist that you stay with me. How would you like that? How would you like to be locked in this room with a raging beast?"

"If you grow unmanageable, my Lord, I can always have you chained to the wall," she suggested, meeting his enraged glare with cool unconcern.

"Barak," Garion said uncomfortably, "I have to talk to you."

"Not now, Garion," Barak snapped.

"It’s important. There’s a spy in the palace."

"A spy—",

"A man in a green cloak," Garion said. "I’ve seen him several times."

"Many men wear green cloaks," Lady Merel said.

"Stay out of this, Merel," Barak said. He turned to Garion. "What makes you think he’s a spy?"

"I saw him again this morning," Garion said, "and I followed him. He was sneaking along a corridor that nobody seems to use. It passes above the hall where the kings are meeting with Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol. He could hear every word they said."

"How do you know what he could hear?" Merel asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I was up there too," Garion said. "I hid not far from him, and I could hear them myself—almost as if I were in the same room with them."

"What does he look like?" Barak asked.

"He has sandy-colored hair," Garion said, "and a beard and, as I said, he wears a green cloak. I saw him the day we went down to look at your ship. He was going into a tavern with a Murgo."

"There aren’t any Murgos in Val Alorn," Merel said.

"There’s one," Garion said. "I’ve seen him before. I know who he is." He had to move around the subject carefully. The compulsion not to speak about his dark-robed enemy was as strong as always. Even the hint he had given made his tongue seem stiff and his lips numb.

"Who is he?" Barak demanded.

Garion ignored the question. "And then on the day of the boar hunt I saw him in the forest."

"The Murgo?" Barak asked.

"No. The man in the green cloak. He met some other men there. They talked for a while not far from where I was waiting for the boar to come. They didn’t see me."

"‘There’s nothing suspicious about that," Barak said. "A man can meet with his friends anywhere he likes."

"I don’t think they were friends exactly," Garion said. "The one in the green cloak called one of the other men ‘my Lord,’ and that one was giving him orders to get close enough so that he could hear what Mister Wolf and the kings were saying."

"That’s more serious," Barak said, seeming to forget his melancholy. "Did they say anything else?"

"The flaxen-haired man wanted to know about us," Garion said. "You, me, Durnik, Silk—all of us."

"Flaxen-colored hair?" Merel asked quickly.

"The one he called ‘my Lord,’ " Garion explained. "He seemed to know about us. He even knew about me."

"Long, pale-colored hair?" Merel demanded. "No beard? A little older than Barak?"

"It couldn’t be him," Barak said. "Anheg banished him on pain of death."

"You’re a child, Barak," she said. "He’d ignore that if it suited him. I think we’d better tell Anheg about this."

"Do you know him?" Garion asked. "Some of the things he said about Barak weren’t very polite."

"I can imagine," Merel said ironically. "Barak was one of those who said that he ought to have his head removed."

Barak was already pulling on his mail shirt.

"Fix your hair," Merel told him in a tone that oddly had no hint of her former rancor in it. "You look like a haystack."

"I can’t stop to fool with it now," Barak said impatiently. "Come along, both of you. We’ll go to Anheg at once."

There was no time for any further questions, since Garion and Merel almost had to run to keep up with Barak. They swept through the great hall, and startled warriors scrambled out of their way after one look at Barak’s face.

"My Lord Barak," one of the guards at the door of the council hall greeted the huge man.

"One side," Barak commanded and flung open the door with a crash. King Anheg looked up, startled at the sudden interruption.

"Welcome, cousin," he began.

"Treason, Anheg!" Barak roared. "The Earl of Jarvik has broken his banishment and set spies on you in your own palace."

"Jarvik?" Anheg said. "He wouldn’t dare."

"He dared, all right," Barak said. "He’s been seen not far from Val Alorn, and some of his plotting has been overheard."

"Who is this Jarvik?" the Rivan Warder asked.

"An earl I banished last year," Anheg said. "One of his men was stopped, and we found a message on him. The message was to a Murgo in Sendaria, and it gave the details of one of our most secret councils. Jarvik tried to deny that the message was his, even though it had his own seal on it and his strongroom bulged with red gold from the mines of Cthol Murgos. I’d have had his head on a pole, but his wife’s a kinswoman of mine and she begged for his life. I banished him to one of his estates on the west coast instead." He looked at Barak. "How did you find out about this?" he asked. "Last I heard, you’d locked yourself in your room and wouldn’t talk to anybody."

"My husband’s words are true, Anheg," Lady Merel said in a voice that rang with challenge.

"I don’t doubt him, Merel," Anheg said, looking at her with a faintly surprised expression. "I just wanted to know how he learned about Jarvik, that’s all."

"This boy from Sendaria saw him," Merel said, "and heard him talk to his spy. I heard the boy’s story myself, and I stand behind what my husband said, if anyone here dares to doubt him."

"Garion?" Aunt Pol said, startled.

"May I suggest that we hear from the lad?" Cho-Hag of the Algars said quietly. "A nobleman with a history of friendship for the Murgos who chooses this exact moment to break his banishment concerns us all, I think."

"Tell them what you told Merel and me, Garion," Barak ordered, pushing Garion forward.

"Your Majesty," Garion said, bowing awkwardly, "I’ve seen a man in a green cloak hiding here in your palace several times since we came here. He creeps along the passageways and takes a lot of trouble not to be seen. I saw him the first night we were here, and the next day I saw him going into a tavern in the city with a Murgo. Barak says there aren’t any Murgos in Cherek, but I know that the man he was with was a Murgo."

"How do you know?" Anheg asked shrewdly.

Garion looked at him helplessly, unable to say Asharak’s name.

"Well, boy?" King Rhodar asked.

Garion struggled with the words, but nothing would come out.

"Maybe you know this Murgo?" Silk suggested.

Garion nodded, relieved that someone could help him.

"You wouldn’t know many Murgos," Silk said, rubbing his nose with one finger. "Was it the one we met in Darine, perhaps—and later in Muros? The one known as Asharak?"

Garion nodded again.

"Why didn’t you tell us?" Barak asked.

"I—I couldn’t," Garion stammered.

"Couldn’t?"

"The words wouldn’t come out," Garion said. "I don’t know why, but I’ve never been able to talk about him."

"Then you’ve seen him before?" Silk said.

"Yes," Garion said.

"And you’ve never told anybody?"

"No."

Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. "Is this the sort of thing you might know more about than we would, Polgara?" he asked.

She nodded slowly. "It’s possible to do it," she said. "It’s never been very reliable, so I don’t bother with it myself. It is possible, however." Her expression grew grim.

"The Grolims think it’s impressive," Mister Wolf said. "Grolims are easily impressed."

"Come with me, Garion," Aunt Pol said.

"Not yet," Wolf said.

"This is important," she said, her face hardening.

"You can do it later," he said. "Let’s hear the rest of his story first. The damage has already been done. Go ahead, Garion. What else did you see?"

Garion took a deep breath. "All right," he said, relieved to be talking to the old man instead of the kings. "I saw the man in the green cloak again that day we all went hunting. He met in the forest with a yellow-haired man who doesn’t wear a beard. They talked for a while, and I could hear what they were saying. The yellow-haired man wanted to know what all of you were saying in this hall."

"You should have come to me immediately," King Anheg said.

"Anyway," Garion went on, "I had that fight with the wild boar. I hit my head against a tree and was stunned. I didn’t remember what I’d seen until this morning. After King Fulrach called Durnik here, I went exploring. I was in a part of the palace where the roof is all fallen in, and I found some footprints. I followed them, and then after a while I saw the man in the green cloak again. That was when I remembered all this. I followed him, and he went along a corridor that passes somewhere over the top of this hall. He hid up there and listened to what you were saying."

"How much do you think he could hear, Garion?" King Cho-Hag asked.

"You were talking about somebody called the Apostate," Garion said, "and you were wondering if he could use some power of some kind to awaken an enemy who’s been asleep for a long time. Some of you thought you ought to warn the Arends and the Tolnedrans, but Mister Wolf didn’t think so. And Durnik talked about how the men of Sendaria would fight if the Angaraks came."

They appeared startled.

"I was hiding not far from the man in the green cloak," Garion said. "I’m sure he could hear everything that I could. Then some soldiers came, and the man ran away. That’s when I decided that I ought to tell Barak about all this."

"Up there," Silk said, standing near one of the walls and pointing at a corner of the ceiling of the hall. "The mortar’s crumbled away. The sound of our voices carries right up through the cracks between the stones into the upper corridor."

"This is a valuable boy you’ve brought with you, Lady Polgara," I King Rhodar said gravely. "If he’s looking for a profession, I think I might find a place for him. Gathering information is a rewarding occupation, and he seems to have certain natural gifts along those lines."

"He has some other gifts as well," Aunt Pol said. "He seems to be very good at turning up in places where he’s not supposed to be."

"Don’t be too hard on the boy, Polgara," King Anheg said. "He’s done us a service that we may never be able to repay."

Garion bowed again and retreated from Aunt Pol’s steady gaze.

"Cousin," Anheg said then to Barak, "it seems that we have an unwelcome visitor somewhere in the palace. I think I’d like to have a little talk with this lurker in the green cloak."

"I’ll take a few men," Barak said grimly. "We’ll turn your palace upside down and shake it and see what falls out."

"I’d like to have him more or less intact," Anheg cautioned.

"Of course," Barak said.

"Not too intact, however. As long as he’s still able to talk, he’ll serve our purposes."

Barak grinned. "I’ll make sure that he’s talkative when I bring him to you, cousin," he said.

A bleak answering grin touched Anheg’s face, and Barak started toward the door.

Then Anheg turned to Barak’s wife. "I’d like to thank you also, Lady Merel," he said. "I’m sure you had a significant part in bringing this to us."

"I don’t need thanks, your Majesty," she said. "It was my duty."

Anheg sighed. "Must it always be duty, Merel?" he asked sadly.

"What else is there?" she asked.

"A very great deal, actually," the king said, "but you’re going to have to find that out for yourself."

"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "come here."

"Yes, ma’am," Garion said and went to her a little nervously.

"Don’t be silly, dear," she said. "I’m not going to hurt you." She put her fingertips lightly to his forehead.

"Well?" Mister Wolf asked.

"It’s there," she said. "It’s very light, or I’d have noticed it before. I’m sorry, Father."

"Let’s see," Wolf said. He came over and also touched Garion’s heart with his hand. "It’s not serious," he said.

"It could have been," Aunt Pol said. "And it was my responsibility to see that something like this didn’t happen."

"Don’t flog yourself about it, Pol," Wolf said. "That’s very unbecoming. Just get rid of it."

"What’s the matter?" Garion asked, alarmed.

"It’s nothing to worry about, dear," Aunt Pol said. She took his right hand and touched it for a moment to the white lock at her brow. Garion felt a surge, a welter of confused impressions, and then a tingling wrench behind his ears. A sudden dizziness swept over him, and he would have fallen if Aunt Pol had not caught him.

"Who is the Murgo?" she asked, looking into his eyes.

"His name is Asharak," Garion said promptly.

"How long have you known him?"

"All my life. He used to come to Faldor’s farm and watch me when I was little."

"That’s enough for now, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Let him rest a little first. I’ll fix something to keep it from happening again."

"Is the boy ill?" King Cho-Hag asked.

"It’s not exactly an illness, Cho-Hag," Mister Wolf said. "It’s a little hard to explain. It’s cleared up now, though."

"I want you to go to your room, Garion," Aunt Pol said, still holding him by the shoulders. "Are you steady enough on your feet to get there by yourself?"

"I’m all right," he said, still feeling a little light-headed.

"No side trips and no more exploring," she said firmly.

"No, ma’am."

"When you get there, lie down. I want you to think back and remember every single time you’ve seen this Murgo—what he did, what he said."

"He never spoke to me," Garion said. "He just watched."

"I’ll be along in a little while," she went on, "and I’ll want you to tell me everything you know about him. It’s important, Garion, so concentrate as hard as you can."

"All right, Aunt Pol," he said.

Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Run along now, dear," she said.

Feeling strangely light-headed, Garion went to the door and out into the corridor.

He passed through the great hall where Anheg’s warriors were belting on swords and picking up vicious-looking battle-axes in preparation for the search of the palace. Still bemused, he went through without stopping.

Part of his mind seemed half asleep, but that secret, inner part was wide awake. The dry voice observed that something significant had just happened. The powerful compulsion not to speak about Asharak was obviously gone. Aunt Pol had somehow pulled it out of his mind entirely. His feeling about that was oddly ambiguous. That strange relationship between himself and dark-robed, silent Asharak had always been intensely private, and now it was gone. He felt vaguely empty and somehow violated. He sighed and went up the broad stairway toward his room.

There were a half dozen warriors in the hallway outside his room, probably part of Barak’s search for the man in the green cloak. Garion stopped. Something was wrong, and he shook off his half daze. This pan of the palace was much too populated to make it very likely that the spy would be hiding here. His heart began racing, and step by step he began to back away toward the top of the stairs he had just climbed. The warriors looked like any other Chereks in the palace-bearded, dressed in helmets, mail shirts, and furs, but something didn’t seem exactly right.

A bulky man in a dark, hooded cloak stepped through the doorway of Garion’s room into the corridor. It was Asharak. The Murgo was about to say something, but then his eyes fell on Garion. "Ah," he said softly. His dark eyes gleamed in his scarred face. "I’ve been looking for you, Garion," he said in that same soft voice. "Come here, boy."

Garion felt a tentative tug at his mind that seemed to slip away as if it somehow could not get a sure grip. He shook his head mutely and continued to back away.

"Come along now," Asharak said. "We’ve known each other far too long for this. Do as I say. You know that you must."

The tug became a powerful grasp that again slipped away. "Come here, Garion!" Asharak commanded harshly. Garion kept backing away, step by step.

"No," he said. Asharak’s eyes blazed, and he drew himself up angrily.

This time it was not a tug or a grasp, but a blow. Garion could feel the force of it even as it seemed somehow to miss or be deflected. Asharak’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Polgara? Belgarath? It won’t do any good, Garion. I had you once, and I can take you again any time I want to. You’re not strong enough to refuse me."

Garion looked at his enemy and answered out of some need for defiance. "Maybe I’m not," he said, "but I think you’ll have to catch me first."

Asharak turned quickly to his warriors. "That’s the boy I want," he barked sharply. "Take him!"

Smoothly, almost as if it were done without thought, one of the warriors raised his bow and leveled an arrow directly at Garion. Asharak swung his arm quickly and knocked the bow aside just as the steel-pointed shaft was loosed. The arrow sang in the air and clattered against the stones of the wall a few feet to Garion’s left.

"Alive, idiot," Asharak snarled and struck the bowman a crushing blow to the side of the head. The bowman fell twitching to the stone floor.

Garion spun, dashed back to the stairs and plunged down three steps at a time. He didn’t bother to look back. The sound of heavy feet told him that Asharak and his men were after him. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned sharply to the left and fled down a long, dark passageway that led back into the maze of Anheg’s palace.

18

There were warriors everywhere, and the sounds of fighting. In the first instant of his flight, Garion’s plan had been simple. All he had to do was to find some of Barak’s warriors, and he would be safe. But there were other warriors in the palace as well. The Earl of Jarvik had led a small army into the palace by way of the ruined wings to the south, and fighting raged in the corridors.

Garion quickly realized that there was no way he could distinguish friend from enemy. To him, one Cherek warrior looked the same as another. Unless he could find Barak or someone else he recognized, he did not dare reveal himself to any of them. The frustrating knowledge that he was running from friends as well as enemies added to his fright. It was altogether possible—even quite likely—that he would run from Barak’s men directly into the arms of Jarvik’s.

The most logical thing to do would be to go directly back to the council hall, but in his haste to escape from Asharak, he had run down so many dim passageways and turned so many corners that he had no idea where he was or how to get back to the familiar parts of the palace. His headlong flight was dangerous. Asharak or his men could wait around any corner to seize him, and he knew that the Murgo could quickly re-establish that strange bond between them that Aunt Pol had shattered with her touch. It was that which had to be avoided at any cost. Once Asharak had him again, he would never let go. The only alternative to him was to find some place to hide.

He dodged into another narrow passageway and stopped, panting and with his back pressed tightly against the stones of the wall. Dimly, at the far end of this hallway, he could see a narrow flight of worn stone steps twisting upward in the flickering light of a single torch. He quickly reasoned that the higher he went, the less likely he would be to encounter anyone. The fighting would most likely be concentrated on the lower floors. He took a deep breath and went swiftly to the foot of the stairs.

Halfway up he saw the flaw in his plan. There were no side passages on the stairs, no way to escape and no place to hide. He had to get to the top quickly or chance discovery and capture, or even worse.

"Boy!" a shout came from below.

Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. A grim-faced Cherek in mail and helmet was coming up the stairs behind him, his sword drawn. Garion started to run, stumbling up the stairs.

There was another shout from above, and Garion froze. The warrior at the top was as grim as the one below and wielded a cruel-looking axe. He was trapped between them. Garion shrank back against the stones, fumbling for his dagger, though he knew it would be of little use. Then the two warriors saw each other. With ringing shouts they both charged. The one with the sword rushed up past Garion while the one with the axe lunged down.

The axe swung wide, missed and clashed a shower of sparks from the stones of the wall. The sword was more true. With his hair standing on end in horror, Garion saw it slide through the downward-plunging body of the axeman. The axe fell clattering down the stairs, and the axeman, still falling on top of his opponent, pulled a broad dagger from its sheath at his hip and drove it into the chest of his enemy. The impact as the two men came together tore them from their feet, and they tumbled, still grappled together down the stairs, their daggers flashing as each man struck again and again.

In helpless horror Garion watched as they rolled and crashed past him, their daggers sinking into each other with sickening sounds and blood spurting from their wounds like red fountains.

Garion retched once, clenched his teeth tightly, and ran up the stairs, trying to close his ears to the awful sounds coming from below as the two dying men continued their horrid work on each other.

He no longer even considered stealth; he simply ran-fleeing more from that hideous encounter on the stairs than from Asharak or the Earl of Jarvik. At last, after how long he could not have said, gasping and winded, he plunged through the partially open door of a dusty, unused chamber. He pushed the door shut and stood trembling with his back against it.

There was a broad, sagging bed against one wall of the room and a small window set high in the same wall. Two broken chairs leaned wearily in corners and an empty chest, its lid open, in a third, and that was all. The chamber was at least a place out of the corridors where savage men were killing each other, but Garion quickly realized that the seeming safety here was an illusion. If anyone opened this door, he would be trapped. Desperately he began to look around the dusty room.

Hanging on the bare wall across from the bed were some drapes; and thinking that they might conceal some closet or adjoining chamber, Garion crossed the room and pulled them aside. There was an opening behind the drapes, though it did not lead into another room but instead into a dark, narrow hall. He peered into the passageway, but the darkness was so total that he could only see a short distance into it. He shuddered at the thought of groping through that blackness with armed men pounding along at his heels.

He glanced up at the single window and then dragged the heavy chest across the room to stand on so that he could see out. Perhaps he might be able to see something from the window that would give him some idea of his location. He climbed up on the chest, stood on his tiptoes and looked out.

Towers loomed here and there amid the long slate roofs of the endless galleries and halls of King Anheg’s palace. It was hopeless. He saw nothing that he could recognize. He turned back toward the chamber and was about to jump down from the chest when he stopped suddenly. There, clearly in the dust which lay heavily on the floor, were his foot punts. He hopped quickly down and grabbed up the bolster from the long unused bed. He spread it out on the floor and dragged it around the room, erasing the footprints. He knew that he could not completely conceal the fact that someone had been in the room, but he could obliterate the footprints which, because of their size, would immediately make it obvious to Asharak or any of his men that whoever had been i hiding here was not yet full-grown. When he finished, he tossed the bolster back on the bed. The job wasn’t perfect, but at least it was better than it had been.

Then there was a shout in the corridor outside and the ring of steel on steel.

Garion took a deep breath and plunged into the dark passageway behind the drapes.

He had gone no more than a few feet when the darkness in the narrow passage become absolute. His skin crawled at the touch of cobwebs on his face, and the dust of years rose chokingly from the uneven floor. At first he moved quite rapidly, wanting more than anything to put as much distance between himself and the fighting in the corridor as possible, but then he stumbled, and for one heart-stopping instant it seemed that he would fall. The picture of a steep stairway dropping down into the blackness flashed through his mind, and he realized that at his present pace there would be no possible way to catch himself. He began to move more cautiously, one hand on the stones of the wall and the other in front of his face to ward off the cobwebs which hung thickly from the low ceiling.

There was no sense of time in the dark, and it seemed to Garion that he had been groping for hours in this dark hallway that appeared to go on forever. Then, despite his care, he ran full into a rough stone wall. He felt a moment of panic. Did the passageway end here? Was it a trap?

Then, flickering at one corner of his vision, he saw dim light. The passageway did not end, but rather made a sharp turn to the right. There seemed to be a light at the far end, and Garion gratefully followed it.

As the light grew stronger, he moved more rapidly, and soon he reached the spot that was the source of the light. It was a narrow slot low in the wall. Garion knelt on the dusty stones and peered out.

The hall below was enormous, and a great fire burned in a pit in the center with the smoke rising to the openings in the vaulted roof which lofted even above the place where Garion was. Though it looked much different from up here, he immediately recognized King Anheg’s throne room. As he looked down, he saw the gross shape of King Rhodar and the smaller form of King Cho-Hag with the ever-present Hettar standing behind him. Some distance from the thrones, King Fulrach stood in conversation with Mister Wolf, and nearby was Aunt Pol. Barak’s wife was talking with Queen Islena, and Queen Porenn and Queen Silar stood not far from them. Silk paced the floor nervously, glancing now and then at the heavily guarded doors. Garion felt a surge of relief. He was safe.

He was about to call down to them when the great door banged open, and King Anheg, mail-shined and with his sword in his hand, strode into the hall, closely followed by Barak and the Rivan Warder, holding between them the struggling form of the flaxen-haired man Garion had seen in the forest on the day of the boar hunt.

"This treason will cost you dearly, Jarvik," Anheg said grimly over his shoulder as he strode toward his throne.

"Is it over, then?" Aunt Pol asked.

"Soon, Polgara," Anheg said. "My men are chasing the last of Jarvik’s brigands in the furthest reaches of the palace. If we hadn’t been warned, it might have gone quite differently, though."

Garion, his shout still hovering just behind his lips, decided at the last instant to stay silent for a few more moments.

King Anheg sheathed his sword and took his place on his throne.

"We’ll talk for a bit, Jarvik," he said, "before what must be done is done."

The flaxen-haired man gave up his hopeless struggle against Barak and the almost equally powerful Brand. "I don’t have anything to say, Anheg," he said defiantly. "If the luck had gone differently, I’d be sitting on your throne right now. I took my chance, and that’s the end of it.

"Not quite," Anheg said. "I want the details. You might as well tell me. One way or another, you’re going to talk."

"Do your worst," Jarvik sneered. "I’ll bite out my own tongue before I tell you anything."

"We’ll see about that," Anheg said grimly.

"That won’t be necessary, Anheg," Aunt Pol said, walking slowly toward the captive. "There’s an easier way to persuade him."

"I’m not going to say anything," Jarvik told her. "I’m a warrior and I’m not afraid of you, witch-woman."

"You’re a greater fool than I thought, Lord Jarvik," Mister Wolf said. "Would you rather I did it, Pol?"

"I can manage, Father," she said, not taking her eyes off Jarvik.

"Carefully," the old man cautioned. "Sometimes you go to extremes. Just a little touch is enough."

"I know what I’m doing, Old Wolf," she said tartly. She stared full into the captive’s eyes.

Garion, still hidden, held his breath.

The Earl of Jarvik began to sweat and tried desperately to pull his eyes away from Aunt Pol’s gaze, but it was hopeless. Her will commanded him, locking his eyes. He trembled, and his face grew pale. She made no move, no gesture, but merely stood before him, her eyes burning into his brain.

And then, after a moment, he screamed. Then he screamed again and collapsed, his weight sagging down in the hands of the two men who held him.

"Take it away," he whimpered, shuddering uncontrollably. "I’ll talk, but please take it away."

Silk, now lounging near Anheg’s throne, looked at Hettar. "I wonder what he saw," he said.

"I think it might be better not to know," Hettar replied.

Queen Islena had watched intently as if hoping to gain some hint of how the trick was done. She winced visibly when Jarvik screamed, pulling her eyes away.

"All right, Jarvik," Anheg said, his tone strangely subdued. "Begin at the beginning. I want it all."

"It was a little thing at first," Jarvik said in a shaking voice. "There didn’t seem to be any harm in it."

"There never does," Brand said.

The Earl of Jarvik drew in a deep breath, glanced once at Aunt Pol and shuddered again. Then he straightened. "It started about two years ago," he said. "I’d sailed to Kotu in Drasnia, and I met a Nadrak merchant named Grashor there. He seemed to be a good enough fellow and after we’d gotten to know each other he asked me if I’d be interested in a profitable venture. I told him that I was an earl and not a common tradesman, but he persisted. He said he was nervous about the pirates who live on the islands in the Gulf of Cherek and an earl’s ship manned by armed warriors was not likely to be attacked. His cargo was a single chest—not very large. I think it was some jewels he’d managed to smuggle past the customs houses in Boktor, and he wanted them delivered to Darine in Sendaria. I said that I wasn’t really interested, but then he opened his purse and poured out gold. The gold was bright red, I remember, and I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off it. I did need money—who doesn’t after all?—and I really couldn’t see any dishonor in doing what he asked.

"Anyway, I carried him and his cargo to Darine and met his associate—a Murgo named Asharak."

Garion started at the name, and he heard Silk’s low whistle of surprise.

"As we’d agreed," Jarvik continued, "Asharak paid me a sum equal to what Grashor had given me, and I came away from the affair with a whole pouch of gold. Asharak told me that I’d done them a great favor and that if I ever needed more gold, he’d be happy to find ways for me to earn it.

"I now had more gold than I’d ever had at one time before, but it somehow seemed that it wasn’t enough. For some reason I felt that I needed more."

"It’s the nature of Angarak gold," Mister Wolf said. "It calls to its own. The more one has, the more it comes to possess him. That’s why Murgos are so lavish with it. Asharak wasn’t buying your services, Jarvik; he was buying your soul."

Jarvik nodded, his face gloomy. "At any rate," he continued, "it wasn’t long before I found an excuse to sail to Darine again. Asharak told me that since Murgos are forbidden to enter Cherek, he’d developed a great curiosity about us and our kingdom. He asked me many questions and he gave me gold for every answer. It seemed to me to be a foolish way to spend money, but I gave him the answers and took his gold. When I came back to Cherek, I had another pouch full. I went to Jarviksholm and put the new gold with that I already had. I saw that I was a rich man, and I still hadn’t done anything dishonorable. But now it seemed that there weren’t enough hours in the day. I spent all my time locked in my strongroom, counting my gold over and over, polishing it until it gleamed red as blood and filling my ears with the sound of its tinkling.

But after a while it seemed that I didn’t really have very much, and so I went back to Asharak. He said he was still curious about Cherek and that he’d like to know Anheg’s mind. He told me that he’d give me as much gold as I already had if I sent him word of what was said in the high councils here in the palace for a year. At first I said no, because I knew it would be dishonorable; but then he showed me the gold, and I couldn’t say no any more."

From where he watched Garion could see the expressions of those in the hall below. Their faces had a curious mingling of pity and contempt as Jarvik’s story continued.

"It was then, Anheg," he said, "that your men captured one of my messengers, and I was banished to Jarviksholm. "At first I didn’t mind, because I could still play with my gold. But again it wasn’t long before it seemed that I didn’t have enough. I sent a fast ship through the Bore to Darine with a message to Asharak begging him to find something else for me to do to earn more gold. When the ship came back, Asharak was aboard her, and we sat down and talked about what I could do to increase my hoard."

"You’re doubly a traitor then, Jarvik," Anheg said in a voice that was almost sad. "You’ve betrayed me and you’ve broken the oldest law in Cherek. No Angarak has set foot on Cherek soil since the days of Bear-shoulders himself."

Jarvik shrugged. "I didn’t really care by then," he said. "Asharak had a plan, and it seemed like a good one to me. If we could get through the city a few at a time, we could hide an army in the ruined southern wings of the palace. With surprise and a bit of luck we could kill Anheg and the other Alorn Kings, and I could take the throne of Cherek and maybe of all Aloria as well."

"And what was Asharak’s price?" Mister Wolf demanded, his eyes narrowing. "What did he want in return for making you king?"

"A thing so small that I laughed when he told me what he wanted," Jarvik said. "But he said that he’d not only give me the crown but a roomful of gold if I’d get it for him."

"What was it?" Wolf repeated.

"He said that there was a boy—about fourteen—in the party of King Fulrach of Sendaria. He told me that as soon as that boy was delivered to him, he’d give me more gold than I could count and the throne of Cherek as well."

King Fulrach looked startled.

"The boy Garion?" he asked. "Why would Asharak want him?"

Aunt Pol’s single frightened gasp carried even up to where Garion was concealed.

"Durnik!" she said in a ringing voice, but Durnik was already on his feet and racing toward the door with Silk close behind him. Aunt Pol spun with eyes blazing and the white lock at her brow almost incandescent in the midnight of her hair. The Earl of Jarvik flinched as her glare fell on him.

"If anything’s happened to the boy, Jarvik, men will tremble at the memory of your fate for a thousand years," she told him.

It had gone far enough. Garion was ashamed and a little frightened by the fury of Aunt Pol’s reaction.

"I’m all right, Aunt Pol," he called down to her through the narrow slot in the wall. "I’m up here."

"Garion?" She looked up, trying to see him. "Where are you?"

"Up here near the ceiling," he said, "behind the wall."

"How did you get up there?"

"I don’t know. Some men were chasing me, and I ran. This is where I ended up."

"Come down here at once."

"I don’t know how, Aunt Pol," he said. "I ran so far and took so many turns that I don’t know how to get back. I’m lost."

"All right," she said, regaining her composure. "Stay where you are. We’ll think of a way to get you down."

"I hope so," he said.

19

"Well it has to come out someplace," King Anheg said, squinting up toward the spot where Garion waited nervously. "All he has to do is follow it."

"And walk directly into the arms of Asharak the Murgo?" Aunt Pol asked. "He’s better off staying where he is."

"Asharak is fleeing for his life," Anheg said. "He’s no-where in the palace."

"As I recall, he’s not even supposed to be in the kingdom," she said pointedly.

"All right Pol," Mister Wolf said. He called up, "Garion, which way does the passage run?"

"It seems to go on toward the back of the hall where the thrones are," Garion answered. "I can’t tell for sure if it turns off or not. It’s pretty dark up here."

"We’ll pass you up a couple of torches," Wolf said. "Set one at the spot where you are now and then go on down the passage with the other. As long as you can see the first one, you’ll be going in a straight line."

"Very clever," Silk said. "I wish I were seven thousand years old so I could solve problems so easily."

Wolf let that pass.

"I still think the safest way would be to get some ladders and break a hole in the wall," Barak said.

King Anheg looked pained. "Couldn’t we try Belgarath’s suggestion first?" he asked.

Barak shrugged. "You’re the king."

"Thanks," Anheg said dryly.

A warrior fetched a long pole and two torches were passed up to Garion.

"If the line of the passageway holds straight," Anheg said, "he should come out somewhere in the royal apartments."

"Interesting," King Rhodar said with one raised eyebrow. "It would be most enlightening to know if the passage led to the royal chambers or from them."

"It’s entirely possible that the passageway is just some long-forgotten escape route," Anheg said in an injured tone. "Our history, after all, has not been all that peaceful. There’s no need to expect the worst, is there?"

"Of course not," King Rhodar said blandly, "no need at all."

Garion set one of the torches beside the slot in the wall and followed the dusty passageway, looking back often to be sure that the torch was still in plain sight. Eventually he came to a narrow door which opened into the back of an empty closet. The closet was attached to a splendid-looking bedchamber, and outside there was a broad, well-lighted corridor.

Several warriors were coming down the corridor, and Garion recognized Torvik the huntsman among them. "Here I am", he said, stepping out with a surge of relief.

"You’ve been busy, haven’t you?" Torvik said with a grin.

"It wasn’t my idea," Garion said.

"Let’s get you back to King Anheg," Torvik said. "The lady, your Aunt, seemed concerned about you."

"She’s angry with me, I suppose," Garion said, falling into step beside the broad-shouldered man.

"More than likely," Torvik said. "Women are almost always angry with us for one reason or another. It’s one of the things you’ll have to get used to as you get older."

Aunt Pol was waiting at the door to the throne room. There were no reproaches—not yet, at any rate. For one brief moment she clasped him fiercely to her and then looked at him gravely. "We’ve been waiting for you dear," she said almost calmly; then she led him to where the others waited.

"In my grandmother’s quarters, you say?" Anheg was saying to Torvik. "What an astonishing thing. I remember her as a crotchety old lady who walked with a cane."

"No one is born old, Anheg," King Rhodar said with a sly look.

"I’m sure there are many explanations, Anheg," Queen Porenn said. "My husband is just teasing you."

"One of the men looked into the passage, your Majesty," Torvik said tactfully. "The dust is very thick. It’s possible that it hasn’t been used in centuries."

"What an astonishing thing," Anheg said again.

The matter was then delicately allowed to drop, though King Rhodar’s sly expression spoke volumes.

The Earl of Seline coughed politely. "I think young Garion here may have a story for us," he said.

"I expect he has," Aunt Pol said, turning toward Garion. "I seem to remember telling you to stay in your room."

"Asharak was in my room," Garion said, "and he had warriors with him. He tried to make me with him. When I wouldn’t, he said he’d had me once and could get me again. I didn’t understand exactly what he meant, but I told him that he’d have to catch me first. Then I ran."

Brand, the Rivan Warder, chuckled. "I don’t see how you can find much fault with that, Polgara," he said. "I think if I found a Grolim priest in my room, I’d probably run away too."

"You’re sure it was Asharak?" Silk asked.

Garion nodded. "I’ve known him for a long time," he said. "All my life, I guess. And he knew me. He called me by name."

"I think I’d like to have a long talk with this Asharak," Anheg said. "I want to ask him some questions about all the mischief he’s been stirring up in my kingdom."

"I doubt if you’ll find him, Anheg," Mister Wolf said. "He seems to be more than just a Grolim Priest. I touched his mind once—in Muros. It’s not an ordinary mind."

"I’ll amuse myself with the search for him," Anheg said with a bleak expression. "Not even a Grolim can walk on water so I believe I’ll just seal off all the ports in Cherek and then put my warriors to searching the mountains and forests for him. They get fat and troublesome in the wintertime anyway, and it’ll give them something to do."

"Driving fat, troublesome warriors into the snow in the dead of winter isn’t going to make you a popular king, Anheg," Rhodar observed.

"Offer a reward," Silk suggested. "That way you get the job done and stay popular as well."

"That’s an idea," Anheg said. "What kind of reward would you suggest, Prince Kheldar?"

"Promise to equal the weight of Asharak’s head in gold," Silk said. "That should lure the fattest warrior away from the dice cup and the ale keg."

Anheg winced.

"He’s a Grolim," Silk said. "They probably won’t find him, but they’ll take the kingdom apart looking. Your gold is safe, your warriors get a bit of exercise, you get a reputation for generosity, and, with every man in Cherek looking for him with an axe, Asharak’s going to be much to busy hiding to stir up any more mischief. A man whose head is more valuable to others than it is to himself has little time for foolishness."

"Prince Kheldar," Anheg said gravely, "you are a devious man."

"I try, King Anheg," Silk said with an ironic bow.

"I don’t suppose you’d care to come to work for me?" the King of Cherek offered.

"Anheg!" Rhodar protested.

Silk sighed. "Blood, King Anheg," he said. "I’m committed to my uncle by our bonds of kinship. I’d be interested to hear your offer, though. It might help in future negotiations about compensation for my services."

Queen Porenn’s laughter was like a small silver bell, and King Rhodar’s face became tragic. "You see," he said. "I’m absolutely surrounded by traitors. What’s a poor fat old man to do?"

A grim-looking warrior entered the hall and marched up to Anheg. "It’s done, King," he said. "Do you want to look at his head?"

"No," Anheg said shortly.

"Should we put it on a pole near the harbor?" The warrior asked.

"No," Anheg said. "Jarvik was a brave man once and my kinsman by marriage. Have him delivered to his wife for proper burial."

The warrior bowed and left the hall.

"This problem of the Grolim, Asharak, interests me," Queen Islena said to Aunt Pol. "Might we not between us, Lady Polgara, devise a way to locate him?" Her expression had a certain quality of self-importance to it.

Mister Wolf spoke quickly before Aunt Pol could answer. "Bravely spoken, Islena," he said. "But we couldn’t allow the Queen of Cherek to take such a risk. I’m sure your skills are formidable, but such a search opens the mind completely. If Asharak felt you looking for him he’d retaliate instantly. Polgara wouldn’t be in any danger, but I’m afraid your mind could be blown out like a candle. It would be a great shame to have the Queen of Cherek live out the rest of her life as a raving lunatic."

Islena turned suddenly very pale and did not see the sly wink Mister Wolf directed at Anheg.

"I couldn’t permit it.," Anheg said firmly. "My Queen is far too precious for me to allow her to take such a terrible risk."

"I must accede to the will of my Lord," Islena said in a relieved tone. "By his command I withdraw my suggestion."

"The courage of my Queen honors me," Anheg said with an absolutely straight face.

Islena bowed and backed away rather quickly. Aunt Pol looked at Mister Wolf with one raised eyebrow, but let it pass.

Wolf’s expression became more serious as he rose from the chair in which he had been sitting. "I think the time has come to make some decisions," he said. "Things are beginning to move too fast for any more delay." He looked at Anheg. "Is there some place where we can speak without risk of being overheard?"

"There’s a chamber in one of the towers," Anheg said. "I thought about it before our first meeting but—" He paused and looked at Cho-Hag.

"You shouldn’t let it concern you," Cho-Hag said. "I can manage stairs if I have to, and it would have been better for me to have been a little inconvenienced than to have Jarvik’s spy overhear us."

"I’ll stay with Garion," Durnik said to Aunt Pol.

Aunt Pol shook her head firmly. "No," she said. "As long as Asharak is on the loose in Cherek, I don’t want him out of my sight."

"Shall we go then?" Mister Wolf said. "It’s getting late, and I want to leave first thing in the morning. The trail I was following is getting colder."

Queen Islena, still looking shaken stood to one side with Porenn and Silar and made no effort to follow as King Anheg led the way from the throne room.

I’ll let you know what happens, King Rhodar signalled to his queen.

Of course, Porenn gestured back. Her face was placid, but the snap of her fingers betrayed her irritability.

Calmly, child, Rhodar’s fingers told her. We’re guests here and have to obey local customs.

Whatever my Lord commands, she replied with a tilt of her hands that spoke whole volumes of sarcasm.

With Hettar’s help, King Cho-Hag managed the stairs although his progress was painfully slow. "I apologize for this," he puffed, stopping halfway to catch his breath. "It’s as tiresome for me as it is for you."

King Anheg posted guards at the foot of the stairs, then came up and closed the heavy door behind him. "Light the fire, cousin," he said to Barak. "We might as well be comfortable."

Barak nodded and put a torch to the wood in the fireplace.

The chamber was round and not too spacious, but there was adequate room for them all and chairs and benches to sit on.

Mister Wolf stood at one of the windows, looking down at the twinkling lights of Val Alorn below. "I’ve always been fond of towers," he said, almost to himself. "My Master lived in one like this, and I enjoyed the time I spent there."

"I’d give my life to have known Aldur," Cho-Hag said softly. "Was he really surrounded by light as some say?"

"He seemed quite ordinary to me," Mister Wolf said. "I lived with him for five years before I even knew who he was."

"Was he really as wise as we’re told?" Anheg asked.

"Probably wiser," Wolf said. "I was a wild and errant boy when he found me dying in a snowstorm outside his tower. He managed to tame me—though it took him several hundred years to do it." He turned from the window with a deep sigh. "To work then," he said.

"Where will you go to take up the search?" King Fulrach asked.

"Camaar," Wolf said. "I found the trail there, I think it led down into Arendia."

"We’ll send warriors with you," Anheg said. "After what happened here, it looks like the Grolims may try to stop you."

"No, Wolf said firmly. "Warriors are useless in dealing with the Grolims. I can’t move with an army underfoot, and I won’t have time to explain to the King of Arendia why I’m invading his kingdom with a horde of troops at my back. It takes even longer to explain things to Arends than it does to Alorns—impossible as that sounds."

"Don’t be uncivil, Father," Aunt Pol said. "It’s their world too, and they’re concerned."

"you wouldn’t necessarily need an army, Belgarath," King Rhodar said, "but wouldn’t it be prudent to take along a few good men?"

There’s very little that Polgara and I can’t deal with by ourselves," Wolf said, "and Silk, Barak and Durnik are along to deal with the more mundane problems. The smaller our group, the less attention we’ll attract." He turned to Cho-Hag. "As long as we’re on the subject, though, I’d like to have your son with us. We’re likely to need his rather specialized talents."

"Impossible," Hettar said flatly. "I have to remain with my father."

"No, Hettar," Cho-Hag said. "I don’t intend for you to live out your life as a cripple’s legs."

"I’ve never felt any restriction in serving you, Father," Hettar said. "There are plenty of others with the same talents I have. Let the Ancient One choose another."

"How many other Sha-Darim are there among the Algars?" Mister Wolf asked gravely?

Hettar looked at him sharply as if trying to tell him something with his eyes.

King Cho-Hag drew his breath sharply. "Hettar," he asked, "is this true?"

Hettar shrugged. "It may be, Father," he said. "I didn’t think it was important."

Cho-Hag looked at Mister Wolf.

Wolf nodded. "It’s true," he said. "I knew it the first time I saw him. He’s a Sha-Dar. He had to find out for himself, though."

Cho-Hag’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "My son!" he said proudly, pulling Hettar into a rough embrace.

"It’s no great thing, Father," Hettar said quietly, as if suddenly embarrassed.

"What are they talking about? Garion whispered to Silk.

"It’s something the Algars take very seriously," Silk said softly. "They think that there are some people who can talk to horses with their thoughts alone. They call these people the Sha-Darim—Clan-Chiefs of the horses. It’s very rare—maybe only two or three in a whole generation. It’s instant nobility for any Algar who has it. Cho-Hag’s going to explode with pride when he gets back to Algaria."

"Is it that important?" Garion asked.

Silk shrugged. "The Algars seem to think so," he said. "All the clans gather at the Stronghold when they find a new Sha-Dar. The whole nation celebrates for six weeks. There are all kinds of gifts. Hettar’ll be a rich man if he chooses to accept them. He may not. He’s a strange man."

"You must go," Cho-Hag said to Hettar. "The pride of Algaria goes with you, your duty is clear."

"As my father decides," Hettar said reluctantly.

"Good," Mister Wolf said. "How long will it take you to go to Algaria, pick up a dozen or so of your best horses and take them to Camaar?"

Hettar thought for a moment. "Two weeks," he said, "if there aren’t any blizzards in the mountains of Sendaria."

"We’ll all leave here in the morning then," Wolf said. "Anheg can give you a ship. Take the horses along the Great North Road to the place a few leagues east of Camaar where another road strikes off to the south. It fords the Great Camaar River and runs down to join the Great West Road at the ruins of Vo Wacune in northern Arendia. We’ll meet you there in two weeks."

Hettar nodded.

"We’ll also be joined at Vo Wacune by an Asturian Arend," Wolf went on, "and somewhat later by a Mimbrate. They might be useful to us in the south."

"And will also fulfill the prophecies," Anheg said cryptically.

Wolf shrugged, his bright blue eyes twinkling suddenly. "I don’t object to fulfilling prophecies," he said, "as long as it doesn’t inconvenience me too much."

"Is there anything we can do to help in the search?" Brand asked.

"You’ll have enough to do," Wold said. "No matter how our search turns out, it’s obvious that the Angaraks are getting ready for some kind of major action. If we’re successful, they might hesitate, but Angaraks don’t think the way we do. Even after what happened at Vo Mimbre, they may decide to risk an all-out attack on the west. It could be that they are responding to prophecies of their own that we don’t know anything about. In any event, I think you should be ready for something fairly major from them. You’ll need to make preparations."

Anheg grinned wolfishly. "We’ve been preparing for them for five thousand years," he said. "This time we’ll purge the whole world of this Angarak infection. When Torak One-eye awakes, he’ll find himself as alone as Mara—and just as powerless."

"Maybe," Mister Wolf said, "but don’t plan the victory celebration until the war’s over. Make your preparations quietly, and don’t sir up the people in your kingdoms any more than you have to. The west is crawling with Grolims, and they’re watching everything we do. The trail I’ll be following could lead me into Cthol Murgos, and I’d rather not have to deal with an army of Murgos massed on the border."

"I can play the watching game too," King Rhodar said with a grim look on his plump face. "Probably even better than the Grolims. It’s time to send a few more caravans to the east. The Angaraks won’t move without help from the east, and the Malloreans will have to cross over into Gar og Nadrak before they deploy south. A bribe or two here and there, a few barrels of strong ale in the right mining camps—who knows what a bit of diligent corruption might turn up? A chance word or two could give us several months’ warning."

If they’re planning anything major, the Thulls will be building supply dumps along the eastern escarpment," Cho-Hag said. "Thulls aren’t bright, and it’s easy to observe them without being seen. I’ll increase my patrols along those mountains. With a little luck, we might be able to anticipate their invasion route. Is there anything else we can do to help you, Belgarath?"

Mister Wolf thought for a moment. Suddenly he grinned. "I’m certain our thief is listening very hard, waiting for one of us to speak his name or the name of the thing he stole. Sooner or later someone’s bound to make a slip; and once he locates us, he’ll be able to hear every word we say. Instead of trying to gag ourselves, I think it might be better if we gave him something to listen to. If you can arrange it, I’d like every minstrel and storyteller in the north start retelling certain old stories—you know the ones. When those names start sounding in every village marketplace north of the Camaar River, it’ll set up a roaring in his ears like a thunderstorm. If nothing else it will give us the freedom to speak. In time he’ll get tired of it and stop listening."

"It’s getting late, Father," Aunt Pol reminded him.

Wolf nodded. "We’re playing a deadly game," he told them all, "but our enemies are playing one just as deadly. Their danger’s as great as ours, and right now, no one can predict what will finally happen. Make your preparations and send out men you can trust to keep watch. Be patient and don’t do anything rash. That could be more dangerous than anything else right now. At the moment, Polgara and I are the only ones who can act. You’re going to have to trust us. I know that sometimes some of the things we’ve done have seemed a bit strange, but there are reasons for what we do. Please don’t interfere again. I’ll get word to you now and then about our progress; if I need you to do anything else, I’ll let you know. All right?"

The kings nodded gravely, and everyone rose to his feet.

Anheg stepped over to Mister Wolf. "Could you come by my study in an hour or so, Belgarath?" he said quietly. "I’d like to have a few words with you and Polgara before your departure."

"If you wish, Anheg," Mister Wolf said.

"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "We have packing to take care of."

Garion, a little awed at the solemnity of the discussions, rose quietly and followed her to the door.

20

King Anheg’s study was a large, cluttered room high in a square tower. Books bound in heavy leather lay everywhere, and strange devices with gears and pulleys and tiny brass chains sat on tables and stands. Intricately drawn maps, with beautiful illuminations were pinned up on the walls, and the floor was littered with scraps of parchment covered with tiny writing. King Anheg, his coarse black hair hanging in his eyes, sat at a slanted table in the soft glow of a pair of candles studying a large book written on thin sheets of crackling parchment.

The guard at the door let them enter without a word, and Mister Wolf stepped briskly into the center of the room. "You wanted to see us, Anheg?"

The King of Cherek straightened from his book and laid it aside. "Belgarath," he said with a short nod of greeting. "Polgara." He glanced at Garion who stood uncertainly near the door.

"I meant what I said earlier," Aunt Pol said. "I’m not going to let him out of my sight until I know for certain he’s out of the reach of that Grolim, Asharak."

"Anything you say, Polgara," Anheg said. "Come in, Garion."

"I see that you are continuing your studies," Mister Wolf said approvingly, glancing at the littered room.

"There’s so much to learn," Anheg said with a helpless gesture that included all the welter of books and papers and strange machines. "I have a feeling that I might have been happier if you’d never introduced me to this impossible task."

"You asked me," said Wolf simply.

"You could have said no." Anheg laughed. Then his brutish face turned serious. He glanced once more at Garion and began to speak in an obviously oblique manner. "I don’t want to interfere," he said, "but the behavior of this Asharak concerns me."

Garion moved away from Aunt Pol and began to study one of the strange little machines sitting on a nearby table, being careful not to touch it.

"We’ll take care of Asharak," Aunt Pol said.

But Anheg persisted. There have been rumors for centuries that you and your father have been protecting —" he hesitated, glanced at Garion, and then continued smoothly. "— A certain thing that must be protected at all costs. Several of my books speak of it."

"You read too much, Anheg," Aunt Pol said.

Anheg laughed again. "It passes the time, Polgara," he said. "The alternative is drinking with my earls, and my stomach’s getting a little delicate for that—and my ears as well. Have you any idea of how much noise a hall full of drunk Chereks can make? My books don’t shout or boast and they don’t fall down or slide under the tables and snore. They’re much better company, really."

"Foolishness," Aunt Pol said.

"We’re all foolish at one time or another," Anheg said philosophically. "But let’s get back to this other matter. If these rumors I mentioned are true, aren’t you taking some serious risks? Your search is likely to be very dangerous."

"No place is really safe," Mister Wolf said.

"Why take chances you don’t have to?" Anheg asked. "Asharak isn’t the only Grolim in the world you know."

"I can see why they call you Anheg the sly," Wolf said with a smile.

"Wouldn’t it be safer to leave this certain thing in my care until you return?" Anheg suggested.

"We’ve already found that not even Val Alorn is safe from the Grolims, Anheg," Aunt Pol said firmly. "The mines of Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak are endless, and the Grolims have more gold at their disposal than you could even imagine. How many others like Jarvik have they bought? The Old Wolf and I are very experienced at protecting this certain thing you mentioned. It will be safe with us."

"Thank you for your concern, however," Mister Wolf said.

"The matter concerns us all," Anheg said.

Garion, despite his youth and occasional recklessness, was not stupid. It was obvious that what they were talking about involved him in some way and quite possibly had to do with the mystery of his parentage as well. To conceal the fact that he was listening as hard as he could, he picked up a small book bound in a strangely textured black leather. He opened it, but there were neither pictures or illuminations, merely a spidery-looking script that seemed strangely repulsive.

Aunt Pol, who always seemed to know what he was doing, looked over at him. "What are you doing with that?" She said sharply.

"Just looking," He said. "I can’t read."

"Put it down immediately," she told him.

King Anheg smiled. "You wouldn’t be able to read it anyway, Garion," he said. "It’s written in Old Angarak."

"What are you doing with that filthy thing anyway?" Aunt Pol asked Anheg. "You of all people should know that it’s forbidden."

"It’s only a book, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "It doesn’t have any power unless it’s permitted to."

"Besides," Anheg said, rubbing thoughtfully at the side of his face, "the book gives us clues to the mind of our enemy. That’s always a good thing to know."

"You can’t know Torak’s mind," Aunt Pol said, "and it’s dangerous to open yourself to him, He can poison you without your even knowing what’s happening."

"I don’t think there’s any danger of that, Pol," Wolf said. "Anheg’s mind is well-trained enough to avoid the traps in Torak’s book, They’re pretty obvious after all."

"You’re an observant young man, Garion," Anheg said gravely. "You’ve done me a service today, and you can call on me at any time for service in return. Know that Anheg of Cherek is your friend." He extended hs right hand, and Garion took it into his own without thinking.

King Anheg’s eyes grew suddenly wide, and his face paled slightly. He turned Garion’s hand over and looked down at the silvery mark on the boy’s palm.

Then Aunt Pol’s hands were also there, firmly closing Garion’s fingers and removing him from Anheg’s grip.

"It’s true, then," Anheg said softly.

"Enough," Aunt Pol said. "Don’t confuse the boy." Her hands were still firmly holding Garion’s. "Come along, dear," she said. "It’s time to finish packing." And she turned and led him from the room.

Garion’s mind was racing, What was there about the mark on his hand that had so startled Anheg? The birthmark, he knew, was hereditary. Aunt Pol had once told him that his father’s hand had had the same mark, but why would that be of interest to Anheg? It had gone too far, His need to know became almost unbearable. He had to know about his parents, about Aunt Pol—about all of it. If the answers hurt, then they’d just have to hurt. At least he would know.

The next morning was clear, and they left the palace for the harbor quite early. They all gathered in the courtyard where the sleighs waited.

"There’s no need for you to come out in the cold like this, Merel," Barak told his fur-robed wife as she mounted the sleigh beside him.

"I have a duty to see my Lord safely to his ship," she replied with an arrogant lift of her chin.

Barak sighed. "Whatever you wish," he said.

With King Anheg and Queen Islena in the lead, the sleighs whirled out of the courtyard and into the snowy streets.

The sun was very bright, and the air was crisp. Garion rode silently with Silk and Hettar.

"Why so quiet, Garion?" Silk asked.

"A lot of things have happened here that I don’t understand," Garion said.

"No one can understand everything," Hettar said rather sententiously.

"Chereks are a violent and moody people," Silk said. "They don’t even understand themselves."

"It’s not just the Chereks," Garion said, struggling with the words. "It’s Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf and Asharak—all of it. Things are happening too fast. I can’t get it all sorted out."

"Events are like horses," Hettar told him. "Sometimes they run away. After they’ve run for a while, though, they’ll start to walk again, Then there’ll be time to put everything together."

"I hope so," Garion said dubiously and fell silent again.

The sleighs came round a corner into the broad square before the temple of Belar. The blind woman was there again and Garion realized that he had been half-expecting her. She stood on the steps of the temple and raised her staff. Unaccountably, the horses which pulled the sleighs stopped, trembling, despite the urgings of the drivers.

"Hail, Great One," the blind woman said. "I wish thee well on thy journey."

The sleigh in which Garion was riding had stopped closest to the temple steps, and it seemed that the old woman was speaking to him. Almost without thinking he answered, "Thank you. But why do you call me that?"

She ignored the question. "Remember me," she commanded, bowing deeply. "Remember Martje when thou comest into thine inheritance."

It was the second time she’d said that, and Garion felt a sharp pang of curiosity. "What inheritance?" he demanded.

But Barak was roaring with fury and struggling to throw off the fur robe and draw his sword at the same time. King Anheg was also climbing down from his sleigh, his coarse face livid with rage.

"No!" Aunt Pol said sharply from nearby. "I’ll tend to this." She stood up. "Hear me witch-woman," she said in a clear voice, casting back the hood of her cloak. "I think you see too much with those blind eyes of yours. I’m going to do you a favor so that you’ll no longer be troubled by the darkness and these disturbing visions which grow out of it."

"Strike me down if it please thee, Polgara," the old woman said. "I see what I see."

"I won’t strike you down, Martje," Aunt Pol said. "I’m going to give you a gift instead." She raised her hand in a brief and curious gesture.

Garion saw it happen quite plainly, so there was no way that he could persuade himself that it had all been some trick of the eye. He was looking directly at Martje’s face and saw the white film drain down off her eyes like milk draining down the inside of a glass.

The old woman stood frozen on the spot as the bright blue of her eyes emerged from the film which had covered them. And then she screamed. She held up her hands and looked at them and screamed again. There was in her scream a wrenching note of indescribable loss.

"What did you do," Queen Islena demanded.

"I gave her back her eyes," Aunt Pol said, sitting down again and rearranging the fur robe about her.

"You can do that?" Islena asked, her face blanching and her voice weak.

"Can’t you? It’s a simple thing, really."

"But," Queen Porenn objected, "with her eyes restored, she’ll lose that other vision, won’t she?"

"I imagine so," Aunt Pol said, "but that’s a small price to pay, isn’t it?"

"She’ll no longer be a witch, then?" Porenn pressed.

"She wasn’t a very good witch anyway," Aunt Pol said. "Her vision was clouded and uncertain. It’s better this way, She won’t be disturbing herself and others with shadows anymore." She looked at King Anheg who sat frozen in awe beside his half-fainting queen. "Shall we continue?" she asked calmly. "Our ship is waiting."

The horses, as if released by her words, leaped forward, and the sleighs sped away from the temple, spraying snow from their runners.

Garion glanced back once. Old Martje stood on the steps of the temple looking at her two outstretched hands and sobbing uncontrollably.

"We’ve been been privileged to witness a miracle, my friends," Hettar said.

"I gather, however, that the beneficiary was not very pleased with it," Silk said dryly. "Remind me not to offend Polgara. Her miracles seem to have two edges to them."

21

The low-slanting rays of the morning sun glittered on the icy waters of the harbor as their sleighs halted near the stone quays. Greldik’s ship rocked and strained at her hawsers, and a smaller ship also waited with seeming impatience.

Hettar stepped down and went over to speak to Cho-Hag and Queen Silar. The three of them talked together quietly and seriously, drawing a kind of shell of privacy about them.

Queen Islena had partially regained her composure and sat in her sleigh straight-backed and with a fixed smile on her face. After Anheg had gone to speak with Mister Wolf, Aunt Pol crossed the Icy wharf and stopped near the sleigh of the Queen of Cherek.

"If I were you, Islena," she said firmly, "I’d find another hobby. Your gifts in the arts of sorcery are limited, and it’s a dangerous area for dabbling. Too many things can go wrong if you don’t know what you are doing.

The queen stared at her mutely.

"Oh," Aunt Pol said, "one other thing. It would be best, I think, if you broke off your connections with the Bear-cult. It’s hardly proper for a queen to have dealings with her husband’s political enemies."

Islena’s eyes widened. "Does Anheg know?" she asked in a stricken voice.

"I wouldn’t be surprised," Aunt Pol said. "He’s much more clever than he looks, you know. You’re walking very close to the edge of treason. You ought to have a few babies. They’d give you something useful to do with your time and keep you out of trouble. That’s only a suggestion, of course, but you might think it over. I’ve enjoyed our visit, dear. Thank you for your hospitality." And with that she turned and walked away.

Silk whistled softly. That explains a few things," he said.

"Explains what?" Garion asked.

"The High Priest of Belar’s been dabbling in Cherek politics lately. He’s obviously gone a bit further than I’d thought in penetrating the palace."

"The queen?" Garion asked, startled.

"Islena’s obsessed with the idea of magic," Silk said. "The Bear-cultists dabble in certain kinds of rituals that might look sort of mystical to someone as gullible as she is." He looked quickly toward where King Rhodar was speaking with the other kings and Mister Wolf. Then he drew a deep breath. "Let’s go talk to Porenn," he said and led the way across the wharf to where the tiny blond Queen of Drasnia stood looking out at the icy sea.

"Highness," Silk said deferentially.

"Dear Kheldar," she said, smiling at him.

"Could you give some information to my uncle for me?" he asked.

"Of course."

"It seems that Queen Islena’s been a bit indiscreet," Silk said. "She’s been involved with the Bear-cult here in Cherek."

"Oh dear," Porenn said. "Does Anheg know?"

"It’s hard to say," Silk told her. "I doubt if he’d admit it if he did. Garion and I happened to hear Polgara tell her to stop it."

"I hope that puts an end to it," Porenn said. "If it went too far, Anheg would have to take steps. That could be tragic."

"Polgara was quite firm," Silk said. "I think Islena will do as she was told, but advise my uncle. He likes to be kept aware of this kind of thing."

"I’ll tell him about it," she said.

"You might also suggest that he keep his eyes on the local chapters of the cult in Boktor and Kotu," Silk suggested. "This kind of thing isn’t usually isolated. It’s been about 50 years since the last time the cult had to be suppressed."

Queen Porenn nodded gravely. "I’ll see to it that he knows," she said. "I’ve got some of my own people planted in the Bear-cult. As soon as we get back to Boktor, I’ll talk with them and see what’s afoot."

"Your people? Have you gone that far already?" Silk asked in a bantering tone. "You’re maturing rapidly, my Queen. It won’t be long until you’re as corrupt as the rest of us."

"Boktor is full of intrigue, Kheldar," the queen said primly. "It isn’t just the Bear-cult, you know. Merchants from all over the world gather in our city, and at least half of them are spies. I have to protect myself—and my husband."

"Does Rhodar know what you’re up to?" Silk asked slyly.

"Of course he does," she said. "He gave me my first dozen spies himself—as a wedding present.

"How typically Drasnian," Silk said.

"It’s only practical, after all," she said. "My husband’s concerned with matters involving other kingdoms. I try to keep an eye on things at home to leave his mind free for that kind of thing. My operations are a bit more modest than his, but I manage to stay aware of things." She looked at him slyly from beneath her eyelashes. "If you ever decide to come home to Boktor and settle down I might just be able to find work for you."

Silk laughed. "The whole world seems to be full of opportunities lately," he said.

The queen looked at him seriously. "When are you coming home, Kheldar?" she asked. "When will you stop being this vagabond, Silk, and come back where you belong? My husband misses you very much, and you could serve Drasnia more by becoming his chief advisor than all this flitting about the world."

Silk looked away, squinting into the bright wintry sun. "Not just yet, your Highness," he said. "Belgarath needs me too, and this is a very important thing we’re doing just now. Besides, I’m not ready to settle down yet. The game is still entertaining. Perhaps someday when we’re all much older it won’t be anymore—who knows?"

She sighed. "I miss you too Kheldar," she said gently.

"Poor, lonely little queen," Silk said, half-mockingly.

"You’re impossible," she said, stamping her tiny foot.

"One does one’s best." He grinned.

Hettar had embraced his father and mother and leaped across to the deck of the small ship King Anheg had provided him. "Belgarath," he called as the sailors slipped the stout ropes that bound the ship to the quay, "I’ll meet you in two weeks at the ruins of Vo Wacune."

"We’ll be there," Mister Wolf replied.

The sailors pushed the ship away from the quay and began to row out into the bay. Hettar stood on the deck, his long scalp lock flowing in the wind. He waved once, then turned to face the sea.

A long plank was run down over the side of Captain Greldik’s ship to the snow covered stones.

"Shall we go on board, Garion?" Silk said. They climbed the precarious plank and stepped out onto the deck.

"Give our daughters my love," Barak said to his wife.

"I will, my Lord," Merel said in the same stiffly formal tone she always used with him. "Have you any other instructions?"

"I won’t be back for some time," Barak said. "Plant the south fields to oats this year, and let the west fields lie fallow. Do whatever you think best with the north fields. And don’t move the cattle up to the high pastures until all the frost is out of the ground."

"I’ll be most careful of my husband’s lands and herds," she said.

"They’re yours too," Barak said.

"As my husband wishes."

Barak sighed. "You never let it rest, do you, Merel?" He said sadly.

"My Lord?"

"Forget it."

"Will my Lord embrace me before he leaves?" she asked.

"What’s the point?" Barak said. He jumped across to the ship and immediately went below.

Aunt Pol stopped on her way to the ship and looked gravely at Barak’s wife. Then, without warning, she suddenly laughed.

"Something amusing, Lady Polgara?" Merel asked.

"Very amusing, Merel," Aunt Pol said with a mysterious smile.

"Might I be permitted to share it?"

"Oh, you’ll share it, Merel," Aunt Pol promised, "but I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you by telling you too soon." She laughed again and stepped onto the plank that led to the ship. Durnik offered his hand to steady her, and the two of them crossed to the deck.

Mister Wolf clasped hands with each of the kings on turn and then nimbly crossed to the ship. He stood for a moment on the deck looking at the ancient, snow-shrouded city of Val Alorn and the towering mountains of Cherek rising behind.

"Farewell, Belgarath," King Anheg called.

Mister Wolf nodded. "Don’t forget about the minstrels," he said.

"We won’t," Anheg promised. "Good luck."

Mister Wolf grinned and then walked forward toward the prow of Greldik’s ship. Garion, on an impulse, followed him. There were questions which needed answers, and the old man would know if anyone would.

"Mister Wolf," he said when they had both reached the high prow.

"Yes, Garion?"

He was not sure where to start, so Garion approached the problem obliquely. "How did Aunt Pol do that to old Martje’s eyes?"

"The Will and the Word," Wolf said, his long cloak whipping about him in the stiff breeze. "It isn’t difficult."

"I don’t understand," Garion said.

"You simply will something to happen," the old man said, "and then speak the word. If your will’s strong enough, it happens."

"That’s all there is to it?" Garion asked, a little disappointed.

"That’s all," Wolf said.

"Is the word a magic word?"

Wolf laughed, looking out at the sun glittering sharply on the winter sea. "No," he said. "There aren’t any magic words. Some people think so, but they’re wrong. Grolims use strange words, but that’s not really necessary. Any word will do the job. It’s the Will that’s important, not the Word. The Word’s just a channel for the Will."

"Could I do it?" Garion asked hopefully.

Wolf looked at him. "I don’t know, Garion," he said. "I wasn’t much older than you are the first time I did it, but I’d been living with Aldur for several years. That makes a difference, I suppose."

"What happened?"

"My Master wanted me to move a rock," Wolf said. "He seemed to think that it was in his way. I tried to move it, but it was too heavy. After a while I got angry, and I told it to move. It did. I was a little surprised, but my Master didn’t think it so unusual."

"You just said, ‘move?’ That’s all?" Garion was incredulous.

"That’s all." Wolf shrugged. "It seemed so simple that I was surprised I hadn’t thought of it before. At the time I imagined that anybody could do it, but men have changed quite a bit since then. Maybe it isn’t possible anymore. It’s hard to say, really."

"I always thought that sorcery had to be done with long spells and strange signs and things like that," Garion said.

"Those are just the devices of tricksters and charlatans," Wolf said. "They make a fine show and impress and frighten simple people, but spells and incantations have nothing to do with the real thing, It’s all in the Will. Focus the Will and speak the Word, and it happens. Sometimes a gesture of sorts helps, but it isn’t really necessary. Your Aunt has always seemed to want to gesture when she makes something happen. I’ve been trying to break her of that habit for hundreds of years now."

Garion blinked. "Hundreds of years?" he gasped. "How old is she?"

"Older than she looks," Wolf said. "It isn’t polite to ask questions about a lady’s age, however."

Garion felt a sudden, shocking emptiness. The worst of his fears had been confirmed. "Then she isn’t really my Aunt, is she?" he asked sickly.

"What makes you say that?" Wolf asked.

She couldn’t be, could she? I always thought that she was my father’s sister, but if she’s hundreds and thousands of years old, it would be impossible."

"You’re much to fond of that word, Garion," Wolf said. "When you get right down to it, nothing—or at least very little—is actually impossible."

"How could she be? My Aunt I mean?"

"All right," Wolf said. "Polgara was not strictly speaking your father’s sister. Her relationship to him is quite more complex. She was the sister of his grandmother—his ultimate grandmother, it there is such a term—and of yours as well, of course."

"Then she’d be my great-aunt," Garion said with a faint in spark of hope. It was something, at least.

"I don’t know that I’d use that precise term around her." Wolf grinned. "She might take offense. Why are you so concerned about all of this?"

"I was afraid that maybe she’d just said that she was my Aunt, and that there wasn’t really any connection between us at all," Garion said. "I’ve been afraid of that for quite a while now."

"Why were you afraid?"

"It’s kind of hard to explain," Garion said. "You see, I don’t really know who or what I am. Silk says I’m not a Sendar, and Barak says I look sort of like a Rivan—but not exactly. I always thought I was a Sendar—like Durnik—but I guess I’m not. I don’t know anything about my parents or where they come from or anything like that. If Aunt Pol isn’t related to me, then I don’t have anybody in the world at all. I’m all alone, and that’s a very bad thing."

"But now it’s alright, isn’t it?" Wolf said, your Aunt really is your Aunt—at least your blood and hers are the same."

"I’m glad you told me," Garion said. "I’ve been worried about it."

Greldik’s sailors untied the hawsers and began to push the ship away from the quay.

"Mister Wolf," Garion said as a strange thought occurred to him.

"Yes, Garion?"

"Aunt Pol really is my Aunt—or my Great-Aunt?"

"Yes."

"And she’s your daughter."

"I have to admit that she is," Wolf said wryly. "I try to forget that sometimes, but I can’t really deny it."

Garion took a deep breath and plunged directly into it. "If she’s my Aunt, and you’re her father," he said, "wouldn’t that sort of make you my Grandfather?"

Wolf looked at him with a startled expression. "Why yes," he said, laughing suddenly, "I suppose that in a way it does. I’d never thought of it exactly like that before."

Garion’s eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he impulsively embraced the old man. "Grandfather," he said, trying the word out.

""Well, well," Wolf said, his own voice strangely thick. "What a remarkable discovery." Awkwardly he patted Garion’s shoulder.

"They were both a little embarrassed by Garion’s sudden display of affection, and they stood silently, watching as Greldik’s sailors rowed the ship out into the harbor.

"Grandfather," Garion said after a little while.

"Yes?"

"What really happened to my mother and father? I mean, how did they die?"

Wolf’s face became very bleak. "There was a fire," he said shortly.

"A fire?" Garion said weakly, his imagination lurching back from that awful thought—of the unspeakable pain. "How did it happen?"

"It’s not very pleasant," Wolf said grimly. "Aew you really sure you want to know?"

"I have to, Grandfather," Garion said quietly. "I have to know everything I can about them. I don’t know why, but it’s very important."

Mister Wolf sighed. "Yes, Garion," he said, "I guess it would be at that. All right, then. If you’re old enough to ask the questions, you’re old enough to hear the answers." He sat down on a sheltered bench out of the chilly wind. "Come over here and sit down." He patted the bench beside him.

Garion sat down and pulled his cloak around him.

"Let’s see," Wolf said, scratching thoughtfully at his beard, "where do we start?" He pondered for a moment. "Your family’s very old, Garion," he said finally, "and like so many old families, it has a certain number of enemies."

"Enemies?" Garion was startled. That particular idea hadn’t occurred to him before.

"It’s not uncommon," Wolf said. "When we do something someone else doesn’t like, they tend to hate us. The hatred builds up over the years until it turns into something almost like a religion. They hate not only us, but everything connected with us. Anyway, a long time ago your family’s enemies became so dangerous that your Aunt and I decided that the only way we could protect the family was to hide it."

"You aren’t telling me everything," Garion said.

"No," said Wolf blandly, "I’m not. I’m telling you as much as it’s safe for you to know right now. If you knew certain things, you’d act differently, and people would notice that. It’s safer if you remain ordinary for a while longer."

"You mean ignorant," Garion accused.

"All right, ignorant then. Do you want to hear the story, or do you want to argue?"

"I’m sorry," Garion said.

"It’s all right," Wolf said, patting Garion’s shoulder. "Since your Aunt and I are related to your family in rather a special way, we were naturally interested in your safety. That’s why we hid your people."

"Can you actually hide a whole family?" Garion asked.

"It’s never been that big a family," Wolf said. "It seems, for one reason or another, to be a single, unbroken line—no cousins or uncles or that kind of thing. It’s not all that hard to hide a man and wife with a single child. We’ve been doing it for hundreds of years now. We’ve hidden them in Tolnedra, Riva, Cherek, Drasnia—all kinds of places. They’ve lived simple lives—artisans mostly, sometimes ordinary peasants—the kind of people nobody would ever look at twice. Anyway, everything had gone well until about twenty years ago. We moved your father, Geran, from a place in Arendia to a little village in eastern Sendaria, about sixty leagues southeast of Darine, up in the mountains. Geran was a stonecutter—didn’t I tell you that once before?"

Garion nodded. "A long time ago," he said. "You said you liked him and used to visit him once in a while. Was my mother a Sendar then?"

"No," Wolf said. "Ildera as an Algar, actually—the second daughter of a Clan Chief. Your Aunt and I introduced her to Geran when they were about the right age. The usual sort of thing happened, and they got married. You were born a year or so afterward."

"When was the fire?" Garion asked.

"I’m getting to that," Wolf said. One of the enemies of your family had been looking for your people for a long time."

"How long?"

"Hundreds of years, actually."

"That means he was a sorcerer, too, doesn’t it?" Garion asked. "I mean, only sorcerers live for that long, don’t they?"

"He has certain capabilities along those lines," Wolf admitted. "Sorcerer is a misleading term, though. It’s not the sort of thing we actually call ourselves. Other people do, but we don’t exactly think of it that way. It’s a convenient term for people who don’t really understand what it’s all about. Anyway, your Aunt and I happened to be away when this enemy finally tracked down Geran and Ildera. He came to their house very early one morning while they were still sleeping and he sealed up the doors and windows. And then he set it on fire."

"I thought you said the house was made of stone."

"It was," Wolf said, "but you can make stone burn if you really want to. The fire just has to be hotter, that’s all. Geran and Ildera knew there was no way they could get out of the burning building, but Geran managed to knock one of the stones out of the wall, and Ildera pushed you out through the hole. The one who started the fire was waiting for that. He picked you up and started out of the village. We could never be sure exactly what he had in mind—either he was going to kill you, or maybe he was going to keep you for some reason of his own. At any rate, that’s when I got there. I put out the fire, but Geran and Ildera were already dead. Then I went after the one who’d stolen you."

"Did you kill him?" Garion demanded fiercely.

"I try not to do that more than I have to," Wolf said. "It disrupts the natural course of events too much. I had some other ideas at the time—much more unpleasant than killing." His eyes were icy. "As it turned out though, I never got the chance. He threw you at me—you were only a baby—and I had to try to catch you. It gave him time to get away. I left you with Polgara and then I went looking for your enemy. I haven’t been able to find him yet, though."

"I’m glad you haven’t," Garion said.

Wolf looked a little surprised at that.

"When I get older, I’m going to find him," Garion said, "I think I ought to be the one who pays him back for what he did, don’t you?"

Wolf looked at him gravely. "It could be dangerous," he said.

"I don’t care. What’s his name?"

"I think that maybe I better wait a while before I tell you that," Wolf said. "I don’t want you jumping into something before you’re ready."

"But you will tell me?"

"When the time comes."

"It’s very important, Grandfather"

"Yes," Wolf said. "I can see that."

"Do you promise?"

"If you insist. And if I don’t, I’m sure your Aunt will. She feels the same way you do."

"Don’t you?"

"I’m much older," Wolf said. "I see things a little differently."

"I’m not that old yet," Garion said. "I won’t be able to do the kind of things you’d do, so I’ll have to settle for just killing him." He stood up and began to pace back and forth, a rage boiling in him.

"I don’t suppose I’ll be able to talk you out of this," Wolf said, "but I really think you’re going to feel differently about it after it’s over."

"Not likely," Garion said, still pacing.

"We’ll see," Wolf said.

"Thank you for telling me, Grandfather," Garion said.

"You’d have found out sooner or later anyway," the old man said, "and it’s better that I tell you than for you to get a distorted account from someone else."

"You mean Aunt Pol?"

"Polgara wouldn’t deliberately lie to you," Wolf said, "but she sees things in a much more personal way than I do. Sometimes that colors her perceptions. I try to take the long view of things. I could take—under the circumstances."

Garion looked at the old man whose white hair and beard seemed somehow luminous in the morning sun. "What’s it like to live forever, Grandfather?" He asked.

"I don’t know," Wolf said. "I haven’t lived forever."

"You know what I mean."

"The quality of life isn’t much different," Wolf said. "We all live as long as we need to. It just happened that that I have something to do that’s taken a very long time." He stood up abruptly. "This conversation’s taken a gloomy turn," he said.

"This thing that we’re doing is very important, isn’t it, Grandfather?" Garion asked.

"It’s the most important thing in the world right now," Wolf said.

"I’m afraid I’m not going to be very much help," Garion said.

Wolf looked at him gravely for a moment and then put one arm round his shoulders. "I think you may be surprised about that before it’s all over, Garion," he said.

And then they turned and looked out over the prow of the ship at the snowy coast of Cherek sliding by on their right as the sailors rowed the ship south towards Camaar and whatever lay beyond.

Here ends Book One of the Belgariad. Book Two, Queen of Sorcery will reveal Garion’s own dangerous powers of sorcery and more on his heritage, which underlies their quest.