                              QUEEN OF SORCERY





For Helen,
who gave me the most precious thing in my life,
and for Mike,
who taught me how to play.



PROLOGUE

Being an Account of the Battle of the Kingdoms of the West against the most
heinous Invasion and Evil of Kal Torak.

                                        -based upon The Battle of Vo Mimbre

IN THE  YOUTH of the world,  the evil God Torak stole  the Orb of Aldur and
fled, seeking  dominion. The Orb resisted,  and its fire maimed  him with a
dreadful burning. But he  would not give it up, for it was precious to him.

Then Belgarath,  a sorcerer  and disciple of  the God Aldur,  led forth the
king of the Alorns  and his three sons, and they reclaimed the Orb from the
iron  tower of  Torak. Torak  sought to  pursue, but  the wrath of  the Orb
repelled him and drove him back.

Belgarath set  Cherek and his sons to be kings  over four great kingdoms in
eternal guard  against Torak. The Orb he gave to  Riva to keep, saying that
so  long as  a descendant  of Riva  held the  Orb the  West would  be safe.

Century followed  century with  no menace from  Torak, until the  spring of
4865,  when Drasnia  was invaded by  a vast  horde of Nadraks,  Thulls, and
Murgos.  In the  center of  this sea  of Angaraks  was borne the  huge iron
pavilion  of one  called Kal Torak,  which means  King and God.  Cities and
villages  were razed  and burned,  for Kal  Torak came  to destroy,  not to
conquer.  Those of  the  people who  lived were  given to  the steel-masked
Grolim priests for sacrifice in the unspeakable rites of the Angaraks. None
survived save those who fled to Algaria or were taken from the mouth of the
Aldur River by Cherek warships.

Next the horde struck south at Algaria. But there they found no cities. The
nomadic  Algarian horsemen fell  back before  them, then struck  in vicious
hit-and-run  attacks. The traditional  seat of  the Algarian kings  was the
Stronghold, a man-made mountain with stone walls thirty feet thick. Against
this,  the  Angaraks hurled  themselves  in  vain before  settling down  to
besiege   the   place.   The  siege   lasted   for   eight  futile   years.

This gave  the West time to mobilize and  prepare. The generals gathered at
the Imperial War College in Tol Honeth and planned their strategy. National
differences were  set aside, and Brand,  the Warder of Riva,  was chosen to
have  full command.  With  him came  two strange  advisers: an  ancient but
vigorous  man who  claimed knowledge  even of  the Angarak kingdoms;  and a
strikingly handsome  woman with a silver lock at  her brow and an imperious
manner. To  these Brand  listened, and to  them he paid  almost deferential
respect.

In the  late spring of 4875, Kal Torak abandoned  his siege and turned west
toward  the sea,  pursued still  by Algar  horsemen. In the  mountains, the
Ulgos came forth from  their caverns by night and wreaked fearful slaughter
on the  sleeping Angaraks.  But still were  the forces of  Kal Torak beyond
counting. After  a pause to regroup, the host  proceeded down the valley of
the River  Arend toward the city of Vo Mimbre,  destroying all in its path.
Early in  the summer, the Angaraks deployed for  the assault upon the city.

On the third day  of the battle, a horn was heard to blow three times. Then
the gates of Vo Mimbre opened, and the Mimbrate knights charged out to fall
upon the front of  the Angarak horde, the iron-shod hoofs of their chargers
trampling  living and  dead.  From the  left came  Algar  cavalry, Drasnian
pikemen, and  veiled Ulgo  irregulars. And from  the right came  the Cherek
berserks and the legions of Tolnedra.

Attacked on three sides, Kal Torak committed his reserves. It was then that
the gray-clad  Rivans, the Sendars, and the  Asturian archers came upon his
forces from  the rear. The Angaraks began to fall  like mown wheat and were
overcome by confusion.

Then  the Apostate,  Zedar the Sorcerer,  went in  haste to the  black iron
pavilion from which Kal  Torak had not yet emerged. And to the Accursed One
he said,  "Lord, throe enemies have thee  surrounded in great numbers. Yea,
even the  gray Rivans  have come in  their numbers to cast  defiance at thy
might."

Kal Torak  arose in anger and declared, "I will  come forth, that the false
keepers of  Cthrag Yaska, the jewel  which was mine, shall  see me and know
fear of me. Send to me my kings."

"Great  Lord," Zedar  told him,  "thy kings  are no  more. The  battle hath
claimed  their lives  and those  of a  multitude of  thy Grolim  priests as
well."

Kal Torak's  wrath grew great at these words, and  fire spat from his right
eye and  from the  eye that was  not. He ordered  his servants  to bind his
shield to  the arm on which  he had no hand and he  took up his dread black
sword. With this, he went forth to do battle.

Then came  a voice  from the midst of  the Rivans, saying, "In  the name of
Belar I  defy thee, Torak.  In the name of  Aldur I cast my  despite in thy
teeth.  Let the bloodshed  be abated, and  I will  meet thee to  decide the
battle. I am Brand,  Warder of Riva. Meet me or take the stinking host away
and come no more against the kingdoms of the West."

Kal Torak strode apart  from the host and cried, "Where is he who dares pit
his mortal flesh against the King of the World? Behold, I am Torak, King of
Kings  and Lord  of  Lords. I  will  destroy this  loud-voiced Rivan.  Mine
enemies   shall   perish,  and   Cthrag   Yaska  shall   again  be   mine."

Brand stood forth. He  bore a mighty sword and a shield muffled with cloth.
A grizzled wolf marched at his side, and a snowy owl hovered over his head.
Brand said,  "I am Brand and  I will contend with  thee, foul and misshapen
Torak."

When Torak saw the  wolf, he said, "Begone, Belgarath. Flee if thou wouldst
save thy  life." And to the  owl he said, "Abjure  thy father, Polgara, and
worship  me.  I  will   wed  thee  and  make  thee  Queen  of  the  World."

But the wolf howled defiance, and the owl screeched her scorn. Torak raised
his sword  and smote down upon  the shield of Brand.  Long they fought, and
many and  grievous were the blows they struck. Those  who stood near to see
them were amazed. The  fury of Torak grew great, and his sword battered the
shield  of Brand  until the Warder  fell back  before the onslaught  of the
Accursed  One. Then  the  wolf howled  and the  owl  shrieked in  one voice
together, and the strength of Brand was renewed.

With a  single motion, the Rivan Warder unveiled  his shield, in the center
of which stood  a round jewel, in size like the heart  of a child. As Torak
gazed upon  it, the  stone began to  glow and flame. The  Accursed One drew
back from  it. He dropped his  shield and sword and  raised his arms before
his face to ward away the dread fire of the stone.

Brand struck,  and his sword pierced  Torak's visor to strike  into the eye
that was  not and plunge into the Accursed One's  head. Torak fell back and
gave a great cry.  He plucked out the sword and threw off his helmet. Those
who watched recoiled in  terror, for his face was seared by some great fire
and  was horrible  to behold. Weeping  blood, Torak  cried out again  as he
beheld  the jewel  which he  had named  Cthrag Yaska  and for which  he had
brought his  war into the West. Then he  collapsed, and the earth resounded
with his fall.

A great  cry went up from  the host of the Angaraks  when they saw what had
befallen Kal Torak, and  they sought to flee in their panic. But the armies
of the  West pursued them and slew them, so that  when the smoky dawn broke
on the fourth day, the host was no more.

Brand asked  that the body of  the Accursed One be  brought to him, that he
might behold him  who would be king of all the world.  But the body was not
to be  found. In the night, Zedar the Sorcerer  had cast an enchantment and
passed unseen  through the armies of the West, bearing  away the one he had
chosen as master.

Then  Brand took  counsel  with his  advisers. And  Belgarath said  to him,
"Torak is not dead.  He only sleeps. For he is a God and cannot be slain by
any mortal weapon."

"When will  he awaken?" Brand asked.  "I must prepare the  West against his
return."

Polgara  answered, "When  once  again a  King of  Riva's  line sits  on his
northern throne, the Dark God will waken to do war with him."

Brand  frowned, saying,  "But that is  neverl" For  all knew that  the last
Rivan King had been slain with his family in 4002 by Nyissan assassins.

Again the woman spoke. "In the fullness of time the Rivan King will rise to
claim his  own, as  the ancient Prophecy  foretells. More cannot  be said."

Brand was  content and  set his armies  to cleaning the  battlefield of the
wreckage of  Angaraks. And  when that was  finished, the kings  of the West
gathered  before the  city of  Vo Mimbre  and held  council. Many  were the
voices raised in praise of Brand.

Soon men  began crying that Brand  should henceforth be chosen  as ruler of
all the  West. Only  Mergon, ambassador of Imperial  Tolnedra, protested in
the name  of his Emperor, Ran  Borune IV. Brand refused  the honor, and the
proposal was  dropped, so that there was  again peace among those assembled
in  council.  But in  return  for peace,  a  demand was  made of  Tolnedra.

The Gorim of the  Ulgos spoke first in a loud voice. "In fulfillment of the
Prophecy, there must be promised a princess of Tolnedra to be wife unto the
Rivan King  who will come to save the world. This  the Gods require of us."

Again Mergon protested. "The  Hall of the Rivan King is empty and desolate.
No  king  sits upon  the  Rivan throne.  How  many a  princess of  Imperial
Tolnedra be wed with a phantom?"

Then  the woman  who was Polgara  replied. "The  Rivan King will  return to
assume his  throne and claim  his bride. From this  day forward, therefore,
each princess of Imperial Tolnedra shall present herself in the Hall of the
Rivan King  upon her sixteenth birthday.  She shall be clad  in her wedding
gown and  shall abide there for three days against  the coming of the King.
If  he comes  not to claim  her, then she  shall be  free to return  to her
father for whatever he may decree for her."

Mergon cried  out. "All Tolnedra shall rise  against this indignity. No! It
shall not be!"

The wise  Gorim of the Ulgos  spoke again. "Tell your  Emperor that this is
the will of the Gods. Tell him also that in the day Tolnedra fails in this,
the West shall rise  against him and scatter the sons of Nedra to the winds
and pull down the might of the Empire, until Imperial Tolnedra is no more."

At  that,  seeing  the  might of  the  armies  before  him, the  ambassador
submitted  to   the  matter.  All  then  agreed   and  were  bound  to  it.

When  that was  done,  the nobles  of  strife-torn Arendia  came to  Brand,
saying, "The  king of the Mimbrates  is dead and the  duke of the Asturians
also. Who now shall  rule us? For two thousand years has war between Mimbre
and  Asturia  rent fair  Arendia.  How  may we  become  one people  again?"

Brand  considered. "Who  is heir  to the  Mimbrate throne?"  "Korodullin is
crown prince  of the Mimbrates," the nobles  replied. "And to whom descends
the Asturian line?"

"Mayaserana is  the daughter  of the Asturian  duke," they told  him. Brand
said, "Bring them to  me." And when they were brought before Brand, he said
to them, "The bloodshed  between Mimbre and Asturia must end. Therefore, it
is my will that  you be wed to each other and that the houses which so long
have warred shall thus be joined."

The  two cried  against  the judgment,  for they  were filled  with ancient
enmity  and with  the  pride of  their separate  lines. But  Belgarath took
Korodullin  aside  and spoke  in  private  with him.  And Polgara  withdrew
Mayaserana to  a separate place and  was long in converse  with her. No man
learned then or later  what was said to the two young people. But when they
returned to where Brand waited, Mayaserana and Korodullin were content that
they should  be wed.  And this was  the final act  of the  council that met
after the battle of Vo Mimbre.

Brand spoke to all the kings and nobles one final time before departing for
the north.

"Much has been wrought  here that is good and shall endure. Behold, we have
met together against the Angaraks and they have been overthrown. Evil Torak
is quelled.  And the covenant we have made here  among us prepares the West
for  the day of  the Prophecy when  the Rivan  King shall return  and Torak
shall wake  from his long sleep  to contend again for  empire and dominion.
All that may be done in this day to prepare for the great and final war has
been done.  We can do no  more. And here, perchance,  the wounds of Arendia
have been  healed, and the strife  of more than two  thousand years may see
its end. So far as may be, I am content with it all.

"Hail, then, and farewell!"

He turned from them  and rode north with the grizzled man who was Belgarath
and the queenly woman who was Polgara by his side. They took ship at Camaar
in  Sendaria and  set  sail for  Riva. And  Brand returned  no more  to the
kingdoms of the West.

But of his companions are many tales told. And of that telling, what may be
true and what false few men may know.



                                  Part One

                                  ARENDIA



                                  [Image]



Chapter One

VO WACUNE  WAS NO MORE. Twenty-four centuries had  passed since the city of
the Wacite  Arends had  been laid waste,  and the dark,  endless forests of
northern Arendia had reclaimed the ruins. Broken walls had toppled and been
swallowed up  in the  moss and wet  brown bracken of the  forest floor, and
only the shattered stumps of the once proud towers moldered among the trees
and fog to mark  the place where Vo Wacune had stood. Sodden snow blanketed
the  mist-shrouded ruins,  and  trickles of  water  ran down  the faces  of
ancient stones like tears.

Garion wandered  alone down the  tree-choked avenues of the  dead city, his
stout gray  wool cloak drawn tight  against the chill, and  his thoughts as
mournful as  the weeping stones  around him. Faldor's farm  with its green,
sun-drenched fields was so  far behind him that it seemed lost in a kind of
receding haze, and he was desperately homesick. No matter how hard he tried
to hold onto them, details kept escaping him. The rich smells of Aunt Pol's
kitchen were only a faint memory; the ring of Durnik's hammer in the smithy
faded like the dying  echo of the last note of a bell, and the sharp, clear
faces of his playmates wavered in his remembrance of them until he could no
longer  be  sure that  he  would  even recognize  them.  His childhood  was
slipping  away,  and try  though  he  might he  could  not hold  on to  it.

Everything was changing; that  was the whole problem. The core of his life,
the rock upon which his childhood had been built, had always been Aunt Pol.
In the  simple world of Faldor's farm she had  been Mistress Pol, the cook,
but in  the world beyond Faldor's  gate she was Polgara  the Sorceress, who
had  watched the  passage of  four millennia  with a purpose  beyond mortal
comprehension.

And  Mister Wolf, the  old vagabond  storyteller, had also  changed. Garion
knew now  that this  old friend was  in fact his  great-great grandfather -
with an infinite number  of additional "greats" added on for good measure -
but that behind that roguish old face there had always been the steady gaze
of Belgarath the Sorcerer, who had watched and waited as he had looked upon
the  folly of  men and  Gods for  seven thousand  years. Garion  sighed and
trudged on through the fog.

Their very  names were  unsettling. Garion had  never wanted to  believe in
sorcery  or  magic or  witchcraft.  Such  things were  unnatural, and  they
violated his  notion of  solid, sensible reality.  But too many  things had
happened to allow him  to hold on to his comfortable skepticism any longer.
In a  single, shattering  instant the last  vestiges of his  doubt had been
swept away.  As he had watched with stunned  disbelief, Aunt Pol had erased
the milky  stains from  the eyes of Martje  the witch with a  gesture and a
single word,  restoring the madwoman's sight and  removing her power to see
into  the future  with  a brutal  evenhandedness. Garion  shuddered  at the
memory of  Martje's despairing wail.  That cry somehow marked  the point at
which the  world had become less solid,  less sensible, and infinitely less
safe.

Uprooted from the only place he had ever known, unsure of the identities of
the  two  people closest  to  him, and  with  his whole  conception of  the
difference between the possible  and the impossible destroyed, Garion found
himself committed  to a strange pilgrimage.  He had no idea  what they were
doing in  this shattered city swallowed  up in trees, and  not the faintest
idea where  they would go when they left.  The only certainty that remained
to him was the  single grim thought to which he now clung; somewhere in the
world there was a man who had crept through the predawn darkness to a small
house in a forgotten  village and had murdered Garion's parents; if it took
him the  rest of his life,  Garion was going to find  that man, and when he
found  him,  he  was  going to  kill  him.  There  was something  strangely
comforting in that one solid fact.

He carefully  climbed over  the rubble of  a house that  had fallen outward
into the  street and continued  his gloomy exploration of  the ruined city.
There was  really nothing to  see. The patient centuries  had erased nearly
all of what the war had left behind, and slushy snow and thick fog hid even
those last  remaining traces. Garion sighed again  and began to retrace his
steps toward the moldering  stump of the tower where they had all spent the
previous night.

As he  approached, he saw Mister  Wolf and Aunt Pol  standing together some
distance from the ruined tower, talking quietly. The old man's rust-colored
hood was  turned up, and Aunt  Pol's blue cloak was  drawn about her. There
was a  look of timeless regret  on her face as she  looked out at the foggy
ruins. Her long, dark hair spilled down her back, and the single white lock
at her brow seemed paler than the snow at her feet.

"There  he is  now," Mister  Wolf said  to her  as Garion  approached them.

She nodded and looked  gravely at Garion. "Where have you been?" she asked.

"No place," Garion replied. "I was thinking, that's all."

"I see you've managed to soak your feet."

Garion lifted  one of his sodden  brown boots and looked  down at the muddy
slush clinging  to it. "The  snow's wetter than I  thought," he apologized.

"Does wearing  that thing really make you  feel better?" Mister Wolf asked,
pointing at the sword Garion always wore now.

"Everybody  keeps  saying  how  dangerous Arendia  is,"  Garion  explained.
"Besides, I  need to get used  to it." He shifted  the creaking new leather
sword belt  around until the wirebound  hilt was not so  obvious. The sword
had  been an  Erastide  present from  Barak, one  of  several gifts  he had
received   when  the   holiday  had   passed  while   they  were   at  sea.

"It  doesn't really  suit you,  you know,"  the old  man told  him somewhat
disapprovingly.

"Leave him alone, father,"  Aunt Pol said almost absently. "It's his, after
all, and he can wear it if he likes."

"Shouldn't  Hettar be  here by  now?" Garion  asked, wanting to  change the
subject.

"He  may  have run  into  deep snow  in  the mountains  of Sendaria,"  Wolf
replied. "He'll be here. Hettar's very dependable."

"I don't see why we just didn't buy horses in Camaar."

"They wouldn't have been  as good," Mister Wolf answered, scratching at his
short, white beard.  "We've got a long way to go, and  I don't want to have
to worry about a  horse foundering under me somewhere along the way. It's a
lot  better to  take  a little  time now  than  to lose  more  time later."

Garion reached back and rubbed at his neck where the chain of the curiously
carved  silver amulet  Wolf and  Aunt Pol  had given  him for  Erastide had
chafed his skin.

"Don't worry at it, dear," Aunt Pol told him.

"I wish  you'd let me wear  it outside my clothes,"  he complained. "Nobody
can see it under my tunic."

"It has to be next to your skin."

"It's not very comfortable.  It looks nice enough, I suppose, but sometimes
it seems cold, and other times it's hot, and once in a while it seems to be
awfully heavy. The chain  keeps rubbing at my neck. I guess I'm not used to
ornaments."

"It's not entirely an ornament, dear," she told him. "You'll get used to it
in time."

Wolf laughed. "Maybe it will make you feel better to know that it took your
Aunt ten  years to get  used to hers. I  was forever telling her  to put it
back on."

"I don't  know that  we need to  go into that  just now,  father," Aunt Pol
answered coolly.

"Do you  have one, too?" Garion  asked the old man,  suddenly curious about
it.

"Of course."

"Does it mean something that we all wear them?"

"It's a family custom,  Garion," Aunt Pol told him in a tone that ended the
discussion.  The fog  eddied around  them as  a chill, damp  breeze briefly
swirled through the ruins.

Garion sighed.  "I wish  Hettar would get  here. I'd like to  get away from
this place. It's like a graveyard."

"It wasn't always this way," Aunt Pol said very quietly.

"What was it like?"

"I  was happy  here. The  walls were  high, and  the towers soared.  We all
thought  it  would  last  forever." She  pointed  toward  a  rank patch  of
winter-browned brambles creeping over  the broken stones. "Over there was a
flower-filled garden where ladies  in pale yellow dresses used to sit while
young men sang to them from beyond the garden wall. The voices of the young
men were  very sweet, and the ladies would sigh  and throw bright red roses
over the wall to them. And down that avenue was a marble-paved square where
the old men met  to talk of forgotten wars and long-gone companions. Beyond
that there was  a house with a terrace where I used  to sit with friends in
the  evening to watch  the stars come  out while  a boy brought  us chilled
fruit  and the  nightingales sang  as if  their hearts were  breaking." Her
voice drifted off into silence. "But then the Asturians came," she went on,
and there was a different note then. "You'd be surprised at how little time
it  takes to  tear down  something that  took a  thousand years  to build."

"Don't worry at it,  Pol," Wolf told her. "These things happen from time to
time. There's not a great deal we can do about it."

"I could  have done something,  father," she replied, looking  off into the
ruins. "But you wouldn't let me, remember?"

"Do we have to go over that again, Pol?" Wolf asked in a pained voice. "You
have to learn to  accept your losses. The Wacite Arends were doomed anyway.
At best,  you'd have only been  able to stall off  the inevitable for a few
months. We're  not who we are  and what we are in order  to get mixed up in
things that don't have any meaning."

"So you said before." She looked around at the filmy trees marching away in
the fog  down the empty streets. "I didn't think  the trees would come back
so fast,"  she said  with a strange  little catch in her  voice. "I thought
they might have waited a little longer."

"It's been almost twenty-five centuries, Pol."

"Really? It seems like only last year."

"Don't  brood about  it. It'll only  make you  melancholy. Why don't  we go
inside? The fog's beginning to make us all a bit moody."

Unaccountably, Aunt Pol put her arm about Garion's shoulders as they turned
toward the  tower. Her fragrance and  the sense of her  closeness brought a
lump to  his throat. The distance  that had grown between  them in the past
few months seemed to vanish at her touch.

The chamber in the  base of the tower had been built of such massive stones
that neither  the passage of centuries nor  the silent, probing tendrils of
tree roots had been  able to dislodge them. Great, shallow arches supported
the low stone ceiling,  making the room seem almost like a cave. At the end
of the  room opposite  the narrow doorway  a wide crack between  two of the
rough-hewn blocks provided a natural chimney. Durnik had soberly considered
the crack  the previous  evening when they  had arrived, cold  and wet, and
then had quickly constructed a crude but efficient fireplace out of rubble.
"It will  serve," the  smith had said  "Not very elegant  perhaps, but good
enough for a few days."

As Wolf, Garion and Aunt Pol entered the low, cavelike chamber, a good fire
crackled in the fireplace, casting looming shadows among the low arches and
radiating a welcome warmth.  Durnik in his brown leather tunic was stacking
firewood  along the  wall.  Barak, huge,  redbearded, and  mail-shined, was
polishing his  sword. Silk, in an unbleached  linen shirt and black leather
vest,  lounged idly  on  one of  the packs,  toying  with a  pair  of dice.

"Any sign of Hettar yet?" Barak asked, looking up.

"It's a  day or so early,"  Mister Wolf replied, going  to the fireplace to
warm himself.

"Why don't you change  your boots, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested, hanging her
blue cloak on one of the pegs Durnik had hammered into a crack in the wall.

Garion lifted  his pack down  from another peg and  began rummaging through
it.

"Your stockings, too," she added.

"Is the fog lifting at all?" Silk asked Mister Wolf.

"Not a chance."

"If I can persuade  you all to move out from in front of the fire, I'll see
about supper,"  Aunt Pol  told them, suddenly very  businesslike. She began
setting out  a ham,  a few loaves of  dark, peasant bread, a  sack of dried
peas and a dozen  or so leathery-looking carrots, humming softly to herself
as she always did when she was cooking.

The next morning after breakfast, Garion pulled on a fleece-lined overvest,
belted on his sword,  and went back out into the fog-muffled ruins to watch
for Hettar.  It was  a task to which  he had appointed himself,  and he was
grateful that  none of his friends had seen fit to  tell him that it wasn't
really necessary. As he trudged through the slushcovered streets toward the
broken  west gate  of the  city, he  made a  conscious effort to  avoid the
melancholy brooding  that had  blackened the previous day.  Since there was
absolutely  nothing he could  do about  his circumstances, chewing  on them
would only  leave a  sour taste in  his mouth. He was  not exactly cheerful
when he  reached the  low piece of  wall by the  west gate, but  he was not
precisely gloomy either.

The wall  offered some protection,  but the damp chill  still crept through
his clothes,  and his feet were already cold.  He shivered and settled down
to wait. There was no point in trying to see any distance in the fog, so he
concentrated on  listening. His  ears began to  sort out the  sounds in the
forest beyond  the wall, the drip  of water from the  trees, the occasional
sodden  thump  of  snow  sliding from  the  limbs,  and  the  tapping of  a
woodpecker   working  on   a   dead  snag   several  hundred   yards  away.

"That's  my cow,"  a voice  said suddenly  from somewhere  off in  the fog.

Garion froze and stood silently, listening.

"Keep her  in your own  pasture, then," another voice  replied shortly. "Is
that you, Lammer?" the first voice asked.

"Right. You're Detton, aren't you?"

"I didn't recognize you. How longs it been?"

"Four or five years, I suppose," Lammer judged.

"How are things going in your village?" Detton asked.

"We're hungry. The taxes took all our food."

"Ours too. We've been eating boiled tree roots."

"We haven't tried that yet. We're eating our shoes."

"How's your wife?" Detton asked politely.

"She died  last year,"  Lammer answered in  a flat, unemotional  voice. "My
lord took  our son for a soldier, and he was  killed in a battle somewhere.
They poured  boiling pitch  on him. After  that my wife  stopped eating. It
didn't take her long to die."

"I'm sorry," Detton sympathized. "She was very beautiful."

"They're  both better off,"  Lammer declared.  "They aren't cold  or hungry
anymore. Which kind of tree roots have you been eating?"

"Birch is the best," Detton told him. "Spruce has too much pitch, and oak's
too  tough. You  boil  some grass  with the  roots  to give  them a  bit of
flavor."

"I'll have to try it."

"I've got to get  back," Detton said. "My lord's got me clearing trees, and
he'll have me flogged if I stay away too long."

"Maybe I'll see you again sometime."

"If we both live."

"Good-bye, Detton."

"Good-bye, Lammer."

The two voices drifted away. Garion stood quite still for a long time after
they  were  gone, his  mind  numb with  shock  and with  tears of  sympathy
standing in  his eyes. The worst  part of it was  the matter-of fact way in
which the  two had accepted it  all. A terrible anger  began to burn in his
throat. He wanted suddenly to hit somebody.

Then there was another sound off in the fog. Somewhere in the forest nearby
someone was  singing. The voice was a light,  clear tenor, and Garion could
hear it  quite plainly as it drew closer. The  song was filled with ancient
wrongs, and the refrain  was a call to battle. Irrationally, Garion's anger
focused on the unknown  singer. His vapid bawling about abstract injustices
seemed  somehow obscene  in the  face of  the quiet  despair of  Lammer and
Detton.  Without  thinking, Garion  drew  his sword  and crouched  slightly
behind the shattered wall.

The  song came  yet nearer,  and Garion  could hear  the step of  a horse's
hooves in  the wet  snow. Carefully he  poked his head out  from behind the
wall as the singer  appeared out of the fog no more than twenty paces away.
He was  a young  man dressed in  yellow hose and  a bright  red jerkin. His
fur-lined cloak  was tossed back, and he had a  long, curved bow slung over
one  shoulder   and  a  well-sheathed  sword   at  his  opposite  hip.  His
reddish-gold hair  fell smoothly down  his back from beneath  a pointed cap
with a feather rising from it. Although his song was grim and he sang it in
a voice throbbing with passion, there was about his youthful face a kind of
friendly openness that no  amount of scowling could erase. Garion glared at
this empty-headed  young nobleman, quite certain  that the singing fool had
never made  a meal of tree  roots or mourned the passing  of a wife who had
starved herself  to death out of grief. The  stranger turned his horse and,
still singing,  rode directly toward the broken  arch of the gateway beside
which Garion lurked in ambush.

Garion was not normally a belligerent boy, and under other circumstances he
might have approached the  situation differently. The gaudy young stranger,
however,  had  presented  himself at  precisely  the  wrong time.  Garion's
quickly  devised plan  had  the advantage  of simplicity.  Since  there was
nothing to  complicate it, it worked  admirably - up to  a point. No sooner
had the  lyric young man passed  through the gate than  Garion stepped from
his  hiding place,  grasped the back  of the  rider's cloak and  yanked him
bodily  out of  the saddle.  With a  startled outcry  and a wet  splat, the
stranger landed unceremoniously on  his back in the slush at Garion's feet.
The second  part of Garion's plan, however,  fell completely apart. Even as
he moved in to take the fallen rider prisoner at sword point, the young man
rolled,  came to his  feet, and drew  his own  sword, seemingly all  in one
motion.  His   eyes  were  snapping  with   anger,  and  his  sword  weaved
threateningly.

Garion was  not a fencer, but his reflexes were good  and the chores he had
performed  at Faldor's  farm had  hardened his  muscles. Despite  the anger
which had moved him  to attack in the first place, he had no real desire to
hurt this  young man. His opponent seemed to  be holding his sword lightly,
almost negligently, and Garion thought that a smart blow on the blade might
very well knock it out of his hand. He swung quickly, but the blade flicked
out of the  path of his heavy swipe and clashed with  a steely ring down on
his own sword. Garion jumped back and made another clumsy swing. The swords
rang again.  Then the  air was filled  with clash and  scrape and bell-like
rattle as the two of them banged and parried and feinted with their blades.
It took  Garion only a moment to realize that  his opponent was much better
at  this  than  he   was  but  that  the  young  man  had  ignored  several
opportunities to strike at him. In spite of himself he began to grin in the
excitement of their noisy  contest. The stranger's answering grin was open,
even friendly.

"All right,  that's enough  of that!" It  was Mister Wolf. The  old man was
striding toward them with  Barak and Silk close on his heels. "Just exactly
what do you two think you're doing?"

Garion's  opponent,   after  one   startled  glance,  lowered   his  sword.
"Belgarath-" he began.

"Lelldorin," Wolf's tone was scathing, "have you lost what little sense you
had to begin with?"

Several things  clicked into place in  Garion's mind simultaneously as Wolf
turned  on him  coldly.  "Well, Garion,  would you  like to  explain this?"

Garion instantly  decided to  try guile. "Grandfather,"  he said, stressing
the word and giving  the younger stranger a quick warning look, "you didn't
think we were really  fighting, did you? Lelldorin here was just showing me
how   you   block  somebody's   sword   when  he   attacks,  that's   all."

"Really?" Wolf replied skeptically.

"Of course,"  Garion said,  all innocence now. "What  possible reason could
there be for us to be trying to hurt each other?"

Lelldorin opened his mouth to speak, but Garion deliberately stepped on his
foot.

"Lelldorin's  really  very good,"  he  rushed  on, putting  his  hand in  a
friendly fashion on the young man's shoulder. "He taught me a lot in just a
few minutes."

-Let it stand-Silk's fingers flickered at him in the minute gestures of the
Drasnian secret language. Always keep a lie simple.

"The  lad  is an  apt  pupil,  Belgarath," Lelldorin  said lamely,  finally
understanding.

"He's agile, if nothing  else," Mister Wolf replied dryly. "What's the idea
behind all the frippery?" He indicated Lelldorin's gaudy clothes. "You look
like a maypole."

"The Mimbrates had started detaining honest Asturians for questioning," the
young Arend  explained, "and I had to pass  several of their strongholds. I
thought  that  if  I  dressed like  one  of  their  toadies  I wouldn't  be
bothered."

"Maybe you've  got better sense than  I thought," Wolf conceded grudgingly.
He  turned to  Silk  and Barak.  "This is  Lelldorin, son  of the  Baron of
Wildantor. He'll be joining us."

"I wanted to talk  to you about that, Belgarath," Lelldorin put in quickly.
"My  father commanded  me to  come here  and I  can't disobey him,  but I'm
pledged in a matter of extremest urgency."

"Every young  nobleman in  Asturias pledged in  at least two  or three such
matters of  urgency," Wolf  replied. "I'm sorry, Lelldorin,  but the matter
we're involved in is much too important to be postponed while you go out to
ambush a couple of Mimbrate tax collectors."

Aunt  Pol  approached  them  out of  the  fog  then,  with Durnik  striding
protectively at  her side. "What  are they doing with  the swords, father?"
she demanded, her eyes flashing.

"Playing," Mister Wolf replied shortly. "Or so they say. This is Lelldorin.
I think I've mentioned him to you."

Aunt  Pol looked  Lelldorin up and  down with  one raised eyebrow.  "A very
colorful young man."

"The clothes are a disguise," Wolf explained. "He's not as frivolous as all
that -  not quite,  anyway. He's the  best bowman in Asturia,  and we might
need his skill before we're done with all this."

"I see," she said, somewhat unconvinced.

"There's another reason, of  course," Wolf continued, "but I don't think we
need to get into that just now, do we?"

"Are  you  still  worried  about  that  passage, father?"  she  asked  with
exasperation.  "The Mrin  Codex  is very  obscure,  and none  of the  other
versions say anything at all about the people it mentions. It could be pure
allegory, you know."

"I've seen  a few  too many allegories turn  out to be plain  fact to start
gambling  at  this point.  Why  don't  we all  go  back to  the tower?"  he
suggested. "It's a bit cold and wet out here for lengthy debates on textual
variations."

Garion  glanced at  Silk,  baffled by  this  exchange, but  the little  man
returned his look with blank incomprehension.

"Will  you  help me  catch  my  horse, Garion?"  Lelldorin asked  politely,
sheathing his sword.

"Of course," Garion replied, also putting away his weapon. "I think he went
that way."

Lelldorin  picked up  his bow,  and the  two of  them followed  the horse's
tracks off into the ruins.

"I'm sorry  I pulled you off your horse,"  Garion apologized when they were
out of sight of the others.

"No  matter." Lelldorin  laughed easily.  "I should  have been  paying more
attention."  He  looked  quizzically   at  Garion.  "Why  did  you  lie  to
Belgarath?"

"It wasn't  exactly a  lie," Garion replied.  "We weren't really  trying to
hurt each  other, and sometimes it takes  hours trying to explain something
like that."

Lelldorin laughed again, an  infectious sort of laugh. In spite of himself,
Garion could not help joining in.

Both laughing, they continued together down an overgrown street between the
low mounds of slush-covered rubble.





Chapter Two

LELLDORIN  OF  WILDANTOR Was  eighteen  years old,  although his  ingenuous
nature  made him  seem more  boyish. No  emotion touched  him that  did not
instantly register in his  expression, and sincerity shone in his face like
a beacon. He was  impulsive, extravagant in his declarations, and probably,
Garion reluctantly  concluded, not overly bright.  It was impossible not to
like him, however.

The  following  morning when  Garion  pulled on  his  cloak to  go out  and
continue his watch for  Hettar, Lelldorin immediately joined him. The young
Arend had  changed out  of his garish  clothing and now wore  brown hose, a
green tunic,  and a  dark brown wool  cape. He carried  his bow  and wore a
quiver of  arrows at his belt;  as they walked through  the snow toward the
broken west  wall he amused himself by loosing  arrows at targets only half
visible ahead of him.

"You're awfully  good," Garion said admiringly  after one particularly fine
shot.

"I'm  an  Asturian," Lelldorin  replied  modestly. "We've  been bowmen  for
thousands of  years. My father had  the limbs of this bow  cut on the day I
was born, and I could draw it by the time I was eight."

"I  imagine you  hunt a  great deal,"  Garion said,  thinking of  the dense
forest all around them and the tracks of game he had seen in the snow.

"It's our most common  pastime." Lelldorin stopped to pull the arrow he had
just shot  from a  tree trunk. "My  father prides himself on  the fact that
beef or mutton are never served at his table."

"I went hunting once, in Cherek."

"Deer?" Lelldorin asked.

"No. Wild boars. We  didn't use bows though. The Chereks hunt with spears."

"Spears?  How can  you get  close enough  to kill  anything with  a spear?"

Garion  laughed a  bit ruefully,  remembering his  bruised ribs  and aching
head.  "Getting close  isn't the  problem. It's  getting away  after you've
speared him that's the difficult part."

Lelldorin didn't seem to grasp that.

"The huntsmen  form a line," Garion explained,  "and they crash through the
woods, making as much noise as they can. You take your spear and wait where
the boars  are likely  to pass when  they try to  get away  from the noise.
Being chased  makes them bad-tempered, and when  they see you, they charge.
That's when you spear them."

"Isn't that dangerous?" Lelldorin's eyes were wide.

Garion  nodded. "I  almost  got all  my ribs  broken."  He was  not exactly
boasting, but  he admitted  to himself that  he was pleased  by Lelldorin's
reaction to his story.

"We don't  have many  dangerous animals in Asturia,"  Lelldorin said almost
wistfully. "A few bears and once in a while a pack of wolves." He seemed to
hesitate for  a moment, looking closely at  Garion. "Some men, though, find
more interesting  things to  shoot at than  wild stags." He said  it with a
kind of secretive sidelong glance.

"Oh?" Garion was not quite sure what he meant.

"Hardly  a  day  goes  by that  some  Mimbrate's  horse  doesn't come  home
riderless."

Garion was shocked at that.

"Some men  think that there  are too many Mimbrates  in Asturia," Lelldorin
explained with heavy emphasis.

"1 thought that the Arendish civil war was over."

"There are many who don't believe that. There are many who believe that the
war will continue until Asturia is free of the Mimbrate crown." Lelldorin's
tone   left  no   question   as  to   where   he  stood   in  the   matter.

"Wasn't  the  country  unified  after  the  Battle of  Vo  Mimbre?"  Garion
objected.

"Unified? How could anybody believe that? Asturia is treated like a subject
province.  The king's  court  is at  Vo Mimbre;  every governor,  every tax
collector, every bailiff, every  high sheriff in the kingdom is a Mimbrate.
There's  not a  single  Asturian in  a  position of  authority anywhere  in
Arendia.  The Mimbrates  even refuse  to recognize  our titles.  My father,
whose line  extends back a thousand years,  is called landowner. A Mimbrate
would sooner bite out his tongue than call him Baron." Lelldorin's face had
gone white with suppressed indignation.

"I didn't  know that,"  Garion said carefully,  not sure how  to handle the
young man's feelings.

"Asturia's humiliation  is almost  at an end,  however," Lelldorin declared
fervently. "There are some  men in Asturia for whom patriotism is not dead,
and  the time  is not  far off  when these  men will  hunt royal  game." He
emphasized  his  statement  by   snapping  an  arrow  at  a  distant  tree.

That  confirmed  the worst  of  Garion's  fears. Lelldorin  was  a bit  too
familiar   with   the  details   not   to   be  involved   in  this   plot.

As if he had realized himself that he had gone too far, Lelldorin stared at
Garion  with consternation.  "I'm a  fool," he  blurted with a  guilty look
around him. "I've never  learned to control my tongue. Please forget what I
just said,  Garion. I  know you're my  friend, and I know  you won't betray
what I said in a moment of heat."

That  was the  one  thing Garion  had feared.  With that  single statement,
Lelldorin had effectively sealed  his lips. He knew that Mister Wolf should
be warned  that some wild scheme was  afoot, but Lelldorin's declaration of
friendship and trust had  made it impossible for him to speak. He wanted to
grind his  teeth with frustration as he stared full in  the face of a major
moral dilemma.

They walked  on, neither  of them speaking  and both a  little embarrassed,
until they  reached the bit of  wall where Garion had  waited in ambush the
day before. For a time they stared out into the fog, their strained silence
growing more uncomfortable by the moment.

"What's it  like in  Sendaria?" Lelldorin asked suddenly.  "I've never been
there."

"There aren't so many trees," Garion answered, looking over the wall at the
dark  trunks marching  off in  the fog.  "It's an  orderly kind  of place."

"Where did you live there?"

"At Faldor's farm. It's near Lake Erat."

"Is this Faldor a nobleman?"

"Faldor?" Garion laughed. "No, Faldor's as common as old shoes. He's just a
farmer - decent, honest, good-hearted. I miss him."

"A commoner,  then," Lelldorin said,  seeming ready to dismiss  Faldor as a
man of no consequence.

"Rank  doesn't  mean  very  much  in  Sendaria,"  Garion  told  him  rather
pointedly. "What  a man does is more important than what  he is." He made a
wry face. "I was a scullery boy. It's not very pleasant, but somebody's got
to do it, I suppose."

"Not a serf, certainly?" Lelldorin sounded shocked.

"There aren't any serfs in Sendaria."

"No serfs?" The young Arend stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"No," Garion  said firmly. "We've never found  it necessary to have serfs."

Lelldorin's expression  clearly showed  that he was baffled  by the notion.
Garion remembered  the voices that had  come to him out  of the fog the day
before, but he resisted  the urge to say something about serfdom. Lelldorin
would never understand, and  the two of them were very close to friendship.
Garion felt  that he needed a  friend just now and  he didn't want to spoil
things  by saying  something  that would  offend this  likeable  young man.

"What sort of work does your father do?" Lelldorin asked politely.

"He's dead.  So's my mother." Garion  found that if he  said it quickly, it
didn't hurt so much.

Lelldorin's  eyes filled  in sudden,  impulsive sympathy.  He put  his hand
consolingly on  Garion's shoulder.  "I'm sorry," he said,  his voice almost
breaking. "It must have been a terrible loss."

"I was a baby." Garion shrugged, trying to sound offhand about it. "I don't
even remember them." It was still too personal to talk about.

"Some pestilence?" Lelldorin asked gently.

"No," Garion answered in the same flat tone. "They were murdered."

Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide.

"A  man crept into  their village at  night and  set fire to  their house,"
Garion continued unemotionally. "My  grandfather tried to catch him, but he
got  away. From  what  I understand,  the man  is  a very  old enemy  of my
family."

"Surely you're  not going to  let it stand like  that?" Lelldorin demanded.

"No," Garion  replied, still looking out into the fog.  "As soon as I'm old
enough, I'm going to find him and kill him."

"Good  lad!"  Lelldorin  exclaimed, suddenly  catching  Garion  in a  rough
embrace. "We'll find him and cut him to pieces."

"We?"

"I'll be  going with you,  of course," Lelldorin declared.  "No true friend
could  do any  less." He  was obviously  speaking on  impulse, but  just as
obviously he was totally sincere. He gripped Garion's hand firmly. "I swear
to you,  Garion, I won't rest until the murderer  of your parents lies dead
at your feet."

The  sudden declaration  was  so totally  predictable that  Garion silently
berated himself for not  keeping his mouth shut. His feelings in the matter
were very  personal, and  he was not  really sure he wanted  company in his
search for his faceless  enemy. Another part of his mind, however, rejoiced
in Lelldorin's  impulsive but unquestioning support.  He decided to let the
subject  drop. He  knew Lelldorin well  enough by  now to realize  that the
young man  undoubtedly made a dozen devout  promises a day, quickly offered
in absolute sincerity, and just as quickly forgotten.

They  talked  then of  other  things,  standing close  together beside  the
shattered  wall   with  their   dark  cloaks  drawn   tightly  about  them.

Shortly  before  noon Garion  heard  the  muffled sound  of horses'  hooves
somewhere out  in the forest. A few  minutes later, Hettar materialized out
of the  fog with a dozen  wild-looking horses trailing after  him. The tall
Algar wore a short,  fleece-lined leather cape. His boots were mudspattered
and his  clothes travel-stained, but otherwise  he seemed unaffected by his
two weeks in the saddle.

"Garion,"  he said  gravely  by way  of greeting  and Garion  and Lelldorin
stepped out to meet him.

"We've  been waiting for  you," Garion  told him and  introduced Lelldorin.
"We'll show you where the others are."

Hettar nodded and followed the two young men through the ruins to the tower
where Mister Wolf and the others were waiting. "Snow in the mountains," the
Algar remarked laconically by  way of explanation as he swung down from his
horse. "It delayed me  a bit." He pulled his hood back from his shaved head
and shook out his long, black scalp lock.

"No harm's  been done," Mister Wolf  replied. "Come inside to  the fire and
have something to eat. We've got a lot to talk about."

Hettar  looked at  the horses,  his tan,  weathered face  growing strangely
blank as if he were concentrating. The horses all looked back at him, their
eyes alert  and their  ears pointed sharply  forward. Then they  turned and
picked their way off among the trees.

"Won't they stray?" Durnik wanted to know.

"No," Hettar answered. "I asked them not to."

Durnik looked puzzled, but he let it pass.

They all went into  the tower and sat near the fireplace. Aunt Pol cut dark
bread and  pale, yellow cheese for  them while Durnik put  more wood on the
fire.

"Cho-Hag sent  word to  the Clan-Chiefs," Hettar reported,  pulling off his
cape.  He wore  a  black, long-sleeved  horsehide jacket  with  steel discs
riveted to  it to form a kind of flexible  armor. "They're gathering at the
Stronghold for  council." He unbelted the curved sabre  he wore, laid it to
one side and sat near the fire to eat.

Wolf   nodded.   "Is   anyone   trying   to   get   through   to   Prolgu?"

"I  sent  a troop  of  my  own men  to  the  Gorim before  I left,"  Hettar
responded. "They'll get through if anyone can."

"I hope so," Wolf stated. "The Gorim's an old friend of mine, and I'll need
his help before all this is finished."

"Aren't your  people afraid of  the Land of the  Ulgos?" Lelldorin inquired
politely. "I've heard that  there are monsters there that feed on the flesh
of men."

Hettar  shrugged. "They  stay in  their lairs  in the  wintertime. Besides,
they're  seldom brave  enough to attack  a full  troop of mounted  men." He
looked over  at Mister Wolf. "Southern  Sendaria's crawling with Murgos. Or
did you know that?"

"I  could have  guessed," Wolf replied.  "Did they  seem to be  looking for
anything in particular?"

"I don't talk with Murgos," Hettar said shortly. His hooked nose and fierce
eyes made  him look at that  moment like a hawk about  to swoop down to the
kill.

"I'm surprised  you weren't  delayed even more," Silk  bantered. "The whole
world knows how you feel about Murgos."

"I indulged myself once,"  Hettar admitted. "I met two of them alone on the
highway. It didn't take very long."

"Two   less  to   worry   about,  then,"   Barak  grunted   with  approval.

"I think it's time  for some plain talk," Mister Wolf said, brushing crumbs
off the  front of  his tunic. "Most of  you have some notion  of what we're
doing,  but I  don't want  anybody blundering  into something  by accident.
We're after a man named Zedar. He used to be one of my Master's disciples -
then he  went over  to Torak. Early  last fall he somehow  slipped into the
throne room  at Riva and stole  the Orb of Aldur.  We're going to chase him
down and get it back."

"Isn't he  a sorcerer  too?" Barak asked,  tugging absently at  a thick red
braid.

"That's  not the  term  we use,"  Wolf replied,  "but yes,  he does  have a
certain amount of that kind of power. We all did - me, Beltira and Belkira,
Belzedar -  all the rest of  us. That's one of the  things I wanted to warn
you about."

"You  all   seem  to   have  the  same   sort  of  names,"   Silk  noticed.

"Our Master changed our names when he took us as disciples. It was a simple
change, but it meant a great deal to us."

"Wouldn't that  mean that your  original name was Garath?"  Silk asked, his
ferret eyes narrowing shrewdly.

Mister Wolf  looked startled and  then laughed. "I haven't  heard that name
for thousands  of years.  I've been Belgarath  for so long  that I'd almost
completely  forgotten Garath.  It's  probably just  as well.  Garath  was a
troublesome   boy   -   a   thief  and   a   liar   among  other   things."

"Some things never change," Aunt Pol observed.

"Nobody's perfect," Wolf admitted blandly.

"Why  did Zedar  steal  the Orb?"  Hettar asked,  setting aside  his plate.

"He's always wanted it for himself," the old man replied. "That could be it
- but more likely he's trying to take it to Torak. The one who delivers the
Orb to One-Eye is going to be his favorite."

"But Torak's dead," Lelldorin  objected. "The Rivan Warder killed him at Vo
Mimbre."

"No," Wolf  said. "Torak isn't dead; only  asleep. Brand's sword wasn't the
one destined  to kill him. Zedar  carried him off after  the battle and hid
him someplace. Someday he'll  awaken - probably someday fairly soon, if I'm
reading  the  signs right.  We've  got  to get  the  Orb  back before  that
happens."

"This Zedar's  caused a  lot of trouble,"  Barak rumbled. "You  should have
dealt with him a long time ago."

"Possibly," Wolf admitted.

"Why  don't  you  just  wave  your  hand  and make  him  disappear?"  Barak
suggested,   making   a   sort  of   gesture   with   his  thick   fingers.

Wolf shook his head. "I can't. Not even the Gods can do that."

"We've got  some big problems, then," Silk said  with a frown. "Every Murgo
from  here to Rak  Goska's going to  try to  stop us from  catching Zedar."

"Not  necessarily,"  Wolf  disagreed. "Zedar's  got  the  Orb, but  Ctuchik
commands the Grolims."

"Ctuchik?" Lelldorin asked.

"The Grolim High Priest. He and Zedar hate each other. I think we can count
on  him  to  try  to keep  Zedar  from  getting  to  Torak  with the  Orb."

Barak  shrugged. "What  difference does  it make?  You and Polgara  can use
magic if we run into anything difficult, can't you?"

"There are limitations on that sort of thing," Wolf said a bit evasively.

"I don't understand," Barak said, frowning.

Mister Wolf took a  deep breath. "All right. As long as it's come up, let's
go into  that too.  Sorcery - if  that's what you  want to  call it -  is a
disruption  of  the  natural  order of  things.  Sometimes  it has  certain
unexpected effects,  so you have to be very careful  about what you do with
it. Not only that,  it makes-" He frowned. "-Let's call it a sort of noise.
That's not exactly what it is, but it serves well enough to explain. Others
with  the same  abilities can  hear that  noise. Once  Polgara and  I start
changing things, every Grolim in the West is going to know exactly where we
are and  what we're doing. They'll keep piling things  in front of us until
we're exhausted."

"It takes almost as much energy to do things that way as it does to do them
with  your  arms  and  back,"  Aunt  Pol  explained.  "It's  very  tiring."

She sat beside the  fire, carefully mending a small tear in one of Garion's
tunics.

"I   didn't   know   that,"  Barak   admitted.   "Not   many  people   do."

"If we  have to, Pol and  I can take certain steps,"  Wolf went on, "but we
can't keep  it up forever and we can't simply  make things vanish. I'm sure
you can see why."

"Oh, of course," Silk professed, though his tone indicated that he did not.

"Everything  that exists  depends on  everything else," Aunt  Pol explained
quietly. "If  you were to  unmake one thing, it's  altogether possible that
everything would vanish."

The  fire popped, and  Garion jumped  slightly. The vaulted  chamber seemed
suddenly dark, and shadows lurked in the corners.

"That can't  happen, of  course," Wolf told  them. "When you  try to unmake
something, your will simply  recoils on you. If you say, `Be not,' then you
are the one who vanishes. That's why we're very careful about what we say."

"I can understand why," Silk said, his eyes widening slightly.

"Most of  the things we'll encounter can be  dealt with by ordinary means,"
Wolf continued.  "That's the reason  we've brought you together  - at least
that's one of the  reasons. Among you, you'll be able to handle most of the
things that get in our way. The important thing to remember is that Polgara
and I have to  get to Zedar before he can reach Torak with the Orb. Zedar's
found some  way to touch the  Orb - I don't know how.  If he can show Torak
how it's done, no power on earth will be able to stop One-Eye from becoming
King and God over the whole world."

They  all sat  in  the ruddy,  flickering light  of  the fire,  their faces
serious as they considered that possibility.

"I   think  that   pretty   well  covers   everything,  don't   you,  Pol?"

"I  believe so,  father,"  she replied,  smoothing the  front of  her gray,
homespun gown.

Later, outside the tower  as gray evening crept in among the foggy ruins of
Vo Wacune  and the smell of the thick stew Aunt  Pol was cooking for supper
drifted out  to them,  Garion turned to  Silk. "Is it all  really true?" he
asked.

The small man looked out into the fog. "Let's act as if we believed that it
is," he suggested. "Under the circumstances, I think it would be a bad idea
to make a mistake."

"Are you afraid too, Silk?" Garion asked.

Silk sighed. "Yes," he  admitted, "but we can behave as if we believed that
we aren't, can't we?"

"I guess  we can try," Garion  said, and the two of  them turned to go back
into the chamber at the foot of the tower where the firelight danced on the
low stone arches, holding the fog and chill at bay.





Chapter Three

THE NEXT  MORNING Silk came out of the tower  wearing a rich maroon doublet
and   a  baglike   black  velvet   cap  cocked   jauntily  over   one  ear.

"What's all that about?" Aunt Pol asked him.

"I chanced across an  old friend in one of the packs," Silk replied airily.
"Radek of Boktor by name."

"What happened to Ambar of Kotu?"

"Ambar's a  good enough fellow, I suppose,"  Silk said a bit deprecatingly,
"but a Murgo named Asharak knows about him and may have dropped his name in
certain  quarters.  Let's  not  look for  trouble  if  we  don't have  to."

"Not a  bad disguise," Mister  Wolf agreed. "One more  Drasnian merchant on
the  Great West  Road  won't attract  any attention  - whatever  his name."

"Please," Silk objected in an injured tone. "The name's very important. You
hang the whole disguise on the name."

"I don't see any difference," Barak asserted bluntly.

"There's all the difference in the world. Surely you can see that Ambar's a
vagabond  with  very little  regard  for  ethics, while  Radek's  a man  of
substance whose  word is  good in all  the commercial centers  of the West.
Besides, Radek's always accompanied by servants."

"Servants?" One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows shot up.

"Just for  the sake  of the disguise,"  Silk assured her  quickly. "You, of
course, could never be a servant, Lady Polgara."

"Thank you."

"No one would ever  believe it. You'll be my sister instead, traveling with
me to see the splendors of To1 Honeth."

"Your sister?"

"You could  be my mother  instead, if you prefer,"  Silk suggested blandly,
"making a religious pilgrimage to Mar Terrin to atone for a colorful past."

Aunt  Pol gazed steadily  at the small  man for  a moment while  he grinned
impudently at  her. "Someday your sense of humor's going  to get you into a
great deal of trouble, Prince Kheldar."

"I'm  always in  trouble, Lady  Polgara. I  wouldn't know  how to act  if I
weren't."

"Do you two suppose we could get started?" Mister Wolf asked.

"Just a moment more,"  Silk replied. "If we meet anyone and have to explain
things, you,  Lelldorin, and Garion are  Polgara's servants. Hettar, Barak,
and Durnik are mine."

"Anything you say," Wolf agreed wearily.

"There are reasons."

"All right."

"Don't you want to hear them?"

"Not particularly."

Silk looked a bit hurt.

"Are we ready?" Wolf asked.

"Everything's  out of  the tower," Durnik  told him.  "Oh just a  moment. I
forgot to put out the fire." He went back inside.

Wolf  glanced after  the smith  in exasperation.  "What difference  does it
make?" he muttered. "This place is a ruin anyway."

"Leave him  alone, father," Aunt Pol  said placidly. "It's the  way he is."

As they prepared to  mount, Barak's horse, a large, sturdy gray, sighed and
threw a reproachful look at Hettar, and the Algar chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously.

"The    horse   said    something,"    Hettar   replied.    "Never   mind."

Then they swung into  their saddles and threaded their way out of the foggy
ruins and along the  narrow, muddy track that wound into the forest. Sodden
snow lay  under wet trees, and water  dripped continually from the branches
overhead. They  all drew their cloaks about them to  ward off the chill and
dampness. Once  they were  under the trees,  Lelldorin pulled his  horse in
beside Garion's, and they rode together.

"Is Prince  Kheldar always  so - well  - extremely complicated?"  he asked.

"Silk? Oh  yes. He's very devious.  You see, he's a  spy, and disguises and
clever lies are second nature to him."

"A spy? Really?" Lelldorin's eyes brightened as his imagination caught hold
of the idea.

"He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia," Garion explained. "From what
I understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries."

"We've got  to stop and pick up the rest of  the packs," Silk was reminding
Mister Wolf.

"I haven't forgotten," the old man replied.

"Packs?" Lelldorin asked.

"Silk picked  up some wool cloth  in Camaar," Garion told  him. "He said it
would give  us a legitimate reason  to be on the highway.  We hid them in a
cave when we left the road to come to Vo Wacune."

"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

"He tries. We're lucky to have him with us."

"Maybe we  could have him show us a  few things about disguises," Lelldorin
suggested brightly.  "It might be very  useful when we go  looking for your
enemy."

Garion had  thought that Lelldorin had  forgotten his impulsive pledge. The
young Arend's  mind seemed  too flighty to  keep hold of one  idea for very
long,  but he  saw now  that Lelldorin  only seemed  to forget  things. The
prospect  of a  serious search  for his  parents' murderer with  this young
enthusiast adding embellishments and  improvisations at every turn began to
present itself alarmingly.

By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk's packs and lashed them to the
backs of  the spare horses, they were back out on  the Great West Road, the
Tolnedran highway running through  the heart of the forest. They rode south
at a loping canter that ate up the miles.

They  passed  a heavily  burdened  serf  clothed in  scraps  and pieces  of
sackcloth tied  on with bits of  string. The serf's face  was gaunt, and he
was very  thin under his dirty rags. He stepped off  the road and stared at
them with apprehension until  they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of
compassion. He  briefly remembered Lammer and  Detton, and he wondered what
would finally  happen to them. It seemed important  for some reason. "Is it
really necessary to keep them so poor?" he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to
hold it in any longer.

"Who?" Lelldorin asked, looking around.

"That serf."

Lelldorin glanced  back over  his shoulder at  the ragged man.  "You didn't
even see him," Garion accused.

Lelldorin shrugged. "There are so many."

"And  they  all  dress  in  rags  and  live  on the  edge  of  starvation."

"Mimbrate taxes," Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything.

"You seem to have always had enough to eat."

"I'm not a serf, Garion," Lelldorin answered patiently. "The poorest people
always suffer the most. It's the way the world is."

"It doesn't have to be," Garion retorted.

"You just don't understand."

"No. And I never will."

"Naturally not,"  Lelldorin said with infuriating  complacency. "You're not
Arendish."

Garion   clenched   his   teeth   to   hold   back   the   obvious   reply.

By late  afternoon they had covered  ten leagues, and the  snow had largely
disappeared from the roadside.  "Shouldn't we start to give some thought to
where  we're  going  to  spend  the  night, father?"  Aunt  Pol  suggested.

Mister  Wolf scratched  thoughtfully  at his  beard as  he squinted  at the
shadows hovering in the trees around them.

"I have  an uncle who lives  not far from here,"  Lelldorin offered, "Count
Reldegen. I'm sure he'll be glad to give us shelter."

"Thin?" Mister Wolf asked. "Dark hair?"

"It's gray now," Lelldorin replied. "Do you know him?"

"I haven't seen him for twenty years," Wolf told him. "As I recall, he used
to be quite a hothead."

"Uncle Reldegen? You must have him confused with somebody else, Belgarath."

"Maybe," Wolf said. "How far is it to his house?"

"No more than a league and a half away."

"Let's go see him," Wolf decided.

Lelldorin shook  his reins  and moved into  the lead to show  them the way.

"How are you and  your friend getting along?" Silk asked, falling in beside
Garion.

"Fine, I suppose," Garion  replied, not quite sure how the rat-faced little
man intended the question.  "It seems to be a little hard to explain things
to him though."

"That's only natural," Silk observed. "He's an Arend, after all."

Garion quickly  came to Lelldorin's defense.  "He's honest and very brave."

"They all are. That's part of the problem."

"I like him," Garion asserted.

"So do  I, Garion, but that doesn't keep me  from realizing the truth about
him."

"If you're  trying to  say something, why  don't you just go  ahead and say
it?"

"All right, I will. Don't let friendship get the better of your good sense.
Arendia's a very dangerous place, and Arends tend to blunder into disasters
quite  regularly. Don't let  your exuberant  young companion drag  you into
something that's none of your business." Silk's look was direct, and Garion
realized that the little man was quite serious.

"I'll be careful," he promised.

"I knew I could count on you," Silk said gravely.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Would I  do that, Garion?" Silk asked mockingly.  Then he laughed and they
rode on together through the gloomy afternoon.

The gray stone house  of Count Reldegen was about a mile back in the forest
from the  highway, and it stood  in the center of  a clearing that extended
beyond bowshot in every  direction. Although it had no wall, it had somehow
the look  of a  fort. The windows  facing out were narrow  and covered with
iron  gratings.  Strong turrets  surmounted  by battlements  stood at  each
corner, and  the gate which opened into the  central courtyard of the house
was made of whole  tree trunks, squared off and strapped together with iron
bands. Garion stared at the brooding pile as they approached in the rapidly
fading light. There was  a kind of haughty ugliness about the house, a grim
solidity that seemed to defy the world.

"It's not  a very pleasant-looking sort of place, is  it?" he said to Silk.

"Asturian architecture's  a reflection of their  society," Silk replied. "A
strong  house isn't  a bad  idea in  a country where  neighborhood disputes
sometimes get out of hand."

"Are they all so afraid of each other?"

"Just cautious, Garion. Just cautious."

Lelldorin  dismounted before  the heavy  gate and  spoke to someone  on the
other side  through a small grill.  There was finally a  rattling of chains
and   the  grinding   sound   of  heavy,   iron-shod  bars   sliding  back.

"I wouldn't make any  quick moves once we're inside," Silk advised quietly.
"There'll probably be archers watching us."

Garion looked at him sharply.

"A quaint custom of the region," Silk informed him.

They rode into a cobblestoned courtyard and dismounted.

Count Reldegen,  when he appeared, was a tall,  thin man with irongray hair
and beard  who walked with  the aid of a  stout cane. He wore  a rich green
doublet and  black hose; despite the fact that he was  in his own house, he
carried  a sword  at his  side. He  limped heavily  down a broad  flight of
stairs from the house to greet them.

"Uncle," Lelldorin said, bowing respectfully.

"Nephew," the count replied in polite acknowledgment.

"My friends and I  found ourselves in the vicinity," Lelldorin stated, "and
we thought we might impose on you for the night."

"You're  always welcome, nephew,"  Reldegen answered  with a kind  of grave
formality. "Have you dined yet?"

"No, uncle."

"Then you must all take supper with me. May I know your friends?"

Mister  Wolf pushed  back  his hood  and stepped  forward.  "You and  I are
already acquainted, Reldegen," he said.

The count's eyes widened. "Belgarath? Is it realy you?"

Wolf grinned.  "Oh, yes. I'm  still wandering about the  world, stirring up
mischief."

Reldegen laughed  then and  grasped Wolf's upper arm  warmly. "Come inside,
all of you. Let's not stand about in the cold." He turned and limped up the
steps to the house.

"What happened to your leg?" Wolf asked him.

"An  arrow  in  the  knee." The  count  shrugged.  "The  result  of an  old
disagreement - long since forgotten."

"As I recall,  you used to get involved in quite a  few of those. I thought
for  a while  that you  intended to  go through  life with your  sword half
drawn."

"I was  an excitable youth," the count admitted,  opening the broad door at
the top of the steps. He led them down a long hallway to a room of imposing
size with a large blazing fireplace at each end. Great curving stone arches
supported  the ceiling. The  floor was  of polished black  stone, scattered
with  fur rugs,  and  the walls,  arches, and  ceiling were  whitewashed in
gleaming contrast.  Heavy, carved  chairs of dark  brown wood sat  here and
there, and  a great table with an iron candelabra  in its center stood near
the fireplace at one  end. A dozen or so leather-bound books were scattered
on its polished surface.

"Books,  Reldegen?" Mister  Wolf  said in  amazement as  he and  the others
removed  their  cloaks  and  gave  them  to the  servants  who  immediately
appeared. "You have mellowed, my friend."

The count smiled at the old man's remark.

"I'm forgetting  my manners," Wolf apologized.  "My daughter, Polgara. Pol,
this is Count Reldegen, an old friend."

"My  Lady," the  count  acknowledged with  an exquisite  bow, "my  house is
honored."

Aunt Pol was about to reply when two young men burst into the room, arguing
heatedly.

"You're an  idiot, Berentain!" the  first, a darkhaired youth  in a scarlet
doublet, snapped.

"It may  please thee to think  so, Torasin," the second,  a stout young man
with  pale,  curly hair  and  wearing  a green  and  yellow striped  tunic,
replied, "but whether it please thee or not, Asturias future is in Mimbrate
hands. Thy  rancorous denouncements and sulfurous  rhetoric shall not alter
that fact."

"Don't thee  me or thou me, Berentain,"  the dark-haired one sneered. "Your
imitation Mimbrate courtesy turns my stomach."

"Gentlemen, that's  enough!" Count Reldegen said  sharply, rapping his cane
on the stone floor. "If you two are going to insist on discussing politics,
I'll have you separated - forcibly, if necessary."

The two  young men scowled at  each other and then  stalked off to opposite
sides of  the room.  "My son, Torasin," the  count admitted apologetically,
indicating the dark-haired youth,  "and his cousin Berentain, the son of my
late wife's brother. They've  been wrangling like this for two weeks now. I
had to  take their swords away from them  the day after Berentain arrived."

"Political  discussion is  good  for the  blood, my  Lord,"  Silk observed,
"especially in the winter. The heat keeps the veins from clogging up."

The count chuckled at the little man's remark.

"Prince  Kheldar of  the royal  house of  Drasnia," Mister  Wolf introduced
Silk.

"Your Highness," the count responded, bowing.

Silk winced slightly. "Please,  my Lord. I've spent a lifetime running from
that mode of address, and I'm sure that my connection with the royal family
embarrasses   my   uncle   almost   as   much  as   it   embarrasses   me."

The count laughed again with easy good nature. "Why don't we all adjourn to
the dining  table?" he suggested. "Two fat deer  have been turning on spits
in my  kitchen since daybreak, and  I recently obtained a  cask of red wine
from  southern Tolnedra.  As  I recall,  Belgarath has  always had  a great
fondness for good food and fine wines."

"He  hasn't changed,  my  Lord," Aunt  Pol told  him. "My  father's ternbly
predictable, once you get to know him."

The count smiled and offered her his arm as they all moved toward a door on
the far side of the room.

"Tell me, my Lord," Aunt Pol said, "do you by chance have a bathtub in your
house?"

"Bathing  in winter  is  dangerous, Lady  Polgara," the  count  warned her.

"My Lord," she stated gravely, "I've been bathing winter or summer for more
years than you could possibly imagine."

"Let  her bathe,  Reldegen,"  Mister Wolf  urged. "Her  temper deteriorates
quite noticeably when she thinks she's getting dirty."

"A  bath wouldn't  hurt you  either, Old  Wolf," Aunt Pol  retorted tartly.
"You're starting to get a bit strong from the downwind side."

Mister Wolf looked a bit injured.

Much later, after they had eaten their fill of venison, gravy-soaked bread,
and rich cherry tarts, Aunt Pol excused herself and went with a maidservant
to oversee  the preparation of her bath. The men  all lingered at the table
over their wine cups,  their faces washed with the golden light of the many
candles in Reldegen's dining hall.

"Let me show you to your rooms," Torasin suggested to Lelldorin and Garion,
pushing back  his chair  and casting a  look of veiled  contempt across the
table at Berentain.

They followed  him from the room and up a long  flight of stairs toward the
upper stories  of the house. "I  don't want to offend  you, Tor," Lelldorin
said  as  they  climbed,   "but  your  cousin  has  some  peculiar  ideas."

Torasin  snorted. "Berentain's  a  jackass. He  thinks he  can  impress the
Mimbrates by imitating their  speech and by fawning on them." His dark face
was  angry in  the  light of  the candle  he  carried to  light  their way.

"Why should he want to?" Lelldorin asked.

"He's  desperate for  some kind of  holding he  can call his  own," Torasin
replied. "My  mother's brother has very  little land to leave  him. The fat
idiot's  all calf  eyed  over the  daughter of  one  of the  barons  in his
district,  and  since the  baron  won't  even consider  a landless  suitor,
Berentain's trying  to wheedle  an estate from the  Mimbrate governor. He'd
swear fealty to the  ghost of Kal Torak himself, if he thought it would get
him land."

"Doesn't  he realize  that  he hasn't  got a  chance?"  Lelldorin inquired.
"There are  too many  land-hungry Mimbrate knights around  the governor for
him to even think of granting an estate to an Asturian."

"I've  told him  the  same thing  myself," Torasin  declared  with scathing
contempt,  "but there's no  reasoning with  him. His behavior  degrades our
whole family."

Lelldorin shook his head  commiseratingly as they reached an upper hall. He
looked around quickly then. "I have to talk with you, Tor," he blurted, his
voice dropping to a whisper.

Torasin looked at him sharply.

"My  father's committed  me  to Belgarath's  service in  a matter  of great
importance," Lelldorin hurried on  in that same hushed voice. "I don't know
how long we'll be  gone, so you and the others will have to kill Korodullin
without me."

Torasin's eyes went wide with horror. "We're not alone, Lelldorin!" he said
in a strangled voice.

"I'll go down to the other end of the hall," Garion said quickly.

"No," Lelldorin  replied firmly, taking hold  of Garion's arm. "Garion's my
friend, Tor. I have no secrets from him."

"Lelldorin, please," Garion protested.  "I'm not an Asturian - I'm not even
an Arend. I don't want to know what you're planning."

"But  you  will know,  Garion,  as proof  of  my trust  in you,"  Lelldorin
declared. "Next  summer, when Korodullin journeys to  the ruined city of Vo
Astur to  hold court there for  the six weeks that  maintain the fiction of
Arendish   unity,   we're   going   to   ambush  him   on   the   highway."

"Lelldorin!" Torasin gasped, his face turning white.

But Lelldorin  was already plunging on. "It won't  be just a simple ambush,
Garion.  This will  be a master  stroke at  Mimbre's heart. We're  going to
ambush him in the  uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires and cut him down with
Tolnedran  swords. Our  attack  will force  Mimbre  to declare  war on  the
Tolnedran Empire,  and Tolnedra will crush  Mimbre like an eggshell. Mimbre
will be destroyed, and Asturia will be free!"

"Nachak will  have you  killed for this, Lelldorin,"  Torasin cried. "We've
all been sworn to secrecy on a blood oath."

"Tell the Murgo that  I spit on his oath," Lelldorin said hotly. "What need
have Asturian patriots for a Murgo henchman?"

"He's providing us with  gold, you blockhead!" Torasin raged, almost beside
himself. "We need his good red gold to buy the uniforms, the swords, and to
strengthen the backbones of some of our weaker friends."

"I don't need weaklings with me," Lelldorin said intensely. "A patriot does
what he does for love of his country-not for Angarak gold."

Garion's mind  was moving quickly now. His  moment of stunned amazement had
passed. "There  was a man in Cherek," he recalled.  "The Earl of Jarvik. He
also took Murgo gold and plotted to kill a king."

The two stared at him blankly.

"Something happens to a  country when you kill its king," Garion explained.
"No matter how bad the king is or how good the people are who kill him, the
country falls apart for a while. Everything is confused, and there's nobody
to point the country in any one direction. Then, if you start a war between
that country and another  one at the same time, you add just that much more
confusion.  I think  that if  I were  a Murgo,  that's exactly the  kind of
confusion   I'd  want   to  see   in  all   the  kingdoms  of   the  West."

Garion  listened to  his own voice  almost in  amazement. There was  a dry,
dispassionate quality in it  that he instantly recognized. From the time of
his earliest memories that  voice had always been there - inside his mind -
occupying  some quiet,  hidden  corner, telling  him when  he was  wrong or
foolish. But the voice had never actively interfered before in his dealings
with other people. Now,  however, it spoke directly to these two young men,
patiently explaining.

"Angarak gold  isn't what it seems  to be," he went  on. "There's a kind of
power in  it that corrupts you.  Maybe that's why it's  the color of blood.
I'd think  about that before I  accepted any more red  gold from this Murgo
Nachak. Why  do you suppose he's giving you gold  and helping you with this
plan of  yours? He's not an Asturian,  so patriotism couldn't have anything
to do with it, could it? I'd think about that, too."

Lelldorin and his cousin looked suddenly troubled.

"I'm not  going to say anything  about this to anybody,"  Garion said. "You
told me about it  in confidence, and I really wasn't supposed to hear about
it anyway. But remember that there's a lot more going on in the world right
now than what's happening here in Arendia. Now I think I'd like to get some
sleep. If  you'll show  me where my bed  is, I'll leave you  to talk things
over all night, if you'd like."

All in  all, Garion thought he'd handled the  whole thing rather well. He'd
planted a  few doubts at the very least. He knew  Arends well enough by now
to realize  that it probably wouldn't  be enough to turn  these two around,
but it was a start.





Chapter Four

THE FOLLOWING  MORNING they rode out early while  the mist still hung among
the trees.  Count Reldegen, wrapped in  a dark cloak, stood  at his gate to
bid them  farewell; and Torasin, standing  beside his father, seemed unable
to take his eyes  off Garion's face. Garion kept his expression as blank as
possible. The  fiery young  Asturian seemed to  be filled with  doubts, and
those  doubts  might  keep   him  from  plunging  headlong  into  something
disastrous. It  wasn't much, Garion realized, but it  was the best he could
manage under the circumstances.

"Come  back soon, Belgarath,"  Reldegen said.  "Sometime when you  can stay
longer. We're very isolated here, and I'd like to know what the rest of the
world's  doing.  We'll sit  by  the  fire and  talk  away a  month or  two.

Mister  Wolf nodded  gravely. "Maybe  when this  business of mine  is over,
Reldegen."  Then  he turned  his  horse and  led  the way  across the  wide
clearing  that surrounded  Reldegen's house  and back  once again  into the
gloomy forest.

"The count's  an unusual Arend," Silk  said lightly as they  rode along. "I
think I actually detected  an original thought or two in him last evening."

"He's changed a great deal," Wolf agreed.

"He sets a good  table," Barak said. "I haven't felt this full since I left
Val Alorn."

"You should,"  Aunt Pol told him. "You ate the biggest  part of one deer by
yourself."

"You're exaggerating, Polgara," Barak said.

"But not  by very much," Hettar observed in  his quiet voice. Lelldorin had
pulled his horse in beside Garion's, but he had not spoken. His face was as
troubled as  his cousin's  had been. It  was obvious that he  wanted to say
something  and  just  as   obvious  that  he  didn't  know  how  to  begin.

"Go ahead,"  Garion said quietly.  "We're good enough friends  that I'm not
going to be upset if it doesn't come out exactly right."

Lelldorin looked a little sheepish.

"Am I really that obvious?"

"Honest  is a  better word  for it,"  Garion told  him. "You've  just never
learned to hide your feelings, that's all."

"Was it  really true?" Lelldorin blurted. "I'm  not doubting your word, but
was there really a Murgo in Cherek plotting against King Anheg?"

"Ask Silk," Garion suggested, "or Barak, or Hettar-any of them. We were all
there."

"Nachak isn't like that, though," Lelldorin said quickly, defensively.

"Can you be sure?"  Garion asked him. "The plan was his in the first place,
wasn't it? How did you happen to meet him?"

"We'd all gone down  to the Great Fair, Torasin, me, several of the others.
We bought  some things  from a Murgo  merchant, and Tor made  a few remarks
about  Mimbrates-you  know how  Tor  is.  The merchant  said  that he  knew
somebody we might be  interested in meeting and he introduced us to Nachak.
The more  we talked with him,  the more sympathetic he  seemed to become to
the way we felt."

"Naturally."

"He told us what the king is planning. You wouldn't believe it."

"Probably not."

Lelldorin  gave him  a quick, troubled  look. "He's  going to break  up our
estates and give them  to landless Mimbrate nobles." He said it accusingly.

"Did you verify that with anybody but Nachak?"

"How could  we? The Mimbrates wouldn't admit it  if we confronted them with
it, but it's the kind of thing Mimbrates would do."

"So you've  only got Nachak's word for it? How did  this plan of yours come
up?"

"Nachak said that if  he were an Asturian, he wouldn't let anybody take his
land, but he said  that it'd be too late to try to stop them when they came
with knights  and soldiers. He said  that if he were  doing it, he'd strike
before they were ready and that he'd do it in such a way that the Mimbrates
wouldn't  know  who'd  done  it. That's  when  he  suggested the  Tolnedran
uniforms."

"When did he start giving you money?"

"I'm not sure. Tor handled that part of it."

"Did he ever say why he was giving you money?"

"He said it was out of friendship."

"Didn't that seem a little odd?"

"I'd give someone money out of friendship," Lelldorin protested.

"You're an  Asturian," Garion told him. "You'd  give somebody your life out
of friendship.  Nachak's a  Murgo, though, and  I've never heard  that they
were all  that generous.  What it comes  down to, then, is  that a stranger
tells you  that the king's planning to take your land.  Then he gives you a
plan to kill  the king and start a war with Tolnedra;  and to make sure you
succeed  with   his  plan,   he  gives  you   money.  Is  that   about  it.

Lelldorin nodded mutely, his eyes stricken.

"Weren't any of you just the least bit suspicious?"

Lelldorin seemed almost about to cry.

"It's  such a  good  plan," he  burst out  finally.  "It couldn't  help but
succeed."

"That's what makes it so dangerous," Garion replied.

"Garion, what am I going to do?" Lelldorin's voice was anguished.

"I don't  think there's  anything you can  do right now,"  Garion told him.
"Maybe later,  after we've had time  to think about it,  we'll come up with
something. If  we can't, we can always tell  my grandfather about it. He'll
think of a way to stop it."

"We  can't  tell  anybody,"  Lelldorin  reminded  him.  "We're  pledged  to
silence."

"We might have to  break that pledge," Garion said somewhat reluctantly. "I
don't see  that either  of us owes  that Murgo anything, but  it's going to
have  to  be up  to  you.  I won't  say  anything to  anybody without  your
permission."

"You decide," Lelldorin pleaded then. "I can't do it, Garion."

"You're going  to have  to," Garion told  him. "I'm sure that  if you think
about it, you'll see why."

They reached the Great  West Road then, and Barak led them south at a brisk
trot, cutting off the possibility of further discussion.

A league  or so down  the road they passed  a muddy village, a  dozen or so
turf roofed  huts with walls made  of wattles plastered over  with mud. The
fields around  the village were dotted with tree  stumps, and a few scrawny
cows  grazed near  the edge  of the  forest. Garion  could not  control his
indignation as he looked  at the misery implicit in the crude collection of
hovels.

"Lelldorin," he said sharply, "look!"

"What? Where?"  The blond young man came  out of his troubled preoccupation
quickly as if expecting some danger.

"The village," Garion told him. "Look at it."

"It's  only a  serfs'  village," Lelldorin  said indifferently.  "I've seen
hundreds like it." He seemed ready to return to his own inner turmoil.

"In Sendaria  we wouldn't  keep pigs in  places like that."  Garion's voice
rang with fervor. If he could only make his friend see!

Two ragged  serfs were dispiritedly hacking chunks  of firewood from one of
the stumps near the  road. As the party approached, they dropped their axes
and bolted in terror for the forest.

"Does it  make you  proud, Lelldorin?" Garion  demanded. "Does it  make you
feel good  to know that your own countrymen are so  afraid of you that they
run from the very sight of you?"

Lelldorin looked baffled.

"They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained.

"They're  men. They're  not  animals. Men  deserve to  be  treated better."

"I  can't  do anything  about  it. They  aren't  my serfs."  And with  that
Lelldorin's attention turned inward  again as he continued to struggle with
the dilemma Garion had placed upon him.

By  late afternoon  they had  covered ten  leagues and  the cloudy  sky was
gradually darkening as evening approached.

"I think we're going  to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath,"
Silk  said,  looking  around.  "There's  no  chance of  reaching  the  next
Tolnedran hostel."

Mister Wolf  had been half-dozing in  his saddle. He looked  up, blinking a
bit.

"All right," he replied,  "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire
could  attract  attention,  and  too  many  people know  we're  in  Arendia
already."

"There's a  woodcutter's track right  there." Durnik pointed at  a break in
the  trees   just  ahead.  "It  should  lead   us  back  into  the  trees."

"All right," Wolf agreed.

The sound  of their horses' hooves was muffled by  the sodden leaves on the
forest floor as they  turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track.
They rode  silently for the better  part of a mile  until a clearing opened
ahead of them.

"How about here?" Durnik  asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over
mossy stones on one side of the clearing.

"It will do," Wolf agreed.

"We're going to need shelter," the smith observed.

"I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs."

"That   was    foresighted   of   you,"   Aunt    Pol   complimented   him.

"I've  been in  Arendia before,  my Lady.  I'm familiar with  the weather."

"Garion and  I'll go get wood for a fire  then," Durnik said, climbing down
from his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.

"I'll   help   you,"   Lelldorin   offered,  his   face   still   troubled.

Durnik nodded  and led the way  off into the trees.  The woods were soaked,
but the  smith seemed to know almost instinctively  where to find dry fuel.
They  worked quickly  in  the lowering  twilight and  soon had  three large
bundles of  limbs and fagots. They returned to  the clearing where Silk and
the others were erecting several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood
and cleared  a space  for the fire with  his foot. Then he  knelt and began
striking sparks  with his  knife from a  piece of flint  into a  wad of dry
tinder he  always carried. In a  short time he had  a small fire going, and
Aunt  Pol  set  out   her  pots  beside  it,  humming  softly  to  herself.

Hettar came back from  tending the horses, and they all stood back watching
Aunt Pol  prepare a  supper from the  stores Count Reldegen  had pressed on
them before they had left his house that morning.

After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly.

"How far have we come today?" Durnik asked.

"Twelve leagues," Hettar estimated.

"How  much  farther  do   we  have  to  go  to  get  out  of  the  forest?"

"It's eighty leagues from  Camaar to the central plain," Lelldorin replied.

Durnik sighed.  "A week or more.  I'd hoped that it'd  be only a few days."

"I know what you  mean, Durnik," Barak agreed. "It's gloomy under all these
trees."

The horses,  picketed near the brook, stirred  uneasily. Hettar rose to his
feet.

"Something wrong?" Barak asked, also rising.

"They shouldn't be-" Hettar started. Then he stopped. "Back!" he snapped.

"Away from  the fire. The horses  say there are men  out there. Many - with
weapons."   He   jumped   back   from   the  fire,   drawing   his   sabre.

Lelldorin took  one startled look at  him and bolted for  one of the tents.
Garion's sudden disappointment in  his friend was almost like a blow to the
stomach.

An arrow buzzed into the light and shattered on Barak's mail shirt.

"Arm yourselves!" the big man roared, drawing his sword.

Garion grasped Aunt Pol's sleeve and tried to pull her from the light.

"Stop that!"  she snapped,  jerking her sleeve free.  Another arrow whizzed
out of the foggy woods. Aunt Pol flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly
and  muttered a single  word. The arrow  bounced back  as if it  had struck
something solid and fell to the ground.

Then with a hoarse shout, a gang of rough, burly men burst from the edge of
the trees  and splashed across the brook,  brandishing swords. As Barak and
Hettar leaped forward to  meet them, Lelldorin reemerged from the tent with
his bow  and began loosing arrows so rapidly that  his hands seemed to blur
as  they  moved. Garion  was  instantly  ashamed that  he  had doubted  his
friend's courage.

With a choked cry, one of the attackers stumbled back, an arrow through his
throat. Another doubled over sharply, clutching at his stomach, and fell to
the ground, groaning. A  third, quite young and with a pale, downy beard on
his cheeks,  dropped heavily and sat plucking at  the feathers on the shaft
protruding from his chest  with a bewildered expression on his boyish face.
Then he  sighed and slumped over on his side with  a stream of blood coming
from his nose.

The ragged-looking  men faltered under the  rain of Lelldorin's arrows, and
then Barak  and Hettar  were upon them.  With a great  sweep, Barak's heavy
sword shattered  an upflung blade and crunched  down into the angle between
the neck  and shoulder of the black-whiskered man who  had held it. The man
collapsed. Hettar  made a quick feint with his  sabre, then ran it smoothly
through the body of  a pockmarked ruffian. The man stiffened, and a gush of
bright blood  burst from his mouth  as Hettar pulled out  his blade. Durnik
ran forward with his axe, and Silk drew his long dagger from under his vest
and ran directly at a man with a shaggy brown beard. At the last moment, he
dived forward,  rolled and  struck the bearded  man full in  the chest with
both  feet. Without  pausing  he came  up and  ripped  his dagger  into his
enemy's belly.  The dagger made a  wet, tearing sound as  it sliced upward,
and the stricken man  clutched at his stomach with a scream, trying to hold
in the  blue-colored loops  and coils of  his entrails that  seemed to come
boiling out through his fingers.

Garion dived  for the packs to get his own  sword, but was suddenly grabbed
roughly from behind. He struggled for an instant, then felt a stunning blow
on  the back  of his  head, and his  eyes filled  with a blinding  flash of
light.

"This  is the  one  we want,"  a rough  voice  husked as  Garion  sank into
unconsciousness.

He was being carried - that much was certain. He could feel the strong arms
under him. He didn't  know how long it had been since he had been struck on
the head.  His ears still rang,  and he was more than  a little sick to his
stomach.  He stayed  limp,  but carefully  opened one  eye. His  vision was
blurred and  uncertain, but he could make  out Barak's bearded face looming
above him in the  darkness, and merged with it, as once before in the snowy
woods outside Val Alorn,  he seemed to see the shaggy face of a great bear.
He   closed  his   eyes,  shuddered,   and  started  to   struggle  weakly.

"It's all right, Garion,"  Barak said, his voice sunk in a kind of despair.
"It's me."

Garion opened  his eyes  again, and the  bear seemed to be  gone. He wasn't
even sure he had ever really seen it.

"Are you all right?" Barak asked, setting him on the ground.

"They hit  me on the head," Garion mumbled, his  hand going to the swelling
behind his ear.

"They won't  do it again," Barak muttered,  his tone still despairing. Then
the huge  man sank to the  ground and buried his face  in his hands. It was
dark  and difficult  to see,  but it  looked as  if Barak's  shoulders were
shaking with  a kind of terrible suppressed  grief - a soundless, wrenching
series of convulsive sobs.

"Where  are   we?"  Garion   asked,  looking  around   into  the  darkness.

Barak coughed and wiped at his face.

"Quite a ways from  the tents. It took me a little while to catch up to the
two who were carrying you off."

"What happened?" Garion was still a bit confused.

"They're dead. Can you stand up?"

"I don't know." Garion  tried to get up, but a wave of giddiness swept over
him, and his stomach churned.

"Never mind. I'll carry you," Barak said in a now - grimly practical voice.
An owl  screeched from a nearby  tree, and its ghostly  white shape drifted
off through the trees ahead of them. As Barak lifted him, Garion closed his
eyes   and   concentrated   on   keeping   his   stomach   under   control.

Before long they came out into the clearing and its circle of firelight.

"Is  he all  right?" Aunt  Pol asked,  looking up  from bandaging a  cut on
Durnik's arm.

"A bump on the head is all," Barak replied, setting Garion down.

"Did you run them off?"

His voice was harsh, even brutal.

"Those that  could still run," Silk  answered, his voice a  bit excited and
his ferret eyes bright. "They left a few behind." He pointed at a number of
still shapes lying near the edge of the firelight.

Lelldorin came  back into the clearing, looking  over his shoulder and with
his bow half drawn.  He was out of breath, his face was pale, and his hands
were  shaking. "Are  you all  right?" he  asked as  soon as he  saw Garion.

Garion nodded, gently fingering the lump behind his ear.

"I tried  to find the two who took you," the  young man declared, "but they
were too  quick for me. There's  some kind of animal  out there. I heard it
growling while I was looking for you - awful growls."

"The beast is gone now," Barak told him flatly.

"What's the matter with you?" Silk asked the big man.

"Nothing."

"Who were these men?" Garion asked.

"Robbers, most  likely," Silk surmised, putting  away his dagger. "It's one
of the benefits of a society that holds men in serfdom. They get bored with
being serfs and go  out into the forest looking for excitement and profit."

"You  sound  just  like  Garion,"  Lelldorin objected.  "Can't  you  people
understand that  serfdom's part  of the natural  order of things  here? Our
serfs  couldn't take  care of themselves  alone, so  those of us  in higher
station accept the responsibility of caring for them."

"Of course  you do," Silk agreed sarcastically.  "They're not so wellfed as
your pigs  nor as well -  kenneled as your dogs, but  you do care for them,
don't you?"

"That'll do, Silk," Aunt  Pol said coolly. "Let's not start bickering among
ourselves."  She tied  a last  knot on  Durnik's bandage  and came  over to
examine Garion's  head. She touched her fingers gently  to the lump, and he
winced.

"It doesn't seem too serious," she observed.

"It hurts all the same," he complained.

"Of course it does, dear," she said calmly. She dipped a cloth in a pail of
cold  water and  held it  to the lump.  "You're going  to have to  learn to
protect your  head, Garion. If you keep banging  it like this, you're going
to soften your brains."

Garion was about to  answer that, but Hettar and Mister Wolf came back into
the firelight just then.

"They're still running," Hettar announced. The steel discs on his horsehide
jacket gleamed red in the flickering light, and his sabre was streaked with
blood.

"They  seemed to  be  awfully good  at that  part  of it,"  Wolf  said. "Is
everyone all right?"

"A few  bumps and bruises is about all," Aunt Pol  told him. "It could have
been much worse."

"Let's not start worrying about what could have been."

"Shall we  remove those?"  Barak growled, pointing at  the bodies littering
the ground near the brook.

"Shouldn't they be buried?" Durnik asked. His voice shook a little, and his
face was very pale.

"Too much trouble," Barak  said bluntly. "Their friends can come back later
and take care of it - if they feel like it."

"Isn't that just a little uncivilized?" Durnik objected.

Barak shrugged. "It's customary."

Mister Wolf  rolled one of the bodies over  and carefully examined the dead
man's gray face.

"Looks like an ordinary Arendish outlaw," he grunted. "It's hard to say for
sure, though."

Lelldorin  was retrieving  his arrows,  carefully pulling  them out  of the
bodies.

"Let's drag them all over there a ways," Barak said to Hettar. "I'm getting
tired of looking at them."

Durnik looked away, and Garion saw two great tears standing in his eyes.

"Does it hurt, Durnik?" he asked sympathetically, sitting on the log beside
his friend.

"I killed one of  those men, Garion," the smith replied in a shaking voice.
"I hit him in the face with my axe. He screamed, and his blood splashed all
over me. Then he fell down and kicked on the ground with his heels until he
died."

"You didn't have any choice, Durnik," Garion told him. "They were trying to
kill us."

"I've never killed anyone  before," Durnik said, the tears now running down
his face. "He kicked the ground for such a long time - such a terribly long
time."

"Why don't you go to bed, Garion?" Aunt Pol suggested firmly. Her eyes were
on Durnik's tear-streaked face.

Garion understood.

"Good  night, Durnik," he  said. He got  up and  started toward one  of the
tents. He glanced back  once. Aunt Pol had seated herself on the log beside
the smith and was speaking quietly to him with one of her arms comfortingly
about his shoulders.





Chapter Five

THE FIRE HAD BURNED down to a tiny orange flicker outside the tent, and the
forest around  the clearing  was silent. Garion  lay with a  throbbing head
trying to  sleep. Finally, long past  midnight, he gave it  up. He slid out
from under his blanket and went searching for Aunt Pol.

Above the  silvery fog a full  moon had risen, and  its light made the mist
luminous. The  air around  him seemed almost  to glow as he  picked his way
carefully through the silent  camp. He scratched on the outside of her tent
flap  and  whispered, "Aunt  Pol?"  There  was no  answer.  "Aunt Pol,"  he
whispered a  bit louder, "it's me, Garion. May I  come in?" There was still
no answer,  nor even the faintest sound. Carefully  he pulled back the flap
and peered inside. The tent was empty.

Puzzled,  even a  bit alarmed,  he turned  and looked around  the clearing.
Hettar stood  watch not far from the picketed  horses, his hawk face turned
toward the  foggy forest and his  cape drawn about him.  Garion hesitated a
moment and  then stepped quietly  behind the tents. He  angled down through
the trees and the filmy, luminous fog toward the brook, thinking that if he
bathed  his aching head  in cold water  it might  help. He was  about fifty
yards from the tents when he saw a faint movement among the trees ahead. He
stopped.

A huge gray wolf padded out of the fog and stopped in the center of a small
open space  among the  trees. Garion drew  in his breath  sharply and froze
beside a large, twisted  oak. The wolf sat down on the damp leaves as if he
were  waiting for  something.  The glowing  fog illuminated  details Garion
would not  have been able to see on an ordinary  night. The wolf's ruff and
shoulders were  silvery, and his muzzle was shot  with gray. He carried his
age with  enormous dignity, and his  yellow eyes seemed calm  and very wise
somehow.

Garion  stood absolutely  still.  He knew  that the  slightest  sound would
instantly reach the sharp  ears of the wolf, but it was more than that. The
blow  behind his  ear had made  him light-headed,  and the strange  glow of
moon-drenched fog made this encounter seem somehow unreal. He found that he
was holding his breath.

A large,  snowy white  owl swooped over  the open space among  the trees on
ghosting wings, settled on  a low branch and perched there, looking down at
the wolf with an  unblinking stare. The gray wolf looked calmly back at the
perched bird.  Then, though there was no breath  of wind, it seemed somehow
that a  sudden eddy in the  shimmering fog made the  figures of the owl and
the wolf  hazy and indistinct. When it cleared  again, Mister Wolf stood in
the center of the  opening, and Aunt Pol in her gray gown was seated rather
sedately on the limb above him.

"It's been  a long time since we've hunted  together, Polgara," the old man
said.

"Yes, it  has, father." She raised her arms  and pushed her fingers through
the long, dark weight of her hair. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like."
She seemed  to shudder then with  a strange kind of  pleasure. "It's a very
good night for it."

"A little damp," he replied, shaking one foot.

"It's very clear above the treetops, and the stars are particularly bright.
It's a splendid night for flying."

"I'm glad  you enjoyed yourself. Did  you happen to remember  what you were
supposed to be doing?"

"Don't be sarcastic, father."

"Well?"

"There's no  one in the vicinity but Arends, and  most of them are asleep."

"You're sure?"

"Of course. There isn't a Grolim for five leagues in any direction. Did you
find the ones you were looking for?"

"They weren't  hard to follow,"  Wolf answered. "They're staying  in a cave
about three  leagues deeper  into the forest.  Another one of  them died on
their way back there,  and a couple more probably won't live until morning.
The rest  of them seemed a little bitter about  the way things turned out."

"I can  imagine. Did you get  close enough to hear  what they were saying?"

He nodded.  "There's a  man in one  of the villages nearby  who watches the
road  and  lets them  know  when  somebody passes  by  who  might be  worth
robbing."

"Then they're just ordinary thieves?"

"Not  exactly. They  were  watching for  us  in particular.  We'd all  been
described to them in rather complete detail."

"I think  I'll go talk to  this villager," she said  grimly. She flexed her
fingers in an unpleasantly suggestive manner.

"It's  not  worth  the  time it  would  take,"  Wolf  told her,  scratching
thoughtfully at his beard. "All he'd be able to tell you is that some Murgo
offered  him gold.  Grolims  don't bother  to  explain very  much to  their
hirelings."

"We should attend to him, father," she insisted. "We don't want him lurking
behind us,  trying to  buy up every  brigand in Arendia to  send after us."

"After tomorrow  he won't buy much of anything,"  Wolf replied with a short
laugh. "His friends plan  to lure him out into the woods in the morning and
cut his throat for him - among other things."

"Good. I'd like to know who the Grolim is, though."

Wolf shrugged.  "What difference does it make? There  are dozens of them in
northern Arendia,  all stirnng  up as much  trouble as they  can. They know
what's coming as  well as we do. We can't expect them  to just sit back and
let us pass."

"Shouldn't we put a stop to it?"

"We don't  have the time," he said. "It takes  forever to explain things to
Arends. If we move fast enough, maybe we can slip by before the Grolims are
ready."

"And if we can't?"

"Then we'll do it the other way. I've got to get to Zedar before he crosses
into Cthol Murgos.  If too many things get in my way,  I'll have to be more
direct."

"You should have done that from the beginning, father. Sometimes you're too
delicate about things."

"Are  you  going  to  start  that  again?  That's  always  your  answer  to
everything, Polgara. You're forever fixing things that would fix themselves
if you'd just leave them alone, and changing things when they don't have to
be changed."

"Don't be cross, father. Help me down."

"Why not fly down?" he suggested.

"Don't be absurd."

Garion slipped away among  the mossy trees, trembling violently as he went.

When Aunt  Pol and  Mister Wolf returned  to the clearing,  they roused the
others.  "I think  we'd better move  on," Wolf  told them. "We're  a little
vulnerable out  here. It's safer on  the highway, and I'd  like to get past
this particular stretch of woods."

The dismantling  of their  night's encampment took  less than an  hour, and
they started back along  the woodcutter's track toward the Great West Road.
Though it  was still some hours before dawn,  the moonbathed fog filled the
night with misty luminosity, and it seemed almost as if they rode through a
shining  cloud that  had  settled among  the dark  trees. They  reached the
highway and turned south again.

"I'd like  to be  a good way  from here when  the sun comes  up," Wolf said
quietly, "but we don't want to blunder into anything, so keep your eyes and
ears open."

They set off  at a canter and had covered a good  three leagues by the time
the fog  had begun to turn  a pearly gray with  the approach of morning. As
they rounded a broad curve, Hettar suddenly raised his arm, signaling for a
halt.

"What's wrong?" Barak asked him.

"Horses ahead," Hettar replied. "Coming this way."

"Are you sure? I don't hear anything."

"Forty at least," Hettar answered firmly.

"There," Durnik said, his head cocked to one side. "Hear that?"

Faintly they all heard a jingling clatter some distance off in the fog. "We
could  hide  in  the  woods  until they've  passed,"  Lelldorin  suggested.

"It's better to stay on the road," Wolf replied.

"Let me handle it," Silk said confidently, moving into the lead. "I've done
this   sort  of  thing   before."  They   proceeded  at  a   careful  walk.

The riders  who emerged from the fog were encased  in steel. They wore full
suits of  polished armor  and round helmets  with pointed visors  that made
them look strangely like huge insects. They earned long lances with colored
pennons at  their tips, and their horses  were massive beasts, also encased
in armor.

"Mimbrate   knights,"    Lelldorin   snarled,   his    eyes   going   flat.

"Keep your feelings to  yourself," Wolf told the young man. "If any of them
say  anything to  you, answer  in such  a way  that they'll think  you're a
Mimbrate sympathizer  - like  young Berentain back at  your uncle's house."

Lelldorin's face hardened.

"Do as  he tells you, Lelldorin,"  Aunt Pol said. "This  isn't the time for
heroics."

"Hold!"  the leader  of the  armored column  commanded, lowering  his lance
until the steel point  was leveled at them. "Let one come forward so that I
may speak with him." The knight's tone was peremptory.

Silk moved toward the  steel-cased man, his smile ingratiating. "We're glad
to see you, Sir  Knight," he lied glibly. "We were set upon by robbers last
night, and we've been riding in fear of our lives."

"What is  thy name?" the knight  demanded, raising his visor,  "and who are
these who accompany thee?"

"I am Radek of  Boktor, my Lord," Silk answered, bowing and pulling off his
velvet  cap, "a  merchant of  Drasnia bound  for Tol Honeth  with Sendarian
woolens in hopes of catching the winter market."

The armored  man's eyes  narrowed suspiciously. "Thy  party seems overlarge
for so simple an undertaking, worthy merchant."

"The  three there  are  my servants,"  Silk  told him,  pointing at  Barak,
Hettar, and  Durnik. "The old man  and the boy serve  my sister, a widow of
independent means  who accompanies me so that  she might visit Tol Honeth."

"What of the other?" the knight pressed. "The Asturian?"

"A  young  nobleman traveling  to  Vo  Mimbre to  visit  friends there.  He
graciously consented to guide us through this forest."

The  knight's suspicion  seemed  to relax  a bit.  "Thou madest  mention of
robbers," he said. "Where did this ambush take place?"

"About three  or four leagues back. They set upon us  after we had made our
night's  encampment.  We  managed  to beat  them  off,  but  my sister  was
terrified."

"This  province  of Asturia  seethes  with rebellion  and brigandage,"  the
knight said sternly. "My men and I are sent to suppress such offenses. Come
here, Asturian."

Lelldorin's  nostrils  flared,  but he  obediently  came  forward. "I  will
require thy name of thee."

"My   name   is   Lelldorin,   Sir  Knight.   How   may   I  serve   thee?"

"These robbers thy friends spoke of - were they commons or men of quality?"

"Serfs, my  Lord," Lelldorin  replied, "ragged and  uncouth. Doubtless fled
from lawful submission to their masters to take up outlawry in the forest."

"How may we expect  duty and proper submission from serfs when nobles raise
detestable   rebellion   against   the   crown?"   the   knight   asserted.

"Truly, my Lord," Lelldorin agreed with a show of sadness that was a trifle
overdone.  "Much have  I argued  that selfsame  point with those  who speak
endlessly of Mimbrate oppression  and overweening arrogance. My appeals for
reason and  dutiful respect  for His Majesty,  our Lord King,  however, are
greeted with derision and cold despite." He sighed.

"Thy  wisdom   becomes  thee,   young  Lelldorin,"  the   knight  approved.
"Regrettably, I  must detain thee and  thy companions in order  that we may
verify certain details."

"Sir  Knight!" Silk protested  vigorously. "A  change in the  weather could
destroy the value of  my merchandise in Tol Honeth. I pray you, don't delay
me."

"I regret  the necessity, good merchant,"  the knight replied, "but Asturia
is filled with dissemblers  and plotters. I can permit none to pass without
meticulous examination."

There  was a  stir  at the  rear of  the Mimbrate  column. In  single file,
resplendent in burnished breastplates,  plumed helmets and crimson capes, a
half a  hundred Tolnedran legionnaires  rode slowly along the  flank of the
armored knights.

"What  seems  to  be  the problem  here?"  the  legion  commander, a  lean,
leather-faced man of forty or so, asked politely as he stopped not far from
Silk's horse.

"We  do not  require the  assistance of  the legions  in this  matter," the
knight said  coldly. "Our  orders are from  Vo Mimbre. We are  sent to help
restore order  in Asturia and  we were questioning these  travelers to that
end."

"I have a great respect for order, Sir Knight," the Tolnedran replied, "but
the security of the highway is my responsibility." He looked inquiringly at
Silk.

"I am Radek of  Boktor, Captain," Silk told him, "a Drasnian merchant bound
for   Tol  Honeth.   I  have   documents,  if   you  wish  to   see  them."

"Documents are easily forged," the knight declared.

"So they are," the Tolnedran agreed, "but to save time I make it a practice
to accept  all documents at face  value. A Drasnian merchant  with goods in
his packs has a legitimate reason to be on an Imperial Highway, Sir Knight.
There's no reason to detain him, is there?"

"We seek  to stamp out banditry and  rebellion," the knight asserted hotly.

"Stamp away," the captain said, "but off the highway, if you don't mind. By
treaty the Imperial Highway is Tolnedran territory. What you do once you're
fifty yards back in  the trees is your affair; what happens on this road is
mine. I'm certain that  no true Mimbrate knight would want to humiliate his
king by  violating a  solemn agreement between  the Arendish crown  and the
Emperor of Tolendra, would he?"

The knight looked at him helplessly.

"I think  you should proceed,  good merchant," the Tolnedran  told Silk. "I
know that all Tol Honeth awaits your arrival breathlessly." Silk grinned at
him and  bowed fioridly in his  saddle. Then he gestured  to the others and
they  all rode  slowly  past the  fuming  Mimbrate knight.  After they  had
passed,  the  legionnaires closed  ranks  across  the highway,  effectively
cutting off any pursuit.

"Good man there," Barak said. "I don't think much of Tolnedrans ordinarily,
but that one's different."

"Let's  move right  along," Mister  Wolf said.  "I'd rather not  have those
knights doubling back on us after the Tolnedrans leave."

They pushed  their horses  into a gallop  and rode on,  leaving the knights
behind, arguing  heatedly with  the legion commander  in the middle  of the
road.

They stayed that night  at a thick-walled Tolnedran hostel, and for perhaps
the first time in his life Garion bathed without the insistence or even the
suggestion of his Aunt. Though he had not had the chance to become directly
involved in the fight  in the clearing the night before, he felt somehow as
if he  were spattered with blood  or worse. He had  not before realized how
grotesquely men could be mutilated in close fighting. Watching a living man
disembowled or  brained had filled him  with a kind of  deep shame that the
ultimate inner  secrets of the human  body could be so  grossly exposed. He
felt unclean.  He removed  his clothing in  the chilly bathhouse  and even,
without thinking, the silver amulet Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol had given him,
and then  he entered the steaming tub where he scrubbed  at his skin with a
coarse brush  and strong  soap, much harder  than even the  most meticulous
obsession with personal cleanliness would have required.

For the  next several days they moved southward  at a steady pace, stopping
each night at the evenly spaced Tolnedran hostels where the presence of the
hard-faced  legionnaires was  a continual  reminder that  all the  might of
Imperial  Tolnedra guaranteed  the  safety of  travelers who  sought refuge
there.

On the sixth day  after the fight in the forest, however, Lelldorin's horse
pulled  up lame.  Durnik and  Hettar, under  Aunt Pol's  supervision, spent
several  hours brewing  poultices  over a  small fire  by the  roadside and
applying steaming  compresses to the  animal's leg while Wolf  fumed at the
delay. By  the time the horse  was fit to continue,  they all realized that
there   was   no   chance   to  reach   the   next   hostel  before   dark.

"Well, Old Wolf," Aunt  Pol said after they had remounted, "what now? Do we
ride  on at  night, or  do we  try to  take shelter  in the  forest again?"

"I haven't decided," Wolf answered shortly.

"If  I remember  right, there's  a village  not far ahead,"  Lelldorin, now
mounted on  an Algar horse, stated. "It's a poor place,  but I think it has
an inn - of sorts."

"That sounds ominous," Silk said. "What exactly do you mean by 'of sorts'?"

"The Lord  of this demesne is  notoriously greedy," Lelldorin replied. "His
taxes are crushing, and his people have little left for themselves. The inn
isn't good."

"We'll have to chance  it," Wolf decided, and led them off at a brisk trot.
As they  approached the village, the  heavy clouds began to  clear off, and
the sun broke through wanly.

The village  was even  worse than Lelldorin's  description had led  them to
believe. A  half dozen  ragged beggars stood  in the mud  on the outskirts,
their hands  held out imploringly and their  voices shrill. The houses were
nothing more  than rude hovels oozing smoke  from the pitiful fires within.
Scrawny pigs  rooted in the muddy streets, and the  stench of the place was
awful.

A funeral  procession slogged through  the mud toward the  burial ground on
the other side of  the village. The corpse, carried on a board, was wrapped
in  a ragged  brown blanket,  and the  richly robed  and cowled  priests of
Chaldan, the Arendish God, chanted an age-old hymn that had much to do with
war and  vengeance, but little to do with  comfort. The widow, a whimpering
infant at her breast,  followed the body, her face blank and her eyes dead.

The inn  smelled of stale beer  and half-rotten food. A  fire had destroyed
one end of the  common room, charring and blackening the lowbeamed ceiling.
The  gaping hole  in  the burned  wall was  curtained off  with a  sheet of
rotting  canvas. The fire  pit in the  center of  the room smoked,  and the
hard-faced innkeeper was surly.  For supper he offered only bowls of watery
gruel - a mixture of barley and turnips.

"Charming," Silk said sardonically, pushing away his untouched bowl. "I'm a
bit surprised  at you, Lelldorin. Your  passion for correcting wrongs seems
to  have overlooked  this  place. Might  I suggest  that your  next crusade
include  a  visit to  the  Lord of  this  demesne? His  hanging seems  long
overdue."

"I hadn't realized it was so bad," Lelldorin replied in a subdued voice. He
looked around  as if  seeing certain things  for the first time.  A kind of
sick   horror   began   to   show   itself   in   his   transparent   face.

Garion,  his stomach  churning,  stood up.  "I think  I'll go  outside," he
declared.

"Not too far," Aunt Pol warned.

The air  outside was at least  somewhat cleaner, and Garion  picked his way
carefully toward the edge  of the village, trying to avoid the worst of the
mud.

"Please, my  Lord," a little girl with huge eyes  begged, "have you a crust
of bread to spare?"

Garion  looked  at her  helplessly.  "I'm  sorry." He  fumbled through  his
clothes, looking for something  to give her, but the child began to cry and
turned away.

In the  stump-dotted field beyond the stinking  streets, a ragged boy about
Garion's own  age was  playing a wooden  flute as he watched  a few scrubby
cows.  The melody  he played  was heartbreakingly pure,  drifting unnoticed
among the  hovels squatting in the  slanting rays of the  pale sun. The boy
saw him, but  did not break off his playing. Their eyes  met with a kind of
grave recognition, but they did not speak.

At the  edge of  the forest beyond  the field, a dark-robed  and hooded man
astride a  black horse came out of the trees  and sat watching the village.
There was  something ominous  about the dark figure,  and something vaguely
familiar as  well. It seemed somehow to Garion that  he should know who the
rider was, but, though  his mind groped for a name, it tantalizingly eluded
him. He  looked at  the figure at  the edge of  the woods for  a long time,
noticing without  even being  aware of it  that though the  horse and rider
stood  in the full  light of the  setting sun,  there was no  shadow behind
them. Deep in his  mind something tried to shriek at him, but, all bemused,
he  merely watched. He  would not say  anything to  Aunt Pol or  the others
about the figure at the edge of the woods because there was nothing to say;
as soon as he turned his back, he would forget.

The light began to  fade, and, because he had begun to shiver, he turned to
go back  to the inn with the aching song of  the boy's flute soaring toward
the sky above him.





Chapter Six

DESPITE THE PROMISE Of the brief Sunset, the next day dawned cold and murky
with a chill drizzle that wreathed down among the trees and made the entire
forest sodden  and gloomy. They left the inn early  and soon entered a part
of  the wood  that  seemed more  darkly  foreboding than  even the  ominous
stretches  through which they  had previously  passed. The trees  here were
enormous, and  many vast,  gnarled oaks lifted  their bare limbs  among the
dark firs  and spruces.  The forest floor  was covered with a  kind of gray
moss that looked diseased and unwholesome.

Lelldorin  had spoken  little  that morning,  and Garion  assumed  that his
friend was still struggling  with the problem of Nachak's scheme. The young
Asturian  rode along, wrapped  in his  heavy green cloak,  his reddish-gold
hair damp  and dispirited-looking  in the steady drizzle.  Garion pulled in
beside his  friend, and they  rode silently for a  while. "What's troubling
you, Lelldorin?" he asked finally.

"I think that all my life I've been blind, Garion," Lelldorin replied.

"Oh? In  what way?"  Garion said it  carefully, hoping that  his friend had
finally decided to tell Mister Wolf everything.

"I saw only Mimbre's  oppression of Asturia. I never saw our own oppression
of our own people."

"I've been trying to tell you that," Garion pointed out. "What made you see
it finally?"

"That village where we stayed last night," Lelldorin explained. "I've never
seen  so poor  and  mean a  place -  or people  crushed into  such hopeless
misery. How can they bear it?"

"Do they have any choice?"

"My  father at least  looks after the  people on  his land," the  young man
asserted defensively.  "No one goes  hungry or without shelter  - but those
people  are  treated worse  than  animals.  I've always  been  proud of  my
station, but  now it makes me  ashamed." Tears actually stood  in his eyes.

Garion was not sure  how to deal with his friend's sudden awakening. On the
one hand, he was  glad that Lelldorin had finally seen what had always been
obvious; but  on the other, he  was more than a  little afraid of what this
newfound  perception  might cause  his  mercurial companion  to leap  into.

"I'll renounce  my rank,"  Lelldorin declared suddenly,  as if he  had been
listening to Garion's thoughts, "and when I return from this quest, I'll go
among the serfs and share their lives - their sorrows."

"What good  will that do? How  would your suffering in  any way make theirs
less?"

Lelldorin  looked up  sharply,  a half  dozen emotions  chasing  each other
across his  open face. Finally he smiled, but  there was a determination in
his blue  eyes. "You're right, of  course," he said. "You  always are. It's
amazing how you can always see directly to the heart of a problem, Garion."

"Just what  have you  got in mind?"  Garion asked a  little apprehensively.

"I'll lead them in  revolt. I'll sweep across Arendia with an army of serfs
at my back." His voice rang as his imagination fired with the idea.

Garion groaned. "Why is  that always your answer to everything, Lelldorin?"
he demanded. "In the first place, the serfs don't have any weapons and they
don't know how to  fight. No matter how hard you talk, you'd never get them
to follow you. In  the second place, if they did, every nobleman in Arendia
would  join ranks  against you.  They'd butcher  your army;  and afterward,
things would be ten times worse. In the third place, you'd just be starting
another   civil   war;  and   that's   exactly  what   the  Murgos   want."

Lelldorin  blinked  several  times  as Garion's  words  sank  in. His  face
gradually grew  mournful again.  "I hadn't thought of  that," he confessed.

"I didn't think you had. You're going to keep making these mistakes as long
as  you keep  carrying your  brain in  the same  scabbard with  your sword,
Lelldorin."

Lelldorin hushed  at that, and then he  laughed ruefully. "That's a pointed
way of putting it, Garion," he said reproachfully.

"I'm  sorry,"  Garion apologized  quickly.  "Maybe  I should  have said  it
another way."

"No,"  Lelldorin told him.  "I'm an Arend.  I tend  to miss things  if they
aren't said directly."

"It's  not  that you're  stupid,  Lelldorin," Garion  protested. "That's  a
mistake everyone makes. Arends aren't stupid - they're just impulsive."

"All  this was  more  than just  impulsiveness," Lelldorin  insisted sadly,
gesturing out at the damp moss lying under the trees.

"This what?" Garion asked, looking around.

"This is  the last  stretch of forest before  we come out on  the plains of
central Arendia,"  Lelldorin explained. "It's the  natural boundary between
Mimbre and Asturia."

"The woods look the same as all the rest," Garion observed, looking around.

"Not really,"  Lelldorin said  somberly. "This was the  favorite ground for
ambush. The  floor of this forest is carpeted  with old bones. Look there."
He pointed.

At first  it seemed to Garion  that what his friend  indicated was merely a
pair of  twisted sticks  protruding from the  moss with the  twigs at their
ends entangled  in a scrubby  bush. Then, with revulsion,  he realized that
they were  the greenish bones of  a human arm, the  fingers clutched at the
bush in  a last convulsive  agony. Outraged, he demanded,  "Why didn't they
bury him?"

"It would take a thousand men a thousand years to gather all the bones that
lie  here and  commit them  to earth,"  Lelldorin intoned  morbidly. "Whole
generations  of Arendia  rest here  - Mimbrate,  Wacite, Asturian.  All lie
where   they  fell,   and  the   moss  blankets  their   endless  slumber."

Garion shuddered and pulled his eyes away from the mute appeal of that lone
arm rising  from the  sea of moss on  the floor of the  forest. The curious
lumps and  hummocks of that  moss suggested the horror  which lay moldering
beneath.  As  he raised  his  eyes,  he realized  that  the uneven  surface
extended as  far as he could  see, "How long until  we reach the plain?" he
asked in a hushed voice.

"Two days, probably."

"Two days? And it's all like this?"

Lelldorin nodded.

"Why?"  Garion's  tone  was  harsher,  more accusing  than  he'd  intended.

"At first  for pride - and honor," Lelldorin  replied. "Later for grief and
revenge. Finally  it was simply because we didn't know  how to stop. As you
said before, sometimes we Arends aren't very bright."

"But always brave," Garion answered quickly.

"Oh  yes," Lelldorin  admitted.  "Always brave.  It's our  national curse."

"Belgarath,"  Hettar  said  quietly from  behind  them,  "the horses  smell
something."

Mister Wolf roused himself  from the doze in which he usually rode. "What?"

"The horses,"  Hettar repeated.  "Something out there's  frightening them."

Wolf's eyes narrowed and  then grew strangely blank. After a moment he drew
in a sharp breath with a muttered curse.

"Algroths," he swore.

"What's an Algroth?" Durnik asked.

"A non-human-somewhat distantly related to Trolls."

"I saw a Troll  once," Barak said. "A big ugly thing with claws and fangs."

"Will they attack us?" Durnik asked.

"Almost certainly."  Wolf's voice was tense.  "Hettar, you're going to have
to keep the horses under control. We don't dare get separated."

"Where did they come  from?" Lelldorin asked. "There aren't any monsters in
this forest."

"They  come down  out  of the  mountains of  Ulgo  sometimes when  they get
hungry,"  Wolf  answered.  "They  don't  leave survivors  to  report  their
presence."

"You'd  better do something,  father," Aunt  Pol said. "They're  all around
us."

Lelldorin looked quickly around  as if getting his bearings. "We're not far
from Elgon's tor," he offered. "We might be able to hold them off if we get
there."

"Elgon's tor?" Barak said. He had already drawn his heavy sword.

"It's  a high  hillock covered  with boulders," Lelldorin  explained. "It's
almost like  a fort.  Elgon held it  for a month against  a Mimbrate army."

"Sounds promising," Silk said. "It would get us out of the trees at least."
He  looked  nervously  around  at the  forest  looming  about  them in  the
drizzling rain.

"Let's try for it," Wolf decided. "They haven't worked themselves up to the
point of  attacking yet,  and the rain's  confusing their sense  of smell."

A strange barking sound came from back in the forest.

"Is that them?" Garion asked, his voice sounding shrill in his own ears.

"They're calling to each other," Wolf told him. "Some of them have seen us.
Let's pick  up the  pace a bit,  but don't start  running until  we see the
tor."

They nudged  their nervous horses into a trot  and moved steadily along the
muddy road  as it  began to climb  toward the top  of a low  ridge. "Half a
league," Lelldorin said tensely. "Half a league and we should see the tor."

The horses  were difficult to hold in, and their  eyes rolled wildly at the
surrounding  woods.  Garion felt  his  heart  pounding, and  his mouth  was
suddenly dry. It started  to rain a bit harder. He caught a movement out of
the corner of his eye and looked quickly. A manlike figure was loping along
parallel to the road  about a hundred paces back in the forest. It ran half
crouched, its  hands touching the ground. It seemed  to be a loathsome gray
color.

"Over there!" Garion cried.

"I saw him," Barak growled. "Not quite as big as a Troll."

Silk grimaced. "Big enough."

"If  they  attack,  be  careful  of  their claws,"  Wolf  warned.  "They're
venomous."

"That's exciting," Silk said.

"There's the tor," Aunt Pol announced quite calmly.

"Let's run!" Wolf barked.

The frightened  horses, suddenly  released, leaped forward and  fled up the
road,  their hoofs  churning. An  enraged howl  came from the  woods behind
them, and the barking sound grew louder all around them.

"We're going  to make it!" Durnik shouted  in encouragement. But suddenly a
half-dozen snarling Algroths were  in the road in front of them, their arms
spread wide and their mouths gaping hideously. They were huge, with apelike
arms and claws instead  of fingers. Their faces were goatish, surmounted by
short,  sharp-pointed horns, and  they had  long, yellow fangs.  Their gray
skin was scaly, reptilian.

The horses screamed and  reared, trying to bolt. Garion clung to his saddle
with one hand and fought the reins with the other.

Barak  beat at  his  horse's rump  with the  flat of  his sword  and kicked
savagely at the animal's flanks until the horse, finally more afraid of him
than  the Algroths,  charged. With  two great  sweeps, one to  either side,
Barak  killed two  of  the beasts  as he  plunged  through. A  third, claws
outstretched,  tried  to leap  on  his  back, but  stiffened and  collapsed
facedown in  the mud with one of  Lelldorin's arrows between its shoulders.
Barak  wheeled his  horse  and chopped  at the  three  remaining creatures.
"Let's go!" he bellowed.

Garion heard  Lelldorin gasp  and turned quickly.  With sick horror  he saw
that a  lone Algroth  had crept out  of the woods  beside the  road and was
clawing  at his  friend,  trying to  hook him  out  of the  saddle. Weakly,
Lelldorin beat  at the goat face with his  bow. Garion desperately drew his
sword, but Hettar, coming  from behind, was already there. His curved sabre
ran through the beast's body, and the Algroth shrieked and fell writhing to
the   ground   beneath   the   pounding   hoofs  of   the   pack   animals.

The horses,  running now in sheer panic, scrambled  toward the slope of the
boulder-strewn tor. Garion glanced back over his shoulder and saw Lelldorin
swaying dangerously  in his saddle, his hand  pressed to his bleeding side.
Garion   pulled  in   savagely  on   his  reins   and  turned   his  horse.

"Save yourself, Garion!" Lelldorin shouted, his face deadly pale.

"No!" Garion  sheathed his sword, pulled in beside  his friend and took his
arm, steadying  him in  the saddle. Together  they galloped toward  the tor
with Garion straining to hold the injured young man.

The  tor was  a  great jumble  of earth  and stone  thrusting up  above the
tallest trees  around it. Their horses scrambled  and clattered up the side
among the wet boulders. When they reached the small flat area at the top of
the tor  where the  pack animals huddled  together, trembling in  the rain,
Garion  slid out  of his  saddle in  time to  catch Lelldorin,  who toppled
slowly to one side.

"Over here,"  Aunt Pol called sharply. She was  pulling her small bundle of
herbs and bandages out  of one of the packs. "Durnik, I'll need a fire - at
once."

Durnik looked around helplessly at the few scraps of wood lying in the rain
at the top of the tor. "I'll try," he said doubtfully.

Lelldorin's  breathing was  shallow  and very  fast. His  face was  still a
deadly white,  and his legs would not hold him. Garion  held him up, a sick
fear in  the pit of his  stomach. Hettar took the  wounded man's other arm,
and between them they half carried him to where Aunt Pol knelt, opening her
bundle.

"I have to get the poison out immediately," she told them. "Garion, give me
your knife."

Garion  drew his  dagger  and handed  it to  her.  Swiftly she  ripped open
Lelldorin's  brown tunic along  his side,  revealing the savage  wounds the
Algroth's claws had made.

"This will hurt," she said. "Hold him."

Garion and Hettar took hold of Lelldorin's arms and legs, holding him down.

Aunt Pol  took a deep breath and then deftly sliced  open each of the puffy
wounds.  Blood  spurted  and  Lelldorin  screamed once.  Then  he  fainted.

"Hettar!" Barak shouted from atop a boulder near the edge of the slope. "We
need you!"

"Go!" Aunt Pol told  the hawk-faced Algar. "We can handle this now. Garion,
you  stay here."  She  was crushing  some dried  leaves and  sprinkling the
fragments  into  the  bleeding wounds.  "The  fire,  Durnik," she  ordered.

"It won't start, Mistress  Pol," Durnik replied helplessly. "It's too wet."

She  looked quickly  at the  pile of  sodden wood  the smith  had gathered.

Her  eyes  narrowed, and  she  made  a quick  gesture.  Garion's ears  rang
strangely and  there was a sudden hissing. A cloud  of steam burst from the
wood, and  then crackling flames  curled up from the  sticks. Durnik jumped
back, startled.

"The  small pot, Garion,"  Aunt Pol  instructed, "and water.  Quickly." She
pulled   ofl'   her   blue   cloak   and   covered   Lelldorin   with   it.

Silk, Barak and Hettar  stood at the edge of the slope, heaving large rocks
over  the  edge. Garion  could  hear the  clatter  and clash  of the  rocks
striking the boulders below  and the barking of the Algroths, punctuated by
an occasional howl of pain.

He cradled  his friend's head in his lap, terribly  afraid. "Is he going to
be all right?" he appealed to Aunt Pol.

"It's too  early to  tell," she answered.  "Don't bother me  with questions
just now."

"They're running!" Barak shouted.

"They're still hungry," Wolf replied grimly. "They'll be back."

From far off in the forest there came the sound of a brassy horn.

"What's that?"  Silk asked,  still puffing from  the effort of  heaving the
heavy stones over the edge.

"Someone  I've been  expecting,"  Wolf answered  with a  strange  smile. He
raised his hands to his lips and whistled shrilly.

"I can  manage now,  Garion," Aunt Pol  said, mashing a thick  paste into a
steaming pad  of wet  linen bandage. "You  and Durnik go  help the others."

Reluctantly Garion lowered Lelldorin's head to the wet turf and ran over to
where  Wolf  stood.  The  slope below  was  littered  with  dead and  dying
Algroths,  crushed by  the rocks Barak  and the  others had hurled  down on
them.

"They're going  to try again," Barak said,  hefting another rock. "Can they
get at us from behind?"

Silk shook his head.  "No. I checked. The back of the hill's a sheer face."

The  Algroths came  out of the  woods below,  barking and snarling  as they
loped forward with their  half crouched gait. The first of them had already
crossed  the  road  when  the  horn  blew  again,  very  close  this  time.

And then  a huge horse bearing  a man in full armor  burst out of the trees
and thundered  down upon the attacking  creatures. The armored man crouched
over  his  lance  and  plunged directly  into  the  midst  of the  startled
Algroths. The  great horse screamed  as he charged, and  his ironshod hoofs
churned up big clots  of mud. The lance crashed through the chest of one of
the  largest  Algroths and  splintered  from  the force  of  the blow.  The
splintered  end took  another full  in the  face. The knight  discarded the
shattered lance  and drew  his broadsword with  a single sweep  of his arm.
With wide swings to the right and left he chopped his way through the pack,
his warhorse  trampling the living and  the dead alike into  the mud of the
road. At the end of his charge he whirled and plunged back again, once more
opening a  path with his sword.  The Algroths turned and  fled howling into
the woods.

"Mandorallen!" Wolf shouted. "Up here!"

The armored knight raised his blood-spattered visor and looked up the hill.
"Permit me  to disperse this rabble first,  my ancient friend," he answered
gaily, clanged  down his visor, and plunged into  the rainy woods after the
Algroths.

"Hettar!" Barak shouted, already moving.

Hettar nodded tersely, and  the two of them ran to their horses. They swung
into  their saddles  and  plunged down  the wet  slope  to the  aid  of the
stranger.

"Your  friend shows  a  remarkable lack  of good  sense," Silk  observed to
Mister Wolf, wiping the  rain from his face. "Those things will turn on him
any second now."

"It probably hasn't occurred to him that he's in any danger," Wolf replied.
"He's a Mimbrate, and  they tend to think they're invincible." The fight in
the woods  seemed to  last for a  long time. There were  shouts and ringing
blows and shrieks of  terror from the Algroths. Then Hettar, Barak, and the
strange knight  rode out of the  trees and trotted up  the tor. At the top,
the armored man clanged  down from his horse. "Well met, my old friend," he
boomed to Mister Wolf.  "Thy friends below were most frolicsome." His armor
gleamed wetly in the rain.

"I'm glad we found something to entertain you," Wolf said dryly.

"I can still hear  them," Durnik reported. "I think they're still running."

"Their  cowardice hath  deprived us  of an  amusing afternoon,"  the knight
observed,  regretfully  sheathing  his   sword  and  removing  his  helmet.

"We must all make sacrifices," Silk drawled.

The knight sighed. "All  too true. Thou art a man of philosophy, I see." He
shook the water out of the white plume on his helmet.

"Forgive me,"  Mister Wolf said. "This is  Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor.
He'll be going with  us. Mandorallen, this is Prince Kheldar of Drasnia and
Barak, Earl of Trellheim  and cousin to King Anheg of Cherek. Over there is
Hettar, son of Cho-Hag,  chief of the Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The practical
one is  Goodman Durnik of Sendaria,  and this boy is  Garion, my grandson -
several times removed."

Mandorallen bowed  deeply to each of them. "I  greet you, comrades all," he
declaimed  in his  booming  voice. "Our  adventure hath  seen  a fortuitous
beginning. And pray tell, who is this lady, whose beauty doth bedazzle mine
eye?"

"A pretty speech, Sir Knight," Aunt Pol replied with a rich laugh, her hand
going almost  unconsciously to her damp hair. "I'm  going to like this one,
father."

"The legendary Lady Polgara?" Mandorallen asked. "My life hath now seen its
crown." His  courtly bow was somewhat marred by  the creaking of his armor.

"Our  injured friend  is Lelldorin,  son of  the Baron of  Wildantor," Wolf
continued. "You may have heard of him."

Mandorallen's face darkened slightly.  "Indeed. Rumor, which sometimes loth
run  before  us  like  a barking  dog,  hath  suggested  that Lelldorin  of
Wildantor  hath  raised  on occasion  foul  rebellion  against the  crown."

"That's of  no matter now," Wolf stressed.  "The business which has brought
us  together is  much more  serious than  all that.  You'll have to  put it
aside."

"It  shall   be  as   you  say,  noble   Belgarath,"  Mandorallen  declared
immediately, though his eyes still lingered on the unconscious Lelldorin.

"Grandfather!"  Garion  called,  pointing  at  a mounted  figure  that  had
suddenly appeared on the side of the stony hilltop. The figure was robed in
black and  sat a black horse. He pushed back his  hood to reveal a polished
steel  mask cast  in the  form of  a face  that was  at once  beautiful and
strangely repelling. A voice  deep in Garion's mind told him that there was
something important about the  strange rider - something he should remember
- but whatever it was eluded him.

"Abandon  this quest,  Belgarath." The  voice was  hollow behind  the mask.

"You know  me better  than that, Chamdar,"  Mister Wolf said  calmly, quite
obviously recognizing  the rider. "Was this  childishness with the Algroths
your idea?"

"And you should know  me better than that," the figure retorted derisively.
"When I  come against you, you can expect things to  be a bit more serious.
For  now, there  are enough underlings  about to  delay you. That's  all we
really need. Once Zedar  has carried Cthrag Yaska to my Master, you can try
your  power  against  the   might  and  will  of  Torak,  if  you'd  like."

"Are you running errands for Zedar, then?" Wolf asked.

"I run no man's errands," the figure replied with heavy contempt. The rider
seemed solid,  as real as any  of them standing on  the hilltop, but Garion
could see  the filmy drizzle striking the  rocks directly beneath horse and
man.  Whatever the  figure  was, the  rain  was falling  right through  it.

"Why are you here then, Chamdar?" Wolf demanded.

"Let's call  it curiosity, Belgarath. I wanted to  see for myself how you'd
managed to  translate the Prophecy into  everyday terms." The figure looked
around  at the  others on  the hilltop.  "Clever," it  said with  a certain
grudging admiration. "Where did you find them all?"

"I didn't  have to find them, Chamdar,"  Wolf answered. "They've been there
all along.  If any  part of the  Prophecy is valid,  then it all  has to be
valid, doesn't  it? There's  no contrivance involved  at all, Each  one has
come  down   to  me  through  more   generations  than  you  can  imagine."

The  figure seemed to  hiss with a  sharp intake  of its breath.  "It isn't
complete yet, old man."

"It  will be,  Chamdar," Wolf  replied confidently.  "I've already  seen to
that."

"Which is  the one  who will live  twice?" the figure  asked suddenly. Wolf
smiled coldly, but did not answer.

"Hail, my Queen," the figure said mockingly then to Aunt Pol.

"Grolim courtesy  always leaves me quite cold,"  she returned with a frosty
look. "I'm not your queen, Chamdar."

"You will be, Polgara.  My Master said that you are to become his wife when
he comes into his kingdom. You'll be queen of all the world."

"That puts  you at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn't  it, Chamdar? If I'm to
become your queen, you can't really cross me, can you?"

"I can work around you, Polgara, and once you've become the bride of Torak,
his will becomes your will. I'm sure you won't hold any old grudges at that
point."

"I think we've had  about enough of this, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said. "Your
conversation's beginning to bore me. You can have your shadow back now." He
waved his hand negligently  as if brushing away a troublesome fly. "Go," he
commanded.

Once again  Garion felt that strange  surge and that hollow  roaring in his
mind. The horseman vanished.

"You didn't destroy him, did you?" Silk gasped in a shocked voice.

"No," Mister  Wolf told him. "It was all just  an illusion. It's a childish
trick the  Grolims find  impressive. A shadow  can be projected  over quite
some  distance if  you want  to take the  trouble. All  I did was  send his
shadow back to him."  He grinned suddenly with a sly twist to his lips. "Of
course I selected a somewhat indirect route. It may take a few days to make
the trip.  It won't  actually hurt him,  but it's going  to make  him a bit
uncomfortable - and extremely conspicuous."

"A most unseemly specter," Mandorallen observed. "Who was this rude shade?"

"It was  Chamdar," Aunt  Pol said, returning  her attention to  the injured
Lelldorin, "one of the  chief priests of the Grolims. Father and I have met
him before."

"I think  we'd better  get off this  hilltop," Wolf stated.  "How soon will
Lelldorin be able to ride?"

"A week at least," Aunt Pol replied, "if then."

"That's out of the question. We can't stay here."

"He can't ride," she told him firmly.

"Couldn't we make a litter of some sort?" Durnik suggested. "I'm sure I can
make something  we can sling between two horses so  we can move him without
hurting him."

"Well, Pol?" Wolf asked.

"I  suppose   it  will  be  all  right,"   she  said  a  little  dubiously.

"Let's do  it then. We're much  too exposed up here,  and we've got to move
on."

Durnik nodded and went to the packs for rope to use in building the litter.





Chapter Seven

SIR MANDORALLEN, BARON OF VO MANDOR, was a man of slightly more than medium
height. His hair was black and curly, his eyes were deep blue, and he had a
resonant voice  in which he expressed firmly  held opinions. Garion did not
like him.  The knight's towering  self confidence, an egotism  so pure that
there  was a kind  of innocence about  it, seemed  to confirm the  worst of
Lelldorin's   dark  pronouncements   about  Mimbrates;   and  Mandorallen's
extravagant  courtesy to  Aunt Pol  struck Garion  as beyond the  bounds of
proper civility. To make  matters even worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing
to accept the knight's flatteries at face value.

As  they rode  through the  continuing drizzle  along the Great  West Road,
Garion noted  with some satisfaction that  his companions appeared to share
his opinion.  Barak's expression  spoke louder than  words; Silk's eyebrows
lifted  sardonically at  each  of the  knight's pronouncements;  and Durnik
scowled.

Garion,  however,  had little  time  to  sort out  his  feelings about  the
Mimbrate.  He rode  close  beside the  litter upon  which  Lelldorin tossed
painfully as the Algroth Polson seared in his wounds. He offered his friend
what comfort  he could and exchanged frequent  worried looks with Aunt Pol,
who  rode  nearby.  During  the  worst  of  Lelldorin's  paroxysms,  Garion
helplessly held  the young man's hand, unable to  think of anything else to
do to ease his pain.

"Bear thine  infirmity with fortitude, good  youth," Mandorallen cheerfully
advised  the  injured Asturian  after  a  particularly bad  bout that  left
Lelldorin  gasping  and  moaning.  "This  discomfort  of throe  is  but  an
illusion.  Thy  mind can  put  it  to rest  if  thou wouldst  have it  so."

"That's exactly the kind  of comfort I'd expect from a Mimbrate," Lelldorin
retorted from  between clenched teeth. "I think  I'd rather you didn't ride
so   close.  Your   opinions   smell  almost   as  bad   as   your  armor."

Mandorallen's face flushed slightly. "The venom which loth rage through the
body of  our injured friend hath, it would seem,  bereft him of civility as
well as sense," he observed coldly.

Lelldorin half raised himself in the litter as if to respond hotly, but the
sudden  movement  seemed  to  aggravate  his  injury, and  he  lapsed  into
unconsciousness.

"His wounds  are grave,"  Mandorallen stated. "Thy  poultice, Lady Polgara,
may not suffice to save his life."

"He needs rest," she told him. "Try not to agitate him so much."

"I will  place myself  beyond the reach  of his eye,"  Mandorallen replied.
"Through no  fault of mine own,  my visage is hateful  to him and doth stir
him to  unhealthful choler." He moved his warhorse  ahead at a canter until
he was some distance in front of the rest of them.

"Do they  all talk like that?" Garion asked  with a certain rancor. "Thee's
and thou's and cloth's?"

"Mimbrates tend to be very formal," Aunt Pol explained. "You'll get used to
it."

"I  think it  sounds  stupid," Garion  muttered darkly,  glaring  after the
knight.

"An  example  of  good  manners won't  hurt  you  all  that much,  Garion."

They  rode on  through  the dripping  forest as  evening settled  among the
trees.

"Aunt Pol?" Garion asked finally.

"Yes, dear?"

"What was that Grolim talking about when he said that about you and Torak?"

"It's something  Torak said  once when he  was raving. The  Grolims took it
seriously, that's all." She pulled her blue cloak tighter about her.

"Doesn't it worry you?"

"Not particularly."

"What was  that Prophecy the Grolim was  talking about? I didn't understand
any of  that." The word  "Prophecy" for some reason  stirred something very
deep in him.

"The Mrin Codex," she answered. "It's a very old version, and the writing's
almost illegible.  It mentions companions - the bear,  the rat, and the man
who will  live twice. It's the only version  that says anything about them.
Nobody knows for certain that it really means anything."

"Grandfather thinks it does, doesn't he?"

"Your grandfather has a number of curious notions. Old things impress him -
probably because he's so old himself."

Garion was  going to  ask her about  this Prophecy that seemed  to exist in
more than one version,  but Lelldorin moaned then and they both immediately
turned to him.

They  arrived  shortly  thereafter   at  a  Tolnedran  hostel  with  thick,
whitewashed walls  and a red tile  roof. Aunt Pol saw  to it that Lelldorin
was  placed in  a warm  room, and she  spent the  night sitting by  his bed
caring  for him.  Garion  padded worriedly  down  the dark  hallway in  his
stocking feet a half-dozen times before morning to check on his friend, but
there seemed to be no change.

By daybreak the rain  had let up. They started out in the grayish dawn with
Mandorallen still riding some distance ahead until they reached at last the
edge of  the dark forest and saw before them the  vast, open expanse of the
Arendish  central plain,  dun-colored  and sere  in the  last few  weeks of
winter. The knight stopped  there and waited for them to join him, his face
somber.

"What's the trouble?" Silk asked him.

Mandorallen pointed  gravely at a column  of black smoke rising  from a few
miles out on the plain.

"What is it?" Silk inquired, his rat face puzzled.

"Smoke in  Arendia can mean but one thing,"  the knight replied, pulling on
his plumed  helmet. "Abide  here, dear friends.  I will investigate,  but I
fear the  worst." He set his spurs to the flanks  of his charger and leaped
forward at a thunderous gallop.

"Wait!" Barak roared after  him, but Mandorallen rode on obliviously. "That
idiot,"  the big  Cherek fumed.  "I'd better  go with  him in  case there's
trouble."

"It isn't  necessary," Lelldorin advised weakly  from his litter. "Not even
an army would dare to interfere with him."

"I  thought  you  didn't   like  him,"  Barak  said,  a  little  surprised.

"I don't,"  Lelldorin admitted, "but  he's the most feared  man in Arendia.
Even in Asturia we've  heard of Sir Mandorallen. No sane man would stand in
his way."

They drew back into  the shelter of the forest and waited for the knight to
come back.  When he returned, his  face was angry. "It  is as I feared," he
announced. "A  war doth rage in  our path - a  senseless war, since the two
barons involved are kinsmen and the best of friends."

"Can we go around it?" Silk asked.

"Nay,  Prince   Kheldar,"  Mandorallen  replied.  "Their   conflict  is  so
widespread that we would  be waylaid ere we had gone three leagues. I must,
it would appear, buy us passage."

"Do you  think they'll take money to let  us pass?" Durnik asked dubiously.

"In  Arendia  there  is  another  way  to  make  such  purchase,  Goodman,"
Mandorallen  responded. "May  I prevail  upon thee  to obtain six  or eight
stout poles perhaps twenty feet in length and about as thick as my wrist at
the butt?"

"Of course." Durnik took up his axe.

"What have you got in mind?" Barak rumbled.

"I will challenge them," Mandorallen announced calmly, "one or all. No true
knight could refuse me  without being called craven. Wilt thou be my second
and deliver my challenge, my Lord?"

"What if you lose?" Silk suggested.

"Lose?" Mandorallen seemed shocked. "I? Lose?"

"Let it pass," Silk said.

By the  time Durnik had  returned with the poles,  Mandorallen had finished
tightening various  straps beneath his  armor. Taking one of  the poles, he
vaulted into his saddle  and started at a rolling trot toward the column of
smoke, with Barak at his side.

"Is this really necessary, father?" Aunt Pol asked.

"We  have  to  get  through,  Pol,"  Mister  Wolf  replied.  "Don't  worry.
Mandorallen knows what he's doing."

After a couple  of miles they reached the top of a  hill and looked down at
the battle  below. Two grim, black castles faced  each other across a broad
valley, and  several villages dotted the plain on  either side of the road.
The  nearest village  was in flames,  with a  great pillar of  greasy smoke
rising from it to  the lead-gray sky overhead, and serfs armed with scythes
and pitchforks  were attacking each other with  a sort of mindless ferocity
on the road itself. Some distance off, pikemen were gathering for a charge,
and the air was thick with arrows. On two opposing hills parties of armored
knights  with bright-colored  pennons on  their lances watched  the battle.
Great  siege engines  lofted boulders  into the  air to  crash down  on the
struggling  men, killing,  so  far as  Garion  could tell,  friend and  foe
indiscriminately.  The valley  was littered  with the  dead and  the dying.

"Stupid," Wolf muttered darkly.

"No one  I know of has  ever accused Arends of  brilliance," Silk observed.

Mandorallen  set his  horn to  his lips  and blew  a shattering  blast. The
battle paused as the  soldiers and serfs all stopped to stare up at him. He
sounded his  horn again,  and then again,  each brassy note  a challenge it
itself.  As  the  two  opposing  bodies  of knights  galloped  through  the
kneehigh,  winter-yellowed  grass  to  investigate, Mandorallen  turned  to
Barak. "If  it please  thee, my Lord,"  he requested politely,  "deliver my
challenge as soon as they approach us."

Barak shrugged.  "It's your skin," he noted.  He eyed the advancing knights
and then  lifted his voice in  a great roar. "Sir  Mandorallen, Baron of Vo
Mandor, desires  entertainment," he declaimed. "It  would amuse him if each
of your parties would select a champion to joust with him. If, however, you
are all  such cowardly  dogs that you  have no stomach for  such a contest,
cease  this  brawling and  stand  aside  so that  your  betters may  pass."

"Splendidly  spoken,  my Lord  Barak,"  Mandorallen  said with  admiration.

"I've always had a way with words," Barak replied modestly. The two parties
of knights warily rode closer.

"For shame,  my Lords," Mandorallen chided them. "Ye  will gain no honor in
this sorry war. Sir Derigen, what hath caused this contention?"

"An insult,  Sir Mandorallen," the noble  replied. He was a  large man, and
his polished steel helmet had a golden circlet riveted above the visor. "An
insult so vile that it may not go unpunished."

"It was  I who  was insulted," a  noble on the other  side contended hotly.

"What was  the nature of this  insult, Sir Oltorain?" Mandorallen inquired.

Both men looked away uneasily, and neither spoke.

"Ye  have  gone to  war  over an  insult  which cannot  even be  recalled?"
Mandorallen  said incredulously.  "I had  thought, my  Lords, that  ye were
serious men, but I now perceive my error."

"Don't the nobles of  Arendia have anything better to do?" Barak asked in a
voice heavy with contempt.

"Of Sir  Mandorallen the  bastard we have  all heard," a  swarthy knight in
black  enamelled armor  sneered, "but  who is  this red-bearded ape  who so
maligns his betters?"

"You're going to take that?" Barak asked Mandorallen.

"It's more  or less true," Mandorallen admitted  with a pained look, "since
there  was some temporary  irregularity about  my birth which  still raises
questions  about  my legitimacy.  This  knight  is Sir  Haldorin, my  third
cousin-twice removed.  Since it's  considered unseemly in  Arendia to spill
the  blood of  kinsmen, he  thus cheaply  gains reputation for  boldness by
casting the matter in my teeth."

"Stupid  custom," Barak grunted.  "In Cherek  kinsmen kill each  other with
more enthusiasm than they kill strangers."

"Alas." Mandorallen sighed. "This is not Cherek."

"Would you be offended if I dealt with this?" Barak asked politely.

"Not at all."

Barak moved closer to  the swarthy knight. "I am Barak, Earl of Trellheim,"
he announced  in a loud voice, "kinsman to King Anheg  of Cherek, and I see
that  certain nobles  in  Arendia have  even fewer  manners than  they have
brains."

"The Lords of Arendia  are not impressed by the self bestowed titles of the
pig-sty   kingdoms   of  the   north,"   Sir   Haldorin  retorted   coldly.

"I   find   your   words   offensive,  friend,"   Barak   said   ominously.

"And I find thy ape face and scraggly beard amusing," Sir Haldorin replied.

Barak did  not even bother  to draw his sword.  He swung his huge  arm in a
wide circle  and crashed his fist  with stunning force against  the side of
the swarthy  knight's helmet.  Sir Haldorin's eyes  glazed as he  was swept
from  his saddle, and  he made a  vast clatter  when he struck  the ground.

"Would  anyone  else  like  to comment  about  my  beard?" Barak  demanded.

"Gently,  my Lord,"  Mandorallen advised.  He glanced  down with  a certain
satisfaction at the unconscious  form of his senseless kinsman twitching in
the tall grass.

"Will we  docilely accept this attack  on our brave companion?"  one of the
knights  in Baron  Derigen's party  demanded in  a harshly  accented voice.
"Kill them all!" He reached for his sword.

"In  the instant  thy  sword leaves  its sheath  thou art  a dead  man, Sir
Knight," Mandorallen coolly advised him.

The knight's hand froze on his sword hilt.

"For shame,  my Lords,"  Mandorallen continued accusingly.  "Surely ye know
that  by courtesy  and  common usage  my challenge,  until it  is answered,
guarantees my  safety and that  of my companions. Choose  your champions or
withdraw.  I  tire  of  all  this  and presently  will  become  irritable."

The two parties of knights pulled back some distance to confer, and several
men-at-arms came to the hilltop to pick up Sir Haldorin.

"That  one who  was  going to  draw his  sword  was a  Murgo,"  Garion said
quietly.

"I noticed that," Hettar murmured, his dark eyes glittering.

"They're coming back," Durnik warned.

"I will  joust with thee,  Sir Mandorallen," Baron Derigen  announced as he
approached. "I  doubt not that thy reputation  is well-deserved, but I also
have taken the prize  in no small number of tourneys. I would be honored to
try a lance with thee."

"And I  too will  try my skill  against throe, Sir  Knight," Baron Oltorain
declared. "My arm is also feared in some parts of Arendia."

"Very well,"  Mandorallen replied.  "Let us seek level  ground and proceed.
The  day wears on,  and my companions  and I  have business to  the south."

They all  rode down  the hill to  the field below  where the  two groups of
knights drew up on  either side of a course which had been quickly trampled
out in the high,  yellow grass. Derigen galloped to the far end, turned and
sat waiting, his blunted lance resting in his stirrup.

"Thy courage  becomes thee, my Lord," Mandorallen  called, taking up one of
the poles Durnik had  cut. "I shall try not to injure thee too greatly. Art
thou prepared to meet my charge?"

"I am," the baron replied, lowering his visor.

Mandorallen clapped down his visor, lowered his lance, and set his spurs to
his warhorse.

"It's probably inappropriate under  the circumstances," Silk murmured, "but
I  can't  help  wishing  that  our  overbearing friend  could  suffer  some
humiliating defeat."

Mister Wolf gave him a withering look. "Forget it!"

"Is he that good?" Silk asked wistfully.

"Watch," Wolf told him.

The two  knights met in the  center of the course  with a resounding crash,
and  their lances  both  shattered at  the stunning  impact,  littering the
trampled grass  with splinters. They thundered  past each other, turned and
rode back,  each to  his original starting place.  Derigen, Garion noticed,
swayed somewhat in the saddle as he rode.

The knights charged again, and their fresh lances also shattered. "I should
have cut more poles," Durnik said thoughtfully.

But Baron  Derigen swayed even more  as he rode back  this time, and on the
third  charge  his  faltering   lance  glanced  off  Mandorallen's  shield.
Mandorallen's lance,  however, struck  true, and the baron  was hurled from
his saddle by the force of their meeting.

Mandorallen reined in his charger and looked down at him. "Art thou able to
continue, my Lord?" he asked politely.

Derigen staggered  to his  feet. "I do  not yield," he  gasped, drawing his
sword.

"Splendid,"  Mandorallen replied.  "I feared  that I  might have  done thee
harm."  He slid out  of his saddle,  drew his  sword and swung  directly at
Derigen's head. The blow glanced off the baron's hastily raised shield, and
Mandorallen swung  again without  pause. Derigen managed one  or two feeble
swings before  Mandorallen's broadsword caught him full  on the side of the
helmet.   He   spun   once   and   collapsed   facedown   on   the   earth.

"My Lord?" Mandorallen inquired  solicitously. He reached down, rolled over
his fallen opponent and opened the dented visor of the baron's helmet. "Art
thou  unwell,   my  Lord?"   he  asked.  "Dost  thou   wish  to  continue?"

Derigen did  not reply. Blood ran  freely from his nose,  and his eyes were
rolled back in his  head. His face was blue, and the right side of his body
quivered spasmodically.

"Since  this brave  knight  is unable  to speak  for  himself," Mandorallen
announced,  "I declare  him vanquished."  He looked around,  his broadsword
still in his hand. "Would any here gainsay my words?"

There was a vast silence.

"Will some few then remove him from the field?" Mandorallen suggested. "His
injuries do  not appear  grave. A few  months in bed should  make him whole
again." He  turned to  Baron Oltorain, whose  face had grown  visibly pale.
"Well, my Lord," he said cheerfully, "shall we proceed? My companions and I
are impatient to continue our journey."

Sir Oltorain was thrown to the ground on the first charge and broke his leg
as he fell.

"Ill luck,  my Lord," Mandorallen observed,  approaching on foot with drawn
sword. "Dost thou yield?"

"I cannot  stand," Oltorain  said from between  clenched teeth. "I  have no
choice but to yield."

"And I and my companions may continue our journey?"

"Ye may freely depart," the man on the ground replied painfully.

"Not just  yet," a  harsh voice interrupted.  The armored Murgo  pushed his
horse through  the crowd of other mounted knights  until he was directly in
front of Mandorallen.

"I  thought he  might  decide to  interfere,"  Aunt Pol  said quietly.  She
dismounted and  stepped out onto the hoof churned  course. "Move out of the
way, Mandorallen," she told the knight.

"Nay, my Lady," Mandorallen protested.

Wolf barked sharply. "Move, Mandorallen!"

Mandorallen looked startled and stepped aside.

"Well,   Grolim?"   Aunt   Pol   challenged,   pushing   back   her   hood.

The mounted  man's eyes widened as  he saw the white  lock in her hair, and
then he  raised his  hand almost despairingly, muttering  rapidly under his
breath.

Once again  Garion felt that  strange surge, and the  hollow roaring filled
his mind.

For an  instant Aunt Pol's figure  seemed surrounded by a  kind of greenish
light. She  waved her  hand indifferently, and the  light disappeared. "You
must  be out of  practice," she told  him. "Would  you like to  try again?"

The Grolim raised both hands this time, but got no further. Maneuvering his
horse carefully behind the armored man, Durnik had closed on him. With both
hands he raised his axe and smashed it down directly on top of the Grolim's
helmet.

"Durnikl" Aunt Pol shouted. "Get away!"

But  the smith,  his  face set  grimly, swung  again,  and the  Grolim slid
senseless from his saddle with a crash.

"You fool!" Aunt Pol raged. "What do you think you're doing?"

"He was attacking you, Mistress Pol," Durnik explained, his eyes still hot.

"Get down off that horse."

He slid down.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" she demanded. "He could have
killed you."

"I will  protect you, Mistress Pol," Durnik  replied stubbornly. "I'm not a
warrior  or  a  magician,  but  I  won't  let  anybody try  to  hurt  you."

Her eyes widened in  surprise for an instant, then narrowed, then softened.
Garion, who  had known her from childhood,  recognized her rapid changes of
emotion. Without  warning she  suddenly embraced the  startled Durnik. "You
great,  clumsy, dear  fool," she said.  "Never do  that again -  never! You
almost made my heart stop."

Garion looked away with a strange lump in his throat and saw the brief, sly
smile that flickered across Mister Wolf's face.

A peculiar change had come over the knights lining the sides of the course.
Several of them were  looking around with the amazed expressions of men who
had just been roused  from some terrible dream. Others seemed suddenly lost
in thought. Sir Oltorain struggled to rise.

"Nay, my Lord," Mandorallen  told him, pressing him gently back down. "Thou
wilt do thyself injury."

"What have we done?" the baron groaned, his face anguished.

Mister Wolf dismounted and knelt beside the injured man.

"It wasn't  your fault," he informed  the baron. "Your war  was the Murgo's
doing. He twisted your minds and set you on each other."

"Sorcery?" Oltorain gasped, his face growing pale.

Wolf nodded. "He's not really a Murgo, but a Grolim priest."

"And the spell is now broken?"

Wolf nodded again, glancing at the unconscious Grolim.

"Chain the Murgo," the  baron ordered the assembled knights. He looked back
at Wolf. "We have ways of dealing with sorcerers," he said grimly. "We will
use the  occasion to  celebrate the end  of our unnatural  war. This Grolim
sorcerer hath cast his last enchantment."

"Good," Wolf replied with a bleak smile.

"Sir Mandorallen,"  Baron Oltorain  said, wincing as he  shifted his broken
leg, "in  what way may we repay thee and thy  companions for bringing us to
our senses?"

"That  peace  hath been  restored  is reward  enough," Mandorallen  replied
somewhat  pompously,  "for,  as   all  the  world  knows,  I  am  the  most
peace-loving man in the kingdom." He glanced once at Lelldorin lying nearby
on  the ground  in his  litter, and a  thought seemed  to occur to  him. "I
would, however, ask a boon of thee. We have in our company a brave Asturian
youth of  noble family  who hath suffered  grievous injury. We  would leave
him, if we might, in thy care."

"His  presence   shall  honor  me,  Sir   Mandorallen,"  Oltorain  assented
immediately. "The  women of my household will  care for him most tenderly."
He  spoke briefly to  one of his  retainers, and  the man mounted  and rode
quickly toward one of the nearby castles.

"You're not going to leave me behind," Lelldorin protested weakly. "I'll be
able   to  ride   in  a  day   or  so."   He  began  to   cough  rackingly.

"I think  not," Mandorallen disagreed with  a cool expression. "The results
of thy wounding have not yet run their natural course."

"I  won't stay  with Mimbrates,"  Lelldorin insisted.  "I'd rather  take my
chances on the road."

"Young Lelldorin,"  Mandorallen replied bluntly, even  harshly, "I know thy
distaste  for the  men of Mimbre.  Thy wound,  however, will soon  begin to
abscess and then suppurate, and raging fever and delirium will aflict thee,
making thy  presence a  burden upon us.  We have not  the time  to care for
thee, and thy sore need would delay us in our quest."

Garion gasped at the  brutal directness of the knight's words. He glared at
Mandorallen with something very close to hatred.

Lelldorin's face meanwhile had gone white. "Thank you for pointing that out
to  me, Sir  Mandorallen," he  said stiffly.  "I should have  considered it
myself. If you'll help me to my horse, I'll leave immediately."

"You'll   stay  right   where  you   are,"  Aunt   Pol  told   him  flatly.

Baron Oltorain's retainer returned with a group of household servants and a
blonde girl of about seventeen wearing a rose-colored gown of stiff brocade
and a velvet cloak of teal.

"My  younger  sister,  Lady  Ariana,"  Oltorain introduced  her.  "She's  a
spirited girl,  and though she is  young she is already  well-versed in the
care of the sick."

"I  won't trouble  her  for long,  my Lord,"  Lelldorin declared.  "I'll be
returning to Asturia within a week."

Lady Ariana  laid a professional  hand to his forehead.  "Nay, good youth,"
she disagreed. "Thy visit, I think, will be protracted."

"I'll   leave   within    the   week,"   Lelldorin   repeated   stubbornly.

She shrugged. "As it  please thee. I expect that my brother will be able to
spare some  few servants to follow  after thee to provide  thee that decent
burial which,  if I misjudge not,  thou wilt require before  thou hast gone
ten leagues."

Lelldorin blinked.

Aunt Pol  took Lady Ariana to  one side and spoke  with her at some length,
giving  her a  small packet  of herbs  and certain  instructions. Lelldorin
motioned to Garion, and Garion went to him immediately and knelt beside the
litter.

"So it  ends," the  young man murmured.  "I wish I  could go  on with you."

"You'll be  well in  no time at  all," Garion assured him,  knowing that it
wasn't true. "Maybe you can catch up with us later."

Lelldorin shook his head. "No," he disagreed, "I'm afraid not." He began to
cough again,  the spasms seeming to tear at his  lungs. "We don't have much
time,   my   friend,"   he    gasped   weakly,   "so   listen   carefully."

Garion, near tears, took his friend's hand.

"You  remember what  we were talking  about that  morning after we  left my
uncle's house?"

Garion nodded.

"You said that I  was the one who'd have to decide if  we were to break our
pledge to Torasin and the others to keep silent."

"I remember," Garion told him.

"All right," Lelldorin said. "I've decided. I release you from your pledge.
Do what you have to do."

"It  would  be  better  if  you  told  my grandfather  about  it  yourself,
Lelldorin," Garion protested.

"I can't, Garion," Lelldorin  groaned. "The words would stick in my throat.
I'm sorry, but it's the way I am. I know that Nachak's only using us, but I
gave  the others  my word.  I'm an  Arend, Garion.  I'll keep my  word even
though I know  it's wrong, so it's up to you. You're  going to have to keep
Nachak from  destroying my country. I  want you to go  straight to the king
himself."

"To the king? He'd never believe me."

"Make him believe you. Tell him everything."

Garion shook  his head firmly. "I  won't tell him your  name," he declared,
"or Torasin's. You know what he'd do to you if I did."

"We don't matter," Lelldorin insisted, coughing again.

"I'll tell  him about Nachak," Garion said  stubbornly, "but not about you.
Where do I tell him to find the Murgo?"

"He'll  know," Lelldorin replied,  his voice  very weak now.  "Nachak's the
ambassador to  the court at Vo Mimbre.  He's the personal representative of
Taur Urggs, King of the Murgos."

Garion was stunned at the implications of that.

"He's got  all the  gold from the  bottomless mines of Cthol  Murgos at his
command," Lelldorin continued. "The plot he gave my friends and me could be
just one of a  dozen or more all aimed at destroying Arendia. You've got to
stop him, Garion. Promise me." The pale young man's eyes were feverish, and
his grip on Garion's hand tightened.

"I'll stop  him, Lelldorin," Garion vowed.  "I don't know how  yet, but one
way or another, I'll stop him."

Lelldorin sank  weakly back on the litter, his  strength seeming to run out
as if  the necessity  for extracting that  promise had been  the only thing
sustaining him.

"Good-bye, Lelldorin," Garion said softly, his eyes filling with tears.

"Good-bye, my  friend," Lelldorin barely more  than whispered, and then his
eyes closed, and the hand gripping Garion's went limp. Garion stared at him
with a  dreadful fear  until he saw the  faint flutter of his  pulse in the
hollow of  his throat. Lelldorin was  still alive - if  only barely. Garion
tenderly put  down his friend's hand  and pulled the rough  gray blanket up
around his  shoulders. Then he stood up and  walked quickly away with tears
running down his cheeks.

The rest of the farewells were brief, and they remounted and rode at a trot
toward  the Great West  Road. There were  a few  cheers from the  serfs and
pikemen as  they passed, but in  the distance there was  another sound. The
women  from the villages  had come out  to search  for their men  among the
bodies littering the field,  and their wails and shrieks mocked the cheers.

With deliberate  purpose, Garion pushed his horse  forward until he drew in
beside Mandorallen.  "I have something to say to  you," he said hotly. "You
aren't going to like it, but I don't really care."

"Oh?" the knight replied mildly.

"I  think  the  way  you talked  to  Lelldorin  back  there  was cruel  and
disgusting," Garion  told him. "You might  think you're the greatest knight
in  the world,  but I  think you're  a loud-mouthed  braggart with  no more
compassion than  a block  of stone, and if  you don't like it,  what do you
plan to do about it?"

"Ah,"  Mandorallen said. "That!  I think  that thou hast  misunderstood, my
young  friend. It  was necessary in  order to  save his life.  The Asturian
youth is very brave and so gives no thought to himself. Had I not spoken so
to him,  he would  surely have insisted  upon continuing with  us and would
soon have died."

"Died?" Garion scoffed. "Aunt Pol could have cured him."

"It  was the  Lady Polgara  herself who  informed me  that his life  was in
danger,"  Mandorallen replied.  "His  honor would  not permit  him  to seek
proper care,  but that same honor prevailed upon  him to remain behind lest
he delay  us." The knight smiled wryly. "He will, I  think, be no fonder of
me  for my  words than  thou art,  but he  will be  alive, and  that's what
matters, is it not?"

Garion stared  at the arrogant-seeming Mimbrate,  his anger suddenly robbed
of its  target. With  painful clarity he  realized that he had  just made a
fool of  himself. "I'm sorry," he  apologized grudgingly. "I didn't realize
what you were doing."

Mandorallen shrugged. "It's not important. I'm frequently misunderstood. As
long as I know that my motives are good, however, I'm seldom very concerned
with the  opinions of others. I'm glad, though,  that I had the opportunity
to explain  this to thee. Thou art to be  my companion, and it ill-behooves
companions to have misapprehensions about each other."

They rode on in silence as Garion struggled to readjust his thinking. There
was,  it   seemed,  much  more  to   Mandorallen  than  he  had  suspected.

They reached  the highway then  and turned south again  under a threatening
sky.





Chapter Eight

THE ARENDISH PLAIN WAS A VAST, rolling grassland Only sparsely settled. The
wind sweeping  across the dried grass was  raw and chill, and dirty-looking
clouds scudded overhead as they rode. The necessity for leaving the injured
Lelldorin behind had put  them all into a melancholy mood, and for the most
part they traveled in silence for the next several days. Garion rode at the
rear  with Hettar  and the  packhorses, doing  his best  to stay  away from
Mandorallen.

Hettar was  a silent man who seemed undisturbed  by hours of riding without
conversation; but  after two days of this,  Garion made a deliberate effort
to draw the hawk-faced Algar out.

"Why is  it that  you hate Murgos  so much, Hettar?"  he asked  for want of
something better to say.

"All Alorns hate Murgos," Hettar answered quietly.

"Yes," Garion  admitted, "but it  seems to be something  personal with you.
Why is that?"

Hettar shifted  in his saddle, his  leather clothing creaking. "They killed
my parents," he replied.

Garion felt a sudden shock as the Algar's words struck a responsive note.

"How did  it happen?" he asked before he  realized that Hettar might prefer
not to talk about it.

"I was  seven," Hettar told him in an unemotional  voice. "We were going to
visit my  mother's family - she  was from a different  clan. We had to pass
near  the  eastern escarpment,  and  a  Murgo raiding-party  caught us.  My
mother's horse  stumbled, and she was thrown. The  Murgos were on us before
my father and I  could get her back on her horse. They  took a long time to
kill my  parents. I remember that  my mother screamed once,  near the end."
The Algar's  face was as bleak as rock, and his  flat, quiet voice made his
story seem that much more dreadful.

"After  my parents were  dead, the Murgos  tied a  rope around my  feet and
dragged  me behind  one  of their  horses,"  he continued.  "When the  rope
finally broke,  they thought I was  dead, and they all  rode off. They were
laughing about  it as I recall.  Cho-Hag found me a  couple of days later."

As clearly  as if  he had been there,  Garion had a momentary  picture of a
child, dreadfully injured and  alone, wandering in the emptiness of eastern
Algaria  with  only  grief   and  a  terrible  hatred  keeping  him  alive.

"I killed my  first Murgo when I was ten," Hettar went  on in the same flat
voice. "He  was trying  to escape from  us, and I  rode him down  and put a
javelin between  his shoulders.  He screamed when the  javelin went through
him. That made me feel better. Cho-Hag thought that if he made me watch the
Murgo  die, it  might  cure me  of the  hatred.  He was  wrong  about that,
though."  The tall  Algar's face  was expressionless, and  his wind-whipped
scalp lock tossed and  flowed out behind him. There was a kind of emptiness
about  him  as if  he  were  devoid of  any  feeling but  that one  driving
compulsion.

For an instant Garion dimly understood what Mister Wolf had been driving at
when he had warned  about the danger of becoming obsessed with a desire for
revenge, but  he pushed  the notion out  of his mind. If  Hettar could live
with it,  so could he. He  felt a sudden fierce  admiration for this lonely
hunter in black leather.

Mister Wolf was deep  in conversation with Mandorallen, and the two of them
loitered until Hettar and  Garion caught up with them. For a time they rode
along together.

"It  is our  nature,"  the knight  in his  gleaming armor  was saying  in a
melancholy voice.  "We are over-proud, and  it is our pride  that dooms our
poor Arendia to internecine war."

"That can be cured," Mister Wolf said.

"How?"  Mandorallen  asked. "It  is  in our  blood.  I myself  am the  most
peaceful of  men, but even I am subject  to our national disease. Moreover,
our divisions are too  great, too buried in our history and our souls to be
purged away.  The peace will not last, my  friend. Even now Asturian arrows
sing in the forests, seeking Mimbrate targets, and Mimbre in reprisal burns
Asturian  houses  and  butchers  hostages.  War  is  inevitable,  I  fear."

"No," Wolf disagreed, "it's not."

"How  may  it  be  prevented?"  Mandorallen  demanded. "Who  can  cure  our
insanity?"

"I will, if I  have to," Wolf told him quietly, pushing back his gray hood.

Mandorallen smiled wanly. "I appreciate thy good intentions, Belgarath, but
that is impossible, even for thee."

"Nothing is actually impossible, Mandorallen," Wolf answered in a matter-of
fact voice. "Most of the time I prefer not to interfere with other people's
amusements, but I can't afford to have Arendia going up in flames just now.
If  I have  to,  I'll step  in and  put  a stop  to any  more foolishness."

"Hast thou in truth such power?" Mandorallen asked somewhat wistfully as if
he could not quite bring himself to believe it.

"Yes," Wolf replied prosaically, scratching at his short white beard, "as a
matter of fact, I do."

Mandorallen's face  grew troubled, even a  bit awed at the  old man's quiet
statement,  and  Garion  found  his  grandfather's  declaration  profoundly
disturbing. If Wolf could actually stop a war single-handedly, he'd have no
difficulty  at  all  thwarting  Garion's  own  plans for  revenge.  It  was
something else to worry about.

Then  Silk  rode back  toward  them.  "The Great  Fair's  just ahead,"  the
rat-faced man  announced. "Do we want  to stop, or should  we go around it.

"We might  as well stop," Wolf  decided. "It's almost evening,  and we need
some supplies."

"The horses  could use some  rest, too," Hettar said.  "They're starting to
complain."

"You  should have  told me," Wolf  said, glancing  back at the  pack train.

"They're not  really in bad  shape yet," Hettar informed  him, "but they're
starting to feel sorry  for themselves. They're exaggerating of course, but
a little rest wouldn't hurt them."

"Exaggerating?" Silk  sounded shocked.  "You don't mean to  say that horses
can actually lie, do you?"

Hettar shrugged.  "Of course. They lie  all the time. They're  very good at
it."

For  a moment  Silk looked outraged  at the  thought, and then  he suddenly
laughed. "Somehow that restores  my faith in the order of the universe," he
declared.

Wolf looked pained. "Silk," he said pointedly, "you're a very evil man. Did
you know that?"

"One does one's best," Silk replied mockingly.

The Arendish  Fair lay at the  intersection of the Great  West Road and the
mountain track  leading down out of  Ulgoland. It was a  vast collection of
blue,  red and yellow  tents and  broad-striped pavilions stretching  for a
league or more in every direction. It appeared like a brightly hued city in
the  midst of  the  dun-colored plain,  and its  brilliant  pennons snapped
bravely in the endless wind under a lowering sky.

"I hope I'll have  time to do some business," Silk said as they rode down a
long hill toward the  Fair. The little man's sharp nose was twitching. "I'm
starting to get out of practice."

A half dozen mud-smeared  beggars crouched miserably beside the road, their
hands outstretched. Mandorallen paused and scattered some coins among them.

"You shouldn't encourage them," Barak growled.

"Charity  is both  a  duty and  a  privilege, my  Lord Barak,"  Mandorallen
replied.

"Why don't  they build houses  here?" Garion asked Silk  as they approached
the central part of the Fair.

"Nobody stays here that long," Silk explained. "The Fair's always here, but
the population's  very fluid. Besides, buildings  are taxed; tents aren't."

Many of  the merchants who came out of their tents  to watch the party pass
seemed to know Silk, and some of them greeted him warily, suspicion plainly
written on their faces.

"I see  that your  reputation's preceded you, Silk,"  Barak observed dryly.

Silk shrugged. "The price of fame."

"Isn't  there some  danger  that somebody'll  recognize you  as  that other
merchant?" Durnik asked. "The one the Murgos are looking for?"

"You mean  Ambar? It's not very likely. Ambar  doesn't come to Arendia very
often, and he and Radek don't look a bit alike."

"But they're the same man," Durnik objected. "They're both you."

"Ah," Silk  said, raising one finger,  "you and I both  know that, but they
don't.  To you  I  always look  like myself,  but  to others  I  look quite
different."

Durnik looked profoundly skeptical.

"Radek, old  friend," a bald  Drasnian merchant called from  a nearby tent.

"Delvor," Silk replied delightedly. "I haven't seen you in years."

"You look prosperous," the bald man observed.

"Getting  by," Silk  responded  modestly. "What  are you  dealing  in now?"

"I've got  a few  Mallorean carpets," Delvor  told him. "Some  of the local
nobles are interested, but  they don't like the price." His hands, however,
were already  speaking of other  matters.-Your uncle sent out  word that we
were to help you  if necessary. Do you need anything?"What are you carrying
in your packs?" he asked aloud.

"Sendarian woolens,"  Silk answered, "and a few  other odds and ends." Have
you seen any Murgos here at the Fair?

-One, but he  left for Vo Mimbre a week ago. There  are some Nadraks on the
far side of the Fair, though

-They're a  long way from home-Silk gestured.  Are they really in business?

It's hard to say-Delvor answered.

-Can you put us up for a day or so?

I'm sure we can work something out Delvor replied with a sly twinkle in his
eyes.

Silk's fingers betrayed his shock at the suggestion.

-Business is  business, after all-Delvor gestured.  "You must come inside,"
he said  aloud. "Take  a cup of  wine, have some  supper. We  have years of
catching up to do."

"We'd be delighted," Silk returned somewhat sourly.

"Could it be that you've met your match, Prince Kheldar?" Aunt Pal inquired
softly with a faint  smile as the little man helped her down from her horse
in front of Delvor's brightly striped pavilion.

"Delvor? Hardly. He's been trying to get even with me for yearsever since a
ploy of mine  in Yar Gorak cost him a fortune. I'll  let him think he's got
me for a  while though. It will make him feel good,  and I'll enjoy it that
much more when I pull the rug out from under him."

She laughed. "You're incorrigible."

He winked at her.

The interior  of Delvor's main pavilion  was ruddy in the  light of several
glowing braziers that put  out a welcome warmth. The floor was covered with
a deep blue carpet, and large red cushions were scattered here and there to
sit  upon. Once  they  were inside,  Silk quickly  made  the introductions.

"I'm honored,  Ancient One," Delvor murmured,  bowing deeply to Mister Wolf
and then to Aunt Pol. "What can I do to help?"

"Right now  we need information more  than anything," Wolf replied, pulling
ofi' his heavy cloak.  "We ran into a Grolim stirring up trouble a few days
north of  here. Can  you nose about  and find out  what's happening between
here and  Vo Mimbre? I'd like  to avoid any more  neighborhood squabbles if
possible."

"I'll make inquiries," Delvor promised.

"I'll be moving around too," Silk said. "Between us, Delvor and I should be
able to sift out most of the loose information in the Fair." Wolf looked at
him inquiringly.

"Radek of  Boktor never passes up a chance to  do business," the little man
explained just a bit  too quickly. "It would look very strange if he stayed
in Delvor's tent."

"I see," Wolf said.

"We wouldn't  want anything  to spoil our  disguise, would we?"  Silk asked
innocently.  His long  nose,  however, was  twitching even  more violently.

Wolf surrendered. "All right. But don't get exotic. I don't want a crowd of
outraged customers outside the  tent in the morning howling for your head."

Delvor's  porters took  the packs from  the spare  horses, and one  of them
showed Hettar the way  to the horse pens on the outskirts of the Fair. Silk
began rummaging through the packs. A myriad of small, expensive items began
to pile up on Delvor's carpet as Silk's quick hands dipped into the corners
and folds of the wool cloth.

"I wondered why you  needed so much money in Camaar," Wolf commented dryly.

"Just part  of the disguise," Silk replied. "Radek  always has a few curios
with him for trade along the way."

"That's a very convenient explanation," Barak observed, "but I wouldn't run
it into the ground if I were you."

"If I  can't double  our old friend's  money in the next  hour, I'll retire
permanently," Silk promised. "Oh,  I almost forgot. I'll need Garion to act
as   a  porter   for   me.  Radek   always  has   at  least   one  porter."

"Try not to corrupt him too much," Aunt Pol said.

Silk bowed  extravagantly and set his  black velvet cap at  a jaunty angle;
with  Garion at  his  heels, carrying  a stout  sack  of his  treasures, he
swaggered out  into the Great Arendish  Fair like a man  going into battle.

A fat  Tolnedran three tents down the  way proved troublesome and succeeded
in getting a jeweled dagger away from Silk for only three times what it was
worth, but two Arendish  merchants in a row bought identical silver goblets
at  prices which,  though  widely different,  more  than made  up for  that
setback. "I  love to deal with Arends," Silk gloated  as they moved on down
the muddy streets between the pavilions.

The sly little Drasnian  moved through the Fair, wreaking havoc as he went.
When he  could not sell, he  bought; when he could  not buy, he traded; and
when he could not trade, he dredged for gossip and information. Some of the
merchants, wiser  than their fellows, saw him  coming and promptly hid from
him.  Garion,  swept  along  by  the  little  man's  enthusiasm,  began  to
understand  his  friend's  fascination  with  this game  where  profit  was
secondary to the satisfaction of besting an opponent.

Silk's  predations were  broadly ecumenical.  He was  willing to  deal with
anyone. He  met them all on their  own ground. Tolnedrans, Arends, Chereks,
fellow Drasnians,  Sendars -  all fell before  him. By midafternoon  he had
disposed of  all of what he  had bought in Camaar.  His full purse jingled,
and the sack on  Garion's shoulder was still as heavy, but now it contained
entirely new merchandise.

Silk, however, was frowning.  He walked along bouncing a small, exquisitely
blown glass  bottle on the palm of his hand.  He had traded two ivory-bound
books of Wacite verse  to a Rivan for the little bottle of perfume. "What's
the  trouble?"  Garion  asked  him  as  they walked  back  toward  Delvor's
pavilions.

"I'm not sure who won," Silk told him shortly.

"What?"

"I don't have any idea what this is worth."

"Why did you take it, then?"

"I didn't want him to know that I didn't know its value."

"Sell it to somebody else."

"How can I sell  it if I don't know what to ask  for it? If I ask too much,
nobody'll talk to  me; and if I ask too little, I'll  be laughed out of the
Fair."

Garion started to chuckle.

"I don't  see that it's all that funny,  Garion," Silk said sensitively. He
remained  moody and  irritable as  they entered  the pavilion.  "Here's the
profit I  promised you,"  he told Mister  Wolf somewhat ungraciously  as he
poured coins into the old man's hand.

"What's bothering  you?" Wolf  asked, eyeing the little  man's grumpy face.

"Nothing," Silk  replied shortly. Then he  glanced over at Aunt  Pol, and a
broad smile suddenly appeared on his face. He crossed to her and bowed. "My
dear Lady  Polgara, please  accept this trifling  memento of my  regard for
you."   With  a  flourish   he  presented   the  perfume  bottle   to  her.

Aunt Pol's look was  a peculiar mixture of pleasure and suspicion. She took
the small bottle and carefully worked out the tightly fitting stopper. Then
with a delicate gesture  she touched the stopper to the inside of her wrist
and raised  the wrist to her  face to catch the  fragrance. "Why, Kheldar,"
she exclaimed with delight, "this is a princely gift."

Silk's smile  turned a bit sickly, and he peered  sharply at her, trying to
determine  if she  was serious  or not.  Then he  sighed and  went outside,
muttering   darkly   to   himself    about   the   duplicity   of   Rivans.

Delvor returned not long afterward, dropped his striped cloak in one corner
and held  out his hands to  one of the glowing braziers.  "As near as I was
able to find out, things are quiet between here and Vo Mimbre," he reported
to Mister  Wolf, "but  five Murgos just  rode into the Fair  with two dozen
Thulls behind them."

Hettar looked up quickly, his hawk face alert.

Wolf frowned. "Did they come from the north or the south?"

"They  claim to  have  come from  Vo Mimbre,  but there's  red clay  on the
Thulls' boots.  I don't think there's any clay  between here and Vo Mimbre,
is there?"

"None," Mandorallen declared firmly. "The only clay in the region is to the
north."

Wolf nodded. "Get Silk  back inside," he told Barak. Barak went to the tent
flap.

"Couldn't it just be a coincidence?" Durnik wondered.

"I don't  think we  want to take  that chance," Wolf  answered. "We'll wait
until the Fair settles down for the night and then slip away."

Silk  came  back  inside,   and  he  and  Delvor  spoke  together  briefly.

"It won't take the Murgos long to find out we've been here," Barak rumbled,
tugging thoughtfully  at his red  beard. "Then we'll have  them dogging our
heels every  step of the way  from here to Vo  Mimbre. Wouldn't it simplify
things if  Hettar, Mandorallen, and I go pick a  fight with them? Five dead
Murgos aren't going to follow anybody."

Hettar nodded with a certain dreadful eagerness.

"I don't  know if that would  set too well with  the Tolnedran legionnaires
who  police  the  Fair,"  Silk  drawled.  "Policemen seem  to  worry  about
unexplained bodies. It upsets their sense of neatness."

Barak shrugged. "It was a thought."

"I think I've got  an idea," Delvor said, pulling on his cloak again. "They
set  up their  tents near  the pavilions  of the  Nadraks. I'll go  do some
business with them." He started toward the tent flap, then paused. "I don't
know if it means  anything," he told them, "but I found out that the leader
is a Murgo named Asharak."

Garion felt a sudden chill at the mention of the name.

Barak  whistled and  looked  suddenly very  grim. "We're  going to  have to
attend   to   that  one   sooner   or  later,   Belgarath,"  he   declared.

"You know him?" Delvor did not seem very surprised.

"We've met a time or two," Silk replied in an offhand way.

"He's starting to make a nuisance of himself," Aunt Pol agreed.

"I'll get started," Delvor said.

Garion lifted  the tent  flap to allow  Delvor to leave; but  as he glanced
outside, he let out a startled gasp and jerked the flap shut again.

"What's the matter?" Silk asked him.

"I think I just saw Brill out there in the street."

"Let me see," Durnik said. His fingers parted the flap slightly, and he and
Garion  both peered  out. A  slovenly figure  loitered in the  muddy street
outside. Brill  had not changed  much since they'd left  Faldor's farm. His
tunic and hose were still patched and stained; his face was still unshaven,
and  his cast  eye  still gleamed  with  a kind  of unwholesome  whiteness.

"It's Brill,  all right,"  Durnik confirmed. "He's  close enough for  me to
smell him."

Delvor looked at the smith inquiringly.

"Brill bathes  irregularly," Durnik  explained. "He's a fragrant  sort of a
fellow."

"May  I?" Delvor  asked politely.  He glanced  out over  Durnik's shoulder.
"Ah," he  said, "that one. He  works for the Nadraks.  I thought that was a
little  strange,  but he  didn't  seem  important, so  I  didn't bother  to
investigate."

"Durnik," Wolf said quickly,  "step outside for a moment. Make sure he sees
you, but  don't let him know  that you know he's  there. After he sees you,
come  back   inside.  Hurry.   We  don't  want   to  let  him   get  away."

Durnik looked baffled, but he lifted the tent flap and stepped out.

"What are  you up to, father?"  Aunt Pol asked rather  sharply. "Don't just
stand there smirking, old man. That's very irritating."

"It's    perfect,"   Wolf    chortled,   rubbing   his    hands   together.

Durnik came  back in, his face worried. "He saw  me," he reported. "Are you
sure this is a good idea?"

"Of  course," Wolf replied.  "Asharak's obviously  here because of  us, and
he's going to be looking all over the Fair for us."

"Why make it easy for him?" Aunt Pol asked.

"We  won't,"  Wolf  replied.  "Asharak's used  Brill  before  - in  Murgos,
remember? He  brought Brill down here because  Brill would recognize you or
me or  Durnik or Garion -  probably Barak too, and  maybe Silk. Is he still
out there?"

Garion peered  out through  the narrow opening.  After a moment  he saw the
unkempt Brill half hidden  between two tents across the street. "He's still
there," he answered.

"We'll want  to keep him there," Wolf said. "We'll have  to be sure that he
doesn't get  bored and  go back to  report to Asharak that  he's found us."

Silk looked at Delvor, and they both began to laugh.

"What's funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously.

"You  almost have  to be  a Drasnian  to appreciate  it," Silk  replied. He
looked at Wolf admiringly. "Sometimes you amaze me, old friend."

Mister Wolf winked at him.

"Thy plan still escapes me," Mandorallen confessed.

"May I?" Silk asked Wolf. He turned back to the knight. "It goes like this,
Mandorallen. Asharak's counting on Brill to find us for him, but as long as
we keep  Brill interested  enough, he'll delay  going back to  tell Asharak
where we  are. We've captured Asharak's eyes, and that  puts him at quite a
disadvantage."

"But will this curious  Sendar not follow us as soon as we leave the tent?"
Mandorallen  asked.  "When  we  ride from  the  Fair,  the  Murgos will  be
immediately behind us."

"The back  wall of the tent is only  canvas, Mandorallen," Silk pointed out
gently. "With a sharp  knife you can make as many doors in it as you like."

Delvor winced slightly, then  sighed. "I'll go see the Murgos," he said. "I
think I can delay them even more."

"Durnik and  I'll go out with you," Silk told his  bald friend. "You go one
way, and  we'll go another. Brill will follow us, and  we can lead him back
here."

Delvor nodded, and the three of them went out.

"Isn't  all this  unnecessarily  complicated?" Barak  asked sourly.  "Brill
doesn't know  Hettar. Why  not just have  Hettar slip out  the back, circle
around behind him, and  stick a knife between his ribs? Then we could stuff
him in a  sack and drop him in a ditch somewhere  after we leave the Fair."

Wolf shook  his head. "Asharak would miss him," he  replied. "I want him to
tell the Murgos that we're in this tent. With any luck, they'll sit outside
for a day or so before they realize that we're gone."

For the  next several hours various members of the  party went out into the
street in  front of the tent on short and  wholly imaginary errands to hold
the  attention of  the  lurking Brill.  When  Garion stepped  out into  the
gathering  darkness, he  put  on a  show  of unconcern,  although his  skin
prickled as he felt  Brill's eyes on him. He went into Delvor's supply tent
and waited  for several minutes.  The noise from a  tavern pavilion several
rows of tents over seemed very loud in the growing stillness of the Fair as
Garion waited  nervously in  the dark supply  tent. Finally he  drew a deep
breath  and went  out  again, one  arm tucked  up  as if  he  were carrying
something.  "I found  it, Durnik,"  he announced  as he reentered  the main
pavilion.

"There's no need to improvise, dear," Aunt Pol remarked.

"I just wanted to sound natural," he replied innocently.

Delvor returned soon after that, and they all waited in the warm tent as it
grew  darker outside  and  the streets  emptied.  Once it  was fully  dark,
Delvor's porters  pulled the  packs out through  a slit in the  back of the
tent.  Silk, Delvor, and  Hettar went with  them to  the horse pens  on the
outskirts of  the Fair  while the rest  remained long enough  to keep Brill
from losing  interest. In a final attempt  at misdirection, Mister Wolf and
Barak went outside to discuss the probable conditions of the road to Prolgu
in Ulgoland.

"It might  not work," Wolf admitted as he and  the big red-bearded man came
back inside. "Asharak's sure  to know that we're following Zedar south, but
if Brill tells him that we're going to Prolgu, it might make him divide his
forces to cover both  roads." He looked around the inside of the tent. "All
right," he said. "Let's go."

One by one  they squeezed out through the slit in the  back of the tent and
crept into  the next  street. Then, walking  at a normal  pace like serious
people  on honest  business,  they proceeded  toward the  horse  pens. They
passed the tavern pavilion where several men were singing. The streets were
mostly  empty by  now,  and the  night breeze  brushed  the city  of tents,
fluttering the pennons and banners.

Then they reached the edge of the Fair where Silk, Delvor and Hettar waited
with their mounts.

"Good luck," Delvor said  as they prepared to mount. "I'll delay the Murgos
for as long as I can."

Silk shook  his friend's hand. "I'd still like to  know where you got those
lead coins."

Delvor winked at him.

"What's this?" Wolf asked.

"Delvor's got  some Tolnedran crowns stamped out  of lead and gilded over,"
Silk  told him.  "He hid  some of  them in  the Murgos' tent,  and tomorrow
morning he's going to  go to the legionnaires with a few of them and accuse
the Murgos of passing  them. When the legionnaires search the Murgos' tent,
they're sure to find the others."

"Money's  awfully  important  to   Tolnedrans,"  Barak  observed.  "If  the
legionnaires get excited enough about those coins, they might start hanging
people."

Delvor smirked. "Wouldn't that be a terrible shame?"

They mounted then and  rode away from the horse pens toward the highway. It
was  a cloudy  night, and  once they were  out in  the open the  breeze was
noticeably brisk. Behind them the Fair gleamed and twinkled under the night
sky like some vast city.

Garion drew  his cloak about him.  It was a lonely feeling  to be on a dark
road on a windy  night when everyone else in the world had a fire and a bed
and walls around him. Then they reached the Great West Road stretching pale
and empty  across the dark, rolling Arendish  plain and turned south again.





Chapter Nine

THE WIND PICKED UP AGAIN shortly before dawn and was blowing briskly by the
time the  sky over the low  foothills to the east  began to lighten. Garion
was numb  with exhaustion by then, and his mind  had drifted into an almost
dreamlike trance. The faces  of his companions all seemed strange to him as
the pale  light began  to grow stronger.  At times he even  forgot why they
rode. He seemed caught  in a company of grim-faced strangers pounding along
a  road  to  nowhere  through a  bleak,  featureless  landscape with  their
wind-whipped cloaks  flying dark  behind them like the  clouds scudding low
and  dirty  overhead. A  peculiar  idea  began to  take  hold  of him.  The
strangers were somehow his  captors, and they were taking him away from his
real friends.  The idea seemed to grow stronger  the farther they rode, and
he began to be afraid.

Suddenly,  without  knowing  why,  he wheeled  his  horse  and broke  away,
plunging  off the side  of the road  and across  the open field  beside it.

"Garion!" a woman's voice  called sharply from behind, but he set his heels
to  his  horse's  flanks  and sped  even  faster  across  the rough  field.

One  of them was  chasing him, a  frightening man  in black leather  with a
shaved head and a dark lock at his crown flowing behind him in the wind. In
a  panic Garion  kicked at  his horse,  trying to  make the beast  run even
faster, but the fearsome rider behind him closed the gap quickly and seized
the reins from his hands.

"What are you doing?" he demanded harshly.

Garion stared at him, unable to answer.

Then the  woman in the blue cloak was there, and  the others not far behind
her. She dismounted quickly and stood looking at him with a stern face. She
was tall  for a  woman, and her face  was cold and imperious.  Her hair was
very   dark,  and   there   was  a   single   white  lock   at  her   brow.

Garion trembled. The woman made him terribly afraid.

"Get down off that horse," she commanded.

"Gently,  Pol,"   a  silvery-haired  old  man   with  an  evil  face  said.

A  huge  red-bearded giant  rode  closer, threatening,  and Garion,  almost
sobbing with fright, slid down from his horse.

"Come here," the woman ordered.

Falteringly, Garion approached her.

"Give me your hand," she said.

Hesitantly, he  lifted his hand and  she took his wrist  firmly. She opened
his fingers  to reveal the ugly  mark on his palm  that he seemed to always
have  hated and  then  put his  hand against  the white  lock in  her hair.

"Aunt Pol,"  he gasped, the  nightmare suddenly dropping away.  She put her
arms about  him tightly and held  him for some time.  Strangely, he was not
even  embarrassed by  that  display of  affection in  front of  the others.

"This is serious, father," she told Mister Wolf.

"What happened, Garion?" Wolf asked, his voice calm.

"I don't know," Garion  replied. "I was as if I didn't know any of you, and
you were my enemies, and all I wanted to do was run away to try to get back
to my real friends."

"Are you still wearing the amulet I gave you?"

"Yes."

"Have   you  had  it   off  at  any   time  since   I  gave  it   to  you?"

"Just once," Garion admitted. "When I took a bath in the Tolnedran hostel."

Wolf sighed.  "You can't  take it off,"  he said, "not  ever -  not for any
reason. Take it out from under your tunic."

Garion drew  out the silver pendant with the strange  design on it. The old
man took  a medallion out from under his own tunic.  It was very bright and
there was upon it  the figure of a standing wolf so lifelike that it looked
almost ready to lope away.

Aunt Pol, her one arm still about Garion's shoulders, drew a similar amulet
out of her bodice. Upon the disc of her medallion was the figure of an owl.
"Hold it in your right hand, dear," she instructed, firmly closing Garion's
fingers over  the pendant. Then, holding her amulet  in her own right hand,
she  placed her  left hand  over his  closed fist.  Wolf, also  holding his
talisman, put his hand on theirs.

Garion's palm began to tingle as if the pendant were suddenly alive. Mister
Wolf and Aunt Pol  looked at each other for a long moment, and the tingling
in Garion's hand suddenly  became very strong. His mind seemed to open, and
strange things flickered before  his eyes. He saw a round room very high up
somewhere. A fire burned, but there was no wood in it. At a table there was
seated an  old man who looked  somewhat like Mister Wolf  but obviously was
someone else. He seemed to be looking directly at Garion, and his eyes were
kindly, even affectionate. Garion was suddenly overwhelmed with a consuming
love for the old man.

"That should be enough," Wolf judged, releasing Garion's hand.

"Who was the old man?" Garion asked.

"My Master," Wolf replied.

"What happened?" Durnik asked, his face concerned.

"It's probably  better not to talk about it," Aunt  Pol said. "Do you think
you could build a fire? It's time for breakfast."

"There are some trees  over there where we can get out of the wind," Durnik
suggested.

They all remounted and rode toward the trees.

After they  had eaten,  they sat by the  small fire for a  while. They were
tired, and none of them felt quite up to facing the blustery morning again.
Garion felt particularly exhausted, and he wished that he were young enough
to sit  close beside Aunt  Pol and perhaps to  put his head in  her lap and
sleep as  he had  done when he was  very young. The strange  thing that had
happened made  him feel very much alone and  more than a little frightened.
"Durnik,"  he said,  more  to drive  the mood  away  than out  of  any real
curiosity. "What sort of bird is that?" He pointed.

"A raven,  I think,"  Durnik answered, looking  at the bird  circling above
them.

"I thought so too,"  Garion said, "but they don't usually circle, do they?"

Durnik frowned. "Maybe it's watching something on the ground."

"How  long has it  been up there?"  Wolf asked,  squinting up at  the large
bird.

"I think I first  saw it when we were crossing the field." Garion told him.

Mister   Wolf   glanced  over   at   Aunt   Pol.  "What   do  you   think?"

She looked  up from one of  Garion's stockings she had  been mending. "I'll
see." Her face took on a strange, probing expression.

Garion felt  a peculiar tingling again. On an impulse  he tried to push his
own mind out toward the bird.

"Garion,"   Aunt   Pol  said   without   looking  at   him,  "stop   that."

"I'm  sorry," he  apologized  quickly and  pulled  his mind  back where  it
belonged.

Mister Wolf  looked at him with  a strange expression, then  winked at him.

"It's Chamdar," Aunt Pol  announced calmly. She carefully pushed her needle
into the  stocking and  set it aside. Then  she stood up and  shook off her
blue cloak.

"What have you got in mind?" Wolf asked.

"I think  I'll go  have a little  chat with him," she  replied, flexing her
fingers like talons.

"You'd never  catch him,"  Wolf told her.  "Your feathers are  too soft for
this kind of wind.  There's an easier way." The old man swept the windy sky
with a  searching gaze. "Over there." He pointed  at a barely visible speck
above the  hills to the west.  "You'd better do it,  Pol. I don't get along
with birds."

"Of  course, father,"  she agreed.  She looked  intently at the  speck, and
Garion felt  the tingle as she sent her mind out  again. The speck began to
circle, rising higher and higher until it disappeared.

The raven  did not  see the plummeting  eagle until the  last instant, just
before the  larger bird's talons struck.  There was a sudden  puff of black
feathers, and  the raven, screeching with  fright, flapped wildly away with
the eagle in pursuit.

"Nicely done, Pol," Wolf approved.

"It  will give  him something  to think  about." She smiled.  "Don't stare,
Durnik."

Durnik was gaping at her, his mouth open. "How did you do that?"

"Do you really want to know?" she asked.

Durnik shuddered and looked away quickly.

"I think  that just about  settles it," Wolf said.  "Disguises are probably
useless  now. I'm  not  sure what  Chamdar's up  to, but  he's going  to be
watching us every step  of the way. We might as well arm ourselves and ride
straight on to Vo Mimbre."

"Aren't   we   going   to  follow   the   trail   anymore?"  Barak   asked.

"The trail goes south," Wolf replied. "I can pick it up again once we cross
over into Tolnedra.  But first I want to stop by and  have a word with King
Korodullin. There are some things he needs to know."

"Korodullin?"  Durnik looked puzzled.  "Wasn't that  the name of  the first
Arendish king? It seems to me somebody told me that once."

"All Arendish  kings are named Korodullin," Silk  told him. "And the queens
are all  named Mayaserana. It's part  of the fiction the  royal family here
maintains  to keep  the kingdom from  flying apart.  They have to  marry as
closely within  the bloodline as  possible to maintain the  illusion of the
unification of  the houses of Mimbre  and Asturia. It makes  them all a bit
sickly, but  there's no  help for it  - considering the  peculiar nature of
Arendish politics."

"All right, Silk," Aunt Pol said reprovingly.

Mandorallen looked  thoughtful. "Could it be that  this Chamdar who so dogs
our steps is one of great substance in the dark society of the Grolims?" he
asked.

"He'd like to be," Wolf answered. "Zedar and Ctuchik are Torak's disciples,
and Chamdar wants to  be one as well. He's always been Ctuchik's agent, but
he may believe that  this is his chance to move up in the Grolim hierarchy.
Ctuchik's very  old, and he spends  all his time in  the temple of Torak at
Rak Cthol.  Maybe Chamdar  thinks it's time  that someone else  became High
Priest."

"Is Torak's body at Rak Cthol?" Silk asked quickly.

Mister Wolf  shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure, but  I doubt it. After Zedar
carried him away from the battlefield at Vo Mimbre, I don't think he'd have
just handed  him over to Ctuchik.  He could be in  Mallorea or somewhere in
the southern reaches of Cthol Murgos. It's hard to say."

"But  at  the moment,  Chamdar's  the one  we  have to  worry about,"  Silk
concluded.

"Not if we keep moving," Wolf told him.

"We'd better get moving then," Barak said, standing up.

By midmorning  the heavy clouds had begun to break  up, and patches of blue
sky showed here and there. Enormous pillars of sunlight stalked ponderously
across the  rolling fields that  waited, damp and expectant,  for the first
touches of  spring. With Mandorallen in  the lead they had  ridden hard and
had  covered a good  six leagues. Finally  they slowed  to a walk  to allow
their steaming horses to rest.

"How much  farther is it to Vo  Mimbre, grandfather?" Garion asked, pulling
his horse in beside Mister Wolf.

"Sixty leagues at least," Wolf answered. "Probably closer to eighty."

"That's a long way." Garion winced as he shifted in his saddle.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I ran away like that back there," Garion apologized.

"It wasn't your fault. Chamdar was playing games."

"Why did  he pick me? Couldn't  he have done the same  thing to Durnik - or
Barak?"

Mister Wolf looked at him. "You're younger, more susceptible."

"That's not really it, is it?" Garion accused.

"No," Wolf admitted, "not really, but it's an answer, of sorts."

"This is  another one  of those things  you aren't going to  tell me, isn't
it?"

"I suppose you could say that," Wolf answered blandly.

Garion sulked  about that for a  while, but Mister Wolf  rode on, seemingly
unconcerned by the boy's reproachful silence.

They stopped that night at a Tolnedran hostel, which, like all of them, was
plain, adequate, and expensive. The next morning the sky had cleared except
for billowy  patches of white  cloud scampering before the  brisk wind. The
sight  of the  sun  made them  all feel  better,  and there  was  even some
bantering  between Silk  and Barak  as they  rode along -  something Garion
hadn't heard in all the weeks they'd spent traveling under the gloomy skies
of northern Arendia.

Mandorallen, however,  scarcely spoke that morning,  and his face grew more
somber with each passing  mile. He was not wearing his armor, but instead a
mail suit  and a deep blue surcoat. His head was  bare, and the wind tugged
at his curly hair.

On a  nearby hilltop  a bleak-looking castle  brooded down at  them as they
passed,  its grim  walls  high and  haughty-looking. Mandorallen  seemed to
avoid  looking   at  it,   and  his  face  became   even  more  melancholy.

Garion found  it difficult  to make up  his mind about  Mandorallen. He was
honest enough  with himself  to admit that  much of his  thinking was still
clouded  by   Lelldorin's  prejudices.  He  didn't   really  want  to  like
Mandorallen;  but   aside  from   the  habitual  gloominess   which  seemed
characteristic of all Arends  and the studied and involuted archaism of the
man's speech and his towering self confidence, there seemed little actually
to dislike.

A half  league along the road  from the castle, a ruin sat  at the top of a
long rise. It  was not much more than a single wall  with a high archway in
the center and broken  columns on either side. Near the ruin a woman sat on
horseback, her dark red cape flowing in the wind.

Without  a word,  almost  without seeming  to think  about  it, Mandorallen
turned  his warhorse  from the  road and  cantered up  the rise  toward the
woman, who watched his approach without any seeming surprise, but also with
no particular pleasure.

"Where's he going?" Barak asked.

"She's an acquaintance of his," Mister Wolf said dryly.

"Are we supposed to wait for him?"

"He can catch up with us," Wolf replied.

Mandorallen had  stopped his horse near the  woman and dismounted. He bowed
to her and held  out his hands to help her down from her horse. They walked
together  toward the  ruin, not  touching, but  walking very close  to each
other. They stopped beneath the archway and talked. Behind the ruin, clouds
raced in  the windy sky,  and their enormous shadows  swept uncaring across
the mournful fields of Arendia.

"We should have taken  a different route," Wolf said. "I wasn't thinking, I
guess."

"Is there some problem?" Durnik asked.

"Nothing unusual  - in Arendia,"  Wolf answered. "I suppose  it's my fault.
Sometimes I  forget the  kind of things  that can happen  to young people."

"Don't be  cryptic, father," Aunt  Pol told him. "It's  very irritating. Is
this something we should know about?"

Wolf shrugged.  "It isn't any  secret," he replied. "Half  of Arendia knows
about it.  A whole generation  of Arendish virgins cry  themselves to sleep
every night over it."

"Father," Aunt Pol snapped exasperatedly.

"All right," Wolf said. "When Mandorallen was about Garion's age, he showed
a great  deal of  promise-strong, courageous, not too  bright the qualities
that  make a  good  knight. His  father asked  me  for advice,  and  I made
arrangements for  the young  man to live for  a while with the  Baron of Vo
Ebor - that's his  castle back there. The baron had an enormous reputation,
and  he  provided  Mandorallen  with the  kind  of  instruction he  needed.
Mandorallen  and the  baron became  almost like  father and son,  since the
baron  was quite  a bit older.  Everything was  going along fine  until the
baron  got   married.  His  bride,  however,   was  much  younger  -  about
Mandorallen's age."

"I  think  I see  where  this  is going,"  Durnik remarked  disapprovingly.

"Not exactly," Wolf disagreed.  "After the honeymoon, the baron returned to
his customary knightly pursuits  and left a very bored young lady wandering
around  his  castle.  It's  a  situation  with  all  kinds  of  interesting
possibilities. Anyway,  Mandorallen and  the lady exchanged  glances - then
words - the usual sort of thing."

"It happens  in Sendaria too," Durnik  observed, "but I'm sure  the name we
have  for  it is  different  from  the one  they  use here."  His tone  was
critical, even offended.

"You're jumping to conclusions,  Durnik," Wolf told him. "Things never went
any further.  It might have been better if  they had. Adultery isn't really
all that serious, and  in time they'd have gotten bored with it. But, since
they  both  loved  and  respected  the  baron  too much  to  dishonor  him,
Mandorallen left  the castle before things could get  out of hand. Now they
both suffer  in silence. It's all very touching, but  it seems like a waste
of time to me. Of course I'm older."

"You're older than everyone, father," Aunt Pol said.

"You didn't have to say that, Pol."

Silk laughed  sardonically. "I'm glad to see  that our stupendous friend at
least  has the  bad  taste to  fall in  love with  another man's  wife. His
nobility was beginning to  get rather cloying." The little man's expression
had that bitter, self mocking cast to it Garion had first seen in Val Alorn
when they had spoken with Queen Porenn.

"Does the baron know about it?" Durnik asked.

"Naturally," Wolf  replied. "That's the part that  makes the Arends get all
mushy inside about it.  There was a knight once, stupider than most Arends,
who made  a bad joke about it. The baron promptly  challenged him and ran a
lance through  him during the duel.  Since then very few  people have found
the situation humorous."

"It's still disgraceful," Durnik said.

"Their  behavior's above  reproach,  Durnik," Aunt  Pol maintained  firmly.
"There's no shame in it as long as it doesn't go any further."

"Decent  people  don't allow  it  to  happen in  the  first place,"  Durnik
asserted.

"You'll never  convince her, Durnik," Mister  Wolf told the smith. "Polgara
spent too  many years associating with the Wacite  Arends. They were as bad
or  worse   than  the  Mimbrates.   You  can't  wallow  in   that  kind  of
sentimentality for that long without some of it rubbing off. Fortunately it
hasn't totally blotted out  her good sense. She's only occasionally girlish
and gushy.  If you can avoid  her during those seizures,  it's almost as if
there was nothing wrong with her."

"My time  was spent  a little more  usefully than yours,  father," Aunt Pol
observed acidly.  "As I  remember, you spent  those years carousing  in the
waterfront dives  in Camaar. And  then there was that  uplifting period you
spent amusing the depraved  women of Maragor. I'm certain those experiences
broadened your concept of morality enormously."

Mister Wolf coughed uncomfortably and looked away.

Behind them,  Mandorallen had remounted  and begun to gallop  back down the
hill. The  lady stood  in the archway  with her red cloak  billowing in the
wind, watching him as he rode away.

They were  five days on the  road before they reached  the River Arend, the
boundary between  Arendia and Tolnedra. The  weather improved as they moved
farther south,  and by the  morning when they reached  the hill overlooking
the river,  it was almost warm.  The sun was very  bright, and a few fleecy
clouds raced overhead in the fresh breeze.

"The high  road to Vo Mimbre branches to  the left just there," Mandorallen
remarked.

"Yes," Wolf  said. "Let's go down  into that grove near  the river and make
ourselves  a bit  more presentable.  Appearances are  very important  in Vo
Mimbre,   and   we  don't   want   to  arrive   looking  like   vagabonds."

Three brown-robed and hooded  figures stood humbly at the crossroads, their
faces down and their  hands held out in supplication. Mister Wolf reined in
his horse and approached them. He spoke with them briefly, then gave each a
coin.

"Who are they?" Garion asked.

"Monks from Mar Terin," Silk replied.

"Where's that?"

"It's a monastery in  southeastern Tolnedra where Maragor used to be," Silk
told  him.  "The  monks   try  to  comfort  the  spirits  of  the  Marags."

Mister  Wolf motioned  to  them, and  they rode  on  past the  three humble
figures at  the roadside. "They say that no Murgos  have passed here in the
last two weeks."

"Are you sure you can believe them?" Hettar asked.

"Probably. The monks won't lie to anybody."

"Then  they'll tell  anybody who  comes by  that we've passed  here?" Barak
asked.

Wolf nodded. "They'll answer any question anybody puts to them."

"That's an unsavory habit," Barak grunted darkly.

Mister  Wolf shrugged  and led the  way among  the trees beside  the river.
"This ought  to do," he decided,  dismounting in a grassy  glade. He waited
while the others climbed down from their horses. "All right," he told them,
"we're going to Vo  Mimbre. I want you all to be careful about what you say
there. Mimbrates are very touchy, and the slightest word can be taken as an
insult."

"I think you should wear the white robe Fulrach gave you, father," Aunt Pol
interrupted, pulling open one of the packs.

"Please,   Pol,"   Wolf   said,   "I'm  trying   to   explain   something."

"They heard you, father.  You tend to belabor things too much." She held up
the white robe and looked at it critically. "You should have folded it more
carefully. You've wrinkled it."

"I'm not going to wear that thing," he declared flatly.

"Yes, you are, father," she told him sweetly. "We might have to argue about
it for an hour or two, but you'll wind up wearing it in the end anyway. Why
not just save yourself all the time and aggravation?"

"It's silly," he complained.

"Lots of  things are silly, father.  I know the Arends  better than you do.
You'll get  more respect if you  look the part. Mandorallen  and Hettar and
Barak  will wear  their  armor; Durnik  and Silk  and  Garion can  wear the
doublets Fulrach  gave them in Sendar;  I'll wear my blue  gown, and you'll
wear the white robe. I insist, father."

"You what? Now listen here, Polgara-"

"Be still, father," she said absently, examining Garion's blue doublet.

Wolf's face darkened, and his eyes bulged dangerously.

"Was there something else?" she asked with a level gaze.

Mister Wolf let it drop.

"He's as wise as they say he is," Silk observed.

An hour  later they were on  the high road to Vo  Mimbre under a sunny sky.
Mandorallen, once  again in  full armor and  with a blue  and silver pennon
streaming from the tip of his lance, led the way with Barak in his gleaming
mail shirt  and black bearskin cape riding  immediately behind him. At Aunt
Pol's  insistence, the  big Cherek had  combed the  tangles out of  his red
beard  and even  rebraided his  hair. Mister  Wolf in  his white  robe rode
sourly, muttering  to himself, and Aunt  Pol sat her horse  demurely at his
side in a short, fur-lined cape and with a blue satin headdress surmounting
the heavy  mass of  her dark hair.  Garion and Durnik  were ill  at ease in
their finery, but Silk wore his doublet and black velvet cap with a kind of
exuberant  flair.  Hettar's  sole  concession  to formality  had  been  the
replacement of a ring  of beaten silver for the leather thong which usually
caught in his scalp lock.

The serfs  and even  the occasional knight  they encountered along  the way
stood aside and saluted  respectfully. The day was warm, the road was good,
and  their horses  were strong.  By midafternoon  they crested a  high hill
overlooking  the  plain  which  sloped down  to  the  gates  of Vo  Mimbre.





Chapter Ten

THE CITY  OF THE MIMBRATE ARENDS  reared almost like a  mountain beside the
sparkling  river.  Its  thick,   high  walls  were  surmounted  by  massive
battlements,  and great towers  and slender  spires with bright  banners at
their tips  rose within  the walls, gleaming  golden in the  afternoon sun.

"Behold Vo  Mimbre," Mandorallen  proclaimed with pride,  "queen of cities.
Upon that rock the  tide of Angarak crashed and recoiled and crashed again.
Upon this  field met  they their ruin.  The soul and pride  of Arendia loth
reside within that fortress,  and the power of the Dark One may not prevail
against it."

"We've been here before, Mandorallen," Mister Wolf said sourly.

"Don't be impolite, father,"  Aunt Pol told the old man. Then she turned to
Mandorallen and  to Garion's amazement she  spoke in an idiom  he had never
heard from  her lips  before. "Wilt thou,  Sir Knight, convey  us presently
into the palace of thy king? We must needs take council with him in matters
of  gravest  urgency."  She  delivered  this  without the  least  trace  of
self-consciousness as if the archaic formality came quite naturally to her.
"Forasmuch as  thou art  the mightiest knight  on life, we  place ourselves
under the protection of thy arm."

Mandorallen, after a startled  instant, slid with a crash from his warhorse
and sank to his  knees before her. "My Lady Polgara," he replied in a voice
throbbing with respect - with reverence even, "I accept thy charge and will
convey  thee  safely unto  King  Korodullin.  Should any  man question  thy
paramount right  to the king's attention, I shall  prove his folly upon his
body."

Aunt Pol smiled at him encouragingly, and he vaulted into his saddle with a
clang and led the  way at a rolling trot, his whole bearing seething with a
willingness to do battle.

"What was that all about?" Wolf asked.

"Mandorallen  needed something  to  take his  mind off  his  troubles," she
replied. "He's been out of sorts for the last few days."

As they  drew closer to the  city, Garion could see  the scars on the great
walls  where  heavy  stones  from  the  Angarak catapults  had  struck  the
unyielding rock.  The battlements  high above were chipped  and pitted from
the impact  of showers of  steel-tipped arrows. The stone  archway that led
into  the city  revealed  the incredible  thickness of  the walls,  and the
ironbound gate was massive. They clattered through the archway and into the
narrow, crooked streets. The people they passed seemed for the most part to
be commoners, who quickly  moved aside. The faces of the men in dun-colored
tunics  and  the  women   in  patched  dresses  were  dull  and  uncurious.

"They  don't  seem very  interested  in  us," Garion  commented quietly  to
Durnik.

"I don't  think the  ordinary people and  the gentry pay  much attention to
each other  here," Durnik replied. "They live side  by side, but they don't
know anything  about each  other. Maybe that's what's  wrong with Arendia."

Garion nodded soberly.

Although the  commoners were  indifferent, the nobles at  the palace seemed
afire with curiosity. Word of the party's entrance into the city apparently
had raced  ahead of  them through the  narrow streets, and  the windows and
parapets of the palace  were alive with people in brightly colored clothes.

"Abate thy pace, Sir  Knight," a tall man with dark hair and beard, wearing
a black velvet surcoat over his polished mail, called down from the parapet
to Mandorallen  as they clattered  into the broad plaza  before the palace.
"Lift thy visor so that I may know thee."

Mandorallen  stopped in  amazement before  the closed  gate and  raised his
visor. "What  discourtesy is  this?" he demanded.  "I am, as  all the world
knows, Mandorallen, Baron of Vo Mandor. Surely thou canst see my crest upon
the face of my shield."

"Any man  may wear  another's crest," the man  above declared disdainfully.

Mandorallen's  face darkened.  "Art thou  not mindful  that no man  on life
would  dare to  counterfeit my  semblance?" he  asked in a  dangerous tone.

"Sir  Andorig," another  knight on  the parapet  told the  dark-haired man,
"this  is indeed  Sir  Mandorallen. I  met him  on the  field of  the great
tourney  last year, and  our meeting cost  me a  broken shoulder and  put a
ringing in my ears which hath not yet subsided."

"Ah," Sir Andorig replied, "since thou wilt vouch for him, Sir Helbergin, I
will   admit   that   this   is  indeed   the   bastard   of  Vo   Mandor."

"You're going to have  to do something about that one of these days," Barak
said quietly to Mandorallen.

"It would seem so," Mandorallen replied.

"Who, however, are these others with thee who seek admittance, Sir Knight?"
Andorig  demanded.  "I  will  not  cause  the  gates to  open  for  foreign
strangers."

Mandorallen straightened  in his saddle. "Behold!"  he announced in a voice
that could  probably be heard all over the city.  "I bring you honor beyond
measure.  Fling  wide the  palace  gate and  prepare  one and  all to  make
obeisance.  You look  upon  the holy  face of  Belgarath the  Sorcerer, the
Eternal  Man, and  upon the  divine countenance  of his daughter,  the Lady
Polgara, who have come  to Vo Mimbre to consult with the King of Arendia on
diverse matters."

"Isn't   that  a   little   overdone?"  Garion   whispered  to   Aunt  Pol.

"It's  customary, dear,"  she replied  placidly. "When you're  dealing with
Arends, you have to be a little extravagant to get their attention."

"And who  hath told  thee that this  is the Lord  Belgarath?" Andorig asked
with the faintest hint  of a sneer. "I will bend no knee before an unproved
vagabond."

"Dost  thou  question my  word,  Sir  Knight?" Mandorallen  returned in  an
ominously quiet  voice. "And wilt thou then come down  and put thy doubt to
the  test? Or  is it  perhaps that  thou wouldst  prefer to  cringe doglike
behind thy parapet and yap at thy betters?"

"Oh,  that  was  very good,"  Barak  said  admiringly. Mandorallen  grinned
tightly at the big man.

"I don't think we're getting anywhere with this," Mister Wolf muttered. "It
looks like I'll have to prove something to this skeptic if we're ever going
to get in to see Korodullin." He slid down from his saddle and thoughtfully
removed  a twig  from his  horse's tail,  picked up somewhere  during their
journey. Then  he strode to the center of the plaza  and stood there in his
gleaming white robe. "Sir  Knight," he called up mildly to Andorig, "you're
a cautious  man, I  see. That's a good  quality, but it can  be carried too
far."

"I am  hardly a child, old  man," the dark-haired knight  replied in a tone
hovering on the verge of insult, "and I believe only what mine own eye hath
confirmed."

"It must be a  sad thing to believe so little," Wolf observed. He bent then
and inserted  the twig he'd been  holding between two of  the broad granite
flagstones at  his feet. He stepped back a pace  and stretched his hand out
above the  twig, his face curiously  gentle. "I'm going to  do you a favor,
Sir  Andorig,"  he  announced.  "I'm going  to  restore  your faith.  Watch
closely." And  then he spoke a single soft  word that Garion couldn't quite
hear, but  which set off the now-familiar surge  and a faint roaring sound.

At first  nothing seemed to be happening. Then  the two flagstones began to
buckle upward  with a grinding sound  as the twig grew  visibly thicker and
began to reach up  toward Mister Wolf's outstretched hand. There were gasps
from the palace walls as branches began to sprout from the twig as it grew.
Wolf raised  his hand higher, and the twig  obediently grew at his gesture,
its branches broadening. By  now it was a young tree and still growing. One
of the flagstones cracked with a sharp report.

There was  absolute silence as every  eye fixed in awed  fascination on the
tree. Mister Wolf held  out both hands and turned them until the palms were
up. He spoke again,  and the tips of the branches swelled and began to bud.
Then the  tree burst into flower,  its blossoms a delicate  pink and white.

"Apple, wouldn't you say, Pol?" Wolf asked over his shoulder.

"It appears to be, father," she replied.

He patted  the tree fondly and  then turned back to  the dark-haired knight
who had sunk, white-faced and trembling, to his knees. "Well, Sir Andorig,"
he inquired, "what do you believe now?"

"Please forgive  me, Holy Belgarath," Andorig  begged in a strangled voice.

Mister Wolf drew himself  up and spoke sternly, his words slipping into the
measured  cadences  of the  Mimbrate  idiom  as easily  as  Aunt Pol's  had
earlier. "I  charge thee, Sir Knight, to care for  this tree. It hath grown
here to renew thy  faith and trust. Thy debt to it must be paid with tender
and loving  attention to  its needs. In  time it will bear  fruit, and thou
wilt gather the fruit and give it freely to any who ask it of thee. For thy
soul's sake, thou wilt refuse none, no matter how humble. As the tree gives
freely, so shalt thou."

"That's   a  nice  touch,"   Aunt  Pol   approved.  Wolf  winked   at  her.

"I will  do even  as thou hast  commanded me, Holy  Belgarath," Sir Andorig
choked. "I pledge my heart to it."

Mister Wolf  returned to his horse. "At least he'll  do one useful thing in
his life," he muttered.

After that  there was no further discussion.  The palace gate creaked open,
and they all rode  into the inner courtyard and dismounted. Mandorallen led
them past kneeling and  even sobbing nobles who reached out to touch Mister
Wolf's robe  as he passed.  At Mandorallen's heels they  walked through the
broad, tapestried  hallways with a growing throng  behind them. The door to
the throne room opened, and they entered.

The  Arendish  throne  room  was  a  great, vaulted  hall  with  sculptured
buttresses  soaring  upward  along the  walls.  Tall,  narrow windows  rose
between the buttresses, and  the light streaming through their stainedglass
panels  was jeweled.  The floor  was polished  marble, and on  the carpeted
stone platform at the far end stood the double throne of Arendia, backed by
heavy  purple drapes.  Flanking the  draped wall  hung the  massive antique
weapons of twenty generations  of Arendish royalty. Lances, maces, and huge
swords,  taller  than any  man,  hung  among the  tattered  war banners  of
forgotten kings.

Korodullin of  Arendia was a sickly-looking  young man in a goldembroidered
purple robe, and  he wore his large gold crown as if  it were too heavy for
him.  Beside  him on  the  double  throne sat  his  pale, beautiful  queen.
Together  they watched  somewhat apprehensively  as the  throng surrounding
Mister  Wolf   approached  the  wide  steps   leading  up  to  the  throne.

"My King,"  Mandorallen announced, dropping to one  knee, "I bring into thy
presence Holy  Belgarath, Disciple  of Aldur and  the staff upon  which the
kingdoms of the West have leaned since time began."

"He knows who I  am, Mandorallen," Mister Wolf said. He stepped forward and
bowed briefly.  "Hail Korodullin  and Mayaserana," he greeted  the king and
queen.  "I'm sorry  we haven't  had the  chance to get  acquainted before."

"The honor  is ours,  noble Belgarath," the  young king replied  in a voice
whose rich timbre belied his frail appearance.

"My father spoke often of thee," the queen said.

"We were  good friends," Wolf told  her. "Allow me to  present my daughter,
Polgara."

"Great Lady," the king responded with a respectful inclination of his head.
"All the  world knows of thy power, but men have  forgotten to speak of thy
beauty."

"We'll get along well  together," Aunt Pol answered warmly, smiling at him.

"My heart trembles at  the sight of the flower of all womanhood," the queen
declared.

Aunt Pol looked at  the queen thoughtfully. "We must talk, Mayaserana," she
said in a serious tone, "in private and very soon."

The queen looked startled.

Mister  Wolf introduced the  rest of them,  and each  bowed in turn  to the
young king.

"Welcome, gentles  all," Korodullin said. "My  poor court is overwhelmed by
so noble a company."

"We don't have much  time, Korodullin," Mister Wolf told him. "The courtesy
of the  Arendish throne is the marvel of the world.  I don't want to offend
you and your lovely  queen by cutting short those stately observances which
so ornament your court,  but I have certain news which I have to present to
you in private. The matter is of extreme urgency."

"Then I  am at thy immediate  disposal," the king replied,  rising from his
throne. "Forgive  us, dear friends," he said  to the assembled nobles, "but
this  ancient friend  of  our kingly  line hath  information which  must be
imparted  to our ears  alone with utmost  urgency. I  pray thee, let  us go
apart  for a  little space of  time to  receive this instruction.  We shall
return presently."

"Polgara," Mister Wolf said.

"Go ahead, father," she  replied. "Just now I have to speak with Mayaserana
about something that's very important to her."

"Can't it wait?"

"No, father, it can't." And with that she took the queen's arm, and the two
left. Mister  Wolf stared after her for a moment;  then he shrugged, and he
and  Korodullin  also  left  the throne  room.  An  almost shocked  silence
followed their departure.

"Most  unseemly," an  old courtier  with wispy  white hair  disapproved. "A
necessary  haste,  my  Lord," Mandorallen  informed  him.  "As the  revered
Belgarath hath  intimated, our mission is the  hinge-pin of the survival of
all the kingdoms of  the west. Our Ancient Foe may soon be abroad again. It
will not  be long, I fear, ere Mimbrate knights  will again stand the brunt
of titanic war."

"Blessed then  be the tongue  which brings the news,"  the white-haired old
man declared.  "I had feared that  I had seen my  last battle and would die
abed in  my dotage. I thank  great Chaldan that I  still have my vigor, and
that my prowess is  undiminished by the passage of a mere fourscore years."

Garion  drew off  by himself  to one  side of  the room  to wrestle  with a
problem. Events  had swept him  into King Korodullin's court  before he had
had the  time to prepare himself  for an unpleasant duty.  He had given his
word to  Lelldorin to bring certain things to  the king's attention, but he
did not  have the faintest idea how to  begin. The exaggerated formality of
the Arendish  court intimidated  him. This was  not at all  like the rough,
good-natured court of King  Anheg in Val Alorn or the almost homey court of
King Fulrach  in Sendar. This was  Vo Mimbre, and the  prospect of blurting
out news  of the  wild scheme of a  group of Asturian firebrands  as he had
blurted out the news of the Earl of Jarvik in Cherek now seemed utterly out
of the question.

Suddenly  the  thought of  that  previous  event struck  him forcibly.  The
situation then  was so similar to this one that it  seemed all at once like
some elaborate  game. The moves on the board  were almost identical, and in
each  case  he had  been  placed  in the  uncomfortable  position of  being
required  to block  that last  crucial move  where a  king would die  and a
kingdom would collapse. He felt oddly powerless, as if his entire life were
in  the fingers  of  two faceless  players maneuvering  pieces in  the same
patterns on some vast board in a game that, for all he knew, had lasted for
eternity. There  was no  question about what  had to be  done. The players,
however, seemed content to  leave it up to him to come up  with a way to do
it.

King Korodullin  appeared shaken when  he returned to the  throne room with
Mister  Wolf a  half  hour later,  and  he controlled  his expression  with
obvious difficulty.  "Forgive me, gentles all,"  he apologized, "but I have
had disturbing  news. For the present  time, however, let us  put aside our
cares and celebrate this  historic visit. Summon musicians and command that
a banquet be made ready."

There was  a stir near the door, and a black-robed  man entered with a half
dozen  Mimbrate knights  in full  armor following  him closely,  their eyes
narrow with  suspicion and  their hands on  their sword hilts  as if daring
anyone to  bar their leader's path. As the  robed man strode nearer, Garion
saw  his   angular  eyes  and   scarred  cheeks.  The  man   was  a  Murgo.

Barak put a firm hand on Hettar's arm.

The Murgo had obviously  dressed in haste and he seemed slightly breathless
from his burned trip  to the throne room. "Your Majesty," he rasped, bowing
deeply to Korodullin, "I  have just been advised that visitors have arrived
at thy court and have made haste here to greet them in the name of my king,
Taur Urgas."

Korodullin's face  grew cold. "I do not  recall summoning thee, Nachak," he
said.

"It is,  then, as I had feared," the  Murgo replied. "These messengers have
spoken ill of my  race, seeking to dissever the friendship which loth exist
between the thrones of  Arendia and of Cthol Murgos. I am chagrined to find
that thou  bast given  ear to slanders  without offering me  opportunity to
reply. Is this just, august Majesty?"

"Who is this?" Mister Wolf asked Korodullin.

"Nachak,"  the  king replied,  "the  ambassador  of Cthol  Murgos. Shall  I
introduce thee to him, Ancient One?"

"That won't be necessary," Mister Wolf answered bleakly. "Every Murgo alive
knows  who I  am.  Mothers in  Cthol  Murgos frighten  their children  into
obedience by mentioning my name."

"But I  am not a child, old man," Nachak sneered.  "I'm not afraid of you."

"That could be a serious failing," Silk observed.

The Murgo's name had  struck Garion almost like a blow. As he looked at the
scarred face  of the  man who had  so misled Lelldorin and  his friends, he
realized that the players  had once again moved their pieces into that last
crucial  position, and  that who would  win and  who would lose  once again
depended entirely on him.

"What lies  have you told the  king?" Nachak was demanding  of Mister Wolf.

"No lies, Nachak," Wolf  told him. "Just the truth. That should be enough."

"I protest,  your Majesty," Nachak appealed to the  king. "I protest in the
strongest manner possible. All the world knows of his hatred for my people.
How can you allow him to poison your mind against us?"

"He forgot the thees and thous that time," Silk commented slyly.

"He's  excited," Barak  replied. "Murgos  get clumsy when  they're excited.
It's one of their shortcomings."

"Alorns!" Nachak spat.

"That's  right, Murgo," Barak  said coldly.  He was still  holding Hettar's
arm.

Nachak looked at them, and then his eyes widened as he seemed to see Hettar
for the first time. He recoiled from the Algar's hate-filled stare, and his
half  dozen  knights closed  protectively  around him.  "Your Majesty,"  he
rasped,  "I know  that man  to be  Hettar of  Algaria, a known  murderer. I
demand that you arrest him."

"Demand, Nachak?" the king  asked with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Thou
wilt present demands to me in my own court?"

"Forgive me,  your Majesty," Nachak apologized  quickly. "The sight of that
animal so disturbed me that I forgot myself."

"You'd be  wise to leave  now, Nachak," Mister Wolf  recommended. "It's not
really  a good  idea for a  Murgo to be  alone in  the presence of  so many
Alorns.  Accidents  have  a   way  of  happening  under  such  conditions."

"Grandfather," Garion  said urgently. Without knowing  exactly why, he knew
that it  was time to speak. Nachak must not be  allowed to leave the throne
room. The  faceless players had made  their final moves, and  the game must
end  here. "Grandfather," he  repeated, "there's  something I have  to tell
you."

"Not  now, Garion."  Wolf was still  looking with  hard eyes at  the Murgo.

"It's important, grandfather. Very important."

Mister  Wolf turned  as  if to  reply sharply,  but then  he seemed  to see
something - something that no one else in the throne room could see and his
eyes  widened in  momentary amazement.  "All right,  Garion," he said  in a
strangely quiet voice. "Go ahead."

"Some men are planning  to kill the king of Arendia. Nachak's one of them."
Garion had  said it  louder than he'd  intended, and a  sudden silence fell
over the throne room at his words.

Nachak's face went pale,  and his hand moved involuntarily toward his sword
hilt, then  froze. Garion was  suddenly keenly aware of  Barak hulking just
behind him and Hettar,  grim as death in black leather towering beside him.
Nachak stepped  back and  made a quick  gesture to his  steel-clad knights.
Quickly  they formed  a protective  ring around  him, their hands  on their
weapons. "I  won't stay  and listen to  such slander," the  Murgo declared.

"I have  not yet given thee my  permission to withdraw, Nachak," Korodullin
informed him coolly. "I require thy presence yet a while." The young king's
face  was stern, and  his eyes bored  into the  Murgo's. Then he  turned to
Garion. "I  would hear  more of this.  Speak truthfully, lad,  and fear not
reprisal from any man for thy words."

Garion drew a deep breath and spoke carefully. "I don't really know all the
details, your  Majesty," he explained. "I found  out about it by accident."

"Say what thou canst," the king told him.

"As nearly  as I can tell, your Majesty, next summer  when you travel to Vo
Astur,  a group  of  men are  going to  try  to kill  you somewhere  on the
highway."

"Asturian traitors, doubtless," a gray-haired courtier suggested.

"They call themselves patriots," Garion answered.

"Inevitably," the courtier sneered.

"Such attempts  are not uncommon," the king stated.  "We will take steps to
guard against them. I thank thee for this information."

"There's  more, your  Majesty,"  Garion added.  "When they  attack, they're
going to be wearing the uniforms of Tolnedran legionnaires."

Silk whistled sharply.

"The whole  idea is to make your nobles believe  that you've been killed by
the  Tolnedrans," Garion continued.  "These men  are sure that  Mimbre will
immediately declare war on the Empire, and that as soon as that happens the
legions will  march in. Then, when  everybody here is involved  in the war,
they're going  to announce that Asturias no  longer subject to the Arendish
throne.  They're sure  that the rest  of Asturia  will follow them  at that
point."

"I see,"  the king replied thoughtfully.  "'This a well-conceived plan, but
with a subtlety uncharacteristic  of our wild-eyed Asturian brothers. But I
have  yet  heard nothing  linking  the  emissary of  Taur  Urgas with  this
treason."

"The whole plan was his, your Majesty. He gave them all the details and the
gold to  buy the Tolnedran uniforms  and to encourage other  people to join
them."

"He lies!" Nachak burst out.

"Thou shalt  have opportunity to  reply, Nachak," the king  advised him. He
turned back to Garion.  "Let us pursue this matter further. How camest thou
by this knowledge?"

"I can't say, your  Majesty," Garion replied painfully. "I gave my word not
to. One of the  men told me about it to prove that he was my friend. He put
his life in  my hands to show how much he trusted  me. I can't betray him."

"Thy loyalty  speaks well of  thee, young Garion," the  king commended him,
"but  thy accusation against  the Murgo  ambassador is most  grave. Without
violating thy trust, canst thou provide corroboration?"

Helplessly, Garion shook his head.

"This  is a  serious  matter, your  Majesty,"  Nachak declared.  "I am  the
personal  representative of  Taur Urgas.  This lying urchin  is Belgarath's
creature,  and his  wild, unsubstantiated  story is  an obvious  attempt to
discredit me and to  drive a wedge between the thrones of Arendia and Cthol
Murgos.  This accusation  must not  be allowed  to stand.  The boy  must be
forced  to identify  these imaginary  plotters or  to admit that  he lies."

"He   hath   given   his   pledge,   Nachak,"   the   king   pointed   out.

"He says so, your Majesty," Nachak replied with a sneer. "Let us put him to
the test. An hour on the rack may persuade him to speak freely."

"I've seldom had much faith in confessions obtained by torment," Korodullin
said.

"If it please your Majesty," Mandorallen interjected, "it may be that I can
help to resolve this matter."

Garion threw a stricken look at the knight. Mandorallen knew Lelldorin, and
it  would  be a  simple  thing for  him  to guess  the truth.  Mandorallen,
moreover,  was a  Mimbrate, and Korodullin  was his  king. Not only  was he
under no  compulsion to remain silent,  but his duty almost  obliged him to
speak.

"Sir Mandorallen,"  the king responded gravely,  "thy devotion to truth and
duty  are  legendary.  Canst   thou  perchance  identify  these  plotters?"

The question hung there.

"Nay,  Sire,"  Mandorallen replied  firmly,  "but  I know  Garion  to be  a
truthful and honest boy. I will vouch for him."

"That's scanty corroboration," Nachak asserted. "I declare that he lies, so
where does that leave us?"

"The lad is my  companion," Mandorallen said. "I will not be the instrument
of breaking  his pledge, since his  honor is as dear to  me as mine own. By
our law,  however, a  cause incapable of  proof may be decided  by trial at
arms. I  will champion  this boy. I  declare before this  company that this
Nachak is  a foul  villain who hath  joined with diverse others  to slay my
king." He  pulled off  his steel gauntlet  and tossed it to  the floor. The
crash as it struck  the polished stone seemed thunderous. "Take up my gage,
Murgo," Mandorallen said coldly,  "or let one of thy sycophant knights take
it up for thee. I will prove thy villainy upon thy body or upon the body of
thy champion."

Nachak stared  first at  the mailed gauntlet  and then at  the great knight
standing  accusingly before him.  He licked  his lips nervously  and looked
around the throne room. Except for Mandorallen, none of the Mimbrate nobles
present  were  under  arms.   The  Murgo's  eyes  narrowed  with  a  sudden
desperation. "Kill  him!" he  snarled at the  six men in  armor surrounding
him.

The knights looked shocked, doubtful.

"Kill him!"  Nachak commanded them. "A thousand gold  pieces to the man who
spills out his life!"

The faces of  the six knights went flat at his words.  As one man they drew
their swords and spread out, moving with raised shields toward Mandorallen.
There  were  gasps and  cries  of  alarm as  the  nobles  and their  ladies
scrambled out of the way.

"What treason  is this?" Mandorallen demanded of  them. "Are ye so enamored
of this Murgo and his gold that ye will draw weapons in the king's presence
in  open  defiance  of   the  law's  prohibitions?  Put  up  your  swords."

But   they   ignored  his   words   and  continued   their  grim   advance.

"Defend thyself,  Sir Mandorallen," Korodullin urged,  half rising from his
throne. "I free thee of the law's constraint."

Barak, however, had already  begun to move. Noting that Mandorallen had not
carried  his shield  into the  throne room,  the red-bearded man  jerked an
enormous two-handed  broadsword down from the  array of banners and weapons
at one  side of the dais. "Mandorallen!" he shouted  and with a great heave
he  slid the  huge  blade skittering  and bouncing  across the  stone floor
toward the  knight's feet. Mandorallen stopped  the sliding weapon with one
mailed foot, stooped, and picked it up.

The approaching  knights looked a bit  less confident as Mandorallen lifted
the six-foot blade with both hands.

Barak, grinning  hugely, drew his sword  from one hip and  his war axe from
the  other. Hettar,  his  drawn sabre  held  low, was  circling the  clumsy
knights  on catlike  feet.  Without thinking,  Garion reached  for  his own
sword, but  Mister Wolf's hand closed  on his wrist. "You  stay out of it,"
the  old  man  told  him and  pulled  him  clear  of  the impending  fight.

Mandorallen's  first   blow  crashed  against  a   quickly  raised  shield,
shattering the  arm of a knight  with a crimson surcoat  over his armor and
hurling him  into a  clattering heap ten  feet away. Barak  parried a sword
stroke from  a burly knight with  his axe and battered  at the man's raised
shield with  his own  heavy sword. Hettar  toyed expertly with  a knight in
green-enameled armor,  easily avoiding  his opponent's awkward  strokes and
flicking   the   point  of   his   sabre   at  the   man's  visored   face.

The steely ring of  sword on sword echoed through Korodullin's throne room,
and showers  of sparks cascaded from  the clash of edge  against edge. With
huge  blows, Mandorallen  smashed  at a  second man.  A  vast sweep  of his
two-handed sword  went under the  knight's shield, and the  man shrieked as
the great blade bit  through his armor and into his side. Then he fell with
blood spouting  from the  sheared-in gash that reached  halfway through his
body.

Barak, with a deft backswing of his war axe, caved in the side of the burly
knight's helmet,  and the  knight half spun  and fell to  the floor. Hettar
feinted  a quick move,  then drove his  sabre point  through a slot  in the
green-armored knight's  visor. The  stricken knight stiffened  as the sabre
ran into his brain.

As  the melee  surged  across the  polished  floor, the  nobles and  ladies
scurried this  way and that to  avoid being overrun by  the struggling men.
Nachak  watched with  dismay as  his knights were  systematically destroyed
before   his   eyes.   Then,   quite   suddenly   he   turned   and   fled.

"He's getting away!" Garion shouted, but Hettar was already in pursuit, his
dreadful  face  and blood-smeared  sabre  melting the  courtiers and  their
screaming ladies out of  his path as he ran to cut off Nachak's flight. The
Murgo  had almost  reached the  far end  of the  hall before  Hettar's long
strides carried  him through the crowd to block the  doorway. With a cry of
despair, the ambassador yanked his sword from its scabbard, and Garion felt
a strange, momentary pity for him.

As the Murgo raised his sword, Hettar flicked his sabre almost like a whip,
lashing him  once on each  shoulder. Nachak desperately tried  to raise his
numbed arms  to protect his  head, but Hettar's blade  dropped low instead.
Then, with a peculiar  fluid grace, the grim-faced Algar quite deliberately
ran the Murgo through. Garion saw the sabre blade come out between Nachak's
shoulders, angling sharply upward. The ambassador gasped, dropped his sword
and  gripped  Hettar's  wrist  with  both  hands, but  the  hawk-faced  man
inexorably  turned his hand,  twisting the  sharp, curved blade  inside the
Murgo's body. Nachak groaned and shuddered horribly. Then his hands slipped
off Hettar's wrist and his legs buckled under him. With a gurgling sigh, he
toppled backward, sliding limply off Hettar's blade.





Chapter Eleven

A MOMENT OF DREADFUL  SILENCE filled the throne room following the death of
Nachak. Then the two  members of his bodyguard who were still on their feet
threw their weapons down on the bloodspattered floor with a sudden clatter.
Mandorallen raised his visor  and turned toward the throne. "Sire," he said
respectfully,  "the treachery  of Nachak  stands proved  by reason  of this
trial at arms:"

"Truly,"  the  king agreed.  "My  only  regret is  that  thy enthusiasm  in
pursuing  this cause  hath  deprived us  of the  opportunity to  probe more
deeply into the full extent of Nachak's duplicity."

"I expect that the  plots he hatched will dry up once word of what happened
here gets around," Mister Wolf observed.

"Perhaps  so," the  king  acknowledged. "I  would have  pursued  the matter
further, however.  I would know if  this villainy was Nachak's  own or if I
must look beyond him  to Taur Urgas himself." He frowned thoughtfully, then
shook  his head  as  if to  put certain  dark speculations  aside. "Arendia
stands in  thy debt,  Ancient Belgarath. This  brave company of  throe hath
forestalled the  renewal of a war  best forgotten." He looked  sadly at the
blood-smeared  floor and  the  bodies littering  it. "My  throne  room hath
become  as a  battlefield.  The curse  of  Arendia extends  even here."  He
sighed. "Have it cleansed,"  he ordered shortly and turned his head so that
he  would   not  have   to  watch  the   grim  business  of   cleaning  up.

The  nobles and  ladies  began to  buzz as  the dead  were removed  and the
polished  stone floor  was  quickly mopped  to remove  the pools  of sticky
blood.

"Good fight," Barak commented as he carefully wiped his axe blade.

"I  am in  thy debt, Lord  Barak," Mandorallen  said gravely. "Thy  aid was
fortuitous."

Barak shrugged. "It seemed appropriate."

Hettar rejoined them, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

"You did a nice job on Nachak," Barak complimented him.

"I've had a lot  of practice," Hettar answered. "Murgos always seem to make
that same  mistake when  they get into  a fight. I  think there's  a gap in
their training somewhere."

"That's a shame, isn't it?" Barak suggested with vast insincerity.

Garion  moved  away from  them.  Although  he knew  it  was irrational,  he
nevertheless felt  a keen sense of  personal responsibility for the carnage
he had  just witnessed. The blood  and violent death had  come about as the
result of  his words. Had he not spoken, men who  were now dead would still
be alive.  No matter  how justified -how  necessary - his  speaking out had
been, he still suffered  the pangs of guilt. He did not at the moment trust
himself to  speak with  his friends. More  than anything he  wished that he
could talk with Aunt  Pol, but she had not yet returned to the throne room,
and  so  he  was  left  to  wrestle  alone  with  his  wounded  conscience.

He reached  one of the embrasures formed by  the buttresses along the south
wall of the throne  room and stood alone in somber reflection until a girl,
perhaps two  years older than he,  glided across the floor  toward him, her
stiff, crimson brocade gown rustling. The girl's hair was dark, even black,
and her  skin was  creamy. Her bodice  was cut quite low,  and Garion found
some difficulty  in finding a safe  place for his eyes  as she bore down on
him.

"I  would add my  thanks to the  thanks of  all Arendia, Lord  Garion," she
breathed at him. Her  voice was vibrant with all kinds of emotions, none of
which  Garion understood.  "Thy timely  revelation of the  Murgo's plotting
hath in truth saved the life of our sovereign."

Garion felt a certain warmth at that. "I didn't do all that much, my lady,"
he replied  with a somewhat  insincere attempt at modesty.  "My friends did
all the fighting."

"But  it was  thy brave  denunciation which  uncovered the foul  plot," she
persisted, "and virgins will sing of the nobility with which thou protected
the identity of thy nameless and misguided friend."

Virgin was  not a word with  which Garion was prepared  to deal. He blushed
and floundered helplessly.

"Art  thou in  truth,  noble Garion,  the grandson  of  Eternal Belgarath?"

"The relationship  is a  bit more distant.  We simplify it for  the sake of
convenience."

"But thou art in  his direct line?" she persisted, her violet eyes glowing.

"He tells me I am."

"Is the Lady Polgara perchance thy mother?"

"My aunt."

"A close kinship nonetheless," she approved warmly, her hand coming to rest
lightly on his wrist. "Thy blood, Lord Garion, is the noblest in the world.
Tell me, art thou perchance as yet unbetrothed?"

Garion blinked at her, his ears growing suddenly redder.

"Ah,  Garion," Mandorallen boomed  in his  hearty voice, striding  into the
awkward moment,  "I had been seeking thee.  Wilt thou excuse us, Countess?"

The young  lady shot  Mandorallen a look  filled with sheer  venom, but the
knight's firm hand was already drawing Garion away.

"We   will   speak   again,   Lord   Garion,"   she   called   after   him.

"I hope  so, my Lady," Garion  replied back over his  shoulder. Then he and
Mandorallen  merged with  the  crowd of  courtiers near  the center  of the
throne room.

"I wanted to thank  you, Mandorallen," Garion said finally, struggling with
it a little.

"For what, lad?"

"You knew  whom I was protecting when I told  the King about Nachak, didn't
you?"

"Naturally," the knight replied in a rather offhand way.

"You  could have told  the king,- actually  it was  your duty to  tell him,
wasn't it?"

"But thou hadst given thy pledge."

"You hadn't, though."

"Thou art my companion, lad. Thy pledge is as binding upon me as it is upon
thee. Didst thou not know that?"

Garion was  startled by  Mandorallen's words. The  exquisite involvement of
Arendish  ethics were  beyond his  grasp. "So  you fought for  me instead."

Mandorallen  laughed  easily.  "Of course,"  he  answered,  "though I  must
confess to  thee in all honesty, Garion, that my  eagerness to stand as thy
champion grew  not entirely out of  friendship. In truth I  found the Murgo
Nachak offensive  and liked not the cold arrogance  of his hirelings. I was
inclined  toward battle  before thy  need of championing  presented itself.
Perhaps  it is  I  who should  thank thee  for providing  the opportunity."

"I don't understand you at all, Mandorallen," Garion admitted. "Sometimes I
think you're the most complicated man I've ever met."

"I?"  Mandorallen seemed  amazed.  "I am  the simplest  of men."  He looked
around then and leaned  slightly toward Garion. "I must advise thee to have
a care  in thy speech with  the Countess Vasrana," he  warned. "It was that
which impelled me to draw thee aside."

"Who?"

"The comely young lady  with whom thou wert speaking. She considers herself
the greatest beauty in the kingdom and is seeking a husband worthy of her."

"Husband?" Garion responded in a faltering voice.

"Thou art  fair game, lad. Thy  blood is noble beyond  measure by reason of
thy kinship to Belgarath.  Thou wouldst be a great prize for the countess."

"Husband?" Garion quavered at.in, his knees beginning to tremble. "Me?"

"I know not how things stand in misty Sendaria," Mandorallen declared, "but
in Arendia  thou art of marriageable  age. Guard well thy  speech, lad. The
most innocent  remark can be viewed as a promise,  should a noble choose to
take it so."

Garion swallowed  hard and looked around  apprehensively. After that he did
his best  to hide.  His nerves, he  felt, were not  up to  any more shocks.

The  Countess  Vasrana, however,  proved  to  be a  skilled huntress.  With
appalling  determination she  tracked him  down and  pinned him  in another
embrasure  with smoldering eyes  and heaving  bosom. "Now perchance  we may
continue our most interesting  discussion, Lord Garion," she purred at him.

Garion was  considering flight when Aunt Pol,  accompanied by a now radiant
Queen Mayaserana,  reentered the throne room.  Mandorallen spoke briefly to
her, and she immediately crossed to the spot where the violet-eyed countess
held Garion captive.

"Garion, dear," she said  as she approached. "It's time for your medicine."

"Medicine?" he replied, confused.

"A most  forgetful boy,"  she told the  countess. "Probably it  was all the
excitement, but  he knows  that if he  doesn't take the  potion every three
hours, the madness will return."

"Madness?" the Countess Vasrana repeated sharply.

"The curse of his  family," Aunt Pol sighed. "They all have it-all the male
children. The potion works  for a while, but of course it's only temporary.
We'll have to find  some patient and self sacrificing lady soon, so that he
can marry and father children before his brains begin to soften. After that
his poor wife will be doomed to spend the rest of her days caring for him."
She looked  critically at the young countess.  "I wonder," she said. "Could
it  be possible  that you  are as yet  unbetrothed? You  appear to be  of a
suitable age."  She reached out and briefly  took hold of Vasrana's rounded
arm. "Nice  and strong,"  she said approvingly.  "I'll speak to  my father,
Lord Belgarath, about this immediately."

The countess began to back away, her eyes wide.

"Come back,"  Aunt Pol told her. "His fits  won't start for several minutes
yet."

The girl fled.

"Can't you ever stay  out of trouble?" Aunt Pol demanded of Garion, leading
him firmly away.

"But I didn't say anything," he objected.

Mandorallen  joined  them, grinning  broadly.  "I perceive  that thou  hast
routed our  predatory countess,  my Lady. I  should have thought  she would
prove more persistent."

"I  gave her  something  to worry  about.  It dampened  her enthusiasm  for
matrimony."

"What matter didst thou discuss with our queen?" he asked. "I have not seen
her smile so in years."

"Mayaserana's  had  a problem  of  a  female nature.  I  don't think  you'd
understand."

"Her inability to carry a child to term?"

"Don't  Arends have  anything better  to do  than gossip about  things that
don't concern  them? Why don't you go find  another fight instead of asking
intimate questions?"

"The  matter  is  of  great  concern  to  us  all,  my  Lady,"  Mandorallen
apologized. "If our queen  does not produce an heir to the throne, we stand
in  danger   of  dynastic  war.  All  Arendia   could  go  up  in  flames."

"There aren't going to be any flames, Mandorallen. Fortunately I arrived in
time - though it was very close. You'll have a crown prince before winter."

"Is it possible?"

"Would you  like all the details?" she  asked pointedly. "I've noticed that
men  usually prefer  not  to know  about  the exact  mechanics involved  in
childbearing."

Mandorallen's  face slowly  flushed.  "I will  accept thy  assurances, Lady
Polgara," he replied quickly.

"I'm so glad."

"I must inform the king," he declared.

"You  must mind  your own  business, Sir  Mandorallen. The queen  will tell
Korodullin what  he needs to know.  Why don't you go  clean off your armor?
You   look   as   if   you   just   walked   through   a   slaughterhouse."

He bowed, still blushing, and moved away.

"Men!" she said to  his retreating back. Then she turned back to Garion. "I
hear that you've been busy."

"I had to warn the king," he replied.

"You seem  to have an absolute genius for getting mixed  up in this sort of
thing. Why didn't you tell me - or your grandfather."

"I promised that I wouldn't say anything."

"Garion," she  said firmly,  "under our present  circumstances, secrets are
very dangerous. You knew that what Lelldorin told you was important, didn't
you?"

"I didn't say it was Lelldorin."

She gave him a withering look. "Garion, dear," she told him bluntly, "don't
ever make the mistake of thinking that I'm stupid."

"I didn't,"  he floundered.  "I wasn't. I -  Aunt Pol, I gave  them my word
that I wouldn't tell anybody."

She sighed. "We've got to get you out of Arendia," she declared. "The place
seems to  be affecting your good sense. The next time  you feel the urge to
make  one of  these startling  public announcements,  talk it over  with me
first, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Oh, Garion, what am  I ever going to do with you?" Then she laughed fondly
and  put her  arm about his  shoulder and  everything was all  right again.

The evening  passed uneventfully  after that. The banquet  was tedious, and
the toasts  afterward interminable as each Arendish  noble arose in turn to
salute Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol with flowery and formal speeches. They went
to  bed late,  and  Garion slept  fitfully, troubled  by nightmares  of the
hot-eyed  countess pursuing  him through endless,  flower-strewn corridors.

They  were up  early the  next morning,  and after  breakfast Aunt  Pol and
Mister Wolf  spoke privately with  the king and queen  again. Garion, still
nervous  about his  encounter with  the Countess  Vasrana, stayed  close to
Mandorallen. The Mimbrate knight seemed best equipped to help him avoid any
more such adventures. They waited in an antechamber to the throne room, and
Mandorallen in  his blue surcoat explained  at length an intricate tapestry
which covered one entire wall.

About  midmorning  Sir  Andorig, the  dark-haired  knight  Mister Wolf  had
ordered to  spend his days caring  for the tree in  the plaza, came looking
for Mandorallen. "Sir Knight,"  he said respectfully, "the Baron of Vo Ebor
hath arrived from the  north accompanied by his lady. They have asked after
thee   and  besought   me  that   I  should   seek  thee  out   for  them."

"Thou art most kind, Sir Andorig," Mandorallen replied, rising quickly from
the bench  where he had been sitting.  "Thy courtesy becomes thee greatly."

Andorig sighed.  "Alas that  it was not  always so. I have  this past night
stood vigil  before that miraculous tree  which Holy Belgarath commended to
my care.  I thus had leisure to consider my life  in retrospect. I have not
been  an  admirable  man.  Bitterly I  repent  my  faults  and will  strive
earnestly for amendment."

Wordlessly,  Mandorallen clasped  the knight's  hand and then  followed him
down a long hallway to a room where the visitors waited.

It was  not until they entered the sunlit  room that Garion remembered that
the  wife of  the Baron  of Vo Ebor  was the  lady to whom  Mandorallen had
spoken on that windswept  hill beside the Great West Road some days before.

The  baron was a  solid-looking man in  a green  surcoat, and his  hair and
beard were touched with  white. His eyes were deep-set, and there seemed to
be a  great sadness in  them. "Mandorallen," he said,  warmly embracing the
younger knight.  "Thou art unkind to  absent thyself from us  for so long."

"Duty, my  Lord," Mandorallen  replied in a subdued  voice. "Come, Nerina,"
the baron told his wife, "greet our friend."

The Baroness  Nerina was much younger  than her husband. Her  hair was dark
and very long. She  wore a rose-colored gown, and she was beautiful-though,
Garion thought, no  more so than any of a half dozen  others he had seen at
the Arendish court.

"Dear  Mandorallen," she  said,  kissing the  knight with  a  brief, chaste
embrace, "we have missed thee at Vo Ebor."

"And the world is  desolate for me that I must be absent from its wellloved
halls."

Sir Andorig had bowed and then discreetly departed, leaving Garion standing
awkwardly near the door.

"And who  is this likely-appearing  lad who accompanies thee,  my son?" the
baron asked.

"A  Sendarian boy,"  Mandorallen  responded. "His  name is  Garion.  He and
diverse others have joined with me in a perilous quest."

"Joyfully   I   greet   my    son's   companion,"   the   baron   declared.

Garion bowed, but his mind raced, attempting to find some legitimate excuse
to leave.  The situation was terribly embarrassing, and  he did not want to
stay.

"I  must wait  upon the  king," the  baron announced. "Custom  and courtesy
demand that I present  myself to him as soon as possible upon my arrival at
his court.  Wilt thou,  Mandorallen, remain here  with my baroness  until I
return?"

"I will, my Lord."

"I'll  take  you  to  where  the  king  is  meeting  with my  aunt  and  my
grandfather, sir," Garion offered quickly.

"Nay, lad,"  the baron  demurred. "Thou too  must remain. Though  I have no
cause for anxiety, knowing full well the fidelity of my wife and my dearest
friend, idle tongues would make scandal were they left together unattended.
Prudent  folk  leave  no  possible  foundation  for false  rumor  and  vile
innuendo."

"I'll stay then, sir," Garion replied quickly.

"Good  lad,"  the  baron  approved. Then,  with  eyes  that seemed  somehow
haunted, he quietly left the room.

"Wilt  thou  sit,  my  Lady?"  Mandorallen  asked  Nerina,  pointing  to  a
sculptured bench near a window.

"I will," she said. "Our journey was fatiguing."

"It is  a long  way from Vo  Ebor," Mandorallen agreed,  sitting on another
bench. "Didst thou and my Lord find the roads passable?"

"Perhaps not  yet so dry as  to make travel enjoyable,"  she told him. They
spoke at  some length  about roads and  weather, sitting not  far from each
other, but not so close that anyone chancing to pass by the open door could
have  mistaken their  conversation for  anything less than  innocent. Their
eyes, however, spoke more  intimately. Garion, painfully embarrassed, stood
looking out a window,  carefully choosing one that kept him in full view of
the door.

As the  conversation progressed,  there were increasingly  long pauses, and
Garion  cringed  inwardly at  each  agonizing silence,  afraid that  either
Mandorallen or  the Lady  Nerina might in  the extremity of  their hopeless
love  cross that  unspoken  boundary and  blurt  the one  word, phrase,  or
sentence which  would cause restraint  and honor to crumble  and turn their
lives into  disaster. And  yet a certain  part of his mind  wished that the
word or phrase or sentence might be spoken and that their love could flame,
however briefly.

It  was there,  in that quiet  sunlit chamber,  that Garion passed  a small
crossroad.  The prejudice  against Mandorailen that  Lelldorin's unthinking
partisanship had instilled in  him finally shattered and fell away. He felt
a surge of feelings  - not pity, for they would not have accepted pity, but
compassion  rather. More  than that,  there was  the faint beginning  of an
understanding  of  the  honor  and  towering pride  which,  though  utterly
selfless, was  the foundation of that tragedy  which had existed in Arendia
for uncounted centuries.

For perhaps a half  hour more Mandorallen and the Lady Nerina sat, speaking
hardly at all now, their eyes lost in each other's faces while Garion, near
to tears, stood his  enforced watch over them. And then Durnik came to tell
them  that  Aunt  Pol   and  Mister  Wolf  were  getting  ready  to  leave.







                                  PART TWO





                                  [Image]





                                  TOLNEDRA





Chapter Twelve

A BRASSY CHORUS OF  HORNS saluted them from the battlements of Vo Mimbre as
they rode  out of the city  accompanied by twoscore armored  knights and by
King Korodullin  himself. Garion glanced  back once and thought  he saw the
Lady Nerina  standing upon the wall above the  arched gate, though he could
not  be sure. The  lady did not  wave, and  Mandorallen did not  look back.
Garion, however,  very nearly  held his breath  until Vo Mimbre  was out of
sight.

It was  midafternoon by  the time they  reached the ford  which crossed the
River Arend  into Tolnedra, and the  bright sun sparkled on  the river. The
sky was  very blue overhead, and  the colored pennons on  the lances of the
escorting knights  snapped in the breeze.  Garion felt a desperate urgency,
an almost unbearable necessity  to cross the river and to leave Arendia and
the terrible things that had happened there behind.

"Hail and  farewell, Holy Belgarath," Korodullin  said at the water's edge.
"I will,  as thou hast advised  me, begin my preparations.  Arendia will be
ready. I pledge my life to it."

"And I'll keep you  advised of our progress from time to time," Mister Wolf
said.

"I  will also  examine  the activities  of the  Murgos within  my kingdom,"
Korodullin said.  "If what thou hast told me should  prove true, as I doubt
not that  it shall, then I will expell them from  Arendia. I will seek them
out, one and all, and harry them out of the land. I will make their lives a
burden and an affliction to them for sowing discord and contention among my
subjects."

Wolf  grinned at him.  "That's an idea  that appeals  to me. Murgos  are an
arrogant  people,  and  a  little  affliction  now and  then  teaches  them
humility." He reached out  and took the king's hand. "Good-bye, Korodullin.
I hope the world's happier next time we meet."

"I will pray that it may be so," the young king said.

Then Mister  Wolf led the way  down into the rippling  water of the shallow
ford. Beyond the river  Imperial Tolnedra waited, and from the banks behind
them  the Mimbrate  knights saluted  with a  great fanfare on  their horns.

As they emerged on  the far side of the river, Garion looked around, trying
to  see  some difference  in  terrain  or foliage  which might  distinguish
Arendia from  Tolnedra, but there seemed to  be none. The land, indifferent
to human boundaries, flowed on unchanged.

About  a half mile  from the river  they entered  the forest of  Vordue, an
extensive tract  of well-kept woodland  which extended from the  sea to the
foothills of  the mountains  to the east.  Once they were  under the trees,
they stopped and changed back into their traveling clothes.

"I think  we might as well keep the guise  of merchants," Mister Wolf said,
settling with obvious comfort  back into his patched rust-colored tunic and
mismatched  shoes. "It  won't  fool the  Grolims,  of course,  but it  will
satisfy the Tolnedrans we  meet along the way. We can deal with the Grolims
in other ways."

"Are  there any signs  of the Orb  about?" Barak  rumbled as he  stowed his
bearskin cloak and helmet in one of the packs.

"A  hint or  two," Wolf said,  looking around.  "I'd guess that  Zedar went
through here a few weeks ago."

"We  don't seem  to  be gaining  on him  much," Silk  said, pulling  on his
leather vest.

"We're holding our own at least. Shall we go?"

They  remounted  and  continued  along  the Tolnedran  highway,  which  ran
straight through  the forest  in the afternoon  sun. After a  league or so,
they  came to a  wide place in  the road  where a single  whitewashed stone
building,  low  and  red-roofed, stood  solidly  at  the roadside.  Several
soldiers  lounged indolently  about, but  their armor and  equipment seemed
less well-cared-for  than that of the  legionnaires Garion had seen before.

"Customs station," Silk said.  "Tolnedrans like to put them far enough from
the border so that they don't interfere with legitimate smuggling."

"Those are very slovenly legionnaires," Durnik said disapprovingly.

"They  aren't  legionnaires,"  Silk  explained. "They're  soldiers  of  the
customs service-local troops. There's a great difference."

"I can see that," Durnik said.

A soldier  wearing a rusty  breastplate and carrying a  short spear stepped
into the road and held up his hand. "Customs inspection," he announced in a
bored tone.  "His excellency will be  with you in a  moment or two. You can
take your horses  over there." He pointed to a kind of  yard at the side of
the building.

"Is trouble  likely?" Mandorallen  asked. The knight had  removed his armor
and now  wore the mail suit  and surcoat in which  he customarily traveled.

"No,"  Silk said.  "The customs agent  will ask  a few questions,  and then
we'll bribe him and be on our way."

"Bribe?" Durnik asked.

Silk shrugged.  "Of course. That's  the way things are  in Tolnedra. Better
let   me   do  the   talking.   I've   been  through   all  this   before."

The customs  agent, a stout, balding man in a belted  gown of a rusty brown
color, came  out of the stone  building, brushing crumbs from  the front of
his  clothes.   "Good  afternoon,"  he  said   in  a  businesslike  manner.

"Good   day,   your   Excellency,"  Silk   replied   with   a  brief   bow.

"And  what have  we  here?" the  agent asked,  looking appraisingly  at the
packs.

"I'm  Radek of  Boktor,"  Silk replied,  "a Drasnian  merchant.  I'm taking
Sendarian wool  to Tol Honeth." He  opened the top of  one of the packs and
pulled out a corner of woven gray cloth.

"Your  prospects  are  good,  worthy  merchant," the  customs  agent  said,
fingering  the cloth.  "It's  been a  chilly winter  this year,  and wool's
bringing a good price."

There  was a  brief  clicking sound  as  several coins  changed hands.  The
customs agent smiled then, and his manner grew more relaxed. "I don't think
we'll need to open  all the packs," he said. "You're obviously an honorable
man, worthy Radek, and I wouldn't want to delay you."

Silk bowed  again. "Is there anything  I should know about  the road ahead,
your Excellency?" he asked,  tying up the pack again. "I've learned to rely
on the advice of the customs service."

"The road's good," the  agent said with a shrug. "The legions see to that."

"Of course. Any unusual conditions anywhere?"

"It might  be wise if you  kept somewhat to yourselves  on your way south,"
the stout  man advised. "There's  a certain amount of  political turmoil in
Tolnedra just  now. I'm sure, though, that if  you show that you're tending
strictly to business, you won't be bothered."

"Turmoil?"  Silk asked,  sounding a  bit concerned.  "I hadn't  heard about
that."

"It's the succession. Things are a bit stirred up at the moment."

"Is Ran Borune ill?" Silk asked with surprise.

"No," the  stout man said, "only old. It's a  disease no one recovers from.
Since he doesn't have a son to succeed him, the Borune Dynasty hangs on his
feeblest breath.  The great families are  already maneuvering for position.
It's all terribly expensive  of course, and we Tolnedrans get agitated when
there's money involved."

Silk laughed briefly. "Don't we all? Perhaps it might be to my advantage to
make a few contacts  in the right quarters. Which family would you guess is
in the best position at the moment?"

"I think  we have  the edge over the  rest of them," the  agent said rather
smugly.

"We-"

"The Vorduvians.  I'm distantly related on my  mother's side to the family.
The  Grand Duke  Kador  of Tol  Vordue's the  only  logical choice  for the
throne."

"I don't believe I know him," Silk said.

"An excellent  man," the agent said expansively. "A  man of force and vigor
and  foresight. If  the selection  were based  on simple merit,  Grand Duke
Kador would be given  the throne by general consent. Unfortunately, though,
the selection's in the hands of the Council of Advisers."

"Ah!"

"Indeed," the agent agreed  bitterly. "You wouldn't believe the size of the
bribes some of those men are asking for their votes, worthy Radek."

"It's an  opportunity that comes only once in  a lifetime, I suppose," Silk
said.

"I don't  begrudge any  man the right  to a decent,  reasonable bribe," the
stout agent  complained, "but some of the men on  the council have gone mad
with greed. No matter what position I get in the new government, it's going
to take  me years to recoup  what I've already been  obliged to contribute.
It's the same all over Tolnedra. Decent men are being driven to the wall by
taxes and  all these emergency subscriptions. You don't  dare let a list go
by that doesn't have your name on it, and there's a new list out every day.
The expense is making everyone desperate. They're killing each other in the
streets of Tol Honeth."

"That bad?" Silk asked.

"Worse than  you can  imagine," the customs  man said. "The  Horbites don't
have the kind of money it takes to conduct a political campaign, so they've
started to poison off council members. We spend millions to buy a vote, and
the next day  our man turns black in the face and  falls over dead. Then we
have to  raise more  millions to buy  up his successor.  They're absolutely
destroying  me.  I don't  have  the  right kind  of  nerves for  politics."

"Terrible," Silk sympathized.

"If  Ran Borune  would only  die, "  the Tolnedran  complained desperately.
"We're  in control now,  but the Honeths  are richer  than we are.  If they
unite behind  one candidate,  they'll be able  to buy the  throne right out
from under  us. And all the  while Ran Borune sits  in the palace doting on
that little monster he calls a daughter and with so many guards around that
we  can't persuade  even the bravest  assassin to  make an attempt  on him.
Sometimes I think he intends to live forever."

"Patience, Excellency," Silk advised.  "The more we suffer, the greater the
rewards in the end."

The Tolnedran  sighed. "I'll be very  rich someday then. But  I've kept you
long enough,  worthy Radek. I wish  you good speed and  cold weather in Tol
Honeth to bring up the price of your wool."

Silk bowed  formally, remounted his horse and led the  party at a trot away
from the  customs station.  "It's good to  be back in  Tolnedra again," the
weasel-faced little man said  expansively once they were out of earshot. "I
love the smell of deceit, corruption, and intrigue."

"You're a bad man, Silk," Barak said. "This place is a cesspool."

"Of  course it  is." Silk  laughed. "But  it isn't dull,  Barak. Tolnedra's
never dull."

They approached  a tidy Tolnedran  village as evening fell  and stopped for
the night  in a solid, well-kept  inn where the food  was good and the beds
were  clean. They  were  up early  the next  morning; after  breakfast they
clattered  out of  the  innyard and  onto the  cobblestoned street  in that
curious   silver   light   that   comes   just  before   the   sun   rises.

"A proper  sort of place,"  Durnik said approvingly, looking  around at the
white stone  houses with their red-tiled  roofs. "Everything seems neat and
orderly."

"It's a reflection of the Tolnedran mind," Mister Wolf explained. "They pay
great attention to details."

"That's not an unseemly trait," Durnik observed.

Wolf was about to answer that when two brown-robed men ran out of a shadowy
side street.

"Look out!" the one in the rear yelled. "He's gone mad!"

The man running in front was clutching at his head, his face contorted into
an expression of unspeakable  horror. Garion's horse shied violently as the
madman ran directly at him, and Garion raised his right hand to try to push
the bulging-eyed  lunatic away. At  the instant his hand  touched the man's
forehead, he felt a surge in his hand and arm, a kind of tingling as if the
arm  were suddenly  enormously  strong, and  his  mind filled  with a  vast
roaring. The madman's eyes went blank, and he collapsed on the cobblestones
as if Garion's touch had been some colossal blow.

Then  Barak   nudged  his   horse  between  Garion  and   the  fallen  man.

"What's this  all about?" he demanded  of the second robed  man who ran up,
gasping for breath.

"We're from Mar Terrin," the man answered. "Brother Obor couldn't stand the
ghosts  anymore, so  I was  given permission  to bring  him home  until his
sanity returned." He knelt over the fallen man. "You didn't have to hit him
so hard," he accused.

"I didn't,"  Garion protested.  "I only touched  him. I think  he fainted."

"You must  have hit  him," the monk said.  "Look at the mark  on his face."

An ugly red welt stood on the unconscious man's forehead.

"Garion," Aunt Pol said,  "can you do exactly what I tell you to do without
asking any questions?"

Garion nodded. "I think so."

"Get down off your  horse. Go to the man on the ground  and put the palm of
your hand  on his forehead. Then  apologize to him for  knocking him down."

"Are you sure it's safe, Polgara?" Barak asked.

"It will be all right. Do as I told you, Garion."

Garion hesitantly  approached the  stricken man, reached out,  and laid his
palm  on the  ugly welt.  "I'm sorry," he  said, "and  I hope you  get well
soon." There  was a  surge in his  arm again, but quite  different from the
first one.

The madman's eyes cleared, and he blinked.

"Where am I?" he asked. "What happened?" His voice sounded very normal, and
the welt on his forehead was gone.

"It's all right now,"  Garion told him, not knowing exactly why he said it.
"You've been sick, but you're better now."

"Come along,  Garion," Aunt  Pol said. "His  friend can care  for him now."

Garion went back to his horse, his thoughts churning.

"A miracle!" the second monk exclaimed.

"Hardly that," Aunt Pol said. "The blow restored your friend's mind, that's
all. It happens sometimes." But she and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance
that  said  quite  plainly  that  something else  had  happened,  something
unexpected.

They rode on, leaving the two monks in the middle of the street.

"What happened?" Durnik asked, a stunned look on his face.

Mister Wolf  shrugged. "Polgara had to use  Garion," he said. "There wasn't
time to do it any other way."

Durnik looked unconvinced.

"We don't  do it  often," Wolf explained.  "It's a little  cumbersome to go
through someone  else like that,  but sometimes we don't  have any choice."

"But Garion healed him," Durnik objected.

"It has  to come  from the same hand  as the blow, Durnik,"  Aunt Pol said.
"Please don't ask so many questions."

The dry awareness in Garion's mind, however, refused to accept any of their
explanations.  It told  him  that nothing  had  come from  outside. With  a
troubled face he studied  the silvery mark on his palm. It seemed different
for some reason.

"Don't  think about  it,  dear," Aunt  Pol said  quietly  as they  left the
village and  rode south  along the highway.  "It's nothing to  worry about.
I'll explain it all later." Then, to the caroling of birds that greeted the
rising sun, she reached across and firmly closed his hand with her fingers.





Chapter Thirteen

IT  TOOK THEM  THREE DAYS  to pass  through the  forest of  Vordue. Garion,
remembering the  dangers of the Arendish  forest, was apprehensive at first
and watched the shadows  beneath the trees nervously, but after a day or so
with nothing out of the ordinary occurring, he began to relax. Mister Wolf,
however, seemed to grow increasingly irritable as they rode south. "They're
planning something," he muttered.  "I wish they'd get on with it. I hate to
ride   with  one   eye   over  my   shoulder  every   step  of   the  way."

Garion had  little opportunity along the  way to speak with  Aunt Pol about
what had happened to the crazy monk from Mar Terrin. It seemed almost as if
she  were deliberately  avoiding him;  when he  finally did manage  to ride
briefly beside  her and question  her about the incident,  her answers were
vague  and  did  little  to  quiet  his  unease  about  the  whole  affair.

It was  the middle of the  morning on the third  day when they emerged from
the trees and rode  out into open farmland. Unlike the Arendish plain where
vast tracts  of land seemed to lie fallow,  the ground here was extensively
cultivated,  and low  stone walls  surrounded each  field. Although  it was
still far  from being  warm, the sun  was very bright,  and the well-turned
earth in the fields seemed rich and black as it lay waiting for sowing. The
highway  was broad  and straight,  and they encountered  frequent travelers
along  the  way.  Greetings  between the  party  and  these travelers  were
restrained but polite, and  Garion began to feel more at ease. This country
appeared  to  be much  too  civilized  for the  kind  of  dangers they  had
encountered in Arendia.

About  midafternoon  they  rode  into a  sizable  town  where merchants  in
variously colored mantles called to them from booths and stalls which lined
the streets, imploring them to stop and look at merchandise.

"They sound almost desperate," Durnik said.

"Tolnedrans  hate to  see  a customer  get away,"  Silk told  him. "They're
greedy."

Ahead, in  a small square, a  disturbance suddenly broke out.  A half dozen
slovenly, unshaven soldiers had accosted an arrogant-looking man in a green
mantle.

"Stand   aside,    I   say,"   the   arrogant    man   protested   sharply.

"We just  want a  word or two  with you, Lembor," one  of the.soldiers said
with an evil-looking leer. He was a lean man with a long scar down one side
of his face.

"What  an idiot,"  a  passer-by observed  with a  callous  laugh. "Lembor's
gotten so important that  he doesn't think he has to take any precautions."

"Is he being arrested, friend?" Durnik inquired politely.

"Only temporarily," the passer-by said dryly.

"What are they going to do to him?" Durnik asked.

"The usual."

"What's the usual?"

"Watch and see. The  fool should have known better than to come out without
his bodyguards."

The soldiers  had surrounded the man  in the green mantle,  and two of them
took hold of his arms roughly.

"Let me go," Lembor protested. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Just come along quietly, Lembor," the scar-faced soldier ordered. "It will
be a lot easier that way." They began pulling him toward a narrow alleyway.

"Help!" Lembor shouted, desperately trying to struggle.

One of  the soldiers  smashed the captive  in the mouth with  his fist, and
they pulled  him into the alley.  There was a single,  short scream and the
sounds of  a brief scuffle. There  were other sounds as  well, a few grunts
and the  grating sound of steel on bone, then a  long, sighing moan. A wide
rivulet of bright blood trickled out of the mouth of the alley and ran into
the  gutter. A  minute or  so later,  the soldiers  came back out  into the
square, grinning and wiping their swords.

"We've got  to do  something," Garion said,  sick with outrage  and horror.

"No,"  Silk said bluntly.  "What we have  to do  is mind our  own business.
We're not here to get involved in local politics."

"Politics?" Garion  objected. "That was deliberate  murder. Shouldn't we at
least see if he's still alive?"

"Not too likely," Barak  said. "Six men with swords can usually do a pretty
thorough job."

A dozen other soldiers,  as shabby-looking as the first group, ran into the
square with drawn swords.

"Too late, Rabbas." The scar-faced soldier laughed harshly to the leader of
the newcomers.  "Lembor doesn't need you anymore. He  just came down with a
bad case of dead. It looks like you're out of work."

The one  called Rabbas stopped, his expression dark.  Then a look of brutal
cunning spread  across his  face. "Maybe you're right,  Kragger." His voice
was also harsh. "But  then again we might be able to create a few vacancies
in Elgon's garrison. I'm  sure he'd be happy to hire good replacements." He
began to  move forward again, his short sword  swinging in a low, dangerous
arc.

Then there came the  sound of a jingling trot, and twenty legionnaires in a
double column came into the square, their feet striking the cobblestones in
unison. They carried short  lances, and they stopped between the two groups
of soldiers.  Each column turned  to face one group,  their lances leveled.
The  breastplates of  the legionnaires  were brightly burnished,  and their
equipment was spotless.

"All right,  Rabbas, Kragger,  that's enough," the sergeant  in charge said
sharply.   "I   want   both   of   you   off   the   street   immediately."

"These swine killed Lembor, Sergeant," Rabbas protested.

"That's too  bad," the sergeant said without  much sympathy. "Now clear the
street.  There's  not  going  to  be  any  brawling  while  I'm  on  duty."

"Aren't you going to do something?" Rabbas demanded.

"I  am," the  legionnaire said. "I'm  clearing the  street. Now get  out of
here."

Sullenly, Rabbas turned and led his men out of the square.

"That goes for you too, Kragger," the sergeant ordered.

"Of  course, Sergeant,"  Kragger  said with  an oily  smirk. "We  were just
leaving anyway."

A  crowd had  gathered,  and there  were several  boos as  the legionnaires
herded the sloppy-looking soldiers out of the square.

The  sergeant  looked  around,  his  face  dangerous,  and  the  boos  died
immediately.

Durnik hissed sharply. "Over  there on the far side of the square," he said
to Wolf in a hoarse whisper. "Isn't that Brill?"

"Again?" Wolf's voice held exasperation. "How does he keep getting ahead of
us like this?"

"Let's find out what he's up to," Silk suggested, his eyes bright.

"He'd recognize any of us if we tried to follow him," Barak warned.

"Leave   that   to   me,"   Silk  said,   sliding   out   of  his   saddle.

"Did he see us?" Garion asked.

"I don't think so,"  Durnik said. "He's talking to those men over there. He
isn't looking this way."

"There's an inn near the south end of town," Silk said quickly, pulling off
his vest  and tying it  to his saddle. "I'll  meet you there in  an hour or
so."  Then   the  little  man  turned   and  disappeared  into  the  crowd.

"Get down off your horses," Mister Wolf ordered tersely. "We'll lead them."

They  all dismounted  and led their  mounts slowly  around the edge  of the
square, staying close to the buildings and keeping the animals between them
and Brill as much as possible.

Garion glanced  once up the narrow  alleyway where Kragger and  his men had
dragged  the protesting  Lembor. He  shuddered and  looked away  quickly. A
green-mantled  heap lay  in a  grimy corner,  and there was  blood splashed
thickly  on   the  walls   and  the  filthy  cobblestones   in  the  alley.

After they had moved out of the square, they found the entire town seething
with  excitement and  in some  cases consternation.  "Lembor, you  say?" an
ashen-faced  merchant in  a blue  mantle exclaimed  to another  shaken man.
"Impossible."

"My brother just talked  to a man who was there," the second merchant said.
"Forty  of Elgon's  soldiers attacked him  in the  street and cut  him down
right in front of the crowd."

"What's going  to happen  to us?" the  first man asked in  a shaking voice.

"I don't  know about  you, but I'm  going to hide. Now  that Lembor's dead,
Elgon's   soldiers  are   probably   going  to   try  to   kill   us  all."

"They wouldn't dare."

"Who's going to stop them? I'm going home."

"Why did  we listen to Lembor?"  the first merchant wailed.  "We could have
stayed out of the whole business."

"It's too late now,"  the second man said. "I'm going to go home and bar my
doors." He turned and scurried away.

The first man stared after him and then he too turned and fled.

"They play for keeps, don't they?" Barak observed.

"Why do the legions allow it?" Mandorallen asked.

"The legions stay neutral in these affairs," Wolf said. "It's part of their
oath."

The  inn  to which  Silk  had directed  them  was a  neat, square  building
surrounded by a low  wall. They tied their horses in the courtyard and went
inside. "We might as well eat, father," Aunt Pol said, seating herself at a
table of well-scrubbed oak in the sunny common room.

"I  was just- "  Wolf looked toward  the door  which led into  the taproom.

"I know," she said, "but I think we should eat first."

Wolf sighed. "All right, Pol."

The serving-man  brought them a platter of  smoking cutlets and heavy slabs
of brown  bread soaked  in butter. Garion's  stomach was still  a bit shaky
after what  he had  witnessed in the  square, but the smell  of the cutlets
soon overcame  that. They had nearly  finished eating when a shabby-looking
little man  in a  linen shirt, leather apron  and a ragged hat  came in and
plunked himself unceremoniously at  the end of their table. His face looked
vaguely familiar somehow. "Wine!" he bawled at the serving-man, "and food."
He squinted  around in the golden light  streaming through the yellow glass
windows of the common room.

"There    are   other    tables,   friend,"   Mandorallen    said   coldly.

"I like  this one," the stranger  said. He peered at  each of them in turn,
and then he suddenly  laughed. Garion stared in amazement as the man's face
relaxed, the muscles seeming to shift under his skin back into their normal
positions. It was Silk.

"How did you do that?" Barak asked, startled.

Silk  grinned at him  and then reached  up to  massage his cheeks  with his
fingertips. "Concentration,  Barak. Concentration and lots  of practice. It
makes my jaws ache a bit, though."

"Useful skill,  I'd imagine  - under the right  circumstances," Hettar said
blandly.

"Particularly for a spy," Barak said.

Silk bowed mockingly.

"Where did you get the clothes?" Durnik asked,

"Stole them." Silk shrugged, peeling off the apron.

"What's Brill doing here?" Wolf asked.

"Stirring  up trouble,  the same  as always,"  Silk replied.  "He's telling
people that a Murgo  named Asharak is offering a reward for any information
about us. He describes  you quite well, old friend - not very flatteringly,
but quite well."

"I expect we'll have to deal with this Asharak before long," Aunt Pol said.
"He's beginning to irritate me."

"There's  another thing."  Silk  started on  one of  the  cutlets. "Brill's
telling everyone  that Garion is Asharak's son -  that we've stolen him and
that Asharak's offering a huge reward for his return."

"Garion?" Aunt Pol asked sharply.

Silk  nodded.  "The kind  of  money he's  talking  about is  bound to  make
everyone in Tolnedra keep  his eyes open." He reached for a piece of bread.

Garion felt a sharp pang of anxiety.

"Why me?" he asked.

"It would delay us," Wolf said. "Asharak-whoever he is - knows that Polgara
would stop  to look  for you. So  would the rest  of us,  most likely. That
would give Zedar time to get away."

"Just who is Asharak?" Hettar asked, his eyes narrowing.

"A  Grolim,  I  expect,"  Wolf  said.  "His  operations are  a  little  too
widespread for him to be an ordinary Murgo."

"How can one tell the difference?" Durnik asked.

"You  can't," Wolf  answered. "They  look very  much the same.  They're two
separate tribes,  but they're much more closely  related to each other than
they are to other Angaraks. Anyone can tell the difference between a Nadrak
and a Thull or  a Thull and a Mallorean, but Murgos and Grolims are so much
alike that you can't tell them apart."

"I've  never  had any  problem,"  Aunt  Pol said.  "Their  minds are  quite
different."

"That will  make it much  easier," Barak commented dryly.  "We'll just chop
open  the  head of  the next  Murgo  we meet,  and  you can  point out  the
differences to us."

"You've  been spending  too  much time  with  Silk lately,"  Aunt Pol  said
acidly. "You're starting to talk like him."

Barak looked over at Silk and winked.

"Let's finish  up here and see  if we can't get  out of town quietly," Wolf
said. "Is there a back alley out of this place?" he asked Silk.

"Naturally," Silk said, still eating.

"Are you familiar with it?"

"Please!" Silk looked a little offended. "Of course I'm familiar with it.

"Let it pass," Wolf said.

The alleyway Silk led  them through was narrow, deserted, and smelled quite
bad, but  it brought them to  the town's south gate,  and they were soon on
the highway again.

"A little distance wouldn't  hurt at this point," Wolf said. He thumped his
heels to  his horse's flanks and  started off at a  gallop. They rode until
well after dark. The moon, looking swollen and unhealthy, rose slowly above
the horizon  and filled  the night with  a pale light that  seemed to leech
away all trace of  color. Wolf finally pulled to a stop. "There's really no
point in riding all night," he said. "Let's move off the road and get a few
hours' sleep. We'll start  out again early. I'd like to stay ahead of Brill
this time if we can."

"Over there?" Durnik suggested,  pointing at a small copse of trees looming
black in the moonlight not far from the road.

"It will do," Wolf decided. "I don't think we'll need a fire." They led the
horses in  among the trees and pulled their blankets  out of the packs. The
moonlight filtered  in among the trees and  dappled the leaf strewn ground.
Garion found a fairly  level place with his feet, rolled up in his blankets
and, after squirming around a bit, he fell asleep.

He awoke suddenly, his eyes dazzled by the light of a half dozen torches. A
heavy foot was  pushed down on his chest, and the point  of a sword was set
firmly, uncomfortably against his throat.

"Nobody  move!" a  harsh  voice ordered.  "We'll kill  anybody  who moves."

Garion  stiffened  in panic,  and  the sword  point  at his  throat dug  in
sharply.  He rolled  his head  from side to  side and  saw that all  of his
friends were  being held down in the same way he  was. Durnik, who had been
standing guard, was held  by two rough-looking soldiers, and a piece of rag
was stuffed in his mouth.

"What does this mean?" Silk demanded of the soldiers.

"You'll find  out," the  one in charge  rasped. "Get their  weapons." As he
gestured, Garion saw that a finger was missing from his right hand.

"There's a mistake here,"  Silk said. "I'm Radek of Boktor, a merchant, and
my friends and I haven't done anything wrong."

"Get on your feet," the three-fingered soldier ordered, ignoring the little
man's objections. "If any  one of you tries to get away, we'll kill all the
rest."

Silk rose  and crammed on his cap. "You're  going to regret this, Captain,"
he said. "I've got powerful friends here in Tolnedra."

The soldier shrugged. "That  doesn't mean anything to me," he said. "I take
my   orders  from   Count   Dravor.  He   told   me  to   bring  you   in."

"All right,"  Silk said. "Let's go  see this Count Dravor,  then. We'll get
this  cleared up  right now,  and there's  no need  for waving  your swords
around. We'll come along quietly. None of us is going to do anything to get
you excited."

The three-fingered soldier's face darkened in the torchlight. "I don't like
your tone, merchant."

"You're not  being paid to like my tone,  friend," Silk said. "You're being
paid to  escort us to Count Dravor. Now suppose  we get moving. The quicker
we  get  there,  the quicker  I  can  give him  a  full  report about  your
behavior."

"Get their horses," the soldier growled.

Garion had edged over to Aunt Pol.

"Can't you do anything?" he asked her quietly.

"No talking!" the soldier who had captured him barked.

Garion  stood  helplessly,  staring  at the  sword  leveled  at his  chest.





Chapter Fourteen

THE HOUSE OF Count Dravor was a large white building set in the center of a
broad lawn with clipped hedges and formal gardens on either side. The moon,
fully  overhead now,  illuminated  every detail  as they  rode slowly  up a
white-graveled, curving road that led to the house.

The soldiers  ordered them to  dismount in the courtyard  between the house
and the garden on  the west side of the house, and they were hustled inside
and down a long hallway to a heavy, polished door.

Count  Dravor was  a thin,  vague-looking man  with deep pouches  under his
eyes, and he sprawled  in a chair in the center of a richly furnished room.
He  looked up  with a  pleasant, almost  dreamy smile  on his face  as they
entered. His  mantle was a pale rose color with silver  trim at the hem and
around the sleeves to indicate his rank. It was badly wrinkled and none too
clean. "And  who are these guests?" he asked,  his voice slurred and barely
audible.

"The prisoners,  my Lord," the three-fingered  soldier explained. "The ones
you ordered arrested."

"Did I  order someone arrested?" the count  asked, his voice still slurred.
"What a remarkable thing for me to do. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you,
my friends."

"We   were   a   bit  surprised,   that's   all,"   Silk  said   carefully.

"I wonder why I  did that." The count pondered. "I must have had a reason -
I  never  do  anything  without  a  reason.  What  have  you  done  wrong?"

"We haven't done anything wrong, my Lord," Silk assured him.

"Then why  would I have you arrested? There must  be some sort of mistake."

"That's what we thought, my Lord," Silk said.

"Well,  I'm glad  that's all cleared  up," the  count said happily.  "May I
offer you some dinner, perhaps?"

"We've already eaten, my Lord."

"Oh." The count's face  fell with disappointment. "I have so few visitors."

"Perhaps  your steward  Y'diss may  remember the  reason these  people were
detained,    my    Lord,"    the    three-fingered    soldier    suggested.

"Of course," the count  said. "Why didn't I think of that? Y'diss remembers
everything. Please send for him at once."

"Yes, my Lord." The  soldier bowed and jerked his head curtly at one of his
men.

Count Dravor  dreamily began playing with  one of the folds  of his mantle,
humming tunelessly as they waited.

After a few moments  a door at the end of the room  opened, and a man in an
iridescent and  intricately embroidered robe entered.  His face was grossly
sensual, and  his head was shaved. "You sent for  me, my Lord?" His rasping
voice was almost a hiss.

"Ah,  Y'diss," Count  Dravor said happily,  "how good  of you to  join us."

"It's my  pleasure to serve you, my Lord," the  steward said with a sinuous
bow.

"I was wondering why  I asked these friends to stop by," the count said. "I
seem to have forgotten. Do you by any chance recall?"

"It's just a small  matter, my Lord," Y'diss answered. "I can easily handle
it for  you. You need your rest. You  mustn't overtire yourself, you know."

The count  passed a  hand across his face.  "Now that you mention  it, I do
feel a bit fatigued, Y'diss. Perhaps you could entertain our guests while I
rest a bit."

"Of course, my Lord," Y'diss said with another bow.

The count  shifted around in his chair  and almost immediately fell asleep.

"The  count is  in delicate health,"  Y'diss said  with an oily  smile. "He
seldom leaves that chair these days. Let's move away a bit so that we don't
disturb him."

"I'm only a Drasnian merchant, your Eminence," Silk said, "and these are my
servants  - except  for my  sister there.  We're baffled  by all  of this."

Y'diss laughed. "Why do you persist in this absurd fiction, Prince Kheldar?
I  know  who  you   are.  I  know  you  all,  and  I  know  your  mission."

"What's your interest in us, Nyissan?" Mister Wolf asked bluntly.

"I serve my mistress, Eternal Salmissra," Y'diss said.

"Has the Snake Woman become the pawn of the Grolims, then?" Aunt Pol asked,
"or does she bow to the will of Zedar?"

"My queen bows to no man, Polgara," Y'diss denied scornfully.

"Really?" She raised one eyebrow. "It's curious to find her servant dancing
to a Grolim tune."

"I have  no dealings with the Grolims,"  Y'diss said. "They're scouring all
Tolnedra for you, but I'm the one who found you."

"Finding isn't  keeping, Y'diss," Mister Wolf  stated quietly. "Suppose you
tell us what this is all about."

"I'll   tell  you  only   what  I   feel  like  telling   you,  Belgarath."

"I think that's about enough, father," Aunt Pol said. "We really don't have
time for Nyissan riddle games, do we?"

"Don't do  it, Polgara,"  Y'diss warned. "I  know all about  your power. My
soldiers will kill your  friends if you so much as raise your hand." Garion
felt himself  roughly grabbed  from behind, and  a sword blade  was pressed
firmly against his throat.

Aunt  Pol's eyes  blazed  suddenly. "You're  walking on  dangerous ground!"

"I don't  think we need to exchange threats,"  Mister Wolf said. "I gather,
then, that you don't intend to turn us over to the Grolims?"

"I'm not interested in  the Grolims," Y'diss said. "My queen has instructed
me to deliver you to her in Sthiss Tor."

"What's  Salmissra's  interest in  this  matter?" Wolf  asked. "It  doesn't
concern her."

"I'll  let her  explain that  to you  when you  get to  Sthiss Tor.  In the
meantime,  there   are  a  few  things  I'll   require  you  to  tell  me."

"I think  thou wilt have scant success  in that," Mandorallen said stiffIy.
"It  is  not  our  practice to  discuss  private  matters with  unwholesome
strangers."

"And  I think  you're wrong,  my dear  Baron," Y'diss  replied with  a cold
smile. "The  cellars of this house are deep, and  what happens there can be
most  unpleasant.  I  have  servants  highly skilled  in  applying  certain
exquisitely persuasive torments."

"I  do not  fear thy  torments, Nyissan," Mandorallen  said contemptuously.

"No.  I don't  imagine you  do. Fear  requires imagination, and  you Arends
aren't bright  enough to  be imaginative. The torments,  however, will wear
down your will -  and provide entertainment for my servants. Good torturers
are hard to find, and they grow sullen if they aren't allowed to practice -
I'm sure  you understand. Later, after  you've all had the  chance to visit
with  them a  time or two,  we'll try  something else. Nyissa  abounds with
roots and leaves and  curious little berries with strange properties. Oddly
enough, most  men prefer the rack  or the wheel to  my little concoctions."
Y'diss laughed then, a brutal sound with no mirth in it. "We'll discuss all
this further  after I  have the count  settled in for the  night. For right
now, the  guards will take you  downstairs to the places  I've prepared for
you all."

Count Dravor  roused himself  and looked around dreamily.  "Are our friends
departing so soon?" he asked.

"Yes, my Lord," Y'diss told him.

"Well then,"  the count said with a vague  smile, "farewell, dear people. I
hope  you'll  return  someday  so  that  we  can  continue  our  delightful
conversation."

The cell  to which Garion was taken was dank and  clammy, and it smelled of
sewage and  rotting food. Worst of all was  the darkness. He huddled beside
the  iron door  with the blackness  pressing in  on him palpably.  From one
corner  of  the cell  came  little  scratchings and  skittering sounds.  He
thought of  rats and tried to  stay as near to  the door as possible. Water
trickled   somewhere,  and   his   throat  began   to  burn   with  thirst.

It was  dark, but it was  not silent. Chains clinked  in a nearby cell, and
someone was moaning. Further  off, there was insane laughter, a meaningless
cackle repeated  over and  over again without pause,  endlessly rattling in
the  dark. Someone screamed,  a piercing,  shocking sound, and  then again.
Garion cringed  back against the slimy stones  of the wall, his imagination
immediately  manufacturing  tortures  to account  for  the  agony in  those
screams.

Time in such  a place was nonexistent, and so there was  no way to know how
long he had huddled  in his cell, alone and afraid, before he began to hear
a faint  metallic scraping and clinking  that seemed to come  from the door
itself. He scrambled away, stumbling across the uneven floor of his cell to
the far wall.

"Go away!" he cried.

"Keep your voice down!" Silk whispered from the far side of the door.

"Is that you, Silk?" Garion almost sobbed with relief.

"Who were you expecting?"

"How did you get loose?"

"Don't  talk so  much," Silk  said from  between clenched  teeth. "Accursed
rust!" he  swore. Then he grunted,  and there was a  grating click from the
door. "There!"  The cell door creaked open, and  the dim light from torches
somewhere filtered  in. "Come  along," Silk whispered. "We  have to hurry."

Garion almost ran from  the cell. Aunt Pol was waiting a few steps down the
gloomy stone  corridor. Without a word,  Garion went to her.  She looked at
him gravely  for a  moment and then  put her arms  about him.  They did not
speak.

Silk was working on  another door, his face gleaming with perspiration. The
lock clicked, and the door creaked open. Hettar stepped out. "What took you
so long?" he asked Silk.

"Rust!" Silk  snapped in a low voice. "I'd like to  flog all the jailers in
this   place   for   letting   the   locks  get   into   this   condition."

"Do you  suppose we could hurry  a bit?" Barak suggested  over his shoulder
from where he stood guard.

"Do you want to do this?" Silk demanded.

"Just move along as  quickly as you can," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the
time  for bickerin  just now."  She removed  her blue  cloak over  one arm.

Silk grunted sourly and moved on to the next door.

"Is  all this  oratory  actually necessary?"  Mister Wolf,  the last  to be
released, asked  crisply as  he stepped out  of his cell.  "You've all been
babbling like a flock of geese out here."

"Prince Kheldar  felt need to make observations  about the condition of the
locks," Mandorallen said lightly.

Silk scowled  at him and led  the way toward the  end of the corridor where
the torches fumed greasy onto the blackened ceiling.

"Have  a   care,"  Mandorallen  whispered  urgently.   "There's  a  guard."

A bearded  man in  a dirty leather  jerkin sat on  the floor  with his back
against the wall of the corridor, snoring.

"Can   we   get   past   without   waking   him   up?"   Durnik   breathed.

"He isn't going to wake up for several hours," Barak said grimly. The large
purple  swelling on  the side  of the  guard's face  immediately explained.

"Dost think  there might be others?"  Mandorallen asked, flexing his hands.

"There were a few," Barak said. "They're sleeping too."

"Let's get out of here, then," Wolf suggested.

"We'll take Y'diss with us, won't we?" Aunt Pol asked.

"What for?"

"I'd   like   to   talk   with  him,"   she   said.   "At  great   length."

"It would be a  waste of time," Wolf said. "Salmissra's involved herself in
this affair.  That's all we really  need to know. Her  motives don't really
interest me  all that  much. Let's just  get out of  here as  quietly as we
can."

They crept  past the snoring guard,  turned a corner and  moved softly down
another corridor.

"Did he  die?" a  voice, shockingly loud,  asked from behind  a barred door
that emitted a smoky red light.

"No," another voice said,  "only fainted. You pulled too hard on the lever.
You have to keep the pressure steady. Otherwise they faint, and you have to
start over."

"This is a lot harder than I thought," the first voice complained.

"You're doing fine," the second voice said. "The rack's always tricky. Just
remember to keep a  steady pressure and not to jerk the lever. They usually
die if you pull their arms out of the sockets."

Aunt Pol's  face went rigid, and her eyes blazed  briefly. She made a small
gesture and whispered something. A brief, hushed sound murmured in Garion's
mind.

"You know," the first  voice said rather faintly, "suddenly I don't feel so
good."

"Now that  you mention it, I  don't either," the second  voice agreed. "Did
that meat we had for supper taste all right to you?"

"It seemed all right." There was a long pause. "I really don't feel good at
all."

They tiptoed past the barred door, and Garion carefully avoided looking in.
At the end  of the corridor was a stout oak door  bound with iron. Silk ran
his fingers  around the  handle. "It's locked  from the outside,"  he said.

"Someone's coming," Hettar warned.

There was the tramp  of heavy feet on the stone stairs beyond the door, the
murmur of voices and a harsh laugh.

Wolf turned quickly to the door of a nearby cell. He touched his fingers to
the rusty iron lock, and it clicked smoothly. "In here," he whispered. They
all  crowded into  the cell,  and Wolf  pulled the  door shut  behind them.

"When we've  got some leisure, I'll  want to talk to  you about that," Silk
said.

"You were  having such  a good time  with the locks  that I  didn't want to
interfere." Wolf  smiled blandly. "Now listen. We're  going to have to deal
with these men before  they find out that our cells are empty and rouse the
whole house."

"We can do that," Barak said confidently. They waited.

"They're opening the door," Durnik whispered.

"How many are there?" Mandorallen asked.

"I can't tell."

"Eight," Aunt Pol said firmly.

"All right," Barak decided. "We'll let them pass and then jump on them from
behind. A  scream or two won't matter much in a  place like this, but let's
put them down quickly."

They waited tensely in the darkness of the cell.

"Y'diss says it doesn't  matter if some of them die under the questioning,"
one of the men  outside said. "The only ones wee have to keep alive are the
old man, the woman, and the boy."

"Let's kill  the big one with the red  whiskers then," other suggested. "He
looks like  he might be troublesome,  and he's probably too  stupid to know
anything useful."

"I want that one," Barak whispered.

The men in the corridor passed their cell.

"Let's go," Barak said.

It was  a short,  ugly fight. They  swarmed over the startled  jailers in a
savage  rush. Three  were down  before the  others fully realized  what was
happening. One  made a startled outcry, dodged past  the fight and ran back
toward the  stairs. Without thinking,  Garion dove in front  of the running
man. Then  he rolled, tangling the  man's feet, tripping him  up. The guard
fell, started to rise,  then sagged back down in a limp heap as Silk neatly
kicked him just below the ear.

"Are you all right?" Silk asked.

Garion squirmed out from  under the unconscious jailer and scrambled to his
feet, but the fight was nearly over. Durnik was pounding a stout man's head
against  the wall,  and  Barak was  driving his  fist into  another's face.
Mandorallen was strangling a  third, and Hettar stalked a fourth, his hands
out. The wide-eyed man cried out once just as Hettar's hands closed on him.
The tall Algar straightened,  spun about and slammed the man into the stone
wall with  terrific force. There  was the grating sound  of bones breaking,
and the man went limp.

"Nice little fight," Barak said, rubbing his knuckles.

"Entertaining," Hettar agreed, letting the limp body slide to the floor.

"Are  you about  through?"  Silk demanded  hoarsely  from the  door by  the
stairs.

"Almost," Barak said. "Need any help, Durnik?"

Durnik lifted the stout man's chin and examined the vacant eyes critically.
Then he  prudently banged the jailer's head against  the wall once more and
let him fall.

"Shall we go?" Hettar suggested.

"Might as well," Barak agreed, surveying the littered corridor.

"The door's  unlocked at the top  of the stairs," Silk  said as they joined
him, "and the hallway's  empty beyond it. The house seems to be asleep, but
let's be quiet."

They followed  him silently up the  stairs. He paused briefly  at the door.
"Wait here  a moment," he  whispered. Then he disappeared,  his feet making
absolutely no  sound. After what seemed  a long time, he  returned with the
weapons the soldiers had  taken from them. "I thought we might need these."

Garion   felt   much   better   after  he   had   belted   on  his   sword.

"Let's go,"  Silk said  and led them  to the end  of the hall  and around a
corner.

"I think  I'd like  some of the  green, Y'diss," Count  Dravor's voice came
from behind a partially open door.

"Certainly,  my Lord,"  Y'diss said  in his  sibilant, rasping  voice. "The
green tastes bad," Count Dravor said drowsily, "but it gives me such lovely
dreams.  The   red  tastes   better,  but  the  dreams   aren't  so  nice."

"Soon you'll be ready  for the blue, my Lord," Y'diss promised. There was a
faint clink  and the sound of  liquid being poured into  a glass. "Then the
yellow, and finally the black. The black's best of all."

Silk led  them on tiptoe past  the half open door.  The lock on the outside
door yielded quickly to  his skill, and they all slipped out into the cool,
moonlit night.  The stars twinkled  overhead, and the air  was sweet. "I'll
get the horses," Hettar said.

"Go with him, Mandorallen,"  Wolf said. "We'll wait over there." He pointed
at the  shadowy garden. The two men disappeared  around the corner, and the
rest  of them  followed Mister Wolf  into the  looming shadow of  the hedge
which surrounded Count Dravor's garden.

They waited. The night was chilly, and Garion found himself shivering. Then
there was  a click of a  hoof touching a stone,  and Hettar and Mandorallen
came back, leading the horses.

"We'd  better hurry,"  Wolf said. "As  soon as  Dravor drops off  to sleep,
Y'diss is  going to  go down to his  dungeon and find out  that we've left.
Lead the  horses. Let's get away from the house  before we start making any
noise."

They went  down through the  moonlit garden with the  horses trailing along
after  them  until they  emerged  on  the open  lawn  beyond. They  mounted
carefully.

"We'd better hurry," Aunt Pol suggested, glancing back at the house.

"I bought us a little time before I left," Silk said with a short laugh.

"How'd you manage that?" Barak asked.

"When I  went to  get our weapons,  I also set  fire to  the kitchen." Silk
smirked. "That will keep their attention for a bit."

A tendril of smoke rose from the back of the house.

"Very clever," Aunt Pol said with a certain grudging admiration.

"Why  thank you,  my Lady."  Silk made  a mocking  little bow.  Mister Wolf
chuckled and led them away at an easy trot.

The tendril  of smoke at the back of the house  became thicker as they rode
away, rising black and oily toward the uncaring stars.





Chapter Fifteen

THEY RODE HARD for the next several days, stopping only long enough to rest
the horses  and catch  a few hours'  sleep at infrequent  intervals. Garion
found that he could  doze in his saddle whenever they walked the horses. He
found,  indeed,  that  if  he were  tired  enough,  he  could sleep  almost
anyplace. One  afternoon as they rested from the  driving pace Wolf set, he
heard Silk  talking to the old man and Aunt  Pol. Curiosity finally won out
over exhaustion, and he roused himself enough to listen.

"I'd still  like to know  more about Salmissra's involvement  in this," the
little man was saying.

"She's an opportunist," Wolf  said. "Any time there's turmoil, she tries to
turn it to her own advantage."

"That means we'll have  to dodge Nyissans as well as Murgos." Garion opened
his eyes. "Why do  they call her Eternal Salmissra?" he asked Aunt Pol. "Is
she very old?"

"No," Aunt Pol answered.  "The Queens of Nyissa are always named Salmissra,
that's all."

"Do you know this particular one?"

"I don't have to," she told him. "They're always exactly the same. They all
look alike and act alike. If you know one, you know them all."

"She's  going  to be  terribly  disappointed with  Y'diss," Silk  observed,
grinning.

"I imagine that Y'diss has taken some quiet, painless way out by now," Wolf
said. "Salmissra grows a bit excessive when she's irritated."

"Is she so cruel then?" Garion asked.

"Not  cruel exactly,"  Wolf  explained. "Nyissans  admire serpents.  If you
annoy a  snake, he'll bite you.  He's a simple creature,  but very logical.
Once he bites you, he doesn't hold any further grudges."

"Do we have to talk about snakes?" Silk asked in a pained voice.

"I think the horses  are rested now," Hettar said from behind them. "We can
go now."

They  pushed the  horses back into  a gallop  and pounded south  toward the
broad valley of the  Nedrane River and Tol Honeth. The sun turned warm, and
the  trees  along  the  way were  budding  in  the  first  days of  spring,

The gleaming  Imperial City was situated on an island  in the middle of the
river, and  all roads led there. It was clearly  visible in the distance as
they crested the last  ridge and looked down into the fertile valley and it
seemed to grow larger  with each passing mile as they approached it. It was
built entirely  of white  marble and it  dazzled the eye  in the midmorning
sun. The walls were high and thick, and towers soared above them within the
city.

A bridge  arched gracefully across the  rippled face of the  Nedrane to the
bronze  expanse  of  the  north  gate  where  a  glittering  detachment  of
legionnaires marched perpetual guard.

Silk pulled on his conservative cloak and cap and drew himself up, his face
assuming  that  sober,  businesslike  expression  that meant  that  he  was
undergoing  a private internal  transition that  seemed to make  him almost
believe  himself  that  he  was the  Drasnian  merchant  whose identity  he
assumed.

"Your business  in Tol Honeth?" one of  the legionnaires asked politely. "I
am Radek of Boktor," Silk said with the preoccupied air of a man whose mind
was  on  business.  "I  have  Sendarian  woolens of  the  finest  quality."

"You'll  probably want  to  talk with  the Steward  of the  Central Market,
then," the legionnaire suggested.

"Thank you."  Silk nodded and led them through the  gate into the broad and
crowded streets beyond.

"I think  I'd better stop by  the palace and have  a talk with Ran Borune,"
Mister Wolf  said. "The Borunes  aren't the easiest emperors  to deal with,
but  they're  the  most  intelligent. I  shouldn't  have  too much  trouble
convincing him that the situation's serious."

"How are you  going to get to see him?" Aunt Pol  asked him. "It could take
weeks to get an appointment. You know how they are."

Mister Wolf made a sour face. "I suppose I could make a ceremonial visit of
it," he said as they pushed their horses through the crowd.

"And announce your presence to the whole city?"

"Do I have any  choice? I have to nail down the Tolnedrans. We can't afford
to have them neutral."

"Could I make a suggestion?" Barak asked.

"I'll listen to anything at this point."

"Why don't we go see Grinneg?" Barak said. "He's the Cherek Ambassador here
in Tol  Honeth. He could get us into the palace  to see the Emperor without
all that much fuss."

"That's  not a  bad idea,  Belgarath," Silk  agreed. "Grinneg's  got enough
connections in the palace to get us inside quickly, and Ran Borune respects
him."

"That only leaves the  problem of getting in to see the ambassador," Durnik
said as they stopped to let a heavy wagon pass into a side street.

"He's my  cousin," Barak  said. "He and  Anheg and I used  to play together
when we were children." The big man looked around. "He's supposed to have a
house near  the garrison of the  Third Imperial Legion. I  suppose we could
ask somebody the way."

"That won't be necessary," Silk said. "I know where it is."

"I should have known." Barak grinned.

"We  can go  through  the north  marketplace," Silk  said.  "The garrison's
located  near  the main  wharves  on  the downstream  end  of the  island."

"Lead the way," Wolf  told him. "I don't want to waste too much time here."

The  streets of  Tol Honeth  teemed with  people from  all over  the world.
Drasnians and  Rivans rubbed elbows  with Nyissans and Thulls.  There was a
sprinkling of Nadraks in the crowd and, to Garion's eye, a disproportionate
number of Murgos. Aunt Pol rode close beside Hettar, talking quietly to him
and frequently  laying her hand lightly on his  sword arm. The lean Algar's
eyes burned, and his nostrils flared dangerously each time he saw a scarred
Murgo face.

The houses along the  wide streets were imposing, with white marble facades
and  heavy doors, quite  often guarded  by private mercenary  soldiers, who
glared belligerently at passers-by.

"The Imperial  City seems awash with  suspicion," Mandorallen observed. "Do
they fear their neighbors so?"

"Troubled times,"  Silk explained. "And the  merchant princes of Tol Honeth
keep a great deal  of the world's wealth in their counting-rooms. There are
men along  this street  who could buy  most of Arendia if  they wanted to."

"Arendia is not for sale," Mandorallen said stiffly.

"In  Tol Honeth,  my  dear Baron,  everything's for  sale," Silk  told him.
"Honor, virtue, friendship, love. It's a wicked city full of wicked people,
and money's the only thing that matters."

"I expect you fit right in, then," Barak said.

Silk laughed.  "I like Tol Honeth,"  he admitted. "The people  here have no
illusions. They're refreshingly corrupt."

"You're a bad fan, Silk," Barak stated bluntly.

"So you've said before,"  the rat-faced little Drasnian said with a mocking
grin.

The  banner  of  Cherek,  the outline  of  a  white  war-boat  on an  azure
background, fluttered from a  pole surmounting the gate of the ambassador's
house. Barak  dismounted a bit stiffly  and strode to the  iron grill which
blocked the gate. "Tell  Grinneg that his cousin Barak is here to see him,"
he announced to the bearded guards inside.

"How do  we know  you're his cousin?"  one of the  guards demanded roughly.

Barak reached through the  grill almost casually and took hold of the front
of the  guard's mail shirt. He  pulled the man up  firmly against the barn.
"Would you like to rephrase that question," he asked, "while you still have
your health?"

"Excuse me, Lord Barak,"  the man apologized quickly. "Now that I'm closer,
I do seem to recognize your face."

"I was almost sure you would," Barak said.

"Let me unlock the gate for you," the guard suggested.

"Excellent  idea," Barak  said, letting  go of  the man's shirt.  The guard
opened the gate quickly, and the party rode into a spacious courtyard.

Grinneg, the ambassador of  King Anheg to the Imperial Court at Tol Honeth,
was a  burly man almost as big as Barak. His  beard was trimmed very short,
and he wore a Tolnedran-style blue mantle. He came down the stairs two at a
time and  caught Barak in a  vast bear hug. "You  pirate!" he roared. "What
are you doing in Tol Honeth?"

"Anheg's  decided to  invade  the place,"  Barak joked.  "As soon  as we've
rounded up  all the gold and  young women, we're going  to let you burn the
city."

Grinneg's eyes glittered with  a momentary hunger. "Wouldn't that infuriate
them?" he said with a vicious grin.

"What happened to your beard?" Barak asked.

Grinneg  coughed  and looked  embarrassed.  "It's not  important," he  said
quickly.

"We've never had any secrets," Barak accused.

Grinneg spoke  quietly to his cousin for a  moment, looking very ashamed of
himself, and  Barak burst out with  a great roar of  laughter. "Why did you
let her do that?" he demanded.

"I was  drunk," Grinneg said. "Let's go inside. I've got  a keg of good ale
in my cellar."

The rest  of them  followed the two big  men into the house,  and they went
down a  broad hallway to a room with Cherek  furnishings - heavy chairs and
benches covered with skins,  a rush-strewn floor and a huge fireplace where
the butt end of  a large log smoldered. Several pitchsmeared torches smoked
in iron rings on the stone wall.

"I feel more at home here," Grinneg said.

A servant brought tankards  of dark brown ale for them all and then quietly
left the  room. Garion quickly lifted his tankard  and took a large swallow
of the bitter drink before Aunt Pol could suggest something more bland. She
watched him without comment, her eyes expressionless.

Grinneg sprawled  in a large,  hand-hewn chair with a  bearskin tossed over
it. "Why are you really in Tol Honeth, Barak?" he asked.

"Grinneg," Barak  said serously, "this is  Belgarath. I'm sure you've heard
of him."

The  ambassador's eyes  widened,  and he  inclined his  head. "My  house is
yours," he said respectfully.

"Can you  get me  in to see  Ran Borune?" Mister  Wolf asked,  sitting on a
rough bench near the fireplace.

"Without any difficulty."

"Good," Wolf said. "I  have to talk to him, and I don't want to stir up any
fuss in the process."

Barak  introduced the  others, and  his cousin  nodded politely to  each of
them.

"You've come  to Tol Honeth during  a turbulent period," he  said after the
amenities were  over. "The nobility  of Tolnedra are gathering  in the city
like ravens on a dead cow."

"We picked up a  hint or two of that on our way  south," Silk told him. "Is
it as bad as we heard?"

"Probably worse,"  Grinneg said,  scratching one ear.  "Dynastic succession
only happens  a few times in  each eon. The Borunes  have been in power now
for  over six  hundred  years, and  the other  houses are  anticipating the
changeover with a great deal of enthusiasm."

"Who's the most likely to succeed Ran Borune?" Mister Wolf asked.

"Right at the moment the best would probably be the Grand Duke Kador of Tol
Vordue," Grinneg answered. "He  seems to have more money than the rest. The
Honeths are richer, of  course, but they've got seven candidates, and their
wealth is spread out a little too thin. The other families aren't really in
the running.  The Borunes don't have anyone suitable,  and no one takes the
Ranites seriously."

Garion carefully  set his tankard on the floor beside  the stool he sat on.
The bitter  ale didn't really taste that good,  and he felt vaguely cheated
somehow. The  half tankard he had  drunk made his ears  quite warm, though,
and the end of his nose seemed a little numb.

"A Vorduvian  we met said that  the Horbites are using  poison," Silk said.

"They all  are." Grinneg wore a slightly  disgusted look. "The Horbites are
just  a  little more  obvious  about it,  that's  all. If  Ran Borune  dies
tomorrow, though, Kador will be the next Emperor."

Mister  Wolf  frowned.  "I've  never  had  much success  dealing  with  the
Vorduvians. They don't really have imperial stature."

"The old Emperor's still in pretty fair health," Grinneg said. "If he hangs
on for another year or two, the Honeths will probably fall into line behind
one candidate - whichever  one survives - and then they'll be able to bring
all their  money to bear on the situation.  These things take time, though.
The candidates  themselves are staying out  of town for the  most part, and
they're all  being extremely careful,  so the assassins are  having a great
deal of difficulty reaching  them." He laughed, taking a long drink of ale.
"They're a funny people."

"Could we go to the palace now?" Mister Wolf asked.

"We'll want to change clothes first," Aunt Pol said firmly.

"Again, Polgara?" Wolf gave her a long-suffering look.

"Just do  it, father," she said.  "I won't let you  embarrass us by wearing
rags to the palace."

"I'm not going to  wear that robe again." The old man's voice was stubborn.

"No," she said. "It  wouldn't be suitable. I'm sure the ambassador can lend
you a mantle. You won't be quite so obvious that way."

"Whatever you say, Pol." Wolf sighed, giving up.

After  they had changed,  Grinneg formed  up his honorguard,  a grimlooking
group of Cherek warriors, and they were escorted along the broad avenues of
Tol Honeth  toward the palace. Garion,  all bemused by the  opulence of the
city and  feeling just a trifle giddy from the  effects of the half tankard
of ale  he had drunk, rode  quietly beside Silk, trying  not to gawk at the
huge  buildings  or  the richly  dressed  Tolnedrans  strolling with  grave
decorum in the noonday sun.





Chapter Sixteen

THE IMPERIAL  PALACE Sat  on a high  hill in the  center of  Tol Honeth. It
consisted not of one  building, but rather was a complex of many, large and
small,  all built  of  marble and  surrounded  by gardens  and lawns  where
cypress trees cast a  pleasing shade. The entire compound was enclosed by a
high wall,  surmounted by  statues spaced at  intervals along its  top. The
legionnaires at  the palace gate recognized  the Cherek ambassador and sent
immediately for  one of the Emperor's  chamberlains, a gray-haired official
in a brown mantle.

"I  need to  see  Ran Borune,  Lord Morin,"  Grinneg told  him as  they all
dismounted  in a  marble  courtyard just  inside the  palace gate.  "It's a
matter of urgency."

"Of  course, Lord  Grinneg,"  the gray-haired  man assented.  "His Imperial
Highness  is always  delighted  to speak  with the  personal envoy  of King
Anheg. Unfortunately, his Highness is resting just now. I should be able to
get you  in to  see him sometime  this afternoon - tomorrow  morning at the
latest."

"This  won't  wait, Morin,"  Grinneg  said.  "We have  to  see the  Emperor
immediately. You'd better go wake him up."

Lord  Morin  looked surprised.  "It  can't  be that  urgent," he  suggested
chillingly.

"I'm afraid so," Grinneg said.

Morin  pursed his  lips thoughtfully  as he  looked at  each member  of the
party.

"You  know me  well enough  to realize  that I  wouldn't ask  this lightly,
Morin," Grinneg said.

Morin  sighed. "I'm  trusting you  a great  deal, Grinneg. All  right. Come
along. Ask your soldiers to wait."

Grinneg  made a  curt gesture to  his guards,  and the party  followed Lord
Morin through a broad courtyard to a columned gallery that ran along one of
the buildings.

"How's  he been?"  Grinneg asked  as they  walked along the  shady gallery.

"His  health  is  still  good,"  Morin  answered, "but  his  temper's  been
deteriorating lately. The Borunes have been resigning their posts in flocks
and returning to Tol Borune."

"That seems prudent under the circumstances," Grinneg said. "I suspect that
a  certain number of  fatalities are  likely to accompany  the succession."

"Probably so,"  Morin agreed, "but his Highness  finds it a bit distressing
to  be abandoned by  members of his  own family."  He stopped by  an arched
marble gate  where two legionnaires in  gold-embellished breastplates stood
stiffly. "Please  leave your weapons here.  His Highness is sensitive about
such things - I'm sure you can understand."

"Of course," Grinneg said,  pulling a heavy sword out from under his mantle
and leaning it against the wall.

They  all followed his  example, and  Lord Morin's eyes  flickered slightly
with surprise when Silk removed three different daggers from various places
beneath  his  garments.  Formidable  eguipment -  the  chamberlain's  hands
flickered in the gestures of the secret language.

-Troubled times-Silk's fingers explained deprecatingly.

Lord Morin  smiled faintly  and led them  through the gate  into the garden
beyond.  The lawn  in the  garden was  neatly manicured. There  were softly
splashing fountains,  and the rosebushes were  all well-pruned. Fruit trees
that seemed  to be very old were budding, almost  ready to burst into bloom
in the warm sun. Sparrows bickered over nesting sites on the twisted limbs.
Grinneg and  the others followed  Morin along a curving  marble walk toward
the center of the garden.

Ran Borune XXIII, Emperor of Tolnedra, was a small, elderly man, quite bald
and dressed in a gold-colored mantle. He lounged in a heavy chair beneath a
budding grape arbor, feeding  small seeds to a bright canary perched on the
arm  of his  chair. The  Emperor had  a little,  beaklike nose  and bright,
inquisitive eyes.  "I said I wanted to be left alone,  Morin," he said in a
testy voice, looking up from the canary.

"A million apologies, your  Highness," Lord Morin explained, bowing deeply.
"Lord Grinneg, the ambassador  of Cherek, wishes to present you a matter of
gravest  urgency.  He  convinced   me  that  it  simply  could  not  wait."

The Emperor looked sharply at Grinneg. His eyes grew sly, almost malicious.
"I see that your beard's beginning to grow back, Grinneg."

Grinneg's  face flushed  slowly. "I  should have  known that  your Highness
would have heard of my little misfortune."

"I know  everything that happens in Tol  Honeth, Lord Grinneg," the Emperor
snapped. "Even if all my cousins and nephews are running like rats out of a
burning  house, I  still  have a  few faithful  people around  me. Whatever
possessed  you to  take up  with that  Nadrak woman?  I thought  you Alorns
despised Angaraks."

Grinneg coughed  awkwardly and glanced quickly at Aunt  Pol. "It was a kind
of joke, your Highness,"  he said. "I thought it might embarrass the Nadrak
ambassador - and his  wife is, after all, a handsomelooking woman. I didn't
know she kept a pair of scissors under her bed."

"She keeps your beard in a little gold box, you know." The emperor smirked.
"And she shows it to all her friends."

"She's an evil woman," Grinneg said mournfully.

"Who are these?" the Emperor asked, waving one finger at the members of the
party   standing  on   the  grass   somewhat  behind   Ambassador  Grinneg.

"My cousin  Barak and  some friends," Grinneg  said. "They're the  ones who
have to talk to you."

"The  Earl of  Trellheim?" the Emperor  asked. "What  are you doing  in Tol
Honeth, my Lord?"

"Passing through, your Highness," Barak replied, bowing.

Ran Borune looked sharply at each of the rest in turn as if actually seeing
them for the first  time. "And this would be Prince Kheldar of Drasnia," he
said, "who left Tol  Honeth in a hurry last time he was here - posing as an
acrobat in  a traveling circus, I believe, and about  one jump ahead of the
police."

Silk also bowed politely.

"And Hettar  of Algaria," the  Emperor continued, "the man  who's trying to
depopulate Cthol Murgos singlehandedly."

Hettar inclined his head.

"Morin,"  the Emperor demanded  sharply, "why  have you surrounded  me with
Alorns? I don't like Alorns."

"It's this matter of urgency, your Highness," Morin replied apologetically.

"And an  Arend?" the Emperor  said, looking at Mandorallen.  "A Mimbrate, I
should say." His eyes narrowed. "From the descriptions I've heard, he could
only be the Baron of Vo Mandor."

Mandorallen's bow  was gracefully elaborate. "Throe  eye is most keen, your
Highness, to have read us each in turn without prompting."

"Not all of you precisely," the Emperor said. "I don't recognize the Sendar
or the Rivan lad."

Garion's mind  jumped. Barak  had once told  him that he  resembled a Rivan
more than  anything else, but that  thought had been lost  in the welter of
events which  had followed the chance remark.  Now the Emperor of Tolnedra,
whose eye seemed to have an uncanny ability to penetrate to the true nature
of things,  had also identified him as a Rivan.  He glanced quickly at Aunt
Pol,  but  she  seemed  absorbed  in  examining  the buds  on  a  rosebush.

"The Sendar is Durnik," Mister Wolf said, "a smith. In Sendaria that useful
trade  is considered  somewhat akin  to nobility.  The lad is  my grandson,
Garion."

The Emperor  looked at  the old man. "It  seems that I should  know who you
are.  There's something  about  you-" He  paused thoughtfully.  The canary,
which had  been perched on the  arm of the Emperor's  chair, suddenly burst
into song. He launched  himself into the air and fluttered directly to Aunt
Pol. She held out her finger, and the bright bird landed there, tipped back
his  head and  sang ecstatically as  if his  tiny heart were  breaking with
adoration. She  listened gravely to his  song. She wore a  dark blue dress,
elaborately laced at the bodice, and a short sable cape.

"What are you doing with my canary?" the Emperor demanded.

"Listening," she said.

"How did  you get him to  sing? I've been trying to  coax him into song for
months."

"You didn't take him seriously enough."

"Who is this woman?" the Emperor asked.

"My  daughter Polgara,"  Mister  Wolf said.  "She has  a  particularly keen
understanding of birds."

The Emperor laughed suddenly, a harshly skeptical laugh. "Oh, come now. You
really don't expect me to accept that, do you?"

Wolf looked  at him  gravely. "Are you  really sure you don't  know me, Ran
Borune?" he  asked mildly. The pale green mantle  Grinneg had lent him made
him   look   almost   like   a  Tolnedran   -   almost,   but  not   quite.

"It's a  clever ruse,"  the Emperor said.  "You look the part,  and so does
she, but I'm not a child. I gave up fairy tales a long time ago."

"That's a pity. I'd guess that your life's been a little empty since then."
Wolf looked around at  the manicured garden with the servants and fountains
and the  members of the Emperor's  personal guard posted unobtrusively here
and there  among the  flowerbeds. "Even with  all this, Ran  Borune, a life
without any  wonder left in it  is flat and stale."  His voice was a little
sad. "I think that perhaps you gave up too much."

"Morin," Ran  Borune demanded peremptorily, "send  for Zereel. We'll settle
this immediately."

"At once,  your Highness," Morin said and beckoned  to one of the servants.

"May I have my canary back?" the Emperor asked Aunt Pol rather plaintively.

"Of course."  She moved across the grass  toward the chair, stepping slowly
to avoid startling the trilling little bird.

"Sometimes I  wonder what they're saying when  they sing," Ran Borune said.

"Right now he's telling me about the day he learned to fly," Aunt Pol said.
"That's a very important day for a bird." She reached out her hand, and the
canary hopped onto the  Emperor's finger, still singing and with its bright
eye cocked toward Ran Borune's face.

"That's an amusing conceit,  I suppose." The little old man smiled, staring
out at  the sunlight sparkling on  the water in one  of the fountains. "But
I'm afraid  I don't have time  for that kind of  thing. Right now the whole
nation is holding its  breath in anticipation of my death. They all seem to
think that the greatest  thing I can do for Tolnedra is to die immediately.
Some of them  have even gone to the trouble of trying  to help me along. We
caught  four  assassins  inside  the palace  grounds  just  last week.  The
Borunes, my own family,  are deserting me to the point that I scarcely have
enough people left to  run the palace, much less the Empire. Ah, here comes
Zereel."

A  lean, bushy-browed  man  in a  red  mantle covered  with mystic  symbols
scurried across the lawn and bowed deeply to the emperor. "You sent for me,
your Highness?"

"I am informed that this woman is Polgara the Sorceress," the Emperor said,
"and that  the old  man there is  Belgarath. Be a good  fellow, Zereel, and
have a look into their credentials."

"Belgarath  and  Polgara?"  the  bushy-browed  man  scoffed.  "Surely  your
Highness isn't serious. The  names are mythological. No such people exist."

"You see," the Emperor said to Aunt Pol. "You don't exist. I have it on the
very best authority. Zereel's a wizard himself, you know."

"Really?"

"One of  the very best," he assured her. "Of course  most of his tricks are
just sleight of hand,  since sorcery's only a sham, but he amuses me and he
takes himself very seriously. You may proceed, Zereel, but try not to raise
an awful stink, as you usually do."

"That won't be necessary, your Highness," Zereel said flatly. "If they were
wizards of any kind,  I'd have recognized them immediately. We have special
ways of communicating, you know."

Aunt Pol  looked at the wizard  with one eyebrow slightly  raised. "I think
that you  should look a  bit closer, Zereel," she  suggested. "Sometimes we
miss things."  She made an almost  imperceptible gesture, and Garion seemed
to hear a faint rush of sound.

The wizard stared, his eyes fixed on open air directly in front of him. His
eyes began  to bulge, and his face turned deathly pale.  As if his legs had
been cut from under him, he fell onto his face. "Forgive me, Lady Polgara,"
he croaked, groveling.

"That's supposed  to impress  me, I assume,"  the Emperor said.  "I've seen
men's minds  overwhelmed before, however, and  Zereel's mind isn't all that
strong to begin with."

"This is getting tiresome, Ran Borune," she said tartly.

"You really  ought to believe her,  you know." The canary  spoke in a tiny,
piping voice.  "I knew who she was immediately -  of course we're much more
perceptive than you things  that creep around on the ground - why do you do
that? If  you'd just try, I'm  sure you'd be able to  fly. And I wish you'd
stop eating so much garlic - it makes you smell awful."

"Hush, now," Aunt Pol  said gently to the bird. "You can tell him all about
it later."

The Emperor  was trembling  violently, and he  stared at the bird  as if it
were a snake.

"Why don't we all  just behave as if we believed that Polgara and I are who
we say we are?"  Mister Wolf suggested. "We could spend the rest of the day
trying to convince you,  and we really don't have that much time. There are
some things I have  to tell you, and they're important no matter who I am."

"I think  I can accept that," Ran Borune  said, still trembling and staring
at the now-silent canary.

Mister Wolf clasped his hands behind his back and stared up at a cluster of
bickering  sparrows on  the limb of  a nearby  tree. "Early last  fall," he
began, "Zedar the Apostate crept into the throne room at Riva and stole the
Orb of Aldur."

"He did what?" Ran Borune demanded, sitting up quickly. "How?"

"We don't  know," Wolf answered. "When I catch up  with him, maybe I'll ask
him.  I'm sure,  however, that you  can see  the importance of  the event."

"Obviously," the Emperor said.

"The Alorns and the  Sendars are quietly preparing for war," Wolf told him.

"War?" Ran Borune asked in a shocked voice. "With whom?"

"The Angaraks, of course."

"What's Zedar  got to do with the Angaraks? He could  be acting on his own,
couldn't he?"

"Surely you're not that simple," Aunt Pol remarked.

"You forget yourself, Lady,"  Ran Borune said stiffly. "Where's Zedar now?"

"He went through Tol  Honeth about two weeks ago," Wolf replied. "If he can
get across  the border into one  of the Angarak kingdoms  before I can stop
him, the Alorns will march."

"And Arendia with them," Mandorallen said firmly. "King Korodullin has also
been advised."

"You'll tear the world apart," the Emperor protested.

"Perhaps," Wolf  admitted, "but  we can't let  Zedar get to  Torak with the
Orb."

"I'll send emissaries at once," Ran Borune said. "This has to be headed off
before it gets out of hand."

"It's a  little late  for that," Barak  said grimly. "Anheg  and the others
aren't in any mood for Tolnedran diplomacy right now."

"Your  people have  a  bad reputation  in the  north, your  Highness," Silk
pointed  out. "They  always seem to  have a  few trade agreements  up their
sleeves. Every  time Tolnedra mediates a dispute, it  seems to cost a great
deal.   I  don't  think   we  can   afford  your  good   offices  anymore."

A cloud  passed in front of the sun, and  the garden seemed suddenly chilly
in its shadow.

"This is  being blown all  out of proportion," the  Emperor protested. "The
Alorns and the Angaraks  have been squabbling over that worthless stone for
thousands  of years.  You've been waiting  for the  chance to fall  on each
other, and now you've got an excuse. Well, enjoy yourselves. Tolnedra's not
going to get involved as long as I'm her Emperor."

"You're not going to  be able to sit to one side in this, Ran Borune," Aunt
Pol said.

"Why not?  The Orb  doesn't concern me one  way or the other.  Go ahead and
destroy each  other if you want. Tolnedra will still  be here when it's all
over."

"I  doubt it,"  Wolf told  him. "Your  Empire's crawling with  Murgos. They
could overrun you in a week."

"They're honest merchants - here on honest business."

"Murgos don't  have honest  business," Aunt Pol  told him. "Every  Murgo in
Tolnedra  is  here  because  he  was  sent  by  the  Grolim  High  Priest."

"That's  an exaggeration,"  Ran  Borune said  stubbornly. "The  whole world
knows that  you and your father  have an obsessive hatred  of all Angaraks,
but times have changed."

"Cthol Murgos  is still ruled from  Rak Cthol," Wolf said,  "and Ctuchik is
master there. Ctuchik hasn't  changed, even if the world has. The merchants
from Rak Goska might  seem civilized to you, but they all jump when Ctuchik
whistles, and Ctuchik's the disciple of Torak."

"Torak's dead."

"Really?"  Aunt Pol  said. "Have you  seen his  grave? Have you  opened the
grave and seen his bones?"

"My  Empire's very  expensive to run,"  the Emperor  said, "and I  need the
revenue the Murgos bring me. I've got agents in Rak Goska and all along the
South Caravan  Route, so I'd know if the Murgos  were getting ready for any
kind of  move against me. I'm just a little  suspicious that all this might
be  the  result  of  some internal  contention  within  the Brotherhood  of
Sorcerers. You  people have your own motives, and I'm  not going to let you
use my Empire as a pawn in your power struggles."

"And if  the Angaraks  win?" Aunt Pol said,  "How do you plan  to deal with
Torak?"

"I'm not afraid of Torak."

"Have you ever met him?" Wolf asked.

"Obviously not.  Listen, Belgarath,  you and your daughter  have never been
friendly to Tolnedra. You treated us like a defeated enemy after Vo Mimbre.
Your  information's  interesting,  and  I'll  consider  it  in  its  proper
perspective, but Tolnedran policy is not dominated by Alorn preconceptions.
Our economy relies heavily  on trade along the South Caravan Route. I'm not
going to  disrupt my Empire  simply because you happen  to dislike Murgos."

"You're a fool then," Wolf said bluntly.

"You'd  be surprised  at how  many people  think so," the  Emperor replied.
"Maybe you'll have better  luck with my successor. If he's a Vorduvian or a
Honeth,  you  might even  be  able to  bribe  him, but  Borunes don't  take
bribes."

"Or advice," Aunt Pol added.

"Only when it suits us, Lady Polgara," Ran Borune said.

"I   think   we've   done   everything   we  can   here,"   Wolf   decided.

A bronze door at  the back of the garden slammed open, and a tiny girl with
flaming hair stormed through,  her eyes ablaze. At first Garion thought she
was  a child, but  as she came  closer, he  realized that she  was somewhat
older than  that. Although she was very  small, the short, sleeveless green
tunic she wore displayed limbs that were much closer to maturity. He felt a
peculiar  kind of  shock  when he  saw her  - almost,  but not  quite, like
recognition.  Her  hair  was  a tumbled  mass  with  long, elaborate  curls
cascading down over her  neck and shoulders, and it was a color that Garion
had never  seen before, a deep,  burnished red that seemed  somehow to glow
from within. Her skin  was a golden color that seemed, as she swept through
the shadows of the  trees near the gate, to have an almost greenish cast to
it. She was in a state verging on sheer rage. "Why am I being kept prisoner
here?" she demanded of the Emperor.

"What are you talking about?" Ran Borune asked.

"The legionnaires won't let me leave the palace grounds!"

"Oh," the Emperor said, "that."

"Exactly. That. "

"They're acting on my orders, Ce'Nedra," the Emperor told her.

"So they said. Tell them too stop it."

"No."

"No?" Her  tone was  incredulous. "No?" Her voice  climbed several octaves.
"What do you mean, no?"

"It's too  dangerous for you to  be out in the  city just now," the Emperor
said placatingly.

"Nonsense,"  she snapped.  "I  don't intend  to sit  around in  this stuffy
palace just  because you're afraid of  your own shadow. I  need some things
from the market."

"Send someone."

"I don't  want to send anyone!" she shouted at him.  "I want to go myself."

"Well,  you  can't," he  said  flatly.  "Spend your  time  on your  studies
instead."

"I  don't want to  study," she cried.  "Jeebers is  a stuffy idiot,  and he
bores me.  I don't want to sit around talking  about history or politics or
any  of   the  rest   of  it.  I   just  want  an   afternoon  to  myself."

"I'm sorry."

"Please, father," she begged,  her tone dropping into a wheedling note. She
took hold of one  of the folds of his gold mantle and twisted it around one
of her tiny fingers. "Please." The look she directed at the Emperor through
her lashes would have melted stone.

"Absolutely not,"  he said, refusing to look at  her. "My order stands. You
will not leave the palace grounds."

"I  hate you!"  she  cried. Then  she ran  from  the garden  in  tears. "My
daughter," the Emperor explained  almost apologetically. "You can't imagine
what it's like having a child like that."

"Oh, I can imagine, all right," Mister Wolf said, glancing at Aunt Pol. She
looked back at him, her eyes challenging.

"Go ahead  and say it, father," she told him. "I'm  sure you won't be happy
until you do."

Wolf shrugged. "Forget it."

Ran Borune looked thoughtfully at the two of them. "It occurs to me that we
might  be able  to  negotiate a  bit here,"  he  said, his  eyes narrowing.

"What did you have in mind?" Wolf asked.

"You  have a certain  authority among  the Alorns," the  Emperor suggested.

"Some," Wolf admitted carefully.

"If you were to ask them, I'm sure they'd be willing to overlook one of the
more absurd provisions of the Accords of Vo Mimbre."

"Which one is that?"

"There's really no necessity for Ce'Nedra to journey to Riva, is there? I'm
the last  emperor of  the Borune Dynasty, and  when I die, she  won't be an
Imperial  Princess  anymore.  Under the  circumstances,  I'd  say that  the
requirement doesn't really apply  to her. It's nonsense anyway. The line of
the Rivan  King became extinct  thirteen hundred years ago,  so there isn't
going to  be any bridegroom waiting for her in the  Hall of the Rivan King.
As  you've seen,  Tolnedra's a  very dangerous  place just  now. Ce'Nedra's
sixteenth birthday's only a year or so off, and the date's well known. If I
have to send her  to Riva, half the assassins in the Empire are going to be
lurking outside  the palace gates, waiting for her  to come out. I'd rather
not take that kind of risk. If you could see your way clear to speak to the
Alorns, I  might be able to  make a few concessions  regarding the Murgos -
restrictions  on  their  numbers,   closed  areas,  that  sort  of  thing."

"No, Ran  Borune," Aunt Pol said flatly. "Ce'Nedra  will go to Riva. You've
failed  to  understand that  the  Accords  are only  a  formality. If  your
daughter's the one destined to become the bride of the Rivan King, no force
on  earth can  prevent her  from being in  the throne  room at Riva  on the
appointed  day.  My  father's recommendations  about  the  Murgos are  only
suggestions - for your  own good. What you choose to do about the matter is
your affair."

"I   think  we've   just   about  exhausted   the  possibilities   of  this
conversation," the Emperor stated coldly.

Two important-looking  officials came into the  garden and spoke briefly to
Lord Morin.

"Your  Highness,"  the  gray-haired  chamberlain said  deferentially,  "the
Minister  of Trade  wanted  to inform  you that  he's reached  an excellent
agreement  with the  trade deputation  from Rak  Goska. The  gentlemen from
Cthol Murgos were most accommodating."

"I'm delighted to hear  it," Ran Borune said, throwing a meaningful look at
Mister Wolf.

"The contingent from Rak Goska would like to pay their respects before they
leave," Morin added.

"By all means," the Emperor said. "I'll be delighted to receive them here."

Morin turned  and nodded  shortly to the  two officials near  the gate. The
officials turned  and spoke  to someone outside,  and the gate  swung open.

Five Murgos  strode into the garden. Their  coarse black robes were hooded,
but the  hoods were thrown back.  The front of their  robes were unclasped,
and the chain mail  shirts they all wore gleamed in the sunlight. The Murgo
in front  was a bit taller than the others,  and his bearing indicated that
he  was  the leader  of  the deputation.  A  welter of  images and  partial
memories flooded Garion's mind  as he looked at the scar-faced enemy he had
known all his life.  The strange pull of the silent, hidden linkage between
them touched him. It was Asharak.

Something brushed  Garion's mind,  tentative only - not  the powerful force
the Murgo  had directed at him in the dim hallway  in Anheg's palace at Val
Alorn. The  amulet under his tunic became very cold  and yet seemed to burn
at the same time.

"Your Imperial Highness," Asharak said, striding forward with a cold smile,
"we are  honored to be admitted  into your august presence."  He bowed, his
mail shirt clinking.

Barak was holding Hettar's right arm firmly, and Mandorallen moved and took
the other.

"I'm overjoyed  to see you  again, worthy Asharak," the  Emperor said. "I'm
told that an agreement has been reached."

"Beneficial to both sides, your Highness."

"The best kind of agreement," Ran Borune approved.

"Taur  Urgas, King  of  the Murgos,  sends greetings,"  Asharak  said. "His
Majesty feels  most keenly the desirability  of cementing relations between
Cthol Murgos and Tolnedra.  He hopes that one day he may call your Imperial
Highness brother."

"We respect  the peaceful  intentions and legendary wisdom  of Taur Urgas."
The Emperor smiled with a certain smugness.

Asharak looked around, his black eyes flat. "Well, Ambar," he said to Silk,
"your fortunes seem to have improved since we met last in Mingan's counting
room in Darine."

Silk spread  his hands in an innocent-looking  gesture. "The Gods have been
kind - most of them, anyway."

Asharak smiled briefly.

"You know each other?" the Emperor asked, a bit surprised.

"We've met, your Highnes," Silk admitted.

"In  another kingdom,"  Asharak added.  He looked  directly then  at Mister
Wolf. "Belgarath," he said politely with a brief nod.

"Chamdar," the old man replied.

"You're looking well."

"Thank you."

"It seems that I'm the only stranger here," the Emperor said.

"Chamdar and  I have  known each other  for a very long  time," Mister Wolf
told him.  He glanced at the Murgo with a  faintly malicious twinkle in his
eyes.   "I  see   that  you've   managed  to   recover  from   your  recent
indisposition."

Asharak's  face flickered  with  annoyance, and  he looked  quickly  at his
shadow on the grass as if for reassurance.

Garion remembered  what Wolf had said atop the tor  after the attack of the
Algroths -  something about a shadow returning  by an "indirect route." For
some reason  the information that Asharak the  Murgo and Chamdar the Grolim
were the same man  did not particularly surprise him. Like a complex melody
that had  been faintly  out of tune,  the sudden merging of  the two seemed
right  somehow. The knowledge  clicked in his  mind like  a key in  a lock.

"Someday you'll  have to show me how you did  that," Asharak was saying. "I
found  the  experience  interesting.  My  horse  had  hysterics,  however."

"My apologies to your horse."

"Why is it that  I feel as if I'm missing about half of this conversation?"
Ran Borune asked.

"Forgive  us, your Highness,"  Asharak said.  "Ancient Belgarath and  I are
renewing an  old enmity. We've seldom had the  opportunity to speak to each
other with  any degree of civility."  He turned and bowed  politely to Aunt
Pol. "My  Lady Polgara.  You're as beautiful  as ever." He eyed  her with a
deliberately suggestive stare.

"You haven't changed much  either, Chamdar." Her tone was mild, even bland,
but Garion, who knew  her so well, recognized immediately the deadly insult
she had just delivered to the Grolim.

"Charming," Asharak said with a faint smile.

"This is  better than a  play," the Emperor cried  delightedly. "You people
are actually  dripping with malice. I  wish I'd had the  opportunity to see
the first act."

"The  first act  was very  long, your  Highness," Asharak said,  "and quite
often tedious.  As you  may have noticed, Belgarath  sometimes gets carried
away with his own cleverness."

"I'm certain I'll be able to make up for that," Mister Wolf told him with a
slight smile.  "I promise  you that the  last act will  be extremely short,
Chamdar."

"Threats, old man?" Asharak asked. "I thought we'd agreed to be civilized."

"I can't  recall when we ever agreed on anything,"  Wolf said. He turned to
the Emperor.  "I think  we'll leave now,  Ran Borune," he  said. "With your
permission, of course."

"Of  course," the  Emperor replied.  "I'm pleased  to have met  youthough I
still  don't  believe  in   you,  naturally.  My  skepticism,  however,  is
theological, not personal."

"I'm glad  of that," Wolf said,  and quite suddenly he  grinned impishly at
the Emperor.

Ran Borune laughed.

"I   look  forward   to  our   next  meeting,  Belgarath,"   Asharak  said.

"I wouldn't  if I were you," Wolf advised him, then  turned and led the way
out of the Emperor's garden.





Chapter Seventeen

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON when they emerged from the palace gate. The broad lawns
were green in the  warm spring sunlight, and the cypress trees stirred in a
faint breeze.

"I don't  think we want to stay in Tol Honeth  too much longer," Wolf said.

"Do we leave now, then?" Mandorallen asked.

"There's something  I have to  do first," Wolf replied,  squinting into the
sunlight. "Barak and his cousin will come along with me. The rest of you go
on back to Grinneg's house and wait there."

"We'll stop  by the central market  on our way," Aunt  Pol told him. "There
are a few things I need."

"This isn't a shopping expedition, Pol."

"The Grolims  already know  we're here, father,"  she said, "so  there's no
point in creeping about like sneak thieves, is there?"

He sighed. "All right, Pol."

"I knew you'd see it my way," she said.

Mister Wolf shook his  head helplessly and rode off with Barak and Grinneg.
The rest  of them  rode down the  hill from the palace  toward the gleaming
city below.  The streets  at the foot of  the hill were broad  and lined on
either  side  by  magnificent   houses-each  almost  a  palace  in  itself.

"The rich and the noble," Silk said. "In Tol Honeth, the closer you live to
the palace, the more important you are."

"'Tis oft  times thus,  Prince Kheldar," Mandorallen  observed. "Wealth and
position sometimes need the  reassurance of proximity to the seat of power.
By ostentation  and propinquity to the throne, small  men are able to avoid
facing their own inadequacy."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Silk said.

The  central  marketplace of  Tol  Honeth  was a  vast  square filled  with
bright-colored booths  and stalls where a  significant portion of the goods
of the world were  on display. Aunt Pol dismounted, left her horse with one
of  the Cherek  guards, and moved  busily from  booth to booth,  buying, it
appeared,  almost everything in  sight. Silk's  face blanched often  at her
purchases, since he was paying for them.

"Can't  you  talk  to  her?" the  small  man  pleaded  with Garion.  "She's
destroying me."

"What makes you think she'd listen to me?" Garion asked.

"You could at least try, " Silk said desperately.

Three  richly mantled  men  stood near  the center  of the  market, arguing
heatedly.

"You're  mad, Haldor,"  one  of them,  a thin  man with  a snub  nose, said
agitatedly. "The Honeths would  strip the Empire for their own profit." His
face was flushed, and his eyes bulged dangerously.

"Would Kador  of the Vorduvians be any better?"  the stout man named Haldor
demanded. "You're the one  who's mad, Radan. If we put Kador on the throne,
he'll grind us all under foot. There's such a thing as being too imperial."

"How dare you?" Radan  almost screamed, his perspiring face growing darker.
"Grand Duke Kador is  the only possible choice. I'd vote for him even if he
hadn't  paid me."  He flung  his arms  about wildly  as he talked,  and his
tongue seemed to stumble over his words.

"Kador's a pig," Haldor said flatly, carefully watching Radan as if gauging
the impact of his words. "An arrogant, brutal pig with no more right to the
throne than  a mongrel dog.  His great-grandfather bought his  way into the
House of Vordue, and  I'd sooner open a vein than bow to the offspring of a
sneak thief from the docks of Tol Vordue."

Radan's eyes  almost started from his  head at Haldor's calculated insults.
He opened  his mouth  several times as  if trying to speak,  but his tongue
seemed frozen  with fury. His face turned purple, and  he clawed at the air
in  front of  him.  Then his  body stiffened  and  began to  arch backward.

Haldor watched him with an almost clinical detachment.

With a  strangled cry, Radan  toppled back onto the  cobblestones, his arms
and  legs threshing  violently. His eyes  rolled back  in his head,  and he
began to foam at the mouth as his convulsions became more violent. He began
to bang  his head on the stones, and his  twitching fingers clutched at his
throat.

"Amazing potency,"  the third  mantled man said  to Haldor. "Where  did you
find it?"

"A  friend of  mine recently  made a  voyage to  Sthiss Tor,"  Haldor said,
watching Radan's  convulsions with  interest. "The beautiful part  of it is
that it's completely harmless unless one gets excited. Radan wouldn't drink
the  wine   until  I  tasted  it   first  to  prove  that   it  was  safe."

"You've got the same  poison in your own stomach?" the other man asked with
astonishment.

"I'm  quite safe,"  Haldor said. "My  emotions never  get the best  of me."

Radan's convulsions  had grown weaker. His heels beat  at the stones with a
rapid pattering  sound; then he stiffened, gave  a long, gurgling sigh, and
died.

"I don't suppose you've  got any of the drug left, do you?" Haldor's friend
asked thoughtfully.  "I'd be willing to pay quite  a bit for something like
that."

Haldor laughed. "Why don't we go to my house, and we'll talk about it? Over
a cup of wine, perhaps?"

The other man threw  him a startled glance; then he laughed too, although a
bit nervously. The two of them turned and walked away, leaving the dead man
sprawled on the stones.

Garion stared in horror at them and then at the black-faced corpse lying so
grotesquely twisted  in the center of  the marketplace. The Tolnedrans near
the  body  seemed  to  ignore  its  existence.  "Why  doesn't  somebody  do
something?" he demanded.

"They're  afraid," Silk  said.  "If they  show any  concern, they  might be
mistaken  for  partisans.  Politics  here  in  Tol Honeth  are  taken  very
seriously."

"Shouldn't someone notify the authorities?" Durnik suggested, his face pale
and his voice shaking.

"I'm sure  it's already  been taken care  of," Silk said.  "Let's not stand
around  staring. I  don't think  we want  to get  involved in this  sort of
thing."

Aunt Pol  came back  to where they  were standing. The  two Cherek warriors
from Grinneg's  house who had  been accompanying her were  loaded down with
bundles   and  both   of   them  looked   a  little   sheepish   about  it.

"What are you doing?" she asked Silk.

"We were  just watching a bit of Tolnedran  politics in action," Silk said,
pointing at the dead man in the center of the square.

"Poison?" she asked, noting Radan's contorted limbs.

Silk nodded. "A strange one. It doesn't seem to work unless the victim gets
excited."

"Athsat," she said with a grim nod.

"You've heard of it before?" Silk seemed surprised.

She  nodded. "It's  quite  rare, and  very  expensive. I  didn't think  the
Nyissans would be willing to sell any of it."

"I think we should move away from here," Hettar suggested. "There's a squad
of  legionnaires coming, and  they might  want to question  any witnesses."

"Good idea," Silk said and led them toward the far side of the marketplace.

Near the row of  houses that marked the edge of the square, eight burly men
carried  a heavily  veiled  litter. As  the litter  approached,  a slender,
jeweled hand reached languidly  out from behind the veil and touched one of
the porters on the  shoulder. The eight men stopped immediately and set the
litter down.

"Silk," a woman's voice  called from within the litter, "what are you doing
back in Tol Honeth?"

"Bethra?" Silk said. "Is that you?"

The  veil was  drawn  back, revealing  a lushly  endowed woman  lounging on
crimson  satin cushions inside  the litter.  Her dark hair  was elaborately
curled with strings of  pearls woven into her tresses. Her pink silken gown
clung  to her  body, and golden  rings and  bracelets clasped her  arms and
fingers. Her  face was  breathtakingly beautiful, and  her long-lashed eyes
were  wicked. There  was about  her a  kind of  overripeness and  an almost
overpowering  sense of  self indulgent  corruption. For some  reason Garion
felt himself blushing furiously.

"I thought  you'd still  be running," she  said archly to Silk.  "The men I
sent after you were very professional."

Silk bowed with an  ironic little flourish. "They were quite good, Bethra,"
he agreed with a wry grin. "Not quite good enough, but very good, actually.
I hope you didn't need them anymore."

"I always wondered why  they didn't come back." She laughed. "I should have
known, of course. I hope you didn't take it personally."

"Certainly  not, Bethra.  It's  just part  of the  profession,  after all."

"I knew  you'd understand,"  she said. "I had  to get rid of  you. You were
disrupting my entire plan."

Silk grinned  wickedly. "I know," he gloated. "And after  all you had to go
through to set it up - and with the Thullish ambassador, no less."

She made a disgusted face.

"Whatever happened to him?" Silk asked.

"He went swimming in the Nedrane."

"I didn't know that Thulls swam all that well."

"They don't  - particularly not with large rocks  tied to their feet. After
you'd  destroyed the  whole thing,  I didn't  really need him  anymore, and
there were  some things I didn't want  him mentioning in certain quarters."

"You always were prudent, Bethra."

"What are you up to now?" she asked curiously.

Silk shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that."

"The succession?"

"Oh, no."  He laughed. "I know  better than to get  involved in that. Which
side are you on?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Silk  looked around,  his eyes  narrowing. "I  could use  some information,
Bethra - if you're free to talk about it, of course."

"About what, Silk?"

"The  city  seems to  be  awash with  Murgos,"  Silk said.  "If you're  not
presently involved  with them, I'd appreciate  anything you could tell me."

She  smiled at  him archly.  "And what  would you  be willing to  pay?" she
asked.

"Couldn't we just call it professional courtesy?"

She smiled  wickedly at him; then she laughed. "Why  not? I like you, Silk,
and  I   think  I'll  like  you   even  more  if  you   owe  me  a  favor."

"I'll be your slave," he promised.

"Liar." She  thought for a moment. "The Murgos  have never really shown all
that much  interest in  trade," she said.  "But a few years  ago they began
arriving  in twos  and threes;  and then  late last summer,  whole caravans
started coming in from Rak Goska."

"You think they want to influence the succession?" Silk asked.

"That would  be my guess," she  said. "There's a great  deal of red gold in
Tol Honeth suddenly. My coin chests are full of it."

Silk grinned. "It all spends."

"It does indeed."

"Have they picked any one candidate?"

"Not that  I've been  able to determine.  They seem to be  divided into two
different factions,  and there's  quite a bit of  antagonism between them."

"That could be a ruse, of course."

"I  don't think  so.  I think  the antagonism  has to  do with  the quarrel
between  Zedar and  Ctuchik. Each  side wants  to get  control of  the next
Emperor. They're spending money like water."

"Do you know the one called Asharak?"

"Ah, that  one," she replied. "The  other Murgos are all  afraid of him. At
the moment  he seems  to be working  for Ctuchik, but I  think he's playing
some game  of his own. He owns the Grand Duke  Kador out right, and Kador's
closest  to the  throne right  now. That  puts Asharak  in a  very powerful
position. That's about all I really know."

"Thank you, Bethra," Silk said respectfully.

"Are you planning to stay in Tol Honeth for long?" she asked.

"Unfortunately no."

"Pity. I was hoping you might be able to come by for a visit. We could talk
over old times. I  don't have many close friends anymore - or dear enemies,
like you."

Silk laughed dryly. "I  wonder why," he said. "I don't imagine I could swim
much  better than the  Thullish ambassador  did. You're a  dangerous woman,
Bethra."

"In  more ways  than one,"  she admitted,  stretching languidly.  "But your
life's  not   really  in  any   danger  from  me,  Silk   -  not  anymore."

"It wasn't my life I was worried about." Silk grinned.

"That's another  matter, of  course," she admitted. "Don't  forget that you
owe me a favor."

"I hunger for the opportunity to repay my debt," he said impudently.

"You're impossible."  She laughed,  then gestured to her  porters, and they
lifted  her  litter  to   their  shoulders.  "Good-bye,  Silk,"  she  said.

"Good-bye, Bethra," he replied with a deep bow.

"Absolutely disgusting,"  Durnik said in a  voice strangled with outrage as
the porters  marched away with the  litter. "Why is a  woman like that even
permitted to stay in the city?"

"Bethra?" Silk asked in surprise. "She's the most brilliant and fascinating
woman in Tol  Honeth. Men come from all over the world  just for an hour or
two with her."

"For a price, of course," Durnik said.

"Don't  misunderstand  her, Durnik,"  Silk  told  him. "Her  conversation's
probably more  valuable than-" He  coughed slightly with a  quick glance at
Aunt Pol.

"Really?"   Durnik   questioned   in    a   voice   heavy   with   sarcasm.

Silk laughed.  "Durnik," he said, "I love you like  a brother, but you're a
terrible prude, do you know that?"

"Leave him alone, Silk,"  Aunt Pol said firmly. "I like him exactly the way
he is."

"I'm only trying to  improve him, Lady Polgara," Silk explained innocently.

"Barak's right  about you,  Prince Kheldar," she  said. "You're a  very bad
man."

"It's all  in the line of  duty. I sacrifice my  more delicate feelings for
the sake of my country."

"Of course!"

"Surely you don't imagine that I enjoy that sort of thing?"

"Why don't we just let it drop?" she suggested.

Grinneg, Barak, and Mister  Wolf returned to Grinneg's house not long after
the others had arrived.

"Well?" Aunt  Pol asked Wolf as  the old man came  into the room where they
had been waiting.

"He went south," Wolf said.

"South? He didn't turn east toward Cthol Murgos?"

"No," Wolf  said. "He's probably  trying to avoid a  meeting with Ctuchik's
people. He'll look for a quiet place to slip across the border. Either that
or  he's  headed  for  Nyissa.  Perhaps  he's made  some  arrangement  with
Salmissra. We'll have to follow him to find out."

"I met an old friend in the marketplace," Silk said from the chair in which
he lounged.  "She tells me that Asharak's been  involved in the politics of
succession. It  appears that he's managed to buy  the Grand Duke of Vordue.
If the  Vorduvians get the throne, Asharak's going  to have Tolnedra in the
palm of his hand."

Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "We're going to have to do
something  about him  sooner or  later. He's  beginning to  make me  just a
little tired."

"We could  stop over  for a day or  so," Aunt Pol suggested.  "Attend to it
once and for all."

"No," Wolf  decided. "It's probably best not to do  that sort of thing here
in the  city. The business is likely to be a  bit noisy, and Tolnedrans get
excited  about things  they  can't understand.  I'm sure  he'll give  us an
opportunity later - in some less-populated place."

"Do we leave now, then?" Silk asked.

"Let's  wait  until  early  morning," Wolf  told  him.  "We'll probably  be
followed, but  if the streets are empty, it will  make things a little more
difficult for them."

"I'll talk to my cook, then," Grinneg said. "The least I can do is send you
on your  way with a good  meal to help you face  the road. Then, of course,
there's still that barrel of ale to be dealt with."

Mister Wolf smiled broadly at that, then caught Aunt Pol's reproving frown.
"It would  only go flat, Pol," he explained.  "Once it's broached, you have
to drink  it up fairly quickly.  It would be a  shame to waste it, wouldn't
it?"





Chapter Eighteen

THEY LEFT  GRINNEG'S HOUSE before dawn the  next morning, dressed once more
in  their traveling  clothes.  They slipped  quietly  out a  back gate  and
proceeded through  those narrow alleys and  back streets Silk always seemed
able  to find.  The  sky to  the east  was beginning  to lighten  when they
reached  the  massive  bronze   gate  on  the  south  end  of  the  island.

"How long until the gate opens?" Mister Wolf asked one of the legionnaires.

"Not much  longer," the legionnaire told  him. "Just as soon  as we can see
the far bank clearly."

Wolf  grunted. He  had grown  quite mellow  the evening  before and  he was
obviously troubled  by a headache this morning.  He dismounted, went to one
of the packhorses, and drank from a leather waterskin.

"That isn't  going to help, you  know," Aunt Pol told  him a bit smugly. He
chose not to answer.

"I think  it's going to be a lovely day  today," she said brightly, looking
first  at the  sky and  then at  the men  around her  who slumped  in their
saddles in attitudes of miserable dejection.

"You're a cruel woman, Polgara," Barak said sadly.

"Did   you  talk  to   Grinneg  about   that  ship?"  Mister   Wolf  asked.

"I think  so," Barak  replied. "I seem  to remember saying  something about
it."

"It's fairly important," Wolf said.

"What's this?" Aunt Pol asked.

"I thought it might  not be a bad idea to have a ship waiting off the mouth
of the River of  the Woods," Wolf said. "If we have to go to Sthiss Tor, it
would probably be better  to sail there rather than wade through the swamps
in northern Nyissa."

"That's  a  very good  idea,  actually,"  she approved.  "I'm surprised  it
occurred   to    you   -   considering   your    condition   last   night."

"Do  you suppose  we could  talk about  something else?" he  asked somewhat
plaintively.

It grew  imperceptibly lighter, and the command to  open the gate came from
the watchtower on the wall above. The legionnaires slipped the iron bar and
swung the ponderous gate  open. With Mandorallen at his side, Silk led them
out through  the thick portal and  across the bridge that  spanned the dark
waters of the Nedrane.

By noon  they were eight leagues  south of Tol Honeth,  and Mister Wolf had
somewhat  regained  his  composure,  though his  eyes  still  seemed a  bit
sensitive to the bright  spring sunlight, and he winced now and then when a
bird sang a bit too near.

"Riders coming up behind," Hettar said.

"How many?" Barak asked.

"Two."

"Ordinary travelers, perhaps," Aunt Pol said.

The two  figures on horseback appeared  from around a bend  behind them and
stopped. They  spoke together for a  moment or two and  then came on, their
bearing somewhat cautious. They  were a peculiar pair. The man wore a green
Tolnedran mantle, a garment  not really suited for riding. His forehead was
quite high,  and his hair  was carefully combed to  conceal his encroaching
baldness. He  was very skinny, and his ears stuck out  from the side of his
head like  flaps. His companion appeared to be a  child dressed in a hooded
traveling cloak  and with a kerchief across her face  to keep out the dust.

"Good day  to you," the skinny  man greeted them politely  as the pair drew
alongside.

"Hello," Silk returned.

"Warm for so early in the year, isn't it?" the Tolnedran said.

"We noticed that," Silk agreed.

"I wonder,"  the skinny  man asked, "do you  have a bit of  water you could
spare?"

"Of course,"  Silk said. He looked  at Garion and gestured  toward the pack
animals. Garion  dropped back and unhooked a  leather waterskin from one of
the packs. The stranger  removed the wooden stopper and carefully wiped the
mouth of  the skin.  He offered the  bag to his companion.  She removed her
kerchief  and  looked  at  the  skin  with  an  expression  of  perplexity.

"Like  this, your-uh-my  Lady," the  man explained,  taking the  skin back,
raising it in both hands and drinking.

"I see," the girl said.

Garion looked at her  more closely. The voice was familiar for some reason,
and there was something about her face. She was not a child, though she was
very small, and there  was a kind of self indulged petulance about her tiny
face.  Garion  was  almost  certain  he  had  seen  her  somewhere  before.

The Tolnedran  handed the  waterskin back to  her, and she  drank, making a
small face at the  resinous taste. Her hair was a purplish black, and there
were faint dark smears  on the collar of her traveling cloak that indicated
that the color was not natural.

"Thank you,  Jeebers," she said after she had  drunk. "And thank you, sir,"
she said to Silk.

Garion's eyes  narrowed as a dreadful suspicion began  to grow in his mind.

"Are you going far?" the skinny man asked Silk.

"Quite a  ways," Silk answered. "I'm Radek  of Boktor, a Drasnian merchant,
and  I'm bound  to  the south  with Sendarian  woolens.  This break  in the
weather destroyed the market  in Tol Honeth, so I thought I'd try Tol Rane.
It's   in   the   mountains,  and   it's   probably   still  cold   there."

"You're taking  the wrong road, then," the stranger  said. "The road to Tol
Rane lies off to the east."

"I've had  trouble on that road,"  Silk said glibly. "Robbers,  you know. I
thought it'd be safer to go through Tol Borune."

"What a  coincidence," the skinny man  told him. "My pupil  and I are bound
for Tol Borune ourselves."

"Yes," Silk admitted. "Quite a coincidence."

"Perhaps we could ride along together."

Silk looked doubtful.

"I don't see any  reason why not," Aunt Pol decided before he could refuse.

"You're most kind, gracious lady," the stranger said. "I am Master Jeebers,
Fellow of the Imperial Society, a tutor by profession. Perhaps you've heard
of me."

"I  can't  really  say  so,"  Silk  told  him,  "although  that's  not  too
remarkable, since we're strangers here in Tolnedra."

Jeebers looked a bit  disappointed. "I suppose that's true," he said. "This
is my pupil, Lady  Sharell. Her father's a grand master merchant, the Baron
Reldon. I'm accompanying her to Tol Borune where she's to visit relatives."

Garion  knew  that  was  not  true.  The  tutor's name  had  confirmed  his
suspicions.

They rode several miles  further, with Jeebers babbling animatedly at Silk.
He spoke endlessly about  his learning and continually prefaced his remarks
with references  to important  people who seemed  to rely on  his judgment.
Although he was tiresome,  he appeared to be quite harmless. His pupil rode
beside Aunt Pol, saying very little.

"I  think it's  time we  stopped for  a bite  to eat," Aunt  Pol announced.
"Would you and your pupil care to join us, Master Jeebers? We have plenty."

"I'm  quite  overcome  by  your  generosity,"  the  tutor  said.  "We'd  be
delighted."

They stopped  the horses near a  small bridge that crossed  a brook and led
them into  the shade  of a thick  clump of willows  not far  from the road.
Durnik built  a fire,  and Aunt Pol  began to unload her  pots and kettles.

Master Jeebers'  pupil sat  in her saddle  until the tutor  quickly stepped
over to  help her down. She  looked at the slightly  marshy ground near the
brook   unenthusiastically.  Then   she  glanced  imperiously   at  Garion.
"You-boy," she called. "Fetch me a cup of fresh water."

"The brook's right there," he told her, pointing.

She stared at him in amazement. "But the ground's all muddy," she objected.

"It  does  seem  that   way,  doesn't  it?"  he  admitted  and  then  quite
deliberately  turned  his back  on  her and  went  over to  help his  Aunt.

"Aunt Pol," he said after several moments of debating with himself.

"Yes, dear?"

"I don't think the Lady Sharell's who she says she is."

"Oh?"

"I'm not completely positive,  but I think she's the Princess Ce'Nedra -the
one who came into the garden when we were at the palace."

"Yes, dear. I know."

"You know?"

"Of course. Would you hand me the salt, please?"

"Isn't it dangerous to have her with us?"

"Not really," she said. "I think we can manage it."

"Won't she be a lot of bother?"

"An Imperial Princess is  supposed to be a lot of bother, dear." After they
had eaten  a savory stew which seemed to Garion  quite good but which their
little  guest appeared  to find  distasteful, Jeebers  began to  approach a
subject  which had  obviously been on  his mind  since they had  first met.
"Despite  the best  efforts of  the legions,  the roads are  never entirely
safe," the  fussy man said. "It's  imprudent to travel alone,  and the Lady
Sharell's been entrusted to  my care. Since I'm responsible for her safety,
I  was wondering  if we  might travel  along with  you. We wouldn't  be any
bother,  and I'd  be  more than  happy to  pay for  whatever food  we eat."

Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol.

"Of course," she said.

Silk looked surprised.

"There's no reason we can't travel together," she went on. "We're all going
to the same place, after all."

Silk shrugged. "Anything you say."

Garion knew the idea was a mistake so serious that it bordered on disaster.
Jeebers would not be a good traveling companion, and his pupil showed every
sign  of  quickly becoming  intolerable.  She was  obviously accustomed  to
extensive  personal service,  and  her demands  were probably  made without
thought. They were still  demands, however, and Garion knew immediately who
was most  likely to  be expected to  attend to them.  He got  up and walked
around to the far side of the clump of willows.

The fields  beyond the  trees were pale  green in the  spring sunshine, and
small white  clouds drifted lazily across the  sky. Garion leaned against a
tree and gazed out at the fields without actually seeing them. He would not
become a  servant -  no matter who  their little guest might  be. He wished
there  were some  way he  could get  that firmly  established right  at the
outset - before things got out of hand.

"Have you lost your senses, Pol?" he heard Mister Wolf say somewhere behind
him among  the trees. "Ran  Borune's probably got every  legion in Tolnedra
looking for her by now."

"This is my province, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol told him. "Don't interfere. I can
manage things so that we won't be bothered by the legions."

"We don't have the  time to coddle her," the old man said. "I'm sorry, Pol,
but the child's going to be an absolute little monster. You saw the way she
acted toward her father."

"It's no great chore to break bad habits," she said, unconcerned.

"Wouldn't  it be  simpler just  to arrange  to have  her taken back  to Tol
Honeth?"

"She's already  run away  once," Aunt Pol  answered. "If we  send her back,
she'll  just run  away again.  I'll feel  much more comfortable  having her
Imperial little  Highness where I can put my hands on  her when I need her.
When the  proper time comes, I  don't want to have  to take the world apart
looking for her."

Wolf sighed. "Have it your way, Pol."

"Naturally."

"Just keep the brat  away from me," he said. "She sets my teeth on edge. Do
any of the others know who she is?"

"Garion does."

"Garion? That's surprising."

"Not   really,"   Aunt   Pol  said.   "He's   brighter   than  he   looks."

A new  emotion began to grow in Garion's  already confused mind. Aunt Pol's
obvious interest in Ce'Nedra  sent a sharp pang through him. With a certain
amount of shame, he  realized that he was jealous of the attention the girl
was receiving.

In the days that followed, Garion's fears quickly proved to be wellfounded.
An inadvertant  remark about Faldor's farm had  revealed quite early to the
princess his  former status as  a scullery-boy, and she  used the knowledge
heartlessly to browbeat him into a hundred stupid little errands every day.
To make  it all worse, each time he tried to  resist, Aunt Pol would firmly
remind  him to  pay more  attention to  his manners. Inevitably,  he became
quite surly about the whole business.

The princess developed a  story about the reason for her departure from Tol
Honeth as  they rode  south. The story  changed daily, growing  more wildly
implausible with every passing league. At first she seemed content to be on
a simple  excursion to visit  relatives; then she dropped  dark hints about
flight  from a  marriage to  an ugly  old merchant.  Next, there  were even
darker hints about a  plot to capture her and hold her for ransom. Finally,
in a crowning effort, she confided to them that the proposed kidnapping was
politically  motivated  - a  part  of some  vast  scheme to  gain power  in
Tolnedra.

"She's  an awful  liar, isn't she?"  Garion asked  Aunt Pol when  they were
alone one evening.

"Yes, dear,"  Aunt Pol  agreed. "Lying is  an art. A good  lie shouldn't be
embellished so much. She'll need a lot more practice if she plans to make a
career of it."

Finally, about  ten days  after they had  left Tol Honeth, the  city of Tol
Borune came into sight in the afternoon sun.

"It looks like this  is where we part company," Silk said to Jeebers with a
certain amount of relief.

"Aren't you going into the city?" Jeebers asked.

"I don't  think so," Silk answered.  "We don't really have  any business to
take  care of  there, and  the usual  explanations and searches  just waste
time-not to  mention the expense of the bribes.  We'll go around Tol Borune
and pick up the road to Tol Rane on the other side."

"We  can ride  a bit  farther with  you then,"  Ce'Nedra said  quickly. "My
relatives live on an estate to the south of the city."

Jeebers stared at her in amazement.

Aunt  Pol drew  in her  horse and looked  at the  small girl with  a raised
eyebrow. "This  seems like as good  a place as any for  us to have a little
talk," she said.

Silk looked quickly at her and then nodded.

"I  believe,  little lady,"  Aunt  Pol  told the  girl  when  they had  all
dismounted,  "that  the time  has  come  for you  to  tell  us the  truth."

"But I have," Ce'Nedra protested.

"Oh, come  now, child,"  Aunt Pol said.  "Those stories of  yours have been
very entertaining,  but you  don't actually think anyone  believed them, do
you? Some of us  already know who you are, but I really think we should get
it out in the open."

"You know?" Ce'Nedra faltered.

"Of course,  dear," Aunt Pol said.  "Would you like to  tell them, or shall
I?"

Ce'Nedra's little shoulders drooped.  "Tell them who I am, Master Jeebers,"
she ordered quietly.

"Do you really think  that's wise, your Ladyship?" Jeebers asked nervously.

"They already know anyway," she said. "If they were going to do anything to
us, they'd have done it a long time ago. We can trust them."

Jeebers drew  in a deep breath and then spoke  rather formally. "I have the
honor to  introduce her Imperial Highness,  the Princess Ce'Nedra, daughter
to his  Imperial Majesty, Ran Borune  XXIII, and the jewel  of the House of
Borune."

Silk whistled, and his  eyes widened momentarily. The others showed similar
signs of amazement.

"The  political situation  in Tol  Honeth had  become far to  volatile, too
menacing, for  her Highness to remain safely  in the capital," Jeebers went
on. "The  Emperor commissioned me  to convey his daughter  secretly here to
Tol Borune where the  members of the Borune family can protect her from the
plots and  machinations of the Vordues, the  Honeths, and the Horbites. I'm
proud to say that  I've managed to execute my commission rather brilliantly
- with your help,  of course. I'll mention your assistance in my report - a
footnote, perhaps, or maybe even an appendix."

Barak  pulled at  his  beard, his  eyes thoughtful.  "An  Imperial Princess
travels across  half of Tolnedra with  only a schoolmaster for protection?"
he questioned. "At a  time when they're knifing and poisoning each other in
the streets?"

"It   does   seem   a   trifle   risky,   doesn't   it?"   Hettar   agreed.

"Did throe Emperor charge thee with this task in person?" Mandorallen asked
Jeebers.

"It wasn't necessary," Jeebers said stiffly, "His Highness has a great deal
of  respect for my  judgment and discretion.  He knew  that I'd be  able to
devise a safe disguise and a secure mode of travel. The princess assured me
of his absolute confidence  in me. It all had to be done in utmost secrecy,
of course. That's why she came to my chambers in the middle of the night to
advise me  of his instructions and  why we left the  palace without telling
anyone what  we were-" His voice trailed off, and  he stared at Ce'Nedra in
horror.

"You might  as well tell him the truth, dear,"  Aunt Pol advised the little
princess. "I think he's guessed already."

Ce'Nedra's chin lifted arrogantly.  "The orders came from me, Jeebers," she
told him. "My father  had nothing to do with it." Jeebers went deathly pale
and he nearly collapsed.

"What idiocy made you  decide to run away from your father's palace?" Barak
demanded of  the tiny girl.  "All Tolnedra's probably looking  for you, and
we're caught right in the middle."

"Gently,"  Wolf said  to the hulking  Cherek. "She  may be a  princess, but
she's still a little girl. Don't frighten her."

"The question's  to the  point, though," Hettar observed.  "If we're caught
with an  Imperial Princess  in our company,  we'll all see the  inside of a
Tolnedran dungeon." He turned  to Ce'Nedra. "Do you have an answer, or were
you just playing games?"

She drew herself up haughtily. "I'm not accustomed to explaining my actions
to servants."

"We're going to have  to clear up a few misconceptions before long, I see,"
Wolf said.

"Just answer  the question, dear," Aunt Pol told  the girl. "Never mind who
asked it."

"My  father had  imprisoned me in  the palace,"  Ce'Nedra said in  a rather
offhand way,  as if  that explained everything.  "It was intolerable,  so I
left. There's  another matter,  too, but that's  a matter of  politics. You
wouldn't understand."

"You'd  probably be  surprised at  what we'd understand,  Ce'Nedra," Mister
Wolf told her.

"I'm accustomed  to being  addressed as my  Lady," she said  tartly, "or as
your Highness."

"And I'm accustomed to being told the truth."

"I thought you were in charge," Ce'Nedra said to Silk.

"Appearances  are  deceiving,"  Silk  observed  blandly.  "I'd  answer  the
question."

"It's an  old treaty," she  said. "I didn't sign  it, so I don't  see why I
should be bound by it. I'm supposed to present myself in the throne room at
Riva on my sixteenth birthday."

"We know that," Barak said impatiently. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not  going, that's all," Ce'Nedra announced. "I  won't go to Riva, and
no one can make  me go. The queen in the Wood of the Dryads is my kinswoman
and she'll give me sanctuary."

Jeebers had partially recovered. "What have you done?" he demanded, aghast.
"I undertook this with  the clear understanding that I'd be rewarded - even
promoted.   You've  put  my   head  on   the  block,  you   little  idiot!"

"Jeebers!" she cried, shocked at his words.

"Let's get off the road a ways," Silk suggested. "We've obviously got quite
a  bit to  discuss, and  we're likely  to be  interrupted here on  the main
highway."

"Probably a  good idea," Wolf agreed. "Let's find  some quiet place and set
up for the night. We'll decide what we're going to do and then we can start
out fresh in the morning."

They remounted  and rode across the  rolling fields toward a  line of trees
that  marked  the course  of  a winding  country  lane about  a mile  away.

"How about  there?" Durnik suggested,  pointing at a broad  oak which stood
beside the  lane, its branches beginning to leaf  out in the late afternoon
sunlight.

"That should do," Wolf said.

It was  pleasant in  the dappled shade  beneath the spreading  limbs of the
oak.  The lane  was lined  with low  stone walls,  mossy and cool.  A stile
stepped up  over one of the  walls just there, and  a path meandered across
the  field   from  it  toward   a  nearby  pond,  sparkling   in  the  sun.

"We can put the  fire down behind one of the walls," Durnik said. "It won't
be seen from the main road that way."

"I'll  get  some  wood,"  Garion volunteered,  looking  at  the dead  limbs
littering the grass beneath the tree.

They  had by  now established  a sort  of routine  in the  setting up  of a
night's  encampment.  The  tents  were  erected,  the  horses  watered  and
picketed, and  the fire was started  all within the space  of an hour. Then
Durnik, who had noticed  a few telltale circles on the surface of the pond,
heated  an iron  pin in  the fire  and carefully  hammered it into  a hook.

"What's that for?" Garion asked him.

"I thought some fish  might be good for supper," the smith said, wiping the
hook on the skirt  of his leather tunic. He laid it aside then and lifted a
second pin  out of the  fire with a pair  of tongs. "Would you  like to try
your luck too?"

Garion grinned at him.

Barak, who sat nearby combing the snarls out of his beard, looked up rather
wistfully. "I  don't suppose  you'd have time  to make another  hook, would
you?" he asked.

Durnik chuckled. "It only takes a couple minutes."

"We'll need  bait," Barak  said, getting up quickly.  "Where's your spade?"

Not long  afterward, the three of  them crossed the field  to the pond, cut
some   saplings   for  poles   and   settled  down   to  serious   fishing.

The fish, it appeared,  were ravenous and attacked the worm-baited hooks in
schools.  Within the space  of an  hour nearly two  dozen respectable-sized
trout  lay   in  a   gleaming  row  on   the  grassy  bank   of  the  pond.

Aunt Pol inspected their catch gravely when they returned as the sky turned
rosy overhead with the setting of the sun. "Very nice," she told them, "but
you forgot to clean them."

"Oh," Barak said. He  looked slightly pained. "We thought that well, what I
mean is - as long as we caught them" He left it hanging.

"Go on," she said with a level gaze.

Barak sighed. "I guess  we'd better clean them," he regretfully told Durnik
and Garion.

"You're probably right," Durnik agreed.

The sky had turned purple with evening, and the stars had begun to come out
when they sat down  to eat. Aunt Pol had fried the trout to a crisp, golden
brown, and  even the sulky little princess  found nothing to complain about
as she ate.

After  they had  finished,  they set  aside their  plates  and took  up the
problem of  Ce'Nedra and her flight from Tol  Honeth. Jeebers had sunk into
such abject  melancholy that he  could offer little to  the discussion, and
Ce'Nedra adamantly announced that even if they were to turn her over to the
Borunes in the city,  she would run away again. In the end, they reached no
conclusion.

"We're in  trouble no matter what  we do," Silk summed  it all up ruefully.
"Even if  we try to deliver  her to her family, there  are bound to be some
embarrassing  questions, and  I'm sure she  can be  counted on to  invent a
colorful   story  that  will   put  us   in  the  worst   possible  light."

"We can talk about  it some more in the morning," Aunt Pol said. Her placid
tone indicated  that she had already made up  her mind about something, but
she did not elaborate.

Shortly before midnight, Jeebers made his escape. They were all awakened by
the thudding  of his horse's hooves  as the panic-stricken tutor  fled at a
gallop toward the walls of Tol Borune.

Silk stood in the  flickering light of the dying fire, his face angry. "Why
didn't you stop him?" he asked Hettar, who had been standing watch.

"I was told not to," the leather-clad Algar said with a glance at Aunt Pol.

"It  solves  the  only  real problem  we  had,"  Aunt  Pol explained.  "The
schoolmaster would only have been excess baggage."

"You knew he was going to run away?" Silk asked.

"Naturally. I  helped him to arrive  at the decision. He'll  go straight to
the  Borunes and  try  to save  his own  skin  by informing  them  that the
princess ran  away from  the palace on her  own and that we  have her now."

"You have  to stop him then,"  Ce'Nedra said in a  ringing voice. "Go after
him! Bring him back!"

"After all the trouble  I went to persuading him to leave?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Don't be foolish."

"How  dare you  speak to  me like  that?" Ce'Nedra  demanded. "You  seem to
forget who I am."

"Young lady,"  Silk said urbanely, "I  think you'd be amazed  at how little
Polgara's concerned about who you are."

"Polgara?" Ce'Nedra faltered. "The Polgara? I thought you said that she was
your sister."

"I lied," Silk confessed. "It's a vice I have."

"You're not an ordinary merchant," the girl accused him.

"He's Prince Kheldar of Drasnia," Aunt Pol said. "The others have a similar
eminence. I'm sure you  can see how little your title impresses us. We have
our own titles, so we know how empty they are."

"If  you're Polgara,  then he  must be-"  The princess  turned to  stare at
Mister Wolf, who had seated himself on the lowest step of the stile to pull
on his shoes.

"Yes," Aunt Pol said. "He doesn't really look the part, does he?"

"What are  you doing in Tolnedra?" Ce'Nedra asked  in a stunned voice. "Are
you  going  to  use magic  of  some  kind to  control  the  outcome of  the
succession?"

"Why should we?" Mister  Wolf said, getting to his feet. "Tolnedrans always
seem to  think that their politics  shake the whole world,  but the rest of
the world's really not all that concerned about who gains the throne in Tol
Honeth. We're here on a matter of much greater urgency." He looked off into
the  darkness in  the  direction of  Tol Borune.  "It  will take  Jeebers a
certain amount  of time to convince the people in the  city that he's not a
lunatic," he  said, "but  it would probably be  a good idea if  we left the
area.   I  imagine  we'd   better  stay   away  from  the   main  highway."

"That's no problem," Silk assured him.

"What about me?" Ce'Nedra asked.

"You wanted  to go  to the Wood of  the Dryads," Aunt Pol  told her. "We're
going  in that  direction anyway, so  you'll stay  with us. We'll  see what
Queen Xantha says when we get you there."

"Am I to consider myself a prisoner then?" the princess asked stifliy.

"You can  if it makes you feel better, dear," Aunt  Pol said. She looked at
the tiny girl critically in the flickering firelight. "I'm going to have to
do something  about your hair, though.  What did you use  for dye? It looks
awful."





Chapter Nineteen

THEY MOVED  RAPIDLY SOUTH  for the next  few days, traveling  frequently at
night to  avoid the  mounted patrols of  legionnaires who were  beating the
countryside in their efforts to locate Ce'Nedra.

"Maybe we should have  hung on to Jeebers," Barak muttered sourly after one
near-brush with the soldiers.  "He's roused every garrison from here to the
border. It might have  been better to have dropped him off in some isolated
place or something."

"That `or  something' has  a certain ring  of finality to  it, old friend,"
Silk said with a sharp little grin.

Barak shrugged. "It's a solution to a problem."

Silk  laughed. "You really  should try not  to let  your knife do  all your
thinking for  you. That's the one  quality we find least  attractive in our
Cherek cousins."

"And  we  find  this  compulsion to  make  clever  remarks  which seems  to
overwhelm our Drasnian brothers  now and then almost equally unattractive,"
Barak told him coolly.

"Nicely put," Silk said with mock admiration.

They rode  on, watchful, always ready to hide or  to run. During those days
they  relied  heavily  on  Hettar's  curious  ability.  Since  the  patrols
searching  for them  were  inevitably mounted,  the tall,  hawk-faced Algar
swept their surroundings with  his mind, searching for horses. The warnings
he could  thus provide usually gave them  sufficient notice of the approach
of the patrols.

"What's it like?" Garion asked him one cloudy midmorning as they rode along
a  seldom-used and  weed-grown track to  which Silk  had led them.  "I mean
being able to hear a horse's thoughts?"

"I don't  think I can  describe it exactly," Hettar  answered. "I've always
been able to do it, so I can't imagine what it's like not doing it. There's
a kind of reaching-out in a horse's mind - a sort of inclusiveness. A horse
seems to think 'we' instead of 'I'. I suppose it's because in their natural
condition they're members of a herd. After they get to know you, they think
of you as a herd mate. Sometimes they even forget that you're not a horse."
He broke off suddenly.  "Belgarath," he announced sharply, "there's another
patrol coming just beyond  that hill over there. Twenty or thirty of them."

Mister Wolf looked about  quickly. "Have we got time to reach those trees?"
He  pointed at  a  thick stand  of scrub  maple  about a  half  mile ahead.

"If we hurry."

"Then run!"  Wolf ordered, and they  all kicked their horses  into a sudden
burst of  speed. They reached the trees just as  the first few raindrops of
the spring  shower that  had been threatening  all morning pattered  on the
broad  leaves. They dismounted  and pushed  in among the  springy saplings,
worming   their   way   back   out   of  sight,   leading   their   horses.

The Tolnedran patrol came  over the hilltop and swept down into the shallow
valley. The  captain in charge of the legionnaires  pulled in his horse not
far from  the stand of maples and dispersed his men  with a series of sharp
commands. They  moved out in small groups, scouting  the weedy road in both
directions and  surveying the  surrounding countryside from the  top of the
next  rise. The  officer and  a civilian  in a  gray riding  cloak remained
behind, sitting their horses beside the track.

The captain squinted distastefully up into the sprinkling rain. "It's going
to  be a  wet  day," he  said, dismounting  and  pulling his  crimson cloak
tighter around him.

His companion also swung down and turned so that the party hiding among the
maples was able to see his face. Garion felt Hettar tense suddenly. The man
in the cloak was a Murgo.

"Over here,  Captain," the Murgo  said, leading his horse  into the shelter
provided  by the  outspreading limbs  of the  saplings at  the edge  of the
stand.

The Tolnedran  nodded and followed the  man in the riding  cloak. "Have you
had a chance to think over my offer?" the Murgo asked.

"I thought  it was only  speculation," the captain replied.  "We don't even
know that these foreigners are in this quadrant."

"My information is that  they're going south, captain," the Murgo told him.
"I think you can be quite certain that they're somewhere in your quadrant."

"There's no guarantee that we'll find them, though," the captain said. "And
even if we do, it'd be very difficult to do what you propose."

"Captain,"  the Murgo  explained  patiently, "it's  for the  safety  of the
princess, after  all. If she's  returned to Tol Honeth,  the Vorduvians are
going to kill her. You've read those documents I brought you."

"She'll be safe with the Borunes," the captain said. "The Vorduvians aren't
going to come into Southern Tolnedra after her."

"The Borunes are only going to turn her over to her father. You're a Borune
yourself. Would you defy  an Emperor of your own house?" The captain's face
was troubled.

"Her only hope of safety is with the Horbites," the Murgo pressed.

"What   guarantees   do  I   have   that   she'll  be   safe  with   them?"

"The best guarantee of all - politics. The Horbites are doing everything in
their power to block the Grand Duke Kador on his march to the throne. Since
he wants the princess  dead, the Horbites naturally want to keep her alive.
It's the  only way really to  insure her safety -  and you become a wealthy
man   in   the   process."  He   jingled   a   heavy  purse   suggestively.

The captain still looked doubtful.

"Suppose  we double  the amount,"  the Murgo  said in  a voice  that almost
purred.

The captain swallowed hard. "It is for her safety, isn't it?"

"Of course it is."

"It's not as if I were betraying the House of Borune."

"You're  a patriot,  Captain," the  Murgo assured  the officer with  a cold
smile.

Aunt Pol was holding  Ce'Nedra's arm quite firmly as they crouched together
among  the trees.  The tiny  girl's face  was outraged,  and her  eyes were
blazing.

Later,  after the  legionnaires and  their Murgo  friend had  departed, the
princess  exploded.   "How  dare   they?"  she  raged.   "And  for  money!"

"That Tolnedran  politics for you," Silk said as  they led their horses out
of the stand of saplings into the drizzly morning.

"But he's a Borune," she protested, "a member of my own family."

"A  Tolnedran's  first  loyalty  is to  his  purse,"  Silk  told her.  "I'm
surprised   you   haven't  discovered   that   by   now,  your   Highness."

A  few  days later  they topped  a  hill and  saw  the Wood  of the  Dryads
spreading like  a green smudge on  the horizon. The showers  had blown off,
and the sun was very bright.

"We'll  be safe  once  we reach  the Wood,"  the  princess told  them. "The
legions won't follow us there."

"What's to stop them?" Garion asked her.

"The treaty with the Dryads," she said. "Don't you know anything?"

Garion resented that.

"There's no  one about," Hettar reported to Mister Wolf.  "We can go now or
wait for dark."

"Let's  make  a run  for  it," Wolf  said.  "I'm getting  tired of  dodging
patrols." They  started down the hill  at a gallop toward  the forest lying
ahead of them.

There seemed to be none of the usual brushy margin which usually marked the
transition from fields to  woodlands. The trees simply began. When Wolf led
them beneath those trees,  the change was as abrupt as if they had suddenly
gone inside a house.  The Wood itself was a forest of incredible antiquity.
The great oaks spread so broadly that the sky was almost never visible. The
forest floor was mossy  and cool, and there was very little undergrowth. It
seemed to  Garion that they were  all quite tiny under  the vast trees, and
there was a strange, hushed quality about the wood. The air was very still,
and  there  was a  hum  of  insects and,  from  far overhead,  a chorus  of
birdsong.

"Strange,"  Durnik  said,  looking   around,  "I  don't  see  any  sign  of
woodcutters."

"Woodcutters?" Ce'Nedra gasped. "In here? They wouldn't dare come into this
wood."

"The wood is inviolate,  Durnik," Mister Wolf explained. "The Borune family
has a treaty with the Dryads. No one has touched a tree here for over three
thousand years."

"This  is  a  curious  place,"  Mandorallen  said,  looking  around  a  bit
uncomfortably.  "Me  thinks  I  feel  a  presence  here -  a  presence  not
altogether friendly."

"The Wood is alive," Ce'Nedra told him. "It doesn't really like strangers -
but don't  worry, Mandorallen, you're safe as long  as you're with me." She
sounded quite smug about it.

"Are  you sure  the  patrols won't  follow us?"  Durnik asked  Mister Wolf.
"Jeebers  knew we were  coming here, after  all, and  I'm sure he  told the
Borunes."

"The Borunes won't violate their treaty with the Dryads," Wolf assured him.
"Not for any reason."

"I've never known of a treaty a Tolnedran wouldn't step around if it was to
his advantage." Silk spoke skeptically.

"This one  is a  bit different," Wolf  said. "The Dryads gave  one of their
princesses to  a young noble of the House of  Borune. She became the mother
of the Emperor of the First Borune Dynasty. The fortunes of the Borunes are
very intimately  tied up with the treaty. They're  not going to gamble with
that - not for any reason."

"What exactly  is a Dryad?" Garion asked. The  strange sense of a presence,
an awareness  in the wood, made  him want to talk  to cover the oppressive,
watchful silence.

"A small group," Mister  Wolf said. "Quite gentle. I've always rather liked
them. They  aren't human,  of course, but  that's not all  that important."

"I'm a Dryad," Ce'Nedra said rather proudly.

Garion stared at her.

"Technically she's  right," Wolf said. "The Dryad  line seems to breed true
on the  female side of the  House of Borune. That's  one of the things that
keeps  the family  honest about the  treaty -  all those wives  and mothers
who'd pack up and leave if it were ever broken."

"She looks human," Garion objected, still staring at the princess.

"The  Dryads are  so  closely related  to humans  that the  differences are
hardly significant," Wolf said.  "That probably explains why they didn't go
mad  like   the  other   monsters  did  when  Torak   cracked  the  world."

"Monsters!" Ce'Nedra protested loudly.

"Your  pardon,  Princess," Wolf  apologized.  "It's  an Ulgo  term used  to
describe the non-humans who  supported Gorim at Prolgu when he met with the
God UL."

"Do I look like  a monster to you?" she demanded, tossing her head angrily.

"A poor choice of words, perhaps," Wolf murmured. "Forgive me."

"Monsters indeed!" Ce'Nedra fumed.

Wolf shrugged. "There's a  stream not far ahead, if I remember right. We'll
stop there  and wait until word  of our arrival reaches  Queen Xantha. It's
not a good idea  to go into the territory of the Dryads without the queen's
permission.   They   can   get    quite   nasty   if   they're   provoked."

"I thought you said they were gentle," Durnik said.

"Within  reason," Wolf  told him.  "But it's  not a  good idea  to irritate
people who  communicate with trees when  you're in the middle  of a forest.
Unpleasant things  have a way of happening."  He frowned. "That reminds me.
You'd better  stow your axe away out of  sight. Dryads have strong feelings
about axes - and fires. They're most unreasonable about fire. We'll have to
keep our fires small and only for cooking."

They rode  in under a colossal  oak beside a sparkling  stream purling over
mossy rocks, dismounted and  set up their dun-colored tents. After they had
eaten, Garion  wandered around feeling bored.  Mister Wolf was napping, and
Silk  had lured  the  others into  a dice  game.  Aunt Pol  had  seated the
Princess  on  a  log  and was  stripping  the  purple  dye  from her  hair.

"If you  don't have anything else to do, Garion,"  she said, "why don't you
go bathe?"

"Bathe?" he asked. "Where?"

"I'm  sure  you'll find  a  pool  somewhere along  the  stream," she  said,
carefully lathering Ce'Nedra's hair.

"You want  me to bathe in  that water? Aren't you  afraid I'll catch cold?"

"You're a  healthy boy, dear," she told him, "but a  very dirty one. Now go
wash."

Garion  gave  her a  dark look  and  went to  one  of the  packs for  clean
clothing, soap,  and a  towel. Then he  stamped off upstream,  grumbling at
every step.

Once he was alone under the trees, he felt even more strongly that peculiar
sense of  being watched. It was not anything  definable. There seemed to be
nothing specific  about it,  but rather it  felt as if  the oaks themselves
were aware  of him and  were passing information about  his movements among
themselves with  a kind of  vegetative communication he could  not begin to
understand.  There  seemed  to  be  no  menace  in  it, merely  a  kind  of
watchfulness.

Some distance from the  tents he found a fairly large pool where the stream
dropped in a waterfall from the rocks above. The water in the pool was very
clear, and he could  see the bright pebbles on the bottom and several large
trout  that  eyed  him  warily. He  tested  the  water  with  his hand  and
shuddered. He  considered subterfuge  - a quick  splashing of water  on his
body and  a bit  of soap on  the more obvious smudgesbut  on reflection, he
gave up the notion.  Aunt Pol would settle for nothing less than a complete
bath.   He  sighed   bitterly  and   began  to   take  oft   his  clothing.

The first  shock was awful, but after a few minutes  he found that he could
bear  it.  In a  short  time  it even  became  exhilarating. The  waterfall
provided a  convenient means for rinsing  off the soap, and  before long he
found that he was actually enjoying himself.

"You're making an awful  lot of noise," Ce'Nedra said, standing on the bank
and appraising him quite calmly.

Garion immediately dove to the bottom of the pool.

Unless  one  was  a  fish,  however,  one could  hardly  remain  underwater
indefinitely. After about a  minute, he struggled to the surface and popped
his head out of the water, gasping and sputtering.

"Whatever are  you doing?"  Ce'Nedra asked. She  was wearing a  short white
tunic, sleeveless and belted at the waist, and open sandals with laces that
crisscrossed her  slender ankles and calves and  tied just below her knees.
She carried a towel in one hand.

"Go away," Garion spluttered.

"Don't be so silly,"  she said, sitting down on a large stone and beginning
to unlace  her sandals.  Her coppery hair  was still damp and  tumbled in a
heavy mass about her shoulders.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to bathe," she said. "Are you going to be much longer?"

"Go  someplace  else,"  Garion cried,  starting  to  shiver, but  remaining
determinedly crouched  over in the  water with only his  head sticking out.

"This   place   looks   just   fine,"   she  said.   "How's   the   water?"

"Cold," he chattered, "but I'm not coming out until you go away."

"Don't be such a ninny," she told him.

He shook his head stubbornly, his face flaming.

She sighed with exasperation. "Oh, very well," she said. "I won't look, but
I think you're being  very silly. At the baths in Tol Honeth, no one thinks
anything at all about such things."

"This isn't Tol Honeth," he told her pointedly.

"I'll turn my back,  if that'll make you feel better," she said, getting up
and standing with her back to the pool.

Not entirely trusting her,  Garion crept from the pool and, still dripping,
jerked on  his drawers and hose. "All right," he  called, "you can have the
pool now."  He mopped at his  streaming face and hair  with his towel. "I'm
going back to the tents."

"The  Lady Polgara  says that  you're to  stay with  me," she  said, calmly
untying the cord about her waist.

"Aunt Pol said what?" he demanded, terribly shocked.

"You're supposed  to stay  with me to  protect me," she told  him. She took
hold  of  the  hem  of her  tunic,  obviously  preparing  to  take it  off.

Garion spun  about and stared  determinedly at the trees.  His ears flamed,
and his hands trembled uncontrollably.

She  laughed a  small, silvery laugh,  and he  could hear splashing  as she
entered the  pool. She squealed from the shock of  the cold water, and then
there was more splashing.

"Bring me the soap," she commanded.

Without thinking, he bent  to pick up the soap and caught one brief glimpse
of her standing waist-deep in the water before he shut his eyes tightly. He
backed  toward the  pool, his  eyes closed  and the  hand holding  the soap
thrust out awkwardly behind him.

She laughed again and took the soap from his hand.

After  what seemed an  eternity, the  princess completed her  bath, emerged
from the  pool, dried herself and put her clothes  back on. Garion kept his
eyes firmly shut the entire time.

"You Sendars  have such curious notions," she said  as they sat together in
the sun-warmed  glade beside the pool.  She was combing her  deep red hair,
her head inclined to  one side and the comb pulling down through the thick,
damp  tangles. "The  baths  in Tol  Honeth are  open  to all,  and athletic
contests are  always conducted without clothing.  Just last summer I myself
ran against  a dozen  other girls in  the Imperial Stadium.  The spectators
were most appreciative."

"I can imagine," Garion said dryly.

"What's that?"  she asked, pointing at the  amulet resting against his bare
chest.

"My grandfather gave it to me last Erastide," Garion answered.

"Let me see." She held out her hand.

He leaned forward.

"Take it off so I can see it," she ordered.

"I'm not  supposed to take it off," he told her.  "Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol
say I'm  never supposed  to take it off  for any reason. I  think there's a
spell of some kind on it."

"What  a strange  idea," she remarked  as she  bent to examine  the amulet.
"They aren't really sorcerers, are they?"

"Mister Wolf  is seven thousand years  old," Garion said. "He  knew the God
Aldur. I've  seen him  make a tree  grow from a  small twig in  a matter of
minutes and  set rocks on fire. Aunt Pol cured a  blind woman with a single
word, and she can turn herself into an owl."

"I  don't believe  in such  things," Ce'Nedra  told him. "I'm  sure there's
another explanation."

Garion shrugged and pulled on his linen shirt and brown tunic. He shook his
head and raked his fingers through his still-damp hair.

"You're making  an awful mess of it,"  she observed critically. "Here." She
stood up  and stepped behind him.  "Let me do it." She  put the comb to his
hair  and began  pulling it through  carefully. "You  have nice hair  for a
man," she said.

"It's just hair," he said indifferently.

She combed in silence  for a moment or two, then took his chin in her hand,
turned his  head and looked at him critically. She  touched his hair at the
sides  a time  or two until  it was  arranged to her  satisfaction. "That's
better," she decided.

"Thank you." He was a bit confused by the change in her.

She sat down again on the grass, clasped her arms around one knee and gazed
at the sparkling pool. "Garion," she said finally.

"Yes?"

"What's it like to grow up as an ordinary person?"

He shrugged.  "I've never  been anything but  an ordinary person,"  he told
her, "so I wouldn't know what to compare it to."

"You know what I  mean. Tell me about where you grew up  - and what you did
and all."

So he  told her about Faldor's farm, about  the kitchen and Durnik's smithy
and Doroon and Rundorig and Zubrette.

"You're in love with Zubrette, aren't you?" She asked it almost accusingly.

"I thought  I was,  but so much  has happened since  we left  the farm that
sometimes I  can't even  remember what she  looks like. I think  I could do
without  being in  love  anyway. From  what I've  seen  of it,  it's pretty
painful most of the time."

"You're impossible," she said,  and then she smiled at him, her little face
framed in the blazing mass of her sun-touched hair.

"Probably," he admitted. "All right, now you tell me what it's like to grow
up as a very special person."

"I'm not that special."

"You're  an Imperial  Princess,"  he reminded  her. "I'd  call  that pretty
special."

"Oh, that," she said, and then giggled. "You know, sometimes since I joined
you people, I almost forget that I'm an Imperial Princess."

"Almost," he said with a smile, "but not quite."

"No," she agreed, "not  quite." She looked out across the pool again. "Most
of  the time  being  a princess  is very  boring.  It's all  ceremonies and
formalities.  You  have to  stand  around  most of  the  time listening  to
speeches or receiving state visitors. There are guards around all the time,
but sometimes  I sneak away so I can be by  myself. It makes them furious."
She  giggled again,  and then her  gaze turned  pensive. "Let me  tell your
fortune," she said, taking his hand.

"Can you tell fortunes?" Garion asked.

"It's  only  make-believe,"  she  admitted. "My  maids  and  I  play at  it
sometimes. We all promise each other high-born husbands and many children."
She turned his hand over and looked at it. The silvery mark on his palm was
very  plain now  that the skin  was clean.  "Whatever is that?"  she asked.

"I don't know."

"It's not a disease, is it?"

"No," he  said. "It has always  been there. I think  it has something to do
with  my family.  Aunt  Pol doesn't  like to  have people  see it  for some
reason, so she tries to keep it hidden."

"How could you hide something like that?"

"She finds things for  me to do that keep my hands dirty most of the time."

"How strange,"  she said.  "I have a  birthmark too - right  over my heart.
Would you like to see it?" She took hold of the neck of her tunic.

"I'll take your word for it," Garion told her, blushing furiously.

She  laughed  a silvery,  tinkling  little  laugh. "You're  a strange  boy,
Garion. You're not at all like the other boys I've met."

"They were Tolnedrans probably,"  Garion pointed out. "I'm a Sendar - or at
least that's the way  I was raised - so there are bound to be differences."

"You sound as if you're not sure what you are."

"Silk says  I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He  says he isn't sure exactly
what I  am, and that's very odd. Silk can recognize  anybody for what he is
immediately. Your father thought I was a Rivan."

"Since  the  Lady Polgara's  your  Aunt and  Belgarath's your  Grandfather,
you're probably a sorcerer," Ce'Nedra observed.

Garion laughed.  "Me? That's silly. Besides, the  sorcerers aren't a race -
not like  Chereks or Tolnedrans or  Rivans. It's more like  a profession, I
think - sort  of like being a lawyer or a merchant  - only there aren't any
new ones.  The sorcerers are all  thousands of years old.  Mister Wolf says
that  maybe people  have  changed in  some way  so  that they  can't become
sorcerers anymore."

Ce'Nedra had leaned back  and was resting on her elbows, looking up at him.
"Garion?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to kiss me?"

Garion's heart started to pound.

Then Durnik's  voice called to them from not far  away, and for one flaming
instant Garion hated his old friend.





Chapter Twenty

"MISTRESS  POL SAYS  THAT IT'S  TIME for  you to  come back to  the tents,"
Durnik  told them  when he  reached the  glade. There  was a faint  hint of
amusement on his plain, dependable face, and he looked knowingly at the two
of them.

Garion  blushed and then  grew angry  with himself for  blushing. Ce'Nedra,
however, showed no concern at all.

"Have the Dryads come yet?" she asked, getting to her feet and brushing the
grass from the back of her tunic.

"Not yet," Durnik answered. "Wolf says that they should find us soon. There
seems to  be some kind of storm building up to  the south, and Mistress Pol
thought the two of you ought to come back."

Garion glanced at the sky and saw a layer of inky clouds moving up from the
south, staining  the bright blue sky  as they rolled ponderously northward.
He  frowned.  "I've  never  seen  clouds  like  that,  have  you,  Durnik?"

Durnik looked up. "Strange," he agreed.

Garion rolled up the two wet towels, and they started back down the stream.
The clouds  blotted out the sun,  and the woods became  suddenly very dark.
The sense of watchfulness was still there, that wary awareness they had all
felt since  they had entered the wood, but now  there was something else as
well. The great trees  stirred uneasily, and a million tiny messages seemed
to pass among the rustling leaves.

"They're  afraid,"  Ce'Nedra  whispered.  "Something's  frightening  them."

"What?" Durnik asked.

"The trees - they're afraid of something. Can't you feel it?"

He stared at her in perplexity.

Far above them the  birds suddenly fell silent, and a chill breeze began to
blow,  carrying  with  it  a  foul  reek  of  stagnant  water  and  rotting
vegetation.

"What's that smell?" Garion asked, looking about nervously.

"Nyissa is south of here," Ce'Nedra said. "It's mostly swamps."

"Is it that close?" Garion asked.

"Not really,"  she said  with a small  frown. "It must be  sixty leagues or
more."

"Would a smell carry that far?"

"It's not likely," Durnik said. "At least it wouldn't be in Sendaria."

"How far is it to the tents?" Ce'Nedra asked.

"About a half-mile," Durnik answered.

"Maybe we should run," she suggested.

Durnik shook his head.  "The ground's uneven," he said, "and running in bad
light's  dangerous. We  can  walk a  bit faster,  though." They  hurried on
through the  gathering gloom. The wind began to  blow harder, and the trees
trembled and bent with  its force. The strange fear that seemed to permeate
the wood grew stronger.

"There's  something  moving  over  there," Garion  whispered  urgently  and
pointed   at  the   dark   trees  on   the  other   side  of   the  stream.

"I don't see anything," Ce'Nedra said.

"There, just beyond the tree with the large white limb. Is it a Dryad?"

A  vague shape  slid  from tree  to another  in the  half light.  There was
something  chillingly wrong  with the  figure. Ce'Nedra  stared at  it with
revulsion.  "It's   not  a  Dryad,"  she   said.  "It's  something  alien."

Durnik  picked up  a fallen  limb and  gripped it  like a cudgel  with both
hands.  Garion looked  quickly around  and saw  another limb. He  too armed
himself.

Another figure  shambled between two trees, a  bit closer this time. "We'll
have  to chance  it," Durnik  said grimly.  "Be careful,  but run.  Get the
others. Now go!"

Garion took Ce'Nedra's hand,  and they started to run along the streambank,
stumbling often.  Durnik lagged  farther and father  behind, his two-handed
club swinging warningly about him.

The figures  were now all around them, and Garion  felt the first surges of
panic.

Then Ce'Nedra screamed. One of the figures had risen from behind a low bush
directly in  front of them. It  was large and ill-shaped,  and there was no
face on the front of its head. Two eye-holes stared vacantly as it shambled
forward with its half-formed hands reaching out for them. The entire figure
was a  dark gray mud color, and it was  covered with rotting, stinking moss
that adhered to its oozing body.

Without  thinking, Garion  thrust  Ce'Nedra behind  him and  leaped  to the
attack. The first blow of his club struck the creature solidly in the side,
and the  club merely sank into the body with no  visible effect. One of the
outstretched hands touched his  face, and he recoiled from that slimy touch
with revulsion. Desperately he  swung again and struck the thing solidly on
the  forearm. With  horror  he saw  the arm  break  off at  the  elbow. The
creature paused to pick up the still-moving arm.

Ce'Nedra screamed again, and  Garion spun about. Another of the mud-men had
come up  behind her and had grasped her about the  waist with both arms. It
was starting to turn,  lifting the struggling princess from the ground when
Garion swung his club with all his might. The blow was not aimed at head or
back, but rather at the ankles.

The mud-man  toppled backward  with both of  its feet broken  off. Its grip
about   Ce'Nedra's   waist,   however,  did   not   loosen   as  it   fell.

Garion  jumped forward,  discarding his  club and  drawing his  dagger. The
substance of  the thing was  surprisingly tough. Vines and  dead twigs were
encased in  the clay which gave  it its shape. Feverishly,  Garion cut away
one of  the arms  and then tried  to pull the screaming  princess free. The
other arm still clung to her. Almost sobbing with the need to hurry, Garion
started hacking at the remaining arm.

"Look out!" Ce'Nedra shrieked. "Behind you!"

Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. The first mud-man was reaching for
him. He felt  a cold grip about his ankle. The arm  he had just severed had
inched its way across the ground and grasped him.

"Garion!" Barak's voice roared from a short distance off.

"Over here!" Garion shouted. "Hurry!"

There  was a  crashing  in the  bushes, and  the great,  red-bearded Cherek
appeared, sword  in hand, with Hettar and  Mandorallen close behind. With a
mighty swing, Barak cut off the head of the first mudman. It sailed through
the air and landed  with a sickening thump several yards away. The headless
creature  turned  and  groped  blindly, trying  to  put  its  hands on  its
attacker. Barak paled visibly and then chopped away both outstretched arms.
Still the thing shambled forward.

"The legs," Garion said  quickly. He bent and hacked at the clay hand about
his ankle.

Barak lopped  off the mud-man's  legs, and the thing  fell. The dismembered
pieces crawled toward him.

Other mud-men  had appeared,  and Hettar and Mandorailen  were laying about
them with  their swords, filling the  air with chunks and  pieces of living
clay.

Barak  bent  and  ripped  away  the  remaining  arm  which  held  Ce'Nedra.

Then he jerked the girl to her feet and thrust her at Garion. "Get her back
to the tents!" he ordered. "Where's Durnik?"

"He stayed behind to hold them off," Garion said.

"We'll go help him," Barak said. "Run!"

Ce'Nedra was hysterical, and Garion had to drag her to the tents.

"What is it?" Aunt Pol demanded.

"Monsters out  there in the  woods," Garion said, pushing  Ce'Nedra at her.
"They're made out of  mud, and you can't kill them. They've got Durnik." He
dove into one of the tents and emerged a second later with his sword in his
hand and fire in his brain.

"Garion!" Aunt Pol shouted,  trying to disentangle herself from the sobbing
princess. "What are you doing?"

"I've got to help Durnik," he said.

"You stay where you are."

"No!" he  shouted. "Durnik's my  friend." He dashed back  toward the fight,
brandishing his sword.

"Garion! Come back here!"

He ignored her and ran through the dark woods.

The fray was raging about a hundred yards from the tents. Barak, Hettar and
Mandorallen  were systematically  chopping  the slime-covered  mud-men into
chunks, and  Silk darted in and  out of the melee,  his short sword leaving
great gaping holes in the thick, moss-covered monsters. Garion plunged into
the  fight, his  ears ringing  and a  kind of desperate  exultation surging
through him.

And  then  Mister Wolf  and  Aunt  Pol were  there  with Ce'Nedra  hovering
ashen-faced and trembling behind them. Wolf's eyes blazed, and he seemed to
tower over  them all as he  gathered his will. He  thrust one hand forward,
palm up. "Fire!" he commanded, and a sizzling bolt of lightning shot upward
from his  hand into the  whirling clouds overhead. The  earth trembled with
the violence  of the shattering thunderclap. Garion  reeled at the force of
the roaring in his mind.

Aunt Pol raised her hand. "Water!" she said in a powerful voice. The clouds
burst open, and rain fell so heavily that it seemed that the air itself had
turned to water.

The mud-men, still mindlessly stumbling forward, began to ooze and dissolve
in the thundering downpour. With a kind of sick fascination, Garion watched
them disintegrate into sodden lumps of slime and rotten vegetation, surging
and heaving as the pounding rain destroyed them.

Barak reached forward with  his dripping sword and tentatively poked at the
shapeless lump  of clay that had  been the head of  one of their attackers.
The lump broke apart, and a coiled snake unwound from its center. It raised
itself as if to strike, and Barak chopped it in two.

Other snakes began to appear as the mud which had encased them dissolved in
the roaring deluge.

"That one,"  Aunt Pol said, pointing at a  dull green reptile struggling to
free itself from the clay. "Fetch it for me, Garion."

"Me?" Garion gasped, his flesh crawling.

"I'll do it," Silk said. He picked up a forked stick and pinned the snake's
head down with it.  Then he carefully took hold of the wet skin at the back
of the serpent's neck and lifted the twisting reptile.

"Bring it  here," Aunt  Pol ordered, wiping  the water from  her face. Silk
carried  the snake  to her  and held  it out.  The forked  tongue flickered
nervously, and the dead eyes fixed on her.

"What does this mean?" she demanded of the snake.

The serpent  hissed at her. Then in a voice that  was a sibilant whisper it
replied, "That, Polgara, is the affair of my mistress."

Silk's  face blanched  as the  dripping snake  spoke, and he  tightened his
grip.

"I see," Aunt Pol said.

"Abandon this search," the  snake hissed. "My mistress will allow you to go
no further."

Aunt Pol  laughed scornfully. "Allow?" she  said. "Your mistress hasn't the
power to allow me anything."

"My  mistress is  the queen of  Nyissa," the  snake said in  its whispering
hiss. "Her  power there  is absolute. The  ways of the serpent  are not the
ways  of men,  and my  mistress is  queen of  the serpents. You  will enter
Nyissa at your own  peril. We are patient and not afraid. We will await you
where you  least expect us. Our sting is a  small injury, scarce noted, but
it is death."

"What's   Salmissra's   interest  in   this   matter?"   Aunt  Pol   asked.

The  serpent's flickering  tongue  darted at  her. "She  has not  chosen to
reveal  that to  me,  and it  is not  in my  nature to  be curious.  I have
delivered my message and  already received my reward. Now do with me as you
wish."

"Very  well," Aunt  Pol  said. She  looked coldly  at  the snake,  her face
streaming in the heavy rain.

"Shall I kill it?"  Silk asked, his face set and his fingers white-knuckled
from the strain of holding the thick-coiling reptile.

"No,"  she said  quietly. "There's  no point  in destroying so  excellent a
messenger."  She fixed  the snake  with a  flinty look. "Return  with these
others to  Salmissra," she  said. "Tell her  that if she  interferes again,
I'll come after her, and the deepest slime-pit in all Nyissa won't hide her
from my fury."

"And my reward?" the snake asked.

"You have your life as a reward," she said.

"That's true," the serpent  hissed. "I will deliver your message, Polgara."

"Put it down," Aunt Pol told Silk.

The small  man bent and lowered  his arm to the  ground. The snake uncoiled
from about his arm, and Silk released it and jumped back. The snake glanced
once at him, then slithered away.

"I think that's enough rain, Pol," Wolf said, mopping at his face. Aunt Pol
waved her hand almost  negligently, and the rain stopped as if a bucket had
emptied itself.

"We have to find Durnik," Barak reminded them.

"He was behind us."  Garion pointed back up the now-overflowing stream. His
chest felt  constricted with  a cold fear  at what they might  find, but he
steeled himself and led the way back into the trees.

"The smith  is a good companion,"  Mandorallen said. "I should  not care to
lose him." There was  a strange, subdued quality in the knight's voice, and
his  face seemed  abnormally pale in  the dim  light. The hand  holding his
great broadsword,  however, was rock-steady. Only  his eyes betrayed a kind
of doubt Garion had never seen there before.

Water dripped around them  as they walked through the sodden woods. "It was
about here,"  Garion said, looking around.  "I don't see any  sign of him."

"I'm  up  here." Durnik's  voice  came from  above  them. He  was a  goodly
distance  up a large  oak tree and  was peering  down. "Are they  gone?" He
carefully began climbing down  the slippery tree trunk. "The rain came just
in time," he said,  jumping down the last few feet. "I was starting to have
a little trouble keeping them out of the tree."

Quickly, without  a word, Aunt Pol  embraced the good man,  and then, as if
embarrassed by that sudden  gesture, she began to scold him. Durnik endured
her  words patiently,  and  there was  a  strange expression  on his  face.





Chapter Twenty-one

GARION'S SLEEP THAT NIGHT  WAS TROUBLED. He awoke frequently, shuddering at
the remembered  touch of the mud-men. But in time  the night, as all nights
must, came  to an end, and the morning dawned  clear and bright. He drowsed
for a  while, rolled  in his blankets,  until Ce'Nedra came to  get him up.

"Garion,"  she said  softly,  touching his  shoulder, "are  you  awake?" He
opened his eyes and looked up at her. "Good morning."

"Lady Polgara says that you're supposed to get up," she told him.

Garion yawned,  stretched and sat up. He glanced out  the tent flap and saw
that the sun was shining.

"She's teaching me how to cook," Ce'Nedra said rather proudly.

"That's  nice,"  Garion  told  her,  pushing  his  hair out  of  his  eyes.

She looked  at him for a long moment, her small  face serious and her green
eyes intent. "Garion."

"Yes?"

"You were very brave yesterday."

He shrugged slightly. "I'll probably get a scolding for it today."

"What for?"

"Aunt Pol  and my  grandfather don't like  it when I  try to  be brave," he
explained. "They  think I'm  still a child,  and they don't want  me to get
hurt."

"Garion!" Aunt  Pol called  from the small  fire where she  was cooking. "I
need more firewood."

Garion sighed and rolled  out of his blankets. He pulled on his half boots,
belted on his sword and went off into the woods.

It was still damp under the huge oaks from the downpour Aunt Pol had called
down  the day before,  and dry wood  was hard  to find. He  wandered about,
pulling  limbs out  from under  fallen trees  and from  beneath overhanging
rocks.  The  silent  trees  watched  him,  but  they  seemed  somehow  less
unfriendly this morning.

"What  are you  doing?" a  light voice  came from  above him. He  looked up
quickly, his hand going to his sword.

A girl was  standing on a broad limb just over his  head. She wore a belted
tunic and sandals. Her  hair was a tawny color, her gray eyes were curious,
and her pale skin  had that faint greenish hue to it that identified her as
a  Dryad. In  her left hand  she held a  bow, and  her right held  an arrow
against  the  taut  string.  The  arrow  was pointed  directly  at  Garion.

He carefully  took his hand away  from his sword. "I'm  gathering wood," he
said.

"What for?"

"My aunt needs it for the fire," he explained.

"Fire?" The girl's face hardened, and she half drew her bow. "A small one,"
he said quickly, "for cooking."

"Fire isn't permitted here," the girl said sternly.

"You'll have to explain that to Aunt Pol," Garion told her. "I just do what
I'm told."

The girl  whistled, and  another girl came  from behind a  nearby tree. She
also carried a bow.  Her hair was almost as red as Ce'Nedra's, and her skin
was also touched with the color of leaves.

"It says it's gathering wood," the first girl reported, "for a fire. Do you
think I should kill it?"

"Xantha says  we're supposed to find  out who they are,"  the redhaired one
said thoughtfully. "If it turns out that they don't have any business here,
then you can kill it."

"Oh, very well," the tawny-haired girl agreed, with obvious disappointment.
"But don't forget that I found this one. When the time comes, I get to kill
it."

Garion  felt  the  hair  beginning  to  rise  on  the  back  of  his  neck.

The red-haired  one whistled, and  a half dozen other  armed Dryads drifted
out of  the trees.  They were all  quite small, and their  hair was various
shades  of  reds  and  golds,  not  unlike  the  color  of  autumn  leaves.

They gathered  about Garion, giggling and  chattering as they examined him.

"That one  is mine,"  the tawny-haired Dryad  said, climbing down  from the
tree. "I found it, and Xera says that I get to kill it."

"It looks  healthy," one of the others observed,  "and quite tame. Maybe we
should keep it. Is it a male?"

Another one giggled. "Let's check and find out."

"I'm  a  male,"  Garion   said  quickly,  blushing  in  spite  of  himself.

"It seems a shame to waste it," one remarked. "Maybe we could keep it for a
while and then kill it."

"It's mine,"  the tawny-haired Dryad  stated stubbornly, "and if  I want to
kill   it.  I  will."   She  took   hold  of  Garion's   arm  possessively.

"Let's  go look  at the  others," the  one called Xera  suggested. "They're
building fires, and we'll want to stop that."

"Fires?"  several of  the  others gasped,  and  they all  glared at  Garion
accusingly.

"Only a small one," Garion said quickly.

"Bring it along," Xera  ordered and started off through the Wood toward the
tents. Far overhead the  trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting
calmly when  they reached the clearing where the  tents were. She looked at
the Dryads  clustered around Garion without  changing expression. "Welcome,
ladies," she said.

The Dryads began whispering to each other.

"Ce'Nedra!" the one called Xera exclaimed.

"Cousin Xera," Ce'Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The
other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously
at the fire.

Ce'Nedra spoke  quickly with Xera, explaining to  her cousin who they were,
and Xera  motioned for the others to come closer.  "It seems that these are
friends,"  she  said.  "We'll  take  them  to  my  mother,  Queen  Xantha."

"Does that mean that  I won't get to kill this one?" The tawny-haired Dryad
demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion.

"I'm afraid not," Xera answered.

The  tawny one  stamped away,  pouting. Garion  breathed a sigh  of relief.

Then Mister Wolf came  out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of
Dryads with a broad smile.

"It's Belgarath!"  one of the Dryads  squealed and ran to  him happily. She
threw  her  arms around  his  neck, pulled  his  head down  and kissed  him
soundly. "Did you bring us any sweets?" she demanded.

The old man put  on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many
pockets. Bits of sweetmeats  began to appear just as quickly disappeared as
the Dryads gathered about  him, snatching them as fast as he took them from
his pockets.

"Have you got any new stories for us?" one of the Dryads asked.

"Many stories," Wolf told  her, touching one finger to the side of his nose
slyly. "But  we ought to wait so your sisters  can hear them too, shouldn't
we?"

"We want one just for ourselves," the Dryad said.

"And what would you give me for this special story?"

"Kisses,"  the  Dryad offered  promptly.  "Five  kisses from  each of  us."

"I've got  a very good story," Wolf bargained.  "It's worth more than five.
Let's say ten."

"Eight," the Tittle Dryad countered.

"All right," Wolf agreed. "Eight sounds about right."

"I see you've been here before, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol remarked dryly.

"I visit from time to time," he admitted with a bland expression.

"Those   sweets   aren't   good   for   them,  you   know,"   she   chided.

"A  little bit won't  hurt them, Pol,"  he said,  "and they like  them very
much. A Dryad will do almost anything for sweets."

"You're disgusting," she told him.

The Dryads  were all  clustered around Mister  Wolf, looking almost  like a
garden of  spring flowers  - all, that  is, except for the  tawny one who'd
captured Garion. She stood  a bit apart, sulking and fingering the point of
her  arrow. She  finally came  over to  Garion. "You're not  thinking about
running away, are you?" she asked hopefully.

"No," Garion denied emphatically.

She sighed  with disappointment. "I don't  suppose you'd consider it, would
you - as a special favor to me?"

"I'm sorry," he said.

She sighed  again, bitterly this time.  "I never get to  have any fun," she
complained and went to join the others.

Silk emerged from a tent, moving slowly and carefully; and after the Dryads
had become accustomed to him, Durnik appeared.

"They're just children, aren't they?" Garion commented to Aunt Pol.

"They  seem to be,"  she said, "but  they're much  older than they  look. A
Dryad lives as long  as her tree does, and oak trees live for a long time."

"Where are the boy Dryads?" he asked. "All I see are girls."

"There  aren't  any boy  Dryads,  dear,"  she explained,  returning to  her
cooking.

"Then how-? I mean-" He faltered and felt his ears growing hot.

"They  catch human  males for  that," she  said. "Travelers and  the like."

"Oh." He delicately let the subject drop.

After they had eaten breakfast and carefully quenched their fire with water
from  the stream,  they saddled  their horses  and started off  through the
Wood. Mister  Wolf walked ahead with the  tiny Dryads still gathered around
him,  laughing and  chattering like  happy children.  The murmuring  of the
trees about them was no longer unfriendly, and they moved through a kind of
welcoming rustle from a million leaves.

It  was late afternoon  by the time  they reached  a large clearing  in the
center of the Wood. Standing alone in the middle of the clearing was an oak
so large that Garion could hardly accept the idea that anything so enormous
could be alive. Here and there in its mossy trunk were openings almost like
caverns, and its lower  limbs were as broad as highways and they spread out
to shade  nearly the entire clearing.  There was about the  tree a sense of
vast age and a patient wisdom. Tentatively Garion felt a faint touch on his
mind, almost like the  soft brush of a leaf against his face. The touch was
unlike anything he had ever felt before, but it also seemed to welcome him.

The tree was literally  alive with Dryads, clustering randomly on the limbs
like  blossoms. Their  laughter  and girlish  chatter filled  the  air like
birdsongs.

"I'll tell  my mother  you've arrived," the  one called Xera  said and went
toward the tree.

Garion and  the others dismounted and  stood uncertainly near their horses.
From  overhead  Dryads  peered curiously  down  at  them, whispering  among
themselves and giggling often.

For some  reason the frank, mirthful stares of  the Dryads made Garion feel
very  self conscious.  He moved  closer to  Aunt Pol  and noticed  that the
others  were also  clustering around  her as  if unconsciously  seeking her
protection.

"Where's the princess?" she asked.

"She's just over there, Mistress Pol," Durnik answered, "visiting with that
group of Dryads."

"Keep your  eye on  her," Aunt Pol  said. "And where's  my vagrant father?"

"Near  the tree,"  Garion  replied. "The  Dryads  seem very  fond of  him."

"The old fool," Aunt Pol said darkly.

Then, from a hollow  in the tree some distance above the first broad limbs,
another Dryad  appeared. Instead of  the short tunic the  others wore, this
one was  garbed in a flowing green gown, and her  golden hair was caught in
with a  circlet of what appeared to  be mistletoe. Gracefully she descended
to the ground.

Aunt  Pol went  forward to  meet her,  and the  others trailed behind  at a
respectful distance.

"Dear Polgara," the Dryad said warmly, "it's been so long."

"We all have our duties, Xantha," Aunt Pol explained.

The two embraced fondly.

"Have  you  brought  us  these  as  gifts?"  Queen  Xantha  asked,  looking
admiringly at the men standing behind Aunt Pol.

Aunt Pol  laughed. "I'm  afraid not, Xantha.  I'd be happy to  give them to
you, but I think I may need them later."

"Ah  well," the  queen said with  a mock  sigh. "Welcome all,"  she greeted
them. "You'll sup with us, of course."

"We'd be delighted," Aunt  Pol said. Then she took the queen's arm. "Can we
talk for  a moment first, Xantha?" The two moved  apart from the others and
spoke quietly  together as the  Dryads carried bundles and  sacks down from
the hollows in  the tree and began to lay a feast  on the grass beneath the
broad limbs.

The  meal which  was spread  out looked  peculiar. The  common food  of the
Dryads  seemed  to consist  entirely  of  fruits, nuts  and mushrooms,  all
prepared without any cooking.

Barak  sat  down and  looked  sourly at  what  was offered.  "No meat,"  he
grumbled.

"It heats up your blood anyway," Silk told him.

Barak sipped suspiciously at his cup. "Water," he said with distaste.

"You might  find it a  novelty to go to  bed sober for a  change," Aunt Pol
observed as she rejoined them.

"I'm sure it's unhealthy," Barak said.

Ce'Nedra seated herself near  Queen Xantha. She obviously wanted to talk to
her, but since there  was no opportunity for privacy, she finally spoke out
in  front   of  them  all.  "I  have  a   favor  to  ask,  your  Highness."

"You may ask, child," the queen said, smiling.

"It's only  a small thing," Ce'Nedra explained.  "I'll need sanctuary for a
few years.  My father's growing unreasonable  in his old age.  I'll have to
stay away from him until he comes to his senses."

"In  what   way  is   Ran  Borune  growing   unreasonable?"  Xantha  asked.

"He won't let me  go out of the palace, and he insists that I go to Riva on
my sixteenth  birthday," Ce'Nedra said in an  outraged tone. "Have you ever
heard of such a thing?"

"And why does he want you to go to Riva?"

"Some  foolish   treaty.  No  one  even   remembers  the  reason  for  it."

"If  it's a  treaty,  it must  be honored,  dear,"  the queen  said gently.

"I won't  go to Riva," Ce'Nedra  announced. "I'll stay here  until after my
sixteenth   birthday's   passed,   and  that'll   be   the   end  of   it."

"No, dear," the queen said firmly, "you won't."

"What?" Ce'Nedra was stunned.

"We have a treaty  too," Xantha explained. "Our agreement with the House of
Borune is most explicit. Our Wood remains inviolate only for so long as the
female descendants  of the Princess Xoria stay  with the Borunes. It's your
duty to remain with your father and to obey him."

"But I'm a Dryad," Ce'Nedra wailed. "I belong here."

"You're also  human," the  queen said, "and  you belong with  your father."

"I don't want to go to Riva," Ce'Nedra protested.

"It's degrading." Xantha looked at her sternly. "Don't be a foolish child,"
she said. "Your duties  are clear. You have a duty as a Dryad, as a Borune,
and as  an Imperial Princess. Your silly little  whims are quite beside the
point.  If  you have  an  obligation  to go  to  Riva, then  you must  go."

Ce'Nedra  appeared shaken  by  the finality  of the  queen's tone,  and she
sulked in silence after that.

Then the  queen turned to Mister Wolf. "There  are many rumors abroad," she
said,  "and some  of  them have  even reached  us  here. I  think something
momentous is  happening out  there in the  world of the humans,  and it may
even touch  our lives in this  Wood. I think I  should know what this thing
is."

Wolf nodded  gravely. "I expect you  should," he agreed. "The  Orb of Aldur
has been stolen from  the throne in the Hall of the Rivan King by Zedar the
Apostate."

Xantha caught her breath. "How?" she demanded.

Wolf spread his hands. "We don't know. Zedar's trying to reach the kingdoms
of the  Angaraks with the Orb. Once he's there, he'll  try to use its power
to awaken Torak."

"That must never happen," the Queen said. "What's being done?"

"The Alorns and the  Sendars are getting ready for war," Wolf replied. "The
Arends have promised aid, and Ran Borune has been advised, though he didn't
make any  promises. The Borunes can  be difficult at times."  He glanced at
the pouting Ce'Nedra.

"Then it means war?" the queen asked sadly.

"I'm afraid  so, Xantha," he  said. "I'm pursuing Zedar  with these others,
and I hope we  can catch him and get the Orb back before he can reach Torak
with it.  If we're  successful, I think  the Angaraks will  attack the West
anyway out of desperation.  Certain ancient prophecies are getting close to
their  fulfillment.  There  are  signs  everywhere, and  even  the  twisted
perceptions of the Grolims can read them."

The  Queen sighed.  "I've seen  some of  the signs myself,  Belgarath," she
said. "I'd hoped I was wrong. What does this Zedar look like?"

"A great  deal like  me," Wolf told her.  "We served the same  Master for a
very long time, and that puts a certain mark on people."

"Someone like  that passed through the upper reaches  of our Wood last week
and crossed  over into Nyissa," Xantha said. "If  we'd known, we might have
been able to detain him."

"We're closer than I thought, then. Was he alone?"

"No," Xantha reported. "He  had two of the servants of Torak with him and a
small boy."

Wolf looked startled. "A boy?"

"Yes-about six years old or so."

The old man frowned,  and then his eyes opened very wide. "So that's how he
did it," he exclaimed. "I never thought of that."

"We  can  show you  where  he crossed  the  river into  Nyissa," the  queen
offered. "I  should warn you though that it's going  to be dangerous for so
large a party to  go there. Salmissra has eyes everywhere in those swamps."

"I've already  made plans for that," Mister Wolf  assured her. He turned to
Barak. "Are  you sure that ship's  going to be waiting  at the mouth of the
River of the Woods?" he asked.

"She'll be there," Barak rumbled. "Her captain's a dependable man."

"Good," Wolf said. "Silk  and I'll pick up Zedar's trail then, and the rest
of you  can follow the river  to the sea. Take the  ship down the coast and
then  up the River  of the Serpent  to Sthiss  Tor. We'll meet  you there."

"Dost thou  think it wise to  separate our party in  so perilous a place as
Nyissa?" Mandorallen asked.

"It's  necessary,"  Wolf said.  "The  snake  people are  at  home in  their
jungles, and  they don't  like outsiders. Silk  and I can  move swiftly and
with greater stealth if we're alone."

"Where do you want us to meet you?" Barak asked.

"There's a  Drasnian trade  enclave near the  wharves in Sthiss  Tor," Silk
said. "Several of the merchants there are my friends. Just ask for Radek of
Boktor. If  we can't  meet you there,  we'll leave word  of our whereabouts
with the merchants."

"What about me?" Ce'Nedra asked.

"I think you'll have to stay with us," Aunt Pol answered.

"There's   no   reason  for   me   to   go  to   Nyissa,"  Ce'Nedra   said.

"You'll go because I tell you to go," Aunt Pol told the tiny girl. "I'm not
your  father,  Ce'Nedra. Your  pouting  doesn't  wring my  heart, and  your
fluttering eyelashes don't really impress me."

"I'll run away," Ce'Nedra threatened.

"That would be very foolish," Aunt Pol said coldly. "I'd just have to bring
you back  again, and you'd find that unpleasant.  Affairs in the world just
now are  much too serious to allow the whims of  one spoiled little girl to
have very  much importance. You'll stay with me, and  you will stand in the
Hall of  the Rivan King on  your sixteenth birthday even  if I have to take
you there  in chains. We're all  much too busy to  pamper you any further."

Ce'Nedra  stared   at  her,  and  then   she  suddenly  burst  into  tears.





Chapter Twenty-two

THE NEXT  MORNING before  the sun rose  and while filmy  mist still hovered
beneath the limbs of the great oaks, Silk and Mister Wolf made preparations
to leave  for Nyissa.  Garion sat on  a log, somberly watching  the old man
bundle up some food.

"Why so glum?" Wolf asked him.

"I wish we didn't have to separate this way," Garion said.

"It's only for a couple of weeks."

"I know, but I still wish-" Garion shrugged.

"Keep an eye  on your Aunt for me while I'm gone,"  Wolf said, tying up his
bundle.

"All right."

"And keep your amulet on. Nyissa's a dangerous place."

"I'll  remember,"   Garion  promised.   "You'll  be  careful,   won't  you,
grandfather?"

The old man looked  at him gravely, his white beard glistening in the misty
light. "I'm always careful, Garion," he said.

"It's getting late, Belgarath," Silk called, leading two horses up to where
the two of them were talking.

Wolf nodded. "We'll see you in two weeks in Sthiss Tor," he said to Garion.

Garion  embraced  the old  man  quickly and  then  turned away  so that  he
wouldn't have  to watch the two  of them leave. He  crossed the clearing to
where   Mandorallen   stood   pensively   looking  out   into   the   mist.

"Parting  is a melancholy  business," the  knight said moodily.  He sighed.

"It's more than that though, isn't it, Mandorallen?" Garion asked.

"Thou art a perceptive lad."

"What's been  troubling you? You've been acting  strangely for the last two
days."

"I have  discovered a strange feeling within myself,  Garion, and I like it
not."

"Oh? What is it?"

"Fear," Mandorallen said shortly.

"Fear? Of what?"

"The clay men. I know not why, but their very existence struck a chill into
my soul."

"They frightened us all, Mandorallen," Garion told him.

"I have never been afraid before," Mandorallen said quietly.

"Never?"

"Not even as  a child. The clay men made my very  flesh creep, and I wanted
most desperately to run away."

"But you didn't," Garion pointed out. "You stayed and fought."

"That time  yes," Mandorallen  admitted. "But what  of next time?  Now that
fear has found its way into my spirit, who can say when it might return? In
some desperate  hour when  the outcome of  our quest hangs  in the balance,
might not  vile fear lay  its cold hand upon  my heart and unman  me? It is
that possibility  which doth gnaw upon  my soul. I am  sorely ashamed of my
weakness and my fault."

"Ashamed? For being human? You're too hard on yourself, Mandorallen."

"Thou art  kind thus to excuse me, lad, but my  failing is too grievous for
such simple forgiveness. I have striven for perfection and struck, I think,
not too far off  the mark; but now that perfection, which was the marvel of
the  world, is  flawed. It  is a  bitter thing  to accept." He  turned, and
Garion was startled to see tears standing in his eyes. "Wilt thou assist me
into mine armor?" he asked.

"Of course."

"I  feel profoundly  the need  to be  encased in  steel. It  will perchance
strengthen my cowardly heart."

"You're not a coward," Garion insisted.

Mandorallen sighed sadly. "Only time can reveal that."

When it was time  to leave, Queen Xantha spoke briefly to them. "I wish you
all  well," she  said.  "I'd help  you in  your search  if possible,  but a
Dryad's bound  to her tree by  ties which can't be  broken. My tree here is
very old,  and I must care  for him." She looked fondly  up at the vast oak
rising into  the morning mist. "We're in bondage to  each other, but it's a
bondage of love."

Once  again Garion  felt  that same  faint touch  on his  mind that  he had
experienced the day before  when he had first seen the huge tree. There was
a  sense of  farewell  in that  touch, and  what  seemed to  be  a warning.

Queen Xantha  exchanged a startled glance with Aunt  Pol and then looked at
Garion rather closely. "Some  of my younger daughters will guide you to the
river that  marks the  southern border of  our Wood," she  continued. "From
there  your way  to the  sea is  clear." Her  voice showed  no sign  of any
change, but her eyes seemed thoughtful.

"Thank you,  Xantha," Aunt Pol said warmly,  embracing the Dryad queen. "If
you can send word to the Borunes that Ce'Nedra's safe and with me, it might
relieve the Emperor's mind somewhat."

"I will, Polgara," Xantha promised.

They  mounted then  and followed the  half dozen  or so Dryads  who flitted
ahead of them like butterflies, guiding them southward into the forest. For
some reason Garion felt  profoundly depressed, and he paid little attention
to  his surroundings  as  he rode  beside Durnik  along the  winding forest
trail.

About midmorning it began  to grow darker under the trees, and they rode in
silence through the now-somber  wood. The warning Garion had seemed to hear
in Queen  Xantha's clearing  echoed somehow in  the creak of  limbs and the
rustling of leaves.

"The weather  must be changing," Durnik  said, looking up. "I  wish I could
see the sky."

Garion  nodded  and tried  to  shake  off the  sense  of impending  danger.
Mandorallen in  his armor and Barak  in his mail shirt  rode at the head of
the party, and Hettar  in his horsehide jacket with steel plates riveted to
it rode at the rear. The ominous sense of foreboding seemed to have reached
them  all, and  they rode warily  with their  hands near their  weapons and
their eyes searching for trouble.

Then  quite suddenly  Tolnedran legionnaires  were all around  them, rising
from the bushes or  stepping out from behind trees. They made no attempt to
attack, but stood in  their brightly polished breastplates with their short
spears at the ready.

Barak swore, and Mandorallen  reined in his charger sharply. "Stand aside!"
he ordered the soldiers, lowering his lance.

"Easy," Barak cautioned.

The Dryads, after one startled look at the soldiers, melted into the gloomy
woods.

"What thinkest thou, Lord  Barak?" Mandorallen asked blithely. "They cannot
be over a hundred. Shall we attack them?"

"One of these days  you and I are going to have to have a long talk about a
few things,"  Barak said.  He glanced back  over his shoulder  and saw that
Hettar was edging closer, then he sighed. "Well, I suppose we might as well
get on  with it."  He tightened the  straps on his shield  and loosened his
sword in its sheath. "What do you think, Mandorallen? Should we give them a
chance to run away?"

"A    charitable    suggestion,    Lord    Barak,"   Mandorallen    agreed.

Then, some  distance up the trail,  a body of horsemen  rode out from under
the  shadowy trees.  Their  leader was  a large  man  wearing a  blue cloak
trimmed with silver. His  breastplate and helmet were inlaid with gold, and
he rode  a prancing chestnut stallion whose  hooves churned the damp leaves
lying  on  the ground.  "Splendid,"  he  said as  he  rode up.  "Absolutely
splendid."

Aunt  Pol fixed  the  newcomer with  a cold  eye.  "Don't the  legions have
anything   better  to   do  than   to  waylay  travelers?"   she  demanded.

"This is my legion, Madam," the man in the blue cloak said arrogantly, "and
it does what  I tell it to. I see that you  have the Princess Ce'Nedra with
you."

"Where  I  go and  with  whom is  my  concern, your  Grace," Ce'Nedra  said
loftily. "It's  of no  concern to the  Grand Duke Kador  of the  House y of
Vordue."

"Your  father is  most  concerned, Princess,"  Kador said.  "All Tolnedra's
searching for you. Who are these people?"

Garion tried with a  dark scowl and a shake of his head to warn her, but it
was too late.

"The  two knights  who  lead our  party are  Sir  Mandorallen, Baron  of Vo
Mandor,  and Lord  Barak,  Earl of  Trellheim," she  announced.  "The Algar
warrior  who  guards our  rear  is Hettar,  son  of Cho-Hag,  Chief of  the
Clan-Chiefs of Algaria. The lady-"

"I can  speak for  myself, dear," Aunt  Pol said smoothly.  "I'm curious to
know what  brings the Grand Duke of Vordue  so far into southern Tolnedra."

"I have interests here, Madam," Kador said.

"Evidently," Aunt Pol replied.

"All the  legions of the Empire are searching for  the princess, but it's I
who have found her."

"I'm  amazed to  find a  Vorduvian so willing  to aid  in the search  for a
Borune princess,"  Aunt Pol observed. "Especially  considering the centunes
of enmity between your two houses."

"Shall we  cease this idle banter?" Kador  suggested icily. "My motives are
my own affair."

"And unsavory, no doubt," she added.

"I think  you forget yourself, Madam," Kador said. "I  am, after all, who I
am - and more to the point, who I will become."

"And who will you become, your Grace?" she inquired.

"I will be Ran Vordue, Emperor of Tolnedra," Kador announced.

"Oh? And  just what's the future  Emperor of Tolnedra doing  in the Wood of
the Dryads?"

"I'm doing  what's necessary  to protect my interests,"  Kador said stifly.
"For  the  moment, it's  essential  that  the Princess  Ce'Nedra  be in  my
custody."

"My  father may  have something  to say  about that, Duke  Kador," Ce'Nedra
said, "and about this ambition of yours."

"What Ran  Borune says is of  no concern to me,  your Highness," Kador told
her.  "Tolnedra needs  me,  and no  Borune trick  is going  to deny  me the
Imperial  Crown. It's  obvious that  the old  man plans  to marry you  to a
Honeth or a Horbite  to raise some spurious claim to the throne. That could
complicate matters, but I intend to keep things simple."

"By marrying  me yourself?"  Ce'Nedra asked scornfully.  "You'll never live
that long."

"No," Kador  said. "I  wouldn't be interested  in a Dryad  wife. Unlike the
Borunes,  the  House  of  Vordue believes  in  keeping  its  line pure  and
uncontaminated."

"So you're going to hold me prisoner?" Ce'Nedra asked.

"That'd be  impossible, I'm afraid," Duke Kador  told her. "The Emperor has
ears everywhere.  It's really a shame you ran away  just when you did, your
Highness. I'd  gone to  a great expense  to get one  of my  agents into the
Imperial kitchen  and to  obtain a quantity  of a rare  Nyissan poison. I'd
even taken  the trouble  to compose a  letter of sympathy  to your father."

"How considerate of you," Ce'Nedra said, her face turning pale.

"Unfortunately, I'll  have to be more direct now,"  Kador went on. "A sharp
knife and  a few  feet of dirt  should end your  unfortunate involvement in
Tolnedran politics.  I'm very sorry, Princess.  There's nothing personal in
it, you understand, but I have to protect my interests."

"Thy plan,  Duke Kador,  hath one small flaw,"  Mandorallen said, carefully
leaning his lance against a tree.

"I fail to see it, Baron," Kador said smugly.

"Throe error  lay in rashly  coming within reach of  my sword," Mandorallen
told him. "Thy head  is forfeit now, and a man with no head has little need
of a crown."

Garion knew that a part of Mandorallen's brashness arose from his desperate
need to prove to himself that he was no longer afraid.

Kador looked at the  knight apprehensively. "You wouldn't do that," he said
without much certainty. "You're too badly outnumbered."

"Thou  art imprudent  to think  so," Mandorallen  said. "I am  the hardiest
knight on  life and  fully armed. Thy  soldiers will be as  blades of grass
before me. Thou art  doomed, Kador." And with that he drew his great sword.

"It  was bound  to happen,"  Barak said  wryly to  Hettar and drew  his own
sword.

"I don't  think we'll do that,"  a new voice announced  harshly. A familiar
black-robed man rode out from behind a nearby tree on a sablecolored horse.
He muttered  a few  quick words and  gestured sharply with  his right hand.
Garion felt  a dark rush and  a strange roaring in  his mind. Mandorallen's
sword spun from his grip.

"My thanks, Asharak," Kador  said in a relieved tone. "I hadn't anticipated
that."

Mandorallen pulled off his mailed gauntlet and nursed his hand as if he had
been struck  a heavy blow. Hettar's eyes  narrowed, and then went strangely
blank.  The Murgo's  black  mount glanced  curiously at  him once  and then
looked away almost contemptuously.

"Well, Sha-dar,"  Asharak gloated with  an ugly smirk on  his scarred face,
"would you like to try that again?"

Hettar's face  had a sick look  of revulsion on it.  "It's not a horse," he
said. "It looks like a horse, but it's something else."

"Yes," Asharak agreed. "Quite different, really. You can sink yourself into
its mind  if you want, but I don't think you'll  like what you find there."
He swung down from  his saddle and walked toward them, his eyes burning. He
stopped in front of Aunt Pol and made an ironic bow. "And so we meet again,
Polgara."

"You've been busy, Chamdar," she replied.

Kador, in  the act of  dismounting, seemed startled. "You  know this woman,
Asharak?"

"His  name is  Chamdar,  Duke Kador,"  Aunt Pol  said,  "and he's  a Grolim
priest. You  thought he  was only buying  your honor, but  you'll soon find
that he's bought much  more than that." She straightened in her saddle, the
white  lock at  her brow  suddenly incandescently  bright. "You've  been an
interesting opponent, Chamdar. I'll almost miss you."

"Don't do  it, Polgara," the Grolim said quickly.  "I've got my hand around
the boy's  heart. The instant you  start to gather your  will, he'll die. I
know who he is and how much you value him."

Her eyes narrowed. "An easy thing to say, Chamdar."

"Would you like to test it?" he mocked.

"Get down off your horses," Kador ordered sharply, and the legionnaires all
took a threatening step forward.

"Do as he says," Aunt Pol ordered quietly.

"It's  been  a long  chase,  Polgara," Chamdar  said. "Where's  Belgarath?"

"Not far,"  she told  him. "Perhaps if  you start running now,  you can get
away before he comes back."

"No, Polgara." He laughed.  "I'd know if he were that close." He turned and
looked intently  at Garion. "You've grown, boy. We  haven't had a chance to
talk for quite some time, have we?"

Garion stared  back at the scarred face of  his enemy, alert, but strangely
not afraid. The contest  between them for which he had been waiting all his
life was  about to begin, and something deep within  his mind told him that
he was ready.

Chamdar looked into his eyes, probing. "He doesn't know, does he?" he asked
Aunt Pol.  And then he laughed. "How like a  woman you are, Polgara. You've
kept the secret from him simply for the sake of the secret itself. I should
have taken him away from you years ago."

"Leave him alone, Chamdar," she ordered.

He ignored  that. "What's  his real name,  Polgara? Have you  told him yet.

"That doesn't concern you," she said flatly.

"But it  does, Polgara.  I've watched over  him almost as  carefully as you
have." He laughed again. "You've been his mother, but I've been his father.
Between us  we've raised  a fine son  - but I  still want to  know his real
name."

She straightened.  "I think  this has gone  far enough, Chamdar,"  she said
coldly. "What are your terms?"

"No terms, Polgara," the  Grolim answered. "You and the boy and I are going
to the  place where Lord Torak awaits the moment  of his awakening. My hand
will  be about  the  boy's heart  the entire  time,  so you'll  be suitably
docile. Zedar and Ctuchik are going to destroy each other fighting over the
Orb - unless Belgarath finds them first and destroys them himself - but the
Orb doesn't  really interest me. It's been you and  the boy I've been after
from the very beginning."

"You weren't really trying to stop us, then?" she asked.

Chamdar laughed. "Stop you? I've been trying to help you. Ctuchik and Zedar
both have  underlings here in the  West. I've delayed and  deceived them at
every  turn just  so you  could get  through. I  knew that sooner  or later
Belgarath would  find it necessary to  pursue the Orb alone,  and when that
happened, I could take you and the boy."

"For what purpose?"

"You still don't see?" he asked. "The first two things Lord Torak sees when
he  awakens will  be his  bride and  his mortal  enemy, kneeling  in chains
before   him.  I'll   be  exalted   above  all   for  so  royal   a  gift."

"Let the others go then," she said.

"The  others don't  concern me,"  Chamdar said.  "I'll leave them  with the
noble Kador,  I don't imagine he'll find it  convenient to keep them alive,
but that's up to him. I've got what I want."

"You   swine!"   Aunt   Pol   raged   helplessly.   "You   filthy   swine!"

With a bland smile Chamdar slapped her sharply across the face. "You really
must learn to control your tongue, Polgara," he said. Garion's brain seemed
to  explode. Dimly  he saw Durnik  and the  others being restrained  by the
legionnaries, but  no soldier seemed  to consider him a  danger. He started
toward   his   enemy   without   thinking,   reaching   for   his   dagger.

"Not that  way!" It  was that dry  voice in his  mind that  had always been
there,   but   the   voice    was   no   longer   passive,   disinterested.

"I'll  kill  him!"  Garion  said  silently  in  the vaults  of  his  brain.

"Not that way!" the voice warned again. "They won't let you - not with your
knife. "

"How, then?"

"Remember what Belgarath said - the Will and the Word."

"I don't know how I can't do that. "

"You are who you are. I'll show you. Look!" Unbidden and so clearly that it
was almost  as if  he were watching it  happen, the image of  the God Torak
writhing in  the fire of Aldur's  Orb rose before his  eyes. He saw Torak's
face  melting and  his fingers  aflame. Then  the face shifted  and altered
until it  was the face of the dark watcher whose  mind had been linked with
his for as long  as he could remember. He felt a terrible force building in
him as  the image  of Chamdar wrapped  in seething flame  stood before him.

"Nowl " the voice commanded him. "Do it!"

It  required a  blow. His  rage would  be satisfied  with nothing  less. He
leaped  at the  smirking Grolim  so quickly  that none of  the legionnaires
could stop him. He  swung his right arm, and at the instant his palm struck
Chamdar's scarred  left cheek, he felt all the force  that had built in him
surge out from the  silvery mark on his palm. "Burn!" he commanded, willing
it to happen.

Taken off guard, Chamdar  jerked back. A momentary anger began to appear on
his  face, and  then his  eyes widened  with an  awful realization.  For an
instant he stared at Garion in absolute horror, and then his face contorted
with agony. "No!" he  cried out hoarsely, and then his cheek began to smoke
and seethe  where the mark on Garion's hand had  touched it. Wisps of smoke
drifted from  his black robe as  if it had suddenly  been laid on a red-hot
stove. Then  he shrieked and clutched  at his face. His  fingers burst into
flame.   He  shrieked  again   and  fell   writhing  to  the   damp  earth.

"Stand still!"  It was Aunt Pol's voice  this time, sounding sharply inside
Garion's head.

Chamdar's entire face was engulfed in flames now, and his shrieks echoed in
the dim  wood. The legionnaires  recoiled from the burning  man, and Garion
suddenly felt sick. He started to turn away.

"Don't weaken!" Aunt Pol's  voice told him. "Keep your will on him!" Garion
stood  over the  blazing Grolim. The  wet leaves  on the ground  smoked and
smoldered  where Chamdar  thrashed  and struggled  with the  fire  that was
consuming him.  Flames were spurting  from his chest, and  his shrieks grew
weaker. With an enormous  effort, he struggled to his feet and held out his
flaming hands  imploringly to Garion.  His face was gone,  and greasy black
smoke  rolled  off his  body,  drifting  low to  the  ground. "Master,"  he
croaked, "have mercy!"

Garion's heart  wrenched with pity. All the  years of that secret closeness
between them pulled at him.

"No!"  Aunt Pol's  stern voice  commanded. "He'll  kill you if  you release
him!"

"I can't do it,  " Garion said. "I'm going to stop it. " As once before, he
began to  gather his will, feeling  it build in him  like some vast tide of
pity and  compassion. He half reached  toward Chamdar, focusing his thought
on healing.

"Garion!" Aunt Pol's voice  rang. "It was Chamdar who killed your parents!"

The thought forming in his mind froze.

"Chamdar killed Geran and Ildera. He burned them alive just as he's burning
now. Avenge them, Garion! Keep the fire on him!"

All the rage and  fury he had carried within him since Wolf had told him of
the deaths  of his  parents flamed in  his brain. The fire,  which a moment
before he had almost extinguished, was suddenly not enough. The hand he had
begun to reach out in compassion stiffened. In terrible anger he raised it,
palm out.  A strange sensation tingled in that palm,  and then his own hand
burst into  flames. There  was no pain,  not even a  feeling of  heat, as a
bright blue  fire burst from the  mark on his hand  and wreathed up through
his fingers.  The blue fire became  brighter - so bright  that he could not
even look at it.

Even in the extremity of his mortal agony, Chamdar the Grolim recoiled from
that  blazing hand.  With a hoarse,  despairing cry  he tried to  cover his
blackened face, staggered back a few steps, and then, like a burning house,
he collapsed in upon himself and sank back to earth.

"It is done!" Aunt Pol's voice came again. "They are avenged!" And then her
voice  rang  in  the   vaults  of  his  mind  with  a  soaring  exultation.
"Belgarion!" she sang. "My Belgarion!"

Ashen-faced  Kador, trembling  in  every limb,  backed in  horror  from the
still-burning heap that had  been Chamdar the Grolim. "Sorcery!" he gasped.

"Indeed," Aunt  Pol said coolly. "I don't think  you're ready for this kind
of game yet, Kador."

The frightened  legionnaires were also backing  away, their eyes bulging at
what they had just seen.

"I think  the Emperor's going to take  this whole affair rather seriously,"
Aunt  Pol  told them.  "When  he  hears that  you  were going  to kill  his
daughter, he'll probably take it personally."

"It wasn't  us," one of the  soldiers said quickly. "It  was Kador. We were
just following orders."

"He might  accept that as an excuse," she said  doubtfully. "If it were me,
though,  I'd take him  some kind of  gift to  prove my loyalty  - something
appropriate  to  the circumstances."  She  looked  significantly at  Kador.

Several of  the legionnaires took her meaning,  drew their swords and moved
into position around the Grand Duke.

"What are you doing?" Kador demanded of them.

"I  think you've  lost more  than a  throne today,  Kador," Aunt  Pol said.

"You can't do this," Kador told the legionnaires.

One of  the soldiers  put the point  of his sword against  the Grand Duke's
throat.  "We're loyal  to  the Emperor,  my Lord,"  he said  grimly. "We're
placing you under arrest  for high treason, and if you give us any trouble,
we'll settle  for just delivering your head to Tol Honeth  - if you take my
meaning."

One  of  the  legion officers  knelt  respectfully  before Ce'Nedra.  "Your
Imperial   Highness,"  he   said   to  her,   "how  may   we   serve  you?"

The  princess, still  pale and  trembling, drew  herself up.  "Deliver this
traitor  to my father,"  she said in  a ringing  voice, "and tell  him what
happened here. Inform him that you have arrested the Grand Duke Kador at my
command."

"At once,  your Highness," the officer said,  springing to his feet. "Chain
the prisoner!"  he ordered sharply,  then turned back to  Ce'Nedra. "May we
provide   you   an   escort    to   your   destination,   your   Highness?"

"That won't be necessary, captain," she told him. "Just remove this traitor
from my sight."

"As your  Highness wishes," the captain  said with a deep  bow. He gestured
sharply, and the soldiers led Kador away.

Garion was staring  at the mark on his palm. There was  no sign of the fire
that had burned there.

Durnik, released  now from the grip of the  soldiers, looked at Garion, his
eyes wide. "I thought  I knew you," he whispered. "Who are you, Garion, and
how did you do this?"

"Dear Durnik,"  Aunt Pol said  fondly, touching his arm.  "Still willing to
believe only  what you  can see. Garion's  the same boy  he's always been."

"You mean it was  you?" Durnik looked at Chamdar's body and pulled his eyes
quickly away.

"Of course," she said.  "You know Garion. He's the most ordinary boy in the
world."

But Garion  knew differently. The Will had been his,  and the Word had come
from him.

"Keep still!" her voice warned inside his head. "No one must know."

"Why did you call me Belgarion?" he demanded silently.

"Because it's  your name, " her voice replied. "Now  try to act natural and
don't bother  me with guestions. We'll talk about it  later. " And then her
voice was gone.

The others  stood around awkwardly until  the legionnaires left with Kador.
Then, when  the soldiers were out  of sight and the  need for imperial self
possession was gone, Ce'Nedra  began to cry. Aunt Pol took the tiny girl in
her arms and began to comfort her.

"I  guess we'd  better bury  this," Barak  said, nudging  what was  left of
Chamdar with  his foot.  "The Dryads might  be offended if we  went off and
left it still smoking."

"I'll fetch my spade," Durnik said.

Garion turned away and  brushed past Mandorallen and Hettar. His hands were
trembling violently, and he was so exhausted that his legs barely held him.

She had  called him Belgarion, and  the name had rung in  his mind as if he
had always  known that it was  his - as if  for all his brief  years he had
been incomplete  until in that  instant the name itself  had completed him.
But Belgarion was a  being who with Will and Word and the touch of his hand
could turn flesh into living fire.

"You did it!" he  accused the dry awareness in one corner of his mind. "No,
" the voice replied.  "I only showed you how. The Will and the Word and the
touch were all yours. "

Garion knew  that it was true. With horror  he remembered his enemy's final
supplication and  the flaming, incandescent hand  with which he had spurned
that agonized  appeal for mercy.  The revenge he had  wanted so desperately
for the  past several months was  dreadfully complete, but the  taste of it
was bitter, bitter.

Then  his  knees  buckled,  and he  sank  to  the  earth  and  wept like  a
broken-hearted child.





                                 Part Three

                                   NYISSA





                                  [Image]



Chapter Twenty-three

THE EARTH  WAS STILL THE SAME. The trees had not  changed, nor had the sky.
It was  still spring, for the seasons had  not altered their stately march.
But  for Garion  nothing  would ever  again be  the way  that it  had been.

They rode down through  the Wood of the Dryads to the banks of the River of
the Woods which marked  the southern boundary of Tolnedra, and from time to
time as  they rode  he caught strange  glances from his  friends. The looks
were speculative, thoughtful, and  Durnik - good, solid Durnik - behaved as
if  he were  almost afraid.  Only Aunt  Pol seemed  unchanged, unconcerned.
"Don't  worry  about it,  Belgarion,  "  her voice  murmured  in his  mind.

"Don't   call   me   that,"  he   replied   with   an  irritated   thought.

"It's your  name, " the silent  voice said. "You might  as well get used to
it.

"Leave me alone. "

And then the sense of her presence in his mind was gone.

It  took  them  several  days  to  reach  the  sea.  The  weather  remained
intermittently cloudy,  though it did not rain.  A stiff onshore breeze was
blowing when  they rode out onto the wide beach at  the mouth of the river.
The surf  boomed against  the sand, and  whitecaps flecked the  tops of the
waves.

Out beyond the surf, a lean, black Cherek war-boat swung at anchor, the air
above her alive with screeching gulls. Barak pulled his horse in and shaded
his eyes. "She looks  familiar," he rumbled, peering intently at the narrow
ship.

Hettar shrugged. "They all look the same to me."

"There's  all the  difference  in the  world," Barak  said, sounding  a bit
injured. "How would you feel if I said that all horses looked the same?"

"I'd think you were going blind."

Barak   grinned  at  him.   "It's  exactly   the  same  thing,"   he  said.

"How do we let them know we're here?" Durnik asked.

"They  know already,"  Barak  said, "unless  they're drunk.  Sailors always
watch an unfriendly shore very carefully."

"Unfriendly?" Durnik asked.

"Every shore  is unfriendly when  a Cherek war-boat comes  in sight," Barak
answered. "It's some kind of superstition, I think."

The ship came about and her anchor was raised. Her oars came out like long,
spidery  legs, and  she  seemed to  walk through  the  froth-topped combers
toward the mouth of the river. Barak led the way toward the riverbank, then
rode along  the broad  flow until he found  a spot deep enough  so that the
ship could be moored next to the shore.

The fur-clad  sailors who threw  Barak a mooring line  looked familiar, and
the first  one who leaped across to the  riverbank was Greldik, Barak's old
friend.

"You're a  long ways  south," Barak said  as if they had  only just parted.

Greldik shrugged. "I heard you needed a ship. I wasn't doing anything, so I
thought I'd come down and see what you were up to."

"Did you talk to my cousin?"

"Grinneg? No.  We made a run  down from Kotu to the  harbor at Tol Horb for
some Drasnian merchants. I ran into Elteg - you remember him - black beard,
only one eye?"

Barak nodded.

"He told me that Grinneg was paying him to meet you here. I remembered that
you  and Elteg  didn't  get along  very well,  so  I offered  to  come down
instead."

"And he agreed?"

"No," Greldik replied, pulling  at his beard. "As a matter of fact, he told
me to mind my own business."

"I'm  not surprised,"  Barak said.  "Elteg always  was greedy,  and Grinneg
probably offered him a lot of money."

"More than  likely." Greldik grinned. "Elteg  didn't say how much, though."

"How did you persuade him to change his mind?"

"He had  some trouble  with his ship,"  Greldik said with  a straight face.

"What kind of trouble?"

"It  seems that  one  night after  he and  his  crew were  all  drunk, some
scoundrel slipped aboard and chopped down his mast."

"What's the world coming to?" Barak asked, shaking his head.

"My thought exactly," Greldik agreed.

"How did he take it?"

"Not very well, I'm  afraid," Greldik said sadly. "When we rowed out of the
harbor,  he sounded  as if he  was inventing  profanities on the  spot. You
could hear him for quite some distance."

"He should  learn to control his  temper. That's the kind  of behavior that
gives Chereks a bad name in the ports of the world."

Greldik nodded  soberly and turned to  Aunt Pol. "My Lady,"  he said with a
polite bow, "my ship is at your disposal."

"Captain," she asked, acknowledging  his bow. "How long will it take you to
get us to Sthiss Tor?"

"Depends on the weather,"  he answered, squinting at the sky. "Probably ten
days at the most.  We picked up fodder for your horses on the way here, but
we'll have to stop for water from time to time."

"We'd better get started then," she said.

It took  a bit of persuading to get the horses  aboard the ship, but Hettar
managed  it without  too much  difficulty. Then  they pushed away  from the
bank, crossed  the bar at the mouth of the river  and reached the open sea.
The  crew raised  the sails,  and they  quartered the  wind down  along the
gray-green coastline of Nyissa.

Garion went  forward to his customary place in the bow  of the ship and sat
there, staring bleakly out at the tossing sea. The image of the burning man
back in the forest filled his mind.

There was a firm step behind him and a faint, familiar fragrance.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Aunt Pol asked.

"What's there to talk about?"

"Many things," she told him.

"You knew I could do that kind of thing, didn't you?"

"I suspected  it," she said,  sitting down beside him.  "There were several
hints. One  can never be sure, though, until it's  used for the first time.
I've known any number  of people who had the capability and just never used
it."

"I wish I never had," Garion said.

"I  don't see  that you really  had much  choice. Chamdar was  your enemy."

"But did  it have to be  that way?" he demanded. "Did  it have to be fire?"

"The choice  was yours," she answered. "If fire  bothers you so much, don't
do it that way next time."

"There isn't going to be a next time," he stated flatly. "Not ever."

"Belgarion, " her voice  snapped within his mind, "stop this foolishness at
once. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. "

"Quit  that," he  said aloud.  "Stay out  of my  mind -  and don't  call me
Belgarion."

"You are Belgarion," she  insisted. "Like it or not, you will use the power
again. Once it's been  released, you can never cage it up. You'll get angry
or frightened or excited,  and you'll use it without even thinking. You can
no more  choose not to use  it than you can  choose not to use  one of your
hands. The important thing  now is to teach you how to control it. We can't
have you blundering through  the world uprooting trees and flattening hills
with random  thoughts. You must learn to control  it and yourself. I didn't
raise you to let you become a monster."

"It's too late," he said. "I'm already a monster. Didn't you see what I did
back there?"

"All this  self pity is very  tedious, Belgarion, " her  voice told him. "I
don't think  we're getting anywhere. "  She stood up. "Do  try to grow up a
little, dear," she said aloud. "It's very hard to instruct someone who's so
self absorbed that he won't listen."

"I'll never do it again," he told her defiantly.

"Oh yes,  you will, Belgarion. You'll learn  and you'll practice and you'll
develop the discipline this requires. If you don't want to do it willingly,
then we'll have  to do it the other way. Think about  it, dear, and make up
your mind - but don't take too long. It's too important to be put off. "She
reached out and gently  touched his cheek; then she turned and walked away.

"She's   right,  you   know,   "  the   voice   in  his   mind  told   him.

"You stay out of this, " Garion said.

In the days that  followed, he avoided Aunt Pol as much as possible, but he
could not avoid her eyes. Wherever he went on the narrow ship, he knew that
she was watching him, her eyes calm, speculative.

Then,  at breakfast on  the third day  out, she  looked at his  face rather
closely as  if noticing something  for the first time.  "Garion," she said,
"you're starting to look shaggy. Why don't you shave?"

Garion  blushed furiously  and  put his  fingers  to his  chin. There  were
definitely whiskers there -  downy, soft, more like fuzz than bristles, but
whiskers all the same.

"Thou art truly approaching manhood, young Garion," Mandorallen assured him
rather approvingly.

"The decision  doesn't have  to be made immediately,  Polgara," Barak said,
stroking his  own luxuriant red beard. "Let the  whiskers grow for a while.
If  they  don't  turn  out well,  he  can  always  shave  them off  later."

"I think your neutrality in the matter is suspect, Barak," Hettar remarked.
"Don't most Chereks wear beards?"

"No razor's ever touched  my face," Barak admitted. "But I just don't think
it's the sort of  thing to rush into. It's very hard to stick whiskers back
on  if  you  decide  later  that  you  wanted  to  keep  them  after  all."

"I think  they're kind of  funny," Ce'Nedra said. Before  Garion could stop
her, she reached out two tiny fingers and tugged the soft down on his chin.
He winced and blushed again.

"They come off," Aunt Pol ordered firmly.

Wordlessly, Durnik went below decks. When he came back, he carried a basin,
a chunk of brown-colored soap, a towel, and a fragment of mirror. "It isn't
really hard, Garion," he  said, putting the things on the table in front of
the young  man. Then  he took a  neatly folded razor  out of a  case at his
belt. "You  just have  to be careful  not to cut yourself,  that's all. The
whole secret is not to rush."

"Pay close  attention when you're  near your nose," Hettar  advised. "A man
looks very strange without a nose."

The shaving proceeded with  a great deal of advice, and on the whole it did
not turn  out too badly. Most of the bleeding  stopped after a few minutes,
and,  aside from  the fact  that his face  felt as  if it had  been peeled,
Garion was quite satisfied with the results.

"Much better," Aunt Pol said.

"He'll catch cold in his face now," Barak predicted.

"Will you stop that?" she told him.

The  coast  of Nyissa  slid  by  on their  left,  a blank  wall of  tangled
vegetation, festooned  with creepers  and long tatters  of moss. Occasional
eddies in  the breeze brought the foul reek of the  swamps out to the ship.
Garion and Ce'Nedra stood  together in the prow of the ship, looking toward
the jungle.

"What are  those?" Garion  asked, pointing at  some large things  with legs
slithering around  on a mud bank along a stream  that emptied into the sea.

"Crocodiles," Ce'Nedra answered.

"What's a crocodile?"

"A big lizard," she said.

"Are they dangerous?"

"Very  dangerous.  They eat  people.  Haven't  you ever  read about  them?"

"I can't read," Garion admitted without thinking.

"What?"

"I can't read," Garion repeated. "Nobody ever taught me how."

"That's ridiculous!"

"It's not my fault," he said defensively.

She looked  at him thoughtfully. She  had seemed almost half  afraid of him
since  the  meeting with  Chamdar,  and  her insecurity  had probably  been
increased  by the fact  that, on the  whole, she  had not treated  him very
well. Her first assumption  that he was only a servant boy had gotten their
whole  relationship off on  the wrong foot,  but she  was far too  proud to
admit  that initial  mistake. Garion  could almost  hear the  little wheels
clicking around in her head. "Would you like to have me teach you how?" she
offered. It was probably the closest thing he'd ever get to an apology from
her.

"Would it take very long?"

"That depends on how clever you are."

"When do you think we could start?"

She frowned. "I've got a couple of books, but we'll need something to write
on."

"I don't know that  I need to learn how to write," he said. "Reading 'ought
to be enough for right now."

She laughed. "They're the same thing, you goose."

"I  didn't know  that,"  Garion said,  flushing slightly.  "I thought  " He
floundered with the whole  idea. "I guess I never really thought about it,"
he  concluded  lamely.  "What  sort of  thing  do  we  need  to write  on?"

"Parchment's the best," she  said, "and a charcoal stick to write with - so
we can rub it off and write on the parchment again."

"I'll  go  talk  to  Durnik,"  he  decided.  "He'll  be able  to  think  of
something."

Durnik suggested  sailcloth and a charred stick.  Within an hour Garion and
Ce'Nedra  were sitting in  a sheltered spot  in the  bow of the  ship their
heads  close together  over a square  of canvas  nailed to a  plank. Garion
glanced up once and  saw Aunt Pol not far away. She was watching the two of
them with  an indecipherable expression. Then he  lowered his eyes again to
the strangely compelling symbols on the canvas.

His instruction  went on for the next several  days. Since his fingers were
naturally nimble,  he quickly  picked up the  trick of forming  the letter.

"No, no,"  Ce'Nedra said one afternoon, "you've  spelled it wrong, used the
wrong letters. Your name's Garion, not Belgarion."

He felt  a sudden chill and looked down at the  canvas square. The name was
spelled out quite clearly - "Belgarion."

He looked  up quickly. Aunt Pol  was standing where she  usually stood, her
eyes on him as always.

"Stay out of my mind!" He snapped the thought at her.

"Study hard, dear, " her voice urged him silently. "Learning of any kind is
useful, and  you have a great deal to learn. The  sooner you get the habit,
the better. " Then she smiled, turned and walked away.

The next day, Greldik's ship reached the mouths of the River of the Serpent
in central Nyissa, and  his men struck the sail and set their oars into the
locks along the sides  of the ship in preparation for the long pull upriver
to Sthiss Tor.





Chapter Twenty-four

THERE WAS NO AIR. It seemed as if the world had suddenly been turned into a
vast,  reeking pool  of  stagnant water.  The River  of  the Serpent  had a
hundred mouths,  each creeping  sluggishly through the jellied  muck of the
delta as  if reluctant to join  the boisterous waves of  the sea. The reeds
which grew  in that vast swamp reached a height of  twenty feet and were as
thick as  woven fabric. There was a tantalizing  sound of a breeze brushing
the tops of the reeds, but down among them, all thought or memory of breeze
was lost. There was  no air. The delta steamed and stank beneath a sun that
did not burn so  much as boil. Each breath seemed to be half water. Insects
rose in  clouds from  the reeds and  settled in mindless  gluttony on every
inch of exposed skin, biting, feeding on blood.

They were  a day and a  half among the reeds  before they reached the first
trees, low, scarcely more than bushes. The main river channel began to take
shape  as they  moved  slowly on  into the  Nyissan heartland.  The sailors
sweated  and swore  at their oars,  and the  ship moved slowly  against the
current, almost as if  she struggled against a tide of thick oil that clung
to her like some loathsome glue.

The trees grew taller, then immense. Great, gnarled roots twisted up out of
the ooze  along the banks like grotesquely  misshapen legs, and trunks vast
as castles  reached up  into the steaming  sky. Ropey vines  undulated down
from the limbs overhead, moving, seeming to writhe with a kind of vegetable
will of  their own  in the breathless  air. Shaggy tatters  of grayish moss
descended  in hundred-foot-long  streamers  from the  trees, and  the river
wound spitefully  in great coils that made their  journey ten times as long
as it needed to be.

"Unpleasant sort of place,"  Hettar grumbled, dispiritedly looking out over
the  bow at  the  weedy surface  of the  river  ahead. He  had  removed his
horsehide  jacket and  linen undertunic,  and his  lean torso  gleamed with
sweat. Like  most of  them, he was  covered with the angry  welts of insect
bites.

"My very thought," Mandorallen agreed.

One  of the  sailors  shouted and  jumped  up, kicking  at his  oar-handle.
Something long, slimy, and  boneless had crawled unseen up his oar, seeking
his flesh with an eyeless voracity.

"Leech," Durnik said with a shudder as the hideous thing dropped with a wet
plop back into the  stinking river. "I've never seen one so big. It must be
a foot long or more."

"Probably not a good place for swimming," Hettar observed.

"I wasn't considering it," Durnik said.

"Good."  Aunt Pol,  wearing  a light  linen dress,  came  out of  the cabin
beneath the  high stern  where Greldik and  Barak were taking  turns at the
tiller. She had been caring for Ce'Nedra, who had drooped and wilted like a
flower in the brutal climate of the river.

"Can't you do something?" Garion demanded of her silently.

"About what?"

"All of this."He looked around helplessly.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Drive of the bugs, if nothing else."

"Why don't you do it yourself, Belgarion?"

He set his jaw. "No!" It was almost a silent shout.

"It isn't really very hard."

"No."

She  shrugged and turned  away, leaving  him seething with  frustration. It
took them  three more days to reach Sthiss Tor. The  city was embraced in a
wide  coil of  the  river and  was built  of  black stone.  The  houses and
buildings were low and  for the most part were windowless. In the center of
the city  a vast pile of  a building rose with  strangely shaped spires and
domes and terraces, oddly alien-looking. Wharves and jetties poked out into
the turbid  river, and  Greldik guided his  ship toward one  which was much
larger  than  the  rest.  "We  have  to  stop at  customs,"  he  explained.

"Inevitably," Durnik said.

The exchange  at customs was  brief. Captain Greldik announced  that he was
delivering the goods of Radek of Boktor to the Drasnian trade enclave. Then
he handed  a jingling purse to the  shaven-headed customs official, and the
ship was allowed to proceed without inspection.

"You  owe me  for that,  Barak," Greldik  said. "The  trip here was  out of
friendship, but the money's something else again."

"Write it down someplace," Barak told him. "I'll take care of it when I get
back to Val Alorn."

"If   you   ever   get   back  to   Val   Alorn,"   Greldik  said   sourly.

"I'm sure  you'll remember me in  your prayers, then," Barak  said. "I know
you  pray  for me  all the  time  anyway, but  now  you've got  a bit  more
incentive."

"Is every official in  the whole world corrupt?" Durnik demanded irritably.
"Doesn't anyone do his  job the way it's supposed to be done without taking
bribes?"

"The world  would come to an end if one of  them did," Hettar replied. "You
and I are too simple and honest for these affairs, Durnik. We're better off
leaving this kind of thing to others."

"It's disgusting, that's all."

"That may be true,"  Hettar agreed, "but I'm just as happy that the customs
man didn't look below  decks. We might have had some trouble explaining the
horses."

The sailors  had backed  the ship into  the river again and  rowed toward a
series  of substantial  wharves.  They pulled  up beside  the  outer wharf,
shipped their oars and  looped the hawsers around the tar-blackened pilings
of a mooring spot.

"You can't  moor here," a sweaty  guard told them from  the wharf. "This is
for Drasnian ships."

"I'll moor anyplace it suits me," Greldik said shortly.

"I'll call out the  soldiers," the guard threatened. He took hold of one of
their hawsers and pulled out a long knife.

"If  you cut  that rope,  friend, I'll  come down  there and tear  off your
ears," Greldik warned.

"Go ahead and tell him," Barak suggested. "It's too hot for fighting."

"My ship's  carrying Drasnian goods," Greldik told  the guard on the wharf,
"belonging to a man named Radek-from Boktor, I think."

"Oh," the guard said, putting away his knife, "why didn't you say so in the
first place?"

"Because I didn't like your attitude," Greldik replied bluntly. "Where do I
find the man in charge?"

"Droblek? His  house is  just up that  street past the shops.  It's the one
with the Drasnian emblem on the door."

"I've got to talk  with him," Greldik said. "Do I need a pass to go off the
wharf? I've heard some strange things about Sthiss Tor."

"You can move around inside the enclave," the guard informed him. "You only
need a pass if you want to go into the city."

Greldik grunted  and went below. A  moment later he came  back with several
packets of  folded parchment.  "Do you want  to talk to  this official?" he
asked Aunt Pol. "Or do you want me to take care of it?"

"We'd better  come along," she  decided. "The girl's asleep.  Tell your men
not to disturb her."

Greldik nodded and spoke briefly to his first mate. The sailors ran a plank
across  to the  wharf, and Greldik  led the  way ashore. Thick  clouds were
rolling in overhead, darkening the sun.

The street  which ran  down to the wharf  was lined on both  sides with the
shops of Drasnian merchants, and Nyissans moved torpidly from shop to shop,
stopping now and then to haggle with the sweating shop-keepers. The Nyissan
men all  wore loose-fitting robes of a  light, iridescent fabric, and their
heads were all shaved  completely bald. As he walked along behind Aunt Pol,
Garion  noticed with a  certain distaste  that the Nyissans  wore elaborate
makeup on  their eyes,  and that their  lips and cheeks  were rouged. Their
speech  was rasping  and sibilant, and  they all  seemed to affect  a lisp.

The heavy  clouds had  by now completely  obscured the sky,  and the street
seemed  suddenly dark. A  dozen wretched,  near-naked men were  repairing a
section  of cobblestones.  Their unkempt  hair and shaggy  beards indicated
that they were not  Nyissan, and there were shackles and chains attached to
their ankles. A brutal-looking Nyissan stood over them with a whip, and the
fresh welts and cuts on their bodies spoke mutely of the freedom with which
he used it. One  of the miserable slaves accidentally dropped an armload of
crudely  squared-off  stones on  his  foot  and opened  his  mouth with  an
animal-like howl  of pain. With horror, Garion  saw that the slave's tongue
had been cut out.

"They reduce  men to  the level of  beasts," Mandorallen growled,  his eyes
burning with  a terrible anger. "Why has  this cesspool not been cleansed?"

"It was once," Barak said grimly. "Just after the Nyissans assassinated the
Rivan King,  the Alorns came down here and  killed every Nyissan they could
find."

"Their  numbers  appear undiminished,"  Mandorallen  said, looking  around.

Barak shrugged.  "It was thirteen hundred years ago.  Even a single pair of
rats   could  reestablish   their   species  in   that  length   of  time."

Durnik,  who was  walking beside  Garion, gasped  suddenly and  averted his
eyes, blushing furiously.

A Nyissan lady had  just stepped from a litter carried by eight slaves. The
fabric of her pale  green gown was so flimsy that it was nearly transparent
and  left very  little  to the  imagination. "Don't  look at  her, Garion,"
Durnik  whispered  hoarsely,  still   blushing.  "She's  a  wicked  woman."

"I'd forgotten  about that," Aunt Pol said  with a thoughtful frown. "Maybe
we should have left Durnik and Garion on the ship."

"Why's  she dressed  like  that?" Garion  asked, watching  the  nearly nude
woman.

"Undressed, you mean." Durnik's voice was strangled with outrage.

"It's  the custom,"  Aunt Pol explained.  "It has  to do with  the climate.
There are some other reasons, of course, but we don't need to go into those
just now. All Nyissan women dress that way."

Barak  and  Greldik  were  watching  the  woman  also,  their  broad  grins
appreciative.

"Never mind," Aunt Pol told them firmly.

Not far away a  shaven-headed Nyissan stood leaning against a wall, staring
at his hand and giggling senselessly. "I can see right through my fingers,"
he announced in a hissing lisp. "Right through them."

"Drunk?" Hettar asked.

"Not  exactly," Aunt  Pol  answered. "Nyissans  have peculiar  amusements -
leaves, bernes,  certain roots. Their perceptions  get modified. It's a bit
more  serious  than  the   common  drunkenness  one  finds  among  Alorns."

Another Nyissan  shambled by,  his gait curiously jerky  and his expression
blank.

"Doth this condition prevail widely?" Mandorallen asked.

"I've never met a  Nyissan yet who wasn't at least partially drugged," Aunt
Pol said.  "It makes them difficult to talk to.  Isn't that the house we're
looking  for?"  She  pointed   at  a  solid  building  across  the  street.

There was an ominous  rumble of thunder off to the south as they crossed to
the large house. A  Drasnian servant in a linen tunic answered their knock,
let  them  into  a  dimly  lighted  antechamber,  and told  them  to  wait.

"An  evil city," Hettar  said quietly. "I  can't see  why any Alorn  in his
right mind would come here willingly."

"Money,"  Captain  Greldik  replied shortly.  "The  Nyissan  trade is  very
profitable."

"There   are  more   important   things  than   money,"  Hettar   muttered.

An enormously  fat man came into the dim room.  "More light," he snapped at
his servant. "You didn't have to leave them here in the dark."

"You said  that the lamps just made it hotter,"  the servant protested in a
surly tone. "I wish you'd make up your mind."

"Never mind what I said; just do as I say."

"The climate's  making you incoherent, Droblek,"  the servant noted acidly.
He lit several lamps and left the room muttering to himself.

"Drasnians   make   the   world's   worst  servants,"   Droblek   grumbled.

"Shall we get down to business?" He lowered his vast bulk into a chair. The
sweat  rolled continually  down his face  and into  the damp collar  of his
brown silk robe.

"My name's  Greldik," the bearded  seaman said. "I've just  arrived at your
wharves  with a  shipload  of goods  belonging  to the  merchant, Radek  of
Boktor." He presented the folded packets of parchment.

Droblek's eyes  narrowed. "I didn't  know that Radek was  interested in the
southern trade. I thought he dealt mostly in Sendaria and Arendia."

Greldik shrugged indifferently. "I  didn't ask him. He pays me to carry his
goods in my ship, not to ask questions about his business."

Droblek  looked at  them all,  his sweating  face expressionless.  Then his
fingers  moved  slightly.-Is  everything  here what  it  seems  to be?  The
Drasnian   secret  language   made   his  fat   fingers  suddenly   nimble.

Can we  speak openly here? Aunt Pol's fingers  asked him. Her gestures were
stately, somehow  archaic. There was  a kind of formality  to her movements
that Garion had not seen in the signs made by others.

As  openly as  anyplace  in this  pest-hole -  Droblek replied,-You  have a
strange accent,  lady. There's  something about it  that it seems  I should
remember- '

I learned the language a very long time ago-she replied.-You know who Radek
of Boktor really is, of course-

"Naturally," Droblek  said aloud. "Everyone knows  that. Sometimes he calls
himself  Ambar of  Kotu  - when  he wants  to have  dealings that  are not,
strictly speaking, legitimate."

"Shall we  stop fencing with each other,  Droblek?" Aunt Pol asked quietly.
"I'm quite  certain you've  received instructions from King  Rhodar by now.
All this dancing about is tiresome."

Droblek's face  darkened. "I'm  sorry," he said  stiffly. "I'll need  a bit
more in the way of verification."

"Don't be an idiot, Droblek," Barak rumbled at the fat man. "Use your eyes.
You're an Alorn; you know who the lady is."

Droblek looked  suddenly at Aunt Pol,  his eyes going very  wide. "It's not
possible," he gasped.

"Would you  like to have her prove it to  you?" Hettar suggested. The house
shook with a sudden crash of thunder.

"No,  no," Droblek  refused hastily,  still staring  at Aunt Pol.  "It just
never occurred to me - I mean, I just never-" He floundered with it.

"Have you heard from  Prince Kheldar or my father?" Aunt Pol asked crisply.

"Your father? You mean-? Is he involved in this too?"

"Really, Droblek,"  she said tartly, "don't  you believe the communications
King Rhodar sends you?"

Droblek shook  his head  like a man  trying to clear his  mind. "I'm sorry,
Lady Polgara," he said. "You surprised me, that's all. It takes a moment to
get  used   to.  We  didn't   think  you'd  be  coming   this  far  south."

"It's obvious  then that you haven't received any  word from Kheldar or the
old man."

"No,  my Lady,"  Droblek  said. "Nothing.  Are they  supposed to  be here?"

"So they said. They were either going to meet us here or send word."

"It's very  hard to get  messages any place in  Nyissa," Droblek explained.
"The people here aren't  very reliable. The prince and your father could be
upcountry, and  their messenger could very well have  gone astray. I sent a
messenger to  a place not ten  leagues from the city  once, and it took six
months to  arrive. The  Nyissan who was  carrying it found  a certain berry
patch  along the  way. We  found him  sitting in  the middle of  the patch,
smiling." Droblek  made a  sour face. "There  was moss growing  on him," he
added.

"Dead?" Durnik asked.

Droblek shrugged. "No, just very happy. He enjoyed the berries very much. I
dismissed him  at once,  but he didn't seem  to mind. For all  I know, he's
still sitting there."

"How extensive is your network here in Sthiss Tor?" Aunt Pol asked.

Droblek  spread his pudgy  hands modestly. "I  manage to  pick up a  bit of
information here and there. I've got a few people in the palace and a minor
official at  the Tolnedran  embassy. The Tolnedrans are  very thorough." He
grinned impishly.  "It's cheaper to let  them do all the  work and then buy
the information after they've gathered it."

"If   you   can   believe   what   they  tell   you,"   Hettar   suggested.

"I never  take what they say  at face value," Droblek  said. "The Tolnedran
ambassador  knows that I've  bought his man.  He tries  to trip me  up with
false leads now and then."

"Does the ambassador know that you know?" Hettar asked.

"Of course  he does." The fat  man laughed. "But he  doesn't think that I'm
aware of  the fact that he knows that I know."  He laughed again. "It's all
terribly complicated, isn't it?"

"Most Drasnian games usually are," Barak observed.

"Does the name Zedar mean anything to you?" Aunt Pol asked.

"I've heard it, naturally," Droblek said.

"Has he been in touch with Salmissra?"

Droblek frowned. "I couldn't say for sure. I haven't heard that he has, but
that  doesn't mean  that he  hasn't. Nyissa's  a murky  sort of  place, and
Salmissra's palace is the  murkiest spot in the whole country. You wouldn't
believe some of the things that go on there."

"I'd believe  them," Aunt Pol  said, "and probably things  you haven't even
begun  to guess."  She  turned back  to the  others.  "I think  we're  at a
standstill. We can't make  any kind of move until we hear from Silk and the
Old Wolf."

"Could I offer you my house?" Droblek asked.

"I think we'll stay on board Captain Greldik's ship," she told him. "As you
say, Nyissa's  a murky place,  and I'm sure that  the Tolnedran ambassadors
bought a few people in your establishment."

"Naturally," Droblek agreed. "But I know who they are."

"We'd better  not chance it," she told him.  "There are several reasons for
our avoiding  Tolnedrans just now. We'll stay aboard  the ship and keep out
of sight.  Let us know as  soon as Prince Kheldar  gets in touch with you."

"Of course,"  Droblek said.  "You'll have to  wait until the  rain lets up,
though. Listen to it."  There was the thundering sound of a downpour on the
roof overhead.

"Will it last long?" Durnik asked.

Droblek shrugged.  "An hour or so usually.  It rains every afternoon during
this season."

"I imagine it helps to cool the air," the smith said.

"Not significantly,"  the Drasnian told him.  "Usually it just makes things
worse." He mopped the sweat from his fat face.

"How can you live here?" Durnik asked.

Droblek  smiled blandly.  "Fat  men don't  move around  all that  much. I'm
making a  great deal of money, and the game  I'm playing with the Tolnedran
ambassador keeps my mind occupied. It's not all that bad, once you get used
to it. It helps if I keep telling myself that."

They sat quietly then, listening to the pounding rain.





Chapter Twenty-five

FOR THE NEXT SEVERAL  DAYS they all remained aboard Greldik's ship, waiting
for  word   from  Silk  and  Mister   Wolf.  Ce'Nedra  recovered  from  her
indisposition and appeared on  deck wearing a palecolored Dryad tunic which
seemed to Garion to  be only slightly less revealing than the gowns worn by
Nyissan women. When he  rather stiffly suggested that she ought to put on a
few   more  clothes,   however,  she   merely  laughed   at  him.   With  a
single-mindedness that  made him want  to grind his teeth,  she returned to
the task of teaching  him to read and write. They sat together in an out-of
the-way spot  on deck, poring  over a tedious book  on Tolnedran diplomacy.
The whole  business seemed to Garion  to be taking forever,  though in fact
his mind  was very quick,  and he was learning  surprisingly fast. Ce'Nedra
was too thoughtless to  compliment him, though she seemed to await his next
mistake almost  breathlessly, delighting  it seemed in  each opportunity to
ridicule him. Her proximity  and her light, spicy perfume distracted him as
they  sat close  beside each  other, and  he perspired  as much  from their
occasional touch of hand  or arm or hip as he did from the climate. Because
they were  both young, she was intolerant and  he was stubborn. The sticky,
humid  heat made  them both  short-tempered and  irritable, so  the lessons
erupted into bickering more often than not.

When they arose one  morning, a black, square-rigged Nyissan ship rocked in
the river  current at a nearby wharf. A foul, evil  kind of reek carried to
them from her on the fitful morning breeze.

"What's that smell?" Garion asked one of the sailors.

"Slaves," the  sailor answered  grimly, pointing at the  Nyissan ship. "You
can smell them twenty miles away when you're at sea."

Garion looked at the ugly black ship and shuddered.

Barak  and Mandorallen  drifted across  the deck  and joined Garion  at the
rail. "Looks like a  scow," Barak said of the Nyissan ship, his voice heavy
with contempt.  He was stripped to the waist, and  his hairy torso ran with
sweat.

"It's a slave ship," Garion told him.

"It  smells like  an  open sewer,"  Barak  complained. "A  good fire  would
improve it tremendously."

"A sorry  trade, my  Lord Barak," Mandorallen  said. "Nyissa hath  dealt in
human misery for untold centuries."

"Is that a Drasnian wharf?" Barak asked with narrowed eyes.

"No,"  Garion answered.  "The sailors  say that  everything on  that side's
Nyissan."

"That's a shame," Barak growled.

A group of mail-shirted men in black cloaks walked out onto the wharf where
the  slave   ship  was   moored  and  stopped  near   the  vessel's  stern.

"Oh-oh," Barak said. "Where's Hettar?"

"He's still below," Garion replied. "What's the matter?"

"Keep an eye out for him. Those are Murgos."

The shaven-headed  Nyissan sailors  pulled open a  hatch on their  ship and
barked  a  few  rough  orders  down  into  the  hold.  Slowly,  a  line  of
dispirited-looking men  came up. Each man  wore an iron collar,  and a long
chain fastened them together.

Mandorallen stiffened and began to swear.

"What's wrong?" Barak asked.

"Arendishmen!" the  knight exclaimed. "I had  heard of this, but  I did not
believe it."

"Heard of what?"

"An  ugly rumor  hath  persisted in  Arendia for  some  years," Mandorallen
answered, his  face white with rage.  "We are told that  some of our nobles
have  upon  occasion enriched  themselves  by  selling their  serfs to  the
Nyissans."

"Looks like it's more than a rumor," Barak said.

"There," Mandorallen  growled. "See that  crest upon the tunic  of that one
there?  It's the  crest of Vo  Toral. I know  the Baron  of Vo Toral  for a
notorious spendthrift, but had not thought him dishonorable. Upon my return
to Arendia, I will denounce him publicly."

"What good's that going to do?" Barak asked.

"He will be forced to challenge me," Mandorallen said grimly. "I will prove
his villainy upon his body."

Barak   shrugged.    "Serf   or   slave   -    what's   the   difi'erence?"

"Those  men  have rights,  my  Lord,"  Mandorallen stated.  "Their Lord  is
required to protect them  and care for them. The oath of knighthood demands
it  of us.  This  vile transaction  hath stained  the  honor of  every true
Arendish knight.  I shall not rest  until I have bereft  that foul baron of
his miserable life."

"Interesting   idea,"    Barak   said.   "Maybe   I'll    go   with   you."

Hettar came  up on deck, and Barak moved immediately  to his side and began
talking quietly to him, holding one of his arms firmly.

"Make them  jump around a bit," one of the  Murgos ordered harshly. "I want
to see how many are lame."

A  heavy-shouldered Nyissan  uncoiled  a long  whip and  began to  flick it
deftly at the legs of the chained men. The slaves began to dance feverishly
on the wharf beside the slave ship.

"Dog's  blood!" Mandorallen  swore,  and his  knuckles turned  white  as he
gripped the railing.

"Easy," Garion  warned. "Aunt Pol  says we're supposed to  stay pretty much
out of sight."

"It cannot be borne!" Mandorallen cried.

The chain that bound the slaves together was old and pitted with rust. When
one  slave tripped  and fell,  a link  snapped, and  the man  found himself
suddenly free.  With an agility  born of desperation, he  rolled quickly to
his feet,  took two  quick steps and  plunged off the wharf  into the murky
waters of the river.

"This   way,   man!"   Mandorallen    called   to   the   swimming   slave.

The burly Nyissan with the whip laughed harshly and pointed at the escaping
slave. "Watch," he told the Murgos.

"Stop him,  you idiot,"  one of the  Murgos snapped. "I paid  good gold for
him."

"It's  too late."  The Nyissan looked  on with  an ugly grin.  "Watch." The
swimming  man suddenly  shrieked and  sank out  of sight.  When he  came up
again, his face and arms were covered with the slimy, footlong leeches that
infested  the river.  Screaming, the  struggling man  tore at  the writhing
leeches, ripping  out chunks of his  own flesh in his  efforts to pull them
off.

The Murgos began to laugh.

Garion's mind  exploded. He  gathered himself with  an awful concentration,
pointed  one hand at  the wharf just  beyond their  own ship and  said, "Be
there!" He felt an  enormous surge as if some vast tide were rushing out of
him, and  he reeled almost senseless  against Mandorallen. The sound inside
his head was deafening.

The slave, still writhing and covered with the oozing leeches, was suddenly
lying on the wharf.  A wave of exhaustion swept over Garion; if Mandorallen
had not caught him, he would have fallen.

"Where did  he go?" Barak demanded, still staring  at the turbulent spot on
the surface  of the river where the slave had  been an instant before. "Did
he go under?"

Wordlessly and  with a shaking hand, Mandorallen  pointed at the slave, who
lay still  weakly struggling  on the Drasnian  wharf about twenty  yards in
front of the bow of their ship.

Barak looked at the slave, then back at the river. The big man blinked with
surprise.

A small  boat with four Nyissans  at the oars put  out from the other wharf
and moved  deliberately toward  Greldik's ship. A  tall Murgo stood  in the
bow, his scarred face angry.

"You have  my property,"  he shouted across the  intervening water. "Return
the slave to me at once."

"Why don't  you come and claim him, Murgo?"  Barak called back. He released
Hettar's arm.  The Algar  moved to the  side of the ship,  stopping only to
pick up a long boathook.

"Will   I   be   unmolested?"   the   Murgo   asked   a   bit   doubtfully.

"Why  don't you  come  alongside, and  we'll discuss  it?"  Barak suggested
pleasantly.

"You're denying  me my  rights to my  own property," the  Murgo complained.

"Not at all," Barak told him. "Of course there might be a fine point of law
involved here. This wharf is Drasnian territory, and slavery isn't legal in
Drasnia.  Since   that's  the  case,  the   man's  not  a  slave  anymore."

"I'll get  my men,"  the Murgo said. "We'll  take the slave by  force if we
have to."

"I  think we'd have  to look on  that as  an invasion of  Alorn territory,"
Barak warned  with a great show of regret. "In  the absence of our Drasnian
cousins, we'd  almost be compelled to take steps  to defend their wharf for
them. What do you think, Mandorallen?"

"Thy perceptions are most  acute, my Lord," Mandorallen replied. "By common
usage, honorable men are morally obliged to defend the territory of kinsmen
in their absence."

"There," Barak said to  the Murgo. "You see how it is. My friend here is an
Arend, so he's totally  neutral in this matter. I think we'd have to accept
his interpretation of the affair."

Greldik's sailors had begun  to climb the rigging by now, and they clung to
the  ropes  like  great, evil-looking  apes,  fingering  their weapons  and
grinning at the Murgo.

"There is yet another way," the Murgo said ominously.

Garion could  feel a force beginning to build, and  a faint sound seemed to
echo inside  his head. He drew himself up, putting  his hands on the wooden
rail in  front of him. He felt a terrible  weakness, but he steeled himself
and tried to gather his strength.

"That's  enough of  that," Aunt Pol  said crisply,  coming up on  deck with
Durnik and Ce'Nedra behind her.

"We were  merely having a little  legal discussion," Barak said innocently.

"I know what you  were doing," she snapped. Her eyes were angry. She looked
coldly across the intervening stretch of river at the Murgo.

"You'd better leave," she told him.

"I have something to retrieve first," the man in the boat called back.

"I'd forget about it!"

"We'll see," he said. He straightened and began muttering as if to himself,
his hands  moving rapidly  in a series  of intricate gestures.  Garion felt
something pushing at him  almost like a wind, though the air was completely
still.

"Be sure  you get it right," Aunt Pol advised  quietly. "If you forget even
the tiniest part of it, it'll explode in your face."

The man  in the boat froze,  and a faintly worried  frown crossed his face.
The  secret wind  that had been  pushing at  Garion stopped. The  man began
again,  his   fingers  weaving  in   the  air  and  his   face  fixed  with
concentration.

"You do it like  this, Grolim," Aunt Pol said. She moved her hand slightly,
and Garion felt a  sudden rush as if the wind pushing at him had turned and
begun to blow the other way. The Grolim threw his hands up and reeled back,
stumbling and falling into  the bottom of his boat. As if it had been given
a heavy push, the boat surged backward several yards.

The Grolim half raised, his eyes wide and his face deathly pale.

"Return to  your master, dog," Aunt Pol said  scathingly. "Tell him to beat
you for not learning your lessons properly."

The Grolim spoke quickly  to the Nyissans at the oars, and they immediately
turned the boat and rowed back toward the slave ship.

"We had a nice little fight brewing there, Polgara," Barak complained. "Why
did you have to spoil it?"

"Grow up," she ordered bluntly. Then she turned on Garion, her eyes blazing
and  the white  lock at  her brow like  a streak  of fire. "You  idiot! You
refuse any kind of  instruction, and then you burst out like a raging bull.
Have you  the slightest conception of  what an uproar translocation causes?
You've alerted  every Grolim  in Sthiss Tor  to the fact  that we're here."

"He was  dying," Garion protested, gesturing  helplessly at the slave lying
on the wharf. "I had to do something."

"He was dead as  soon as he hit the water," she said flatly. "Look at him."

The slave  had stiffened into an  arched posture of mortal  agony, his head
twisted back and his mouth agape. He was obviously dead.

"What   happened   to   him?"   Garion  asked,   feeling   suddenly   sick.

"The leeches are poisonous. Their bites paralyze their victims so that they
can feed  on them undisturbed. The bites stopped  his heart. You exposed us
to the Grolims for the sake of a dead man."

"He wasn't  dead when I did  it!" Garion shouted at  her. "He was screaming
for help." He was angrier than he had ever been in his life.

"He was beyond help." Her voice was cold, even brutal.

"What  kind of  monster  are you?"  he asked  from between  clenched teeth.
"Don't you  have any feelings? You'd have just  let him die, wouldn't you?"

"I don't think this is the time or place to discuss it."

"No! This  is the time-right now, Aunt Pol. You're  not even human, did you
know  that? You left  being human behind  so long  ago that you  can't even
remember where you lost it. You're four thousand years old. Our whole lives
go by  while you blink your eyes. We're just an  entertainment for you - an
hour's diversion.  You manipulate  us like puppets for  your own amusement.
Well,  I'm   tired  of   being  manipulated.  You  and   I  are  finished!"

It probably went further  than he'd intended, but his anger had finally run
away with him, and  the words seemed to rush out before he could stop them.

She looked at him,  her face as pale as if he had suddenly struck her. Then
she drew herself up. "You stupid boy," she said in a voice that was all the
more terrible  because it was so  quiet. "Finished? You and  I? How can you
even begin  to understand what I've  had to do to  bring you to this world?
You've been  my only care for  over a thousand years.  I've endured anguish
and loss  and pain beyond your ability to understand  what the words mean -
all for  you. I've lived in poverty and squalor for  hundreds of years at a
time - all for  you. I gave up a sister I loved  more than my life itself -
all for  you. I've  gone through fire  and despair worse than  fire a dozen
times over - all  for you. And you think this has all been an entertainment
for me?  - some idle amusement? You think the kind  of care I've devoted to
you for  a thousand years and  more comes cheaply? You  and I will never be
finished, Belgarion. Never! We will go on together until the end of days if
necessary.  We will  never  be finished.  You owe  me  too much  for that!"

There was a dreadful  silence. The others, shocked by the intensity of Aunt
Pol's   words,  stood   staring   first  at   her  and   then   at  Garion.

Without  speaking further, she  turned and  went below decks  again. Garion
looked  around helplessly,  suddenly terribly  ashamed and  terribly alone.

"I  had to  do it,  didn't I?"  he asked  of no  one in particular  and not
entirely sure exactly what it was that he meant.

They   all   looked   at   him,  but   no   one   answered  his   question.





Chapter Twenty-six

BY MIDAFTERNOON  THE CLOUDS had rolled  in again, and the  thunder began to
rumble off in the  distance as the rain swept in to drown the steaming city
once more. The afternoon  thunderstorm seemed to come at the same time each
day, and  they had even grown  accustomed to it. They  all moved below deck
and  sat  sweltering as  the  rain  roared down  on  the  deck above  them.

Garion sat  stifliy, his back planted  against a rough-hewn oak  rib of the
ship  and  watched  Aunt   Pol,  his  face  set  stubbornly  and  his  eyes
unforgiving.

She ignored him and sat talking quietly with Ce'Nedra.

Captain  Greldik came through  the narrow  companionway door, his  face and
beard streaming  water. "The  Drasnian-Droblek-is here," he  told them. "He
says he's got word for you."

"Send him in," Barak said.

Droblek  squeezed his  vast bulk  through the  narrow door. He  was totally
drenched from  the rain and stood dripping on the  Hoor. He wiped his face.
"It's wet out there," he commented.

"We noticed," Hettar said.

"I've  received  a  message,"  Droblek told  Aunt  Pol.  "It's from  Prince
Kheldar."

"Finally," she said.

"He and Belgarath are coming downriver," Droblek reported. "As closely as I
can make out, they  should be here in a few days -  a week at the most. The
messenger isn't very coherent."

Aunt Pol looked at him inquiringly.

"Fever," Droblek  explained. "The man's a Drasnian,  so he's reliable - one
of my agents  at an upcountry trading post - but he's  picked up one of the
diseases that infest this stinking swamp. He's a little delirious just now.
We hope  we can break the  fever in a day  or so and get  some sense out of
him. I  came as soon  as I got the  general idea of his  message. I thought
you'd want to know immediately."

"We appreciate your concern," Aunt Pol said.

"I'd have  sent a  servant," Droblek explained, "but  messages sometimes go
astray in Sthiss Tor, and servants sometimes get things twisted around." He
grinned   suddenly.   "That's   not    the   real   reason,   of   course."

Aunt Pol smiled, "Of course not."

"A fat man tends  to stay in one place and let others do his walking around
for  him.  From the  tone  of King  Rhodar's  message, I  gather that  this
business might be the most important thing happening in the world just now.
I  wanted to  take part  in it."  He made  a wry  face. "We all  lapse into
childishness from time to time, I suppose."

"How serious is the condition of the messenger?" Aunt Pol asked.

Droblek shrugged. "Who can say? Half of these pestilential fevers in Nyissa
don't even have names, and we can't really tell one from another. Sometimes
people die very quickly from them; sometimes they linger for weeks. Now and
then someone  even recovers. About all  we can do is  make them comfortable
and wait to see what happens."

"I'll come  at once," Aunt Pol said, rising. "Durnik,  would you get me the
green  bag   from  our  packs?  I'll   need  the  herbs  I   have  in  it."

"It's not always a  good idea to expose oneself to some of these fevers, my
Lady," Droblek cautioned.

"I won't  be in any danger,"  she said. "I want  to question your messenger
closely, and  the only way I'll  be able to get any  answers from him is to
rid him of his fever."

"Durnik and I'll come along," Barak offered.

She looked at him.

"It doesn't hurt to  be on the safe side," the big man said, belting on his
sword.

"If you wish." She  put on her cloak and turned up the hood. "This may take
most of  the night,"  she told Greldik.  "There are Grolims  about, so have
your  sailors stay  alert.  Put a  few of  the more  sober ones  on watch."

"Sober, my Lady?" Greldik asked innocently.

"I've heard the singing coming from the crew's quarters, Captain," she said
a bit  primly, "Chereks  don't sing unless  they're drunk. Keep  the lid on
your ale-barrel tonight. Shall we go, Droblek?"

"At once, my Lady," the fat man assented with a sly look at Greldik.

Garion felt a certain relief after they had gone. The strain of maintaining
his  rancor in  Aunt  Pol's presence  had begun  to wear  on him.  He found
himself  in a difficult  position. The  horror and self-loathing  which had
gnawed at him since  he had unleashed the dreadful fire upon Chamdar in the
Wood of  the Dryads  had grown until  he could scarcely bear  it. He looked
forward to each night with dread, for his dreams were always the same. Over
and over  again he  saw Chamdar, his  face burned away,  pleading, "Master,
have mercy."  And over and over again he saw the  awful blue flame that had
come from  his own hand in answer to that agony.  The hatred he had carried
since Val  Alorn had died in  that flame. His revenge  had been so absolute
that there  was no possible way he could  evade or shift the responsibility
for it. His outburst  that morning had been directed almost more at himself
than  at Aunt  Pol, He  had called her  a monster,  but it was  the monster
within himself  he hated. The  dreadful catalogue of what  she had suffered
over uncounted  years for him and  the passion with which  she had spoken -
evidence of  the pain his words  had caused her -  twisted searingly in his
mind. He  was ashamed, so ashamed that he could not  even bear to look into
the  faces of  his friends. He  sat alone  and vacant-eyed with  Aunt Pol's
words thundering over and over in his mind.

The rain  slackened on  the deck above  them as the  storm passed. Swirling
little eddies of raindrops ran across the muddy surface of the river in the
fitful  wind. The sky  began to clear,  and the  sun sank into  the roiling
clouds, staining them an angry red. Garion went up on deck to wrestle alone
with his troubled conscience.

After a while he  heard a light step behind him. "I suppose you're proud of
yourself?" Ce'Nedra asked acidly.

"Leave me alone."

"I don't think so.  I think I want to tell you just exactly how we all felt
about your little speech this morning."

"I don't want to hear about it."

"That's too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway."

"I won't listen."

"Oh yes, you will," She took him by the arm and turned him around. Her eyes
were blazing and her  tiny face filled with a huge anger. "What you did was
absolutely inexcusable," she said. "Your Aunt raised you from a baby. She's
been a mother to you."

"My mother's dead."

"The Lady  Polgara's the only mother  you ever knew, and  what did you give
her for  thanks? You called her a monster. You  accused her of not caring."

"I'm not  listening to you," Garion  cried. Knowing that it  was childish -
even  infantile -  he put his  hands over  his ears. The  Princess Ce'Nedra
always seemed to bring out the worst in him.

"Move your hands!" she  commanded in a ringing voice. "You're going to hear
me even if I have to scream."

Garion, afraid that she meant it, took his hands away.

"She carned  you when you were  a baby," Ce'Nedra went  on, seeming to know
exactly  where the  sorest spot  on Garion's  wounded conscience  lay. "She
watched your very first  steps. She fed you; she watched over you; she held
you  when you  were afraid  or hurt.  Does that  sound like a  monster? She
watches  you all  the  time, did  you know  that?  If you  even so  much as
stumble, she almost reaches  out to catch you. I've seen her cover you when
you're   asleep.  Does   that  sound   like  someone  who   doesn't  care?"

"You're  talking about  something you  don't understand," Garion  told her.
"Please, just leave me alone."

"Please?" she repeated mockingly.  "What a strange time for you to remember
your manners. I didn't hear you saying please this morning. I didn't hear a
single please.  I didn't hear any thank you's either.  Do you know what you
are,   Garion?   You're   a   spoiled   child,  that's   what   you   are."

That  did it!  To have this  pampered, willful  little princess call  him a
spoiled  child was  more than  Garion could  bear. Infuriated, he  began to
shout at her. Most  of what he said was wildly incoherent, but the shouting
made him feel better.

They  started  with accusations,  but  the argument  soon degenerated  into
name-calling. Ce'Nedra was screeching  like a Camaar fishwife, and Garion's
voice cracked and warbled between a manly baritone and a boyish tenor. They
shook their fingers in each other's faces and shouted. Ce'Nedra stamped her
feet,  and Garion  waved his  arms. All  in all,  it was a  splendid little
fight.  Garion  felt much  better  when  it was  over.  Yelling insults  at
Ce'Nedra was  an innocent diversion  compared to some of  the deadly things
he'd  said  to Aunt  Pol  that  morning, and  it  allowed him  to vent  his
confusion and anger harmlessly.

In the  end, of  course, Ce'Nedra resorted  to tears and  fled, leaving him
feeling more  foolish than ashamed. He fumed a  bit, muttering a few choice
insults he  hadn't had the opportunity  to deliver, and then  he sighed and
leaned pensively  on the rail to watch night settle  in over the dank city.

Though  he would  not  have cared  to admit  it,  even to  himself,  he was
grateful  to the  princess. Their  descent into  absurdity had  cleared his
head. Quite  clearly now  he saw that he  owed Aunt Pol an  apology. He had
lashed out at her out of his own sense of deep-seated guilt, trying somehow
to shift  the blame to her.  Quite obviously there was  no way to evade his
own responsibility. Having accepted that, he seemed for some reason to feel
better.

It  grew darker.  The tropical night  was heavy,  and the smell  of rotting
vegetation  and stagnant  water rolled  in out  of the trackless  swamps. A
vicious little  insect crawled down inside his tunic  and began to bite him
somewhere   between    his   shoulders   where   he    could   not   reach.

There was absolutely no warning - no sound or lurch of the ship or any hint
of danger.  His arms  were seized from  behind and a wet  cloth was pressed
firmly over his mouth and nose. He tried to struggle, but the hands holding
him were  very strong.  He tried to  twist his head  to get  his face clear
enough to shout for  help. The cloth smelled strange - cloying, sickeningly
sweet,  thick somehow.  He  began to  feel  dizzy, and  his struggles  grew
weaker. He  made one last effort  before the dizziness overcame  him and he
sank down into unconsciousness.





Chapter Twenty-seven

THEY WERE  IN A LONG HALLWAY  of some sort. Garion  could see the flagstone
floor quite  clearly. Three men were  carrying him face down,  and his head
bobbed  and swung  on his neck  uncomfortably. His  mouth was dry,  and the
thick, sweet  smell that had impregnated the cloth  they had crushed to his
face   lingered.   He   raised   his   head,   trying   to   look   around.

"He's awake," the man holding one of his arms said.

"Finally," one of the  others muttered. "You held the cloth to his face too
long, Issus."

"I know what I'm doing," the first one said.

"Put him down."

"Can you  stand?" Issus asked Garion. His shaved  head was stubbled, and he
had a long scar  running from his forehead to his chin directly through the
puckered vacancy  of an empty  eye-socket. His belted robe  was stained and
spotted.

"Get up,"  Issus ordered in a hissing kind of  voice. He nudged Garion with
his foot.  Garion struggled to rise.  His knees were shaky,  and he put his
hand on the wall to steady himself. The stones were damp and covered with a
kind of mold.

"Bring  him,"   Issus  told  the  others.   They  took  Garion's  arms  and
halfdragged, half-carried  him down the damp  passageway behind the oneeyed
man. When  they came out of the corridor, they were  in a vaulted area that
seemed  not so  much  like a  room but  rather a  large roofed  place. Huge
pillars, covered  with carvings,  supported the soaring  ceiling, and small
oil lamps hung on  long chains from above or sat on little stone shelves on
the pillars.  There was  a confused sense  of movement as groups  of men in
varicolored  robes drifted  from  place to  place  in a  kind of  langorous
stupor.

"You," Issus snapped at a plump young man with dreamy eyes, "tell Sadi, the
chief eunuch, that we have the boy."

"Tell him  yourself," the young man  said in a piping  voice. "I don't take
orders from your kind, Issus."

Issus   slapped   the   plump   young   man  sharply   across   the   face.

"You hit  me!" the  plump one wailed,  putting his hand to  his mouth. "You
made my lip bleed - see?" He held out his hand to show the blood.

"If you  don't do what I  tell you to do, I'll  cut your fat throat," Issus
told him in a flat, unemotional voice.

"I'm going to tell Sadi what you did."

"Go ahead. And as long as you're there, tell him that we've got the boy the
queen wanted."

The plump young man scurried away.

"Eunuchs!" One of the men holding Garion's arm spat.

"They   have  their   uses,"   the  other   said  with   a   coarse  laugh.

"Bring the boy," Issus ordered. "Sadi doesn't like to be kept waiting."

They pulled Garion across the lighted area.

A group  of wretched-looking men  with unkempt hair and  beards sat chained
together on the floor. "Water," one of them croaked. "Please." He stretched
out an imploring hand.

Issus  stopped and  stared at the  slave in  amazement. "Why does  this one
still have its tongue?" he demanded of the guard who stood over the slaves.

The  guard  shrugged.  "We  haven't  had  time  to  attend  to  that  yet."

"Take time,"  Issus told him. "If one of the  priests hear it talk, they'll
have you questioned. You wouldn't like that."

"I'm not  afraid of the priests,"  the guard said, but  he looked nervously
over his shoulder.

"Be afraid,"  Issus advised him. "And water  these animals. They're no good
to  anybody dead."  He started  to lead  the men  holding Garion  through a
shadowy area between two  pillars, then stopped again. "Get out of my way,"
he said  to something lying in the shadows.  Grudgingly, the thing began to
move.  With   revulsion  Garion  realized  that   it  was  a  large  snake.

"Get over there with the others," Issus told the snake. He pointed toward a
dimly lighted  corner where  a large mass  seemed to be  undulating, moving
with a kind of sluggish seething. Faintly Garion could hear the dry hiss of
scales rubbing  together. The  snake which had  barred their way  flicked a
nervous   tongue  at   Issus,  then   slithered  toward  the   dim  corner.

"Someday you're  going to get bitten, Issus," one  of the men warned. "They
don't like being ordered around."

Issus shrugged indifferently and moved on.

"Sadi  wants to  talk to you,"  the plump  young eunuch said  spitefully to
Issus as  they approached a large  polished door. "I told  him that you hit
me. Maas is with him."

"Good," Issus  said. He  pushed the door  open. "Sadi," he  called sharply,
"tell your  friend I'm  coming in. I  don't want him  making any mistakes."

"He knows  you, Issus,"  a voice on  the other side  of the  door said. "He
won't do anything by mistake."

Issus went in and closed the door behind him.

"You can  leave now," one of the men holding  Garion told the young eunuch.

The plump one sniffed. "I go where Sadi tells me to go."

"And come running when Sadi whistles, too."

"That's between Sadi and me, isn't it?"

"Bring him in," Issus ordered, opening the door again.

The two men pushed Garion into the room. "We'll wait out here," one of them
said nervously.

Issus  laughed harshly,  pushed  the door  shut with  his foot,  and pulled
Garion to  the front  of a table where  a single oil lamp  flickered with a
tiny flame that barely  held back the darkness. A thin man with deadlooking
eyes sat  at the  table, lightly stroking  his hairless head  with the long
fingers of one hand.

"Can you  speak, boy?" he asked  Garion. His voice had  a strange contralto
quality  to  it,  and  his  silk  robe  was  a solid  crimson  rather  than
varicolored.

"Could I have a drink of water?" Garion asked.

"In a minute."

"I'll take my money now, Sadi," Issus said.

"As  soon   as  we're   sure  this  is   the  right  boy,"   Sadi  replied.

"Ask it what its  name is," a hissing whisper said from the darkness behind
Garion.

"I will,  Maas." Sadi looked faintly annoyed  at the suggestion. "I've done
this before."

"You're taking too long," the whisper said.

"Say your name, boy," Sadi told Garion.

"Doroon,"    Garion   lied    quickly.    "I'm   really    very   thirsty."

"Do you take me for a fool, Issus?" Sadi asked. "Did you think just any boy
would satisfy me?"

"This is  the boy you  told me to fetch,"  Issus said. "I can't  help it if
your information was wrong."

"You say your name is Doroon?" Sadi asked.

"Yes," Garion said. "I'm the cabin-boy on Captain Greldik's ship. Where are
we?"

"I'll ask the questions, boy," Sadi said.

"It's   lying,"   the   sibilant   whisper   came   from   behind   Garion.

"I know that, Maas," Sadi replied calmly. "They always do at first."

"We don't have time for all this," the hiss said. "Give it oret. I need the
truth immediately."

"Whatever you say, Maas,"  Sadi agreed. He rose to his feet and disappeared
momentarily into  the shadows  behind the table.  Garion heard a  clink and
then  the sound  of water  pouring. "Remembering  that this was  your idea,
Maas.  If she  becomes  angry about  it, I  don't  want to  be the  one she
blames."

"She'll understand, Sadi."

"Here, boy,"  Sadi offered,  coming back into  the light and  holding out a
brown earthenware cup.

"Uh-no,  thank you,"  Garion said.  "I guess  I'm not really  thirsty after
all."

"You might as well drink it, boy," Sadi told him. "If you don't, Issus will
hold you,  and I'll pour it  down your throat. It  isn't going to hurt you.

"Drink," the hissing voice commanded.

"Better do as they say," Issus advised.

Helplessly Garion took the  cup. The water had a strangely bitter taste and
seemed to burn his tongue.

"Much better," Sadi said, resuming his seat behind the table. "Now, you say
your name is Doroon?"

"Yes."

"Where are you from, Doroon?"

"Sendaria."

"Where exactly in Sendaria?"

"Near Darine on the north coast."

"What are you doing on a Cherek ship?"

"Captain Greldik's a friend  of my father," Garion said. For some reason he
suddenly wanted  to explain  further. "My father  wanted me to  learn about
ships. He  says that being a  sailor's better than being  a farmer. Captain
Greldik agreed  to teach me what  I'd need to know to  be a sailor. He says
I'll be good at it because I didn't even get seasick, and I'm not afraid to
climb  up the ropes  that hold the  sails in  place, and I'm  almost strong
enough to pull an oar already, and-"

"What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Garion - I mean - uh - Doroon. Yes, Doroon, and-"

"How old are you, Garion?"

"Fifteen last Erastide. Aunt  Pol says that people who are born on Erastide
are very lucky, only I haven't noticed that I'm luckier than-"

"And who is Aunt Pol?"

"She's my aunt. We  used to live on Faldor's farm, but Mister Wolf came and
we-"

"Do people call her something besides Aunt Pol?"

"King Fulrach  called her Polgara -  that was when Captain  Brendig took us
all to  the palace  in Sendar. Then we  went to King Anheg's  palace in Val
Alorn, and-"

"Who's Mister Wolf?"

"My grandfather. They call  him Belgarath. I didn't used to believe it, but
I guess it has to be true because one time he-"

"And why did you all leave Faldor's farm?"

"I didn't know why at first, but then I found out that it was because Zedar
stole the Orb  of Aldur off the pommel of the Sword  of the Rivan King, and
we've got to get  it back before Zedar can take it to Torak and wake him up
and-"

"This is the boy we want," the hissing voice whispered.

Garion turned  around slowly. The room seemed brighter  now, as if the tiny
flame were  putting out more light.  In the corner, rearing  out of its own
coils and with a strangely flattened neck and glowing eyes was a very large
snake.

"We can  take it to Salmissra now," the snake  hissed. It lowered itself to
the floor  and crawled across to  Garion. He felt its  cold, dry nose touch
his  leg, and then,  though a hidden  part of  his mind shrieked,  he stood
unresisting  as the  scaly body  slowly mounted  his leg and  coiled upward
until the  snake's head  reared beside his  face and its  flickering tongue
touched his face. "Be  very good, boy," the snake hissed in his ear, "very,
very  good."  The  reptile  was  heavy,  and  its  coils  thick  and  cold.

"This way, boy," Sadi told Garion, rising to his feet.

"I want my money," Issus demanded.

"Oh," Sadi  said almost contemptuously, "that. It's  in that pouch there on
the table." Then he turned and led Garion from the room.

"Garion." The  dry voice that had always been in  his mind spoke quietly to
him. "I  want you to listen  carefully. Don't say anything  or let anything
show on your face. Just listen to me. "

"Who are you?" Garion asked silently, struggling with the fog in his brain.

"You  know me, "  the dry voice  told him.  "Now listen. They've  given you
something that  makes you do what they want you  to do. Don't fight against
it. Just relax and don't fight it. "

"But - I said things I shouldn't have. I-"

"That  doesn't matter now.  Just do as  I say.  If anything happens  and it
starts to get dangerous, don't fight. I'll take care of it - but I can't do
it if you're struggling.  You have to relax so that I can do what has to be
done. If you suddenly find yourself doing things or saying things you don't
understand, don't  be afraid and don't  try to fight. It  won't be them; it
will be me."

Comforted by this silent  reassurance, Garion walked obediently beside Sadi
the eunuch while the  coils of the snake, Maas, lay heavily about his chest
and  shoulders  and  the  bluntly  pointed reptilian  head  rested,  almost
nuzzling, against his cheek.

They entered  a large room where the walls  were heavily draped and crystal
oil lamps  hung glittering on silver chains.  An enormous stone statue, its
upper third lost in  the shadows high above, raised its mass titanically at
one end  of the room, and  directly in front of the  statue was a low stone
platform,  carpeted and  strewn with  cushions. Upon  the platform  stood a
heavy  divan   that  was  not  quite  a  chair   and  not  quite  a  couch.

There  was a woman  on the divan.  Her hair  was raven black,  cascading in
loose coils  down her back and across her shoulders.  About her head was an
intricately wrought golden crown  sparkling with jewels. Her gown was white
and spun of the filmiest gauze. It did not in any way conceal her body, but
rather seemed to be worn only to provide a material to which her jewels and
adornments could  be attached.  Beneath the gauze,  her skin was  an almost
chalky  white, and her  face was  extraordinarily beautiful. Her  eyes were
pale, even  colorless. A large,  gold-framed mirror stood on  a pedestal at
one side  of the divan, and the woman lounged  at ease, admiring herself in
the glass.

Two dozen shaven-headed eunuchs  in crimson robes knelt in a cluster to one
side of the dais, resting on their haunches and gazing at the woman and the
statue behind her with worshipful adoration.

Among  the  cushions  at   the  side  of  the  divan  lolled  an  indolent,
pampered-looking  young  man  whose  head was  riot  shaved.  His hair  was
elaborately curled, his cheeks were rouged, and his eyes were fantastically
made up.  He wore only the  briefest of loincloths, and  his expression was
bored and sulky. The woman absently ran the fingers of one hand through his
curls as she watched herself in the mirror.

"The  queen has  visitors,"  one of  the  kneeling eunuchs  announced in  a
singsong voice.

"Ah," the others chanted in unison, "visitors."

"Hail, Eternal Salmissra," Sadi the eunuch said, prostrating himself before
the dais and the pale-eyed woman.

"What is it, Sadi?"  she demanded. Her voice was vibrant and had a strange,
dark timbre.

"The boy,  my Queen," Sadi announced, his face  still pressed to the floor.

"On your knees before the Serpent Queen," the snake hissed in Garion's ear.
The coils tightened about  Garion's body, and he fell to his knees in their
sudden crushing grip.

"Come here, Maas," Salmissra said to the snake.

"The  queen  summons  the  beloved  serpent,"  the  eunuch  intoned.  "Ah."

The reptile  uncoiled itself from  about Garion's body and  undulated up to
the foot of the divan, reared half its length above the reclining woman and
then lowered itself upon her body, its thick length curving, fitting itself
to  her.  The  blunt  head reached  up  to  her  face,  and  she kissed  it
affectionately. The  long, forked tongue flickered  over her face, and Maas
began  to whisper  sibilantly in  her ear.  She lay  in the embrace  of the
serpent,  listening  to  its  hissing  voice  and looking  at  Garion  with
heavy-lidded eyes.

Then, pushing the reptile  aside, the queen rose to her feet and stood over
Garion. "Welcome  to the land of the  snake-people, Belgarion," she said in
her purring voice.

The  name, which he  had heard only  from Aunt  Pol before, sent  a strange
shock  through  Garion, and  he  tried  to shake  the  fog  from his  head.

"Not yet,"the dry voice in his mind warned him.

Salmissra stepped down from  the dais, her body moving with a sinuous grace
beneath her  transparent gown. She took  one of Garion's arms  and drew him
gently to his feet;  then she touched his face lingeringly. Her hand seemed
very cold. "A pretty young man," she breathed, almost as if to herself. "So
young. So warm." Her look seemed somehow hungry.

A strange confusion seemed to fill Garion's mind. The bitter drink Sadi had
given him still lay on his consciousness like a blanket. Beneath it he felt
at once  afraid and yet strangely  attracted to the queen.  Her chalky skin
and dead eyes were repellent, yet there was a kind of lush invitation about
her, an  overripe promise of unspeakable  delights. Unconsciously he took a
step backward.

"Don't be afraid, my Belgarion," she purred at him. "I won't hurt you - not
unless you  want me to. Your  duties here will be  very pleasant, and I can
teach you things that Polgara hasn't even dreamed of."

"Come  away  from  him,  Salmissra," the  young  man  on  the dais  ordered
petulantly. "You  know I don't like  it when you pay  attention to others."

A flicker  of annoyance showed in  the queen's eyes. She  turned and looked
rather coldly at the young man. "What you like or don't like doesn't really
concern me anymore, Essia," she said.

"What?" Essia cried incredulously.

"Do as I say at once!"

"No, Essia," she told him.

"I'll punish you," he threatened.

"No," she  said, "you won't. That  sort of thing doesn't  amuse me anymore,
and all  your pouting and tantrums  have begun to grow  boring. Leave now."

"Leave?" Essia's eyes bulged with disbelief.

"You're dismissed, Essia."

"Dismissed? But you can't live without me. You said so yourself."

"We all say things we don't mean sometimes."

The arrogance went out of the young man like water poured from a bucket. He
swallowed hard and began to tremble. "When do you want me to come back?" he
whined.

"1 don't, Essia."

"Never?" he gasped.

"Never," she told him. "Now go, and stop making a scene."

"What's to become of  me?" Essia cried. He began to weep, the makeup around
his eyes running in grotesque streaks down his face.

"Don't be  tiresome, Essia,"  Salmissra said. "Pick up  your belongings and
leave-now!  I  have a  new  consort."  She stepped  back  up  on the  dais.

"The queen has chosen a consort," the eunuch intoned.

"Ah,"  the others  chanted. "Hail  the consort  of Eternal  Salmissra, most
fortunate of men."

T'he sobbing young man  grabbed up a pink robe and an ornately carved jewel
box. He  stumbled down  from the dais.  "You did this,"  he accused Garion.
"It's all  your fault." Suddenly, out of the folds  of the robe draped over
his arm, he pulled a small dagger. "I'll fix you," he screamed, raising the
dagger to strike.

There was  no thought this time,  no gathering of will.  The surge of force
came  without warning,  pushing Essia  away, driving  him back.  He slashed
futilely  at  the air  with  his little  knife.  Then the  surge was  gone.

Essia  lunged forward  again, his  eyes insane  and his dagger  raised. The
surge came again, stronger this time. The young man was spun away. He fell,
and his dagger clattered across the floor.

Salmissra, her eyes ablaze,  pointed at the prostrate Essia and snapped her
fingers twice.  So fast that it  seemed almost like an  arrow loosed from a
bow, a  small green snake shot from beneath the  divan, its mouth agape and
its hiss  a kind of snarl.  It struck once, hitting  Essia high on the leg,
then  slithered   quickly  to   one  side  and  watched   with  dead  eyes.

Essia gasped  and turned white with horror. He tried  to rise, but his legs
and arms  suddenly sprawled out from  under him on the  polished stones. He
gave one  strangled cry and then the  convulsions began. His heels pattered
rapidly on  the floor, and his arms flailed  wildly. His eyes turned vacant
and staring,  and a  green froth shot  like a fountain from  his mouth. His
body  arched back,  every muscle  writhing beneath  his skin, and  his head
began to  pound on the floor.  He gave one thrashing,  convulsive leap, his
entire body  bounding up  from the floor.  When he came down,  he was dead.

Salmissra watched him die, her pale eyes expressionless, incurious, with no
hint of anger or regret.

"Justice is done," the eunuch announced.

"Swift  is the  justice of  the Queen  of the  Serpent People,"  the others
replied.





Chapter Twenty-eight

THERE WERE OTHER THINGS they made him drink - some bitter, some sickeningly
sweet - and  his mind seemed to sink deeper with each  cup he raised to his
lips. His eyes began  to play strange tricks on him. It seemed somehow that
the world  had suddenly been drowned and that all  of this was taking place
under  water. The  walls wavered  and the  figures of the  kneeling eunuchs
seemed to  sway and undulate like  seaweed in the endless  wash and eddy of
tide  and current. The  lamps sparkled  like jewels, casting  out brilliant
colors in  slow-falling showers.  Garion slumped, all bemused,  on the dais
near  Salmissra's divan,  his eyes  filled with  light and his  head washed
clean of  all thought. There was  no sense of time,  no desire, no will. He
briefly and  rather vaguely remembered his  friends, but the knowledge that
he  would never  see them  again brought  only a  brief, passing  regret, a
temporary  melancholy that was  rather pleasant.  He even shed  one crystal
tear over his loss, but the tear landed on his wrist and sparkled with such
an  unearthly beauty  that  he lost  himself utterly  in  contemplating it.

"How did he do  it?" the queen's voice said somewhere behind him. Her voice
was so beautifully musical that the sound of it pierced Garion's very soul.

"It has power," Maas  replied, his serpent voice thrilling Garion's nerves,
vibrating  them  like  the  strings  of  a  lute. "Its  power  is  untried,
undirected, but  it is very strong. Beware  of this one, beloved Salmissra.
It can destroy quite by accident."

"I will control him," she said.

"Perhaps," the snake replied.

"Sorcery requires will," Salmissra  pointed out. "I will take his will away
from him.  Your blood  is cold, Maas,  and you've never felt  the fire that
fills the  veins with the taste of oret or  athal or kaldiss. Your passions
are also cold, and  you can't know how much the body can be used to enslave
the will. I'll put  his mind to sleep and then smother his will with love."

"Love,   Salmissra?"   the    snake   asked,   sounding   faintly   amused.

"The term serves as  well as any other," she replied. "Call it appetite, if
you wish."

"That I  can understand," Maas agreed. "But  don't underestimate this one -
or overestimate your own  power. It does not have an ordinary mind. There's
something   strange    about   it   that   I    can't   quite   penetrate."

"We'll see," she said. "Sadi," she called the eunuch.

"Yes, my Queen?"

"Take the boy. Have him bathed and perfumed. He smells of boats and tar and
salt water. I don't like such Alorn smells."

"At once, Eternal Salmissra."

Garion was led away to a place where there was warm water. His clothes were
taken from him, and he was immersed and soaped and immersed again. Fragrant
oils were  rubbed into his skin,  and a brief loincloth  was tied about his
waist. Then he was  taken quite firmly by the chin and rouge was applied to
his cheeks.  It was  during this process  that he realized  that the person
painting his face was  a woman. Slowly, almost incuriously, he let his eyes
move  around the  bath  chamber. He  realized  then that  except for  Sadi,
everyone  there was  female.  It seemed  that something  about  that should
bother him - something having to do with appearing naked in the presence of
women - but he could not exactly remember what it was.

When the woman had finished painting his face, Sadi the eunuch took his arm
and led him again through the dim, endless corridors back to the room where
Salmissra half lay on her divan beneath the statue, admiring herself in the
pedestaled mirror beside her.

"Much  better,"  she  said,  looking Garion  up  and  down  with a  certain
appreciation.  "He's much more  muscular than  I thought. Bring  him here."

Sadi led  Garion to  the side of  the queen's divan and  gently pressed him
down onto the cushions where Essia had lounged.

Salmissra reached  out with  a lingeringly slow  hand and brushed  her cold
fingertips across his face and chest. Her pale eyes seemed to burn, and her
lips parted slightly. Garion's eyes fixed themselves on her pale arm. There
was no trace of hair on that white skin.

"Smooth," he said vaguely, struggling to focus on that peculiarity.

"Of course,  my Belgarion," she murmured. "Serpents  are hairless, and I am
the queen of the serpents."

Slowly, puzzled, he raised  his eyes to the lustrous black tresses tumbling
down across one of her white shoulders.

"Only this,"  she said, touching the curls with  a sensuous kind of vanity.

"How?" he asked.

"It's a  secret." She  laughed. "Someday perhaps  I'll show you.  Would you
like that?"

"I suppose so."

"Tell me, Belgarion," she said, "do you think I'm beautiful?"

"I think so."

"How old would you  say I am?" She spread her arms so that he could see her
body through the filmy gauze of her gown.

"I don't  know," Garion said. "Older  than I am, but  not too old." A brief
flicker  of  annoyance  crossed her  face.  "Guess,"  she ordered  somewhat
harshly.

"Thirty perhaps," he decided, confused.

"Thirty?"  Her voice  was stricken.  Swiftly she  turned to her  mirror and
examined her  face minutely. "You're blind,  you idiot!" she snapped, still
staring at herself in the glass. "That's not the face of a woman of thirty.
Twenty-three - twenty-five at the most."

"Whatever you say," he agreed.

"Twenty-three,"  she stated  firmly. "Not  a single day  over twentythree."

"Of course," he said mildly.

"Would you believe that  I'm nearly sixty?" she demanded, her eyes suddenly
flint-hard.

"No,"   Garion   denied.   "I  couldn't   believe   that   -  not   sixty."

"What a  charming boy you are, Belgarion," she  breathed at him, her glance
melting. Her  fingers returned to his  face, touching, stroking, caressing.
Slowly, beneath  the pale  skin of her  naked shoulder and  throat, curious
patches of color began to appear, a faint mottling of green and purple that
seemed to  shift and pulsate, growing first  quite visible and then fading.
Her lips  parted again, and her breathing  grew faster. The mottling spread
down her  torso beneath her transparent gown,  the colors seeming to writhe
beneath her skin.

Maas  crept nearer,  his  dead eyes  suddenly coming  awake with  a strange
adoration. The  vivid pattern of his  own scaly skin so  nearly matched the
colors that began to emerge upon the body of the Serpent Queen that when he
draped a caressing coil across one of her shoulders it became impossible to
say  exactly  where lay  the  boundary  between the  snake  and the  woman.

Had  Garion not  been in  a half  stupor, he  would have recoiled  from the
queen. Her colorless eyes and mottled skin seemed reptilian, and her openly
lustful expression  spoke of some dreadful hunger.  Yet there was a curious
attraction about  her. Helplessly he felt  drawn by her blatant sensuality.

"Come closer,  my Belgarion,"  she ordered softly.  "I'm not going  to hurt
you." Her eyes gloated over her possession of him.

Not far from the  dais, Sadi the eunuch cleared his throat. "Divine Queen,"
he  announced, "the  emissary  of Taur  Urgas  requests a  word with  you."

"Of  Ctuchik, you mean,"  Salmissra said,  looking faintly annoyed.  Then a
thought seemed to cross  her mind, and she smiled maliciously. The mottling
of  her   skin  faded.   "Bring  the  Grolim  in,"   she  instructed  Sadi.

Sadi bowed  and withdrew to return a moment later  with a scar-faced man in
the garb of a Murgo.

"Give  welcome  to  the  emissary  of  Taur  Urgas,"  the  eunuch  chanted.
"Welcome," the chorus replied.

"Carefully now, "the dry  voice in his mind said to Garion. "That's the one
we saw at the harbor. "

Garion looked  more carefully at the  Murgo and realized that  it was true.

"Hail, Eternal  Salmissra," the Grolim said  perfunctorily, bowing first to
the queen  and then  to the statue  behind her. "Taur Urgas,  King of Cthol
Murgos,  sends greetings  to  the Spirit  of Issa  and to  his handmaiden."

"And are there no  greetings from Ctuchik, High Priest of the Grolims?" she
asked, her eyes bright.

"Of course," the Grolim said, "but those are customarily given in private."

"Is your errand here  on behalf of Taur Urgas or of Ctuchik?" she inquired,
turning to examine her reflection in the mirror.

"May  we speak  in private, your  Highness?" the  Grolim asked. "We  are in
private," she said.

"But-" He looked around at the kneeling eunuchs in the room.

"My body  servants," she  said. "A Nyissan  queen is never  left alone. You
should know that by now."

"And that one?" The Grolim pointed at Garion.

"He   is  also   a   servant  -   but  of   a  slightly   different  kind."

The  Grolim shrugged.  "Whatever  you wish.  I salute  you  in the  name of
Ctuchik,   High   Priest   of  the   Grolims   and   Disciple  of   Torak."

"The  Handmaiden  of Issa  salutes  Ctuchik  of Rak  Cthol," she  responded
formally. "What does the Grolim High Priest want of me?"

"The boy, your Highness," the Grolim said bluntly.

"Which boy is that?"

"The boy you stole from Polgara and who now sits at your feet."

She laughed scornfully. "Convey my regrets to Ctuchik," she said, "but that
would be impossible."

"It's unwise to deny the wishes of Ctuchik," the Grolim warned.

"It's even more unwise to make demands of Salmissra in her own palace," she
said. "What is Ctuchik prepared to offer for this boy?"

"His eternal friendship."

"What need has the Serpent Queen of friends?"

"Gold, then," the Grolim offered with annoyance.

"I know the secret of the red gold of Angarak," she told him. "I don't wish
to become a slave to it. Keep your gold, Grolim."

"Might I say that  the game you play is very dangerous, your Highness?" the
Grolim said coolly. "You've already made Polgara your enemy. Can you afford
the enmity of Ctuchik as well?"

"I'm not afraid of Polgara," she answered. "Nor of Ctuchik."

"The queen's bravery is remarkable," he said dryly.

"This is beginning to  get tiresome. My terms are very simple. Tell Ctuchik
that  I have  Torak's enemy,  and I  will keep  him - unless-"  She paused.

"Unless what, your Highness?"

"If Ctuchik  will speak  to Torak for  me, an agreement  might be reached."

"What sort of agreement?"

"I will give the boy to Torak as a wedding gift."

The Grolim blinked.

"If Torak  will make me his  bride and give me  immortality, I will deliver
Belgarion up to him."

"All the  world knows that the Dragon God of  Angarak is bound in slumber,"
the Grolim objected.

"But he  will not  sleep forever," Salmissra  said flatly. "The  priests of
Angarak  and the  sorcerers of  Aloria always  seem to forget  that Eternal
Salmissra can read the  signs in the heavens as clearly as they. The day of
Torak's awakening is at  hand. Tell Ctuchik that upon the day that I am wed
to Torak, Belgarion will be in his hands. Until that day, the boy is mine."

"I shall  deliver your message to  Ctuchik," the Grolim said  with a stiff,
icy bow.

"Leave,   then,"  she   told   him  with   an  airy   wave  of   her  hand.

"So that  is it, " the  voice in Garion's mind said  as the Grolim left. "I
should have known, I suppose."

Maas the  serpent suddenly raised his head, his  great neck flaring and his
eyes burning. "Beware!" he hissed.

"Of  the Grolim?"  Salmissra laughed.  "I have  nothing to fear  from him."

"Not the Grolim," Maas said. "That one." He flickered his tongue at Garion.
"Its mind is awake."

"That's impossible," she objected.

"Nevertheless, its  mind is awake. It  has to do, I  think, with that metal
thing around its neck."

"Remove the ornament then," she told the snake.

Maas  lowered his  length to  the floor  and slid  around the  divan toward
Garion.

"Remain very still, " Garion's inner voice told him. "Don't try to fight. "

Numbly, Garion watched the blunt head draw closer.

Maas raised  his head, his hood flaring.  His nervous tongue darted. Slowly
he  leaned  forward.  His  nose touched  the  silver  amulet hanging  about
Garion's neck.

There was  a bright blue spark  as the reptile's head  came in contact with
the  amulet. Garion felt  the familiar  surge, but tightly  controlled now,
focused  down to  a single  point. Maas  recoiled, and  the spark  from the
amulet leaped out, sizzling through the air, linking the silver disc to the
reptile's nose. The snake's eyes began to shrivel and steam poured from his
nostrils and his gaping mouth.

Then the spark was gone, and the body of the dead snake writhed and twisted
convulsively on the polished stone floor of the chamber.

"Maasl" Salmissra shrieked.

The eunuchs  scrambled out of the  way of the wildly  threshing body of the
snake.

"My Queen!" a shaved-headed, functionary gibbered from the door, "the world
is ending!"

"What?" Salmissra tore her eyes from the convulsions of the snake.

"The sun  has gone out! Noon  is as dark as midnight!  The city is gone mad
with terror!"





Chapter Twenty-nine

IN THE  TUMULT WHICH FOLLOWED that announcement,  Garion sat quietly on the
cushions beside  Salmissra's throne. The quiet  voice in his mind, however,
was speaking  to him rapidly. "Stay very  still,"the voice told him. "Don't
say anything, and don't do anything."

"Get my  astronomers here immediately!" Salmissra  ordered. "I want to know
why I wasn't warned about this eclipse."

"It's not an eclipse,  my Queen," the bald functionary wailed, groveling on
the polished  floor not  far from the  still-writhing Maas. "The  dark came
like a  great curtain.  It was like  a moving wall  - no wind,  no rain, no
thunder. It  swallowed the sun without a sound."  He began to sob brokenly.
"We shall never see the sun again."

"Stop that,  you idiot," Salmissra  snapped. "Get on your  feet. Sadi, take
this babbling fool out of here and go look at the sky. Then come back to me
here. I have to know what's going on."

Sadi shook himself almost like a dog coming out of the water and pulled his
fascinated eyes off the dead, fixed grin on the face of Maas. He pulled the
blubbering  functionary  to  his  feet and  led  him  out  of the  chamber.

Salmissra  turned then  on  Garion. "How  did you  do that?"  she demanded,
pointing at the twitching form of Maas.

"I don't  know," he  said. His mind was  still sunk in fog.  Only the quiet
corner where the voice lived was alert.

"Take off that amulet," she commanded.

Obediently,  Garion reached  his hands  toward the medallion.  Suddenly his
hands froze.  They would  not move. He  let them fall. "I  can't," he said.

"Take it from him," she ordered one of the eunuchs. The man glanced once at
the dead snake, then stared at Garion. He shook his head and backed away in
fright.

"Do as I say!" the Snake Queen ordered sharply.

From somewhere in the  palace came a hollow, reverberating crash. There was
the sound of nails  screeching out of heavy wood and the avalanche noise of
a wall collapsing. Then,  a long way down one of the dim corridors, someone
screamed in agony.

The dry consciousness in his mind reached out, probing. "At last, " it said
with obvious relief.

"What's going on out there?" Salmissra blazed.

"Come with  me, "  the voice in  Garion's mind said.  "I need  your help. "
Garion put  his hands under him  and started to push  himself up. "No. This
way.   "  A   strange   image  of   separation  rose   in   Garion's  mind.

Unthinking, he  willed the separation  and felt himself rising  and yet not
moving. Suddenly  he had no sense  of his body -  no arms or legs  - yet he
seemed to  move. He  saw himself - his  own body - sitting  stupidly on the
cushions at Salmissra's feet.

"Hurry," the voice said to him. It was no longer inside his mind but seemed
to be  somewhere beside  him. A dim  shape was there,  formless but somehow
very familiar.

The fog  that had clouded Garion's  wits was gone, and  he felt very alert.
"Who are you?" he demanded of the shape beside him.

"There isn't  time to  explain. Quickly, we  have to lead  them back before
Salmissra has time to do anything."

"Lead who?"

"Polgara and Barak."

"Aunt Pol? Where is she?"

"Come," the voice said urgently.

Together Garion and the  strange presence at his side seemed to waft toward
the  closed  door. They  passed  through  it as  if  it were  no more  than
insubstantial mist and emerged in the corridor outside.

Then  they were  flying, soaring  down the  corridor with  no sense  of air
rushing past  or even of movement.  A moment later they  came out into that
vast open  hall where Issus had first brought  Garion when they had entered
the palace. There they stopped, hovering in the fir.

Aunt Pol,  her splendid  eyes ablaze and  a fiery nimbus  about her, strode
through the  hall. Beside her hulked the great  shaggy bear Garion had seen
before. Barak's face seemed vaguely within that bestial head, but there was
no humanity in it. The beast's eyes were afire with raging madness, and its
mouth gaped horribly.

Desperate guards tried to push the bear back with long pikes, but the beast
swiped the  pikes away and fell  upon the guards. Its  vast embrace crushed
them, and  its flailing claws ripped  them open. The trail  behind Aunt Pol
and the bear was littered with maimed bodies and quivering chunks of flesh.

The snakes  which had lain in  the corners were seething  across the floor,
but as they came  into contact with the flaming light which surrounded Aunt
Pol, they died even as Maas had died.

Methodically, Aunt  Pol was  blasting down doors  with word and  gesture. A
thick wall barred her way, and she brushed it into rubble as if it had been
made of cobwebs.

Barak raged  through the dim hall,  roaring insanely, destroying everything
in  his path.  A shrieking  eunuch tried  desperately to  climb one  of the
pillars. The great beast reared up and hooked his claws into the man's back
and pulled  him down. The shrieks  ended abruptly in a  spurt of brains and
blood when the massive  jaws closed with a sickening crunch on the eunuch's
head.

"Polgara!"  the presence  beside  Garion shouted  soundlessly. "This  way!"

Aunt Pol turned quickly.

"Follow us," the presence said. "Hurry!"

Then  Garion and  that  other part  of himself  were  flying back  down the
corridor  toward Salmissra  and  the semiconscious  body they  had recently
vacated.   Behind   them   came   Aunt   Pol  and   the   ravening   Barak.

Garion  and his strange  companion passed  again through the  heavy, closed
door.

Salmissra, her  naked body mottled  now with rage rather  than lust beneath
her  transparent gown,  stood over  the vacant-eyed  form on  the cushions.
"Answer me!" she was shouting. "Answer me!"

"When we get back,"  the shapeless presence said, "let me handle things. We
have to buy some time."

And then  they were back. Garion felt his body  shudder briefly, and he was
looking  out through  his own eyes  again. The  fog which had  benumbed him
before  came  rushing  back.  "What?" his  lips  said,  though  he had  not
consciously formed the word.

"I said, is this your doing?" Salmissra demanded.

"Is what  my doing?" The voice  coming from his lips  sounded like his, but
there was a subtle difference.

"All of it," she said. "The darkness. The attack on my palace."

"I don't think so. How could I? I'm only a boy."

"Don't lie  to me,  Belgarion," she demanded.  "I know who you  are. I know
what you  are. It has to  be you. Belgarath himself  could not blot out the
sun. I  warn you, Belgarion, what  you have drunk today  is death. Even now
the poison in your veins is killing you."

"Why did you do that to me?"

"To keep you. You  must have more or you will die. You must drink what only
I can  give you,  and you must drink  every day of your  life. You're mine,
Belgarion, mine!"

Despairing shrieks came from just outside the door.

The Serpent  Queen looked up, startled, then she  turned to the huge statue
behind her,  bowed down in a strange ceremonial way  and began to weave her
hands through  the air  in a series  of intricate gestures.  She started to
pronounce an involved formula  in a language Garion had never heard before,
a   language  filled   with   guttural  hissings   and  strange   cadences.

The heavy door exploded  inward, blasted into splinters, and Aunt Pol stood
in the shattered doorway,  her white lock ablaze and her eyes dreadful. The
great bear at her side roared, his teeth dripping blood and with tatters of
flesh still hanging from his claws.

"I've warned you, Salmissra." Aunt Pol spoke in a deadly voice.

"Stop where you are,  Polgara," the queen ordered. She did not turn around,
and her  fingers continued  their sinuous weaving  in the air.  "The boy is
dying,"   she   said.  "Nothing   can   save   him  if   you  attack   me."

Aunt Pol stopped. "What have you done?" she demanded.

"Look at  him," Salmissra said. "He  has drunk athal and  kaldiss. Even now
their fire  is in his veins. He will need more  very soon." Her hands still
moved in the air, and her face was fixed in extreme concentration. Her lips
began moving again in that guttural hissing.

"Is it true?" Aunt Pol's voice echoed in Garion's mind.

"It seems to be,  " the dry voice replied. "They made him drink things, and
he seems different now. "

Aunt Pol's eyes widened. "Who are you?"

"I've always been here, Polgara. Didn't you know that?"

"Did Garion know?"

"He knows that I'm here. He doesn't know what it means."

"We can talk about  that later, " she decided. "Watch very closely. This is
what you  have to  do. " A  confused blur of  images welled  up in Garion's
mind. "Do you understand?"

"Of course. I'll show him how. "

"Can't you do it?"

"No,  Polgara, " the  dry voice said.  "The power  is his, not  mine. Don't
worry. He and I understand each other. "

Garion felt  strangely alone as the two voices  spoke together in his mind.

"Garion. "  The dry  voice spoke quietly.  "I want you to  think about your
blood."

"My blood?"

"We're going to change it for a moment. "

"Why?"

"To burn  away the poison they  gave you. Now concentrate  on your blood. "

Garion did.

"You want it to be like this. " An image of yellow came into Garion's mind.
"Do you understand?"

"Yes. "

"Do it, then. Now. "

Garion put  his fingertips to his chest and willed  his blood to change. He
suddenly felt as if  he were on fire. His heart began to pound, and a heavy
sweat burst out all over his body.

"A moment longer, " the voice said.

Garion was dying. His  altered blood seared through his veins, and he began
to  tremble violently.  His  heart hammered  in his  chest like  a tripping
sledge.  His  eyes  went  dark, and  he  began  to  topple slowly  forward.

"Now!" the voice demanded sharply. "Change it back. "

Then it  was over. Garion's heart  stuttered and then faltered  back to its
normal pace.  He was  exhausted, but the  fog in his brain  was gone. "It's
done, Polgara, " the  other Garion said. "You can do what needs doing now."

Aunt Pol  had watched anxiously, but now  her face became dreadfully stern.
She  walked across  the polished  floor toward  the dais.  "Salmissra," she
said, "turn around and look at me."

The queen's  hands were  raised above her  head now, and  the hissing words
tumbled from her lips, rising finally to a hoarse shout.

Then, far above them  in the shadows near the ceiling, the eyes of the huge
statue opened  and began to glow  a deep emerald fire.  A polished jewel on
Salmissra's crown began also to burn with the same glow.

The  statue moved.  The sound  it made  was a  kind of  ponderous creaking,
deafeningly loud.  The solid rock from  which the huge shape  had been hewn
bent  and  flexed as  the  statue took  a  step forward  and then  another.

"Why-did-you-summon-me?"  An enormous  voice demanded through  stiff, stony
lips.  The   voice  reverberated  hollowly  up   from  the  massive  chest.

"Defend  thy  handmaiden, Great  Issa,"  Salmissra cried,  turning to  look
triumphantly at  Aunt Pol. "This evil sorceress  hath invaded thy domain to
slay me. Her wicked power is so great that none may withstand her. I am thy
promised   bride,    and   I   place   myself    under   thy   protection."

"Who is  this who defiles my  temple?" the statue demanded  in a vast roar.
"Who dares  to raise her hand  against my chosen and  beloved?" The emerald
eyes flashed in dreadful wrath.

Aunt  Pol stood alone  in the center  of the  polished floor with  the vast
statue  looming  above  her.  Her  face  was  unafraid. "You  go  too  far,
Salmissra," she said. "This is forbidden."

The Serpent Queen laughed scornfully. "Forbidden? What does your forbidding
mean to me? Flee now, or face the wrath of Divine Issa. Contend if you will
with a God!"

"If I must," Aunt  Pol said. She straightened then and spoke a single word.
The roaring in Garion's mind at that word was overwhelming. Then, suddenly,
she  began to  grow.  Foot by  foot she  towered  up, rising  like  a tree,
expanding, growing  gigantic before Garion's stunned  eyes. Within a moment
she faced the great stone God as an equal.

"Polgara?"  the God's  voice  sounded puzzled.  "Why have  you  done this?"

"I  come  in  fulfillment  of the  Prophecy,  Lord  Issa,"  she said.  "Thy
handmaiden hath betrayed thee and thy brothers."

"It cannot be  so," Issa said. "She is my chosen one.  Her face is the face
of my beloved."

"The  face is  the same,"  Aunt Pol  said, "but  this is not  the Salmissra
beloved of Issa. A hundred Salmissras have served thee in this temple since
thy beloved died."

"Died?" the God said incredulously.

"She lies!"  Salmissra shrieked. "I am thy beloved, O  my Lord. Let not her
lies turn thee from me. Kill her."

"The Prophecy  approaches its day," Aunt Pol  said. "The boy at Salmissra's
feet is  its fruit. He must be returned to me,  or the Prophecy will fail."

"Is   the  day   of   the  Prophecy   come   so  soon?"   the  God   asked.

"It is  not soon, Lord Issa," Aunt Pol said. "It  is late. Thy slumber hath
encompassed eons."

"Lies! All lies!" Salmissra cried desperately, clinging to the ankle of the
huge stone God.

"I must  test out  the truth of this,"  the God said slowly.  "I have slept
long and deeply, and now the world comes upon me unaware."

"Destroy her, O my  Lord!" Salmissra demanded. "Her lies are an abomination
and a desecration of thy holy presence."

"I will find the truth, Salmissra," Issa said.

Garion felt  a brief, enormous  touch upon his mind.  Something had brushed
him  - something  so  vast that  his  imagination shuddered  back from  its
immensity. Then the touch moved on.

"Ahhh-" The  sigh came from the floor. The  dead snake Maas stirred. "Ahhh-
Let me sleep," it hissed.

"In but a moment," Issa said. "What was your name?"

"I was  called Maas,"  the snake said.  "I was counsellor  and companion to
Eternal  Salmissra. Send  me  back, Lord.  I  cannot bear  to live  again."

"Is this my beloved Salmissra?" the God asked.

"Her  successor." Maas  sighed.  "Thy beloved  priestess died  thousands of
years ago.  Each new Salmissra is chosen because  of her resemblance to thy
beloved."

"Ah," Issa  said with  pain in his  huge voice. "And what  was this woman's
purpose in removing Belgarion from Polgara's care?"

"She  sought  alliance  with  Torak,"  Maas  said. "She  thought  to  trade
Belgarion to  the Accursed One in exchange  for the immortality his embrace
would bestow upon her."

"His  embrace? My  priestess would  submit to  the foul  embrace of  my mad
brother?"

"Willingly, Lord," Maas said.  "It is her nature to seek the embrace of any
man or God or beast who passes."

A look  of repugnance  flickered across Issa's  stony face. "Has  it always
been so?" he asked.

"Always,  Lord,"  Maas said.  "The  potion  which maintains  her youth  and
semblance to thy beloved  sets her veins afire with lust. That fire remains
unquenched until she dies. Let me go, Lord. The pain!"

"Sleep, Maas," Issa granted sorrowfully. "Take my thanks with you down into
silent death."

"Ahhh-" Maas sighed and sank down again.

"I  too will return  to slumber," Issa  said. "I  must not remain,  lest my
presence rouse  Torak to that war which would  unmake the world." The great
statue stepped back to  the spot where it had stood for thousands of years.
The  deafening  creak and  groan  of  flexing rock  again  filled the  huge
chamber. "Deal with this  woman as it pleases thee, Polgara," the stone God
said.   "Only  spare  her   life  out   of  remembrance  of   my  beloved."

"I   will,   Lord   Issa,"   Aunt  Pol   said,   bowing   to  the   statue.

"And carry  my love  to my brother,  Aldur," the hollow  voice said, fading
even as it spoke.

"Sleep,  Lord," Aunt  Pol  said. "May  thy  slumber wash  away thy  grief."

"No!" Salmissra wailed, but the green fire had already died in the statue's
eyes,   and   the   jewel   on  her   crown   flickered   and  went   dark.

"It's time, Salmissra," Aunt Pol, vast and terrible, announced.

"Don't kill  me, Polgara," the queen begged,  falling to her knees. "Please
don't kill me."

"I'm not going to kill you, Salmissra," Aunt Pol told her. "I promised Lord
Issa that I would spare your life."

"I  didn't make  any  such promise,"  Barak said  from the  doorway. Garion
looked sharply at his huge friend, dwarfed now by Aunt Pol's immensity. The
bear  was gone,  and  in its  place the  big Cherek  stood, sword  in hand.

"No, Barak. I'm going  to solve the problem of Salmissra once and for all."
Aunt Pol  turned back  to the groveling  queen. "You will  live, Salmissra.
You'll live for a very long time - eternally, perhaps."

An impossible hope dawned  in Salmissra's eyes. Slowly she rose to her feet
and looked  up at the  huge figure rising above  her. "Eternally, Polgara?"
she asked.

"But I  must change you," Aunt  Pol said. "The poison  you've drunk to keep
you  young and  beautiful is slowly  killing you.  Even now its  traces are
beginning to show on your face."

The queen's  hands flew to her cheeks, and she  turned quickly to look into
her mirror.

"You're decaying, Salmissra," Aunt  Pol said. "Soon you'll be ugly and old.
The lust which fills you will burn itself out, and you'll die. Your blood's
too warm; that's the whole problem."

"But how-" Salmissra faltered.

"A little change," Aunt Pol assured her. "Just a small one, and you'll live
forever." Garion could feel the force of her will gathering itself. "I will
make you eternal, Salmissra."  She raised her hand and spoke a single word.
The  terrible force  of that  word shook  Garion like  a leaf in  the wind.

At  first nothing  seemed to  happen. Salmissra  stood fixed with  her pale
nakedness gleaming  through her  gown. Then the strange  mottling grew more
pronounced,  and her  thighs pressed  tightly together.  Her face  began to
shift, to grow more  pointed. Her lips disappeared as her mouth spread, and
its corners slid up into a fixed reptilian grin.

Garion watched  in horror, unable to take his eyes  off the queen. Her gown
slid away  as her shoulders disappeared and her  arms adhered to her sides.
Her body  began to elongate,  and her legs, grown  completely together now,
began  to loop  into  coils. Her  lustrous hair  disappeared, and  the last
vestiges  of  humanity faded  from  her  face. Her  golden crown,  however,
remained firmly  upon her head. Her tongue flickered  as she sank down into
the  mass of  her loops  and coils. The  hood upon  her neck spread  as she
looked with flat, dead eyes at Aunt Pol, who had somehow during the queen's
transformation resumed her normal size.

"Ascend your throne, Salmissra," Aunt Pol said.

The queen's  head remained immobile,  but her coils looped  and mounted the
cushioned divan, and the  sound of coil against coil was a dry, dusty rasp.

Aunt Pol  turned to  Sadi the eunuch.  "Behold the Handmaiden  of Issa, the
queen of  the snake-people,  whose dominion shall  endure until the  end of
days,  for  she  is  immortal  now  and  will  reign  in  Nyissa  forever."

Sadi's face was ghastly pale, and his eyes bulged wildly. He swallowed hard
and nodded.

"I'll leave  you with  your queen, then,"  she told him. "I'd  prefer to go
peacefully,  but  one  way   or  another,  the  boy  and  I  are  leaving."

"I'll send  word ahead," Sadi agreed quickly. "No one  will try to bar your
way."

"Wise decision," Barak said dryly.

"All hail  the Serpent Queen  of Nyissa," one of  the crimson-robed eunuchs
pronounced  in a  shaking  voice, sinking  to  his knees  before the  dais.

"Praise  her," the  others responded  ritualistically, also  kneeling. "Her
glory is revealed to us."

"Worship her."

Garion glanced back once as he followed Aunt Pol toward the shattered door.
Salmissra lay upon her  throne with her mottled coils redundantly piled and
her hooded  head turned  toward the mirror.  The golden crown  sat atop her
head,  and her  flat, serpent  eyes regarded  her reflection in  the glass.
There was  no expression on her reptile face, so  it was impossible to know
what she was thinking.





Chapter Thirty

THE CORRIDORS  AND VAULTED HALLS Of  the palace were empty  as Aunt Pol led
them from  the throne room where the  eunuchs knelt, chanting their praises
to the Serpent Queen. Sword in hand, Barak stalked grimly through the awful
carnage  that marked the  trail he had  left when  he had entered.  The big
man's face  was pale, and he  frequently averted his eyes  from some of the
more savagely mutilated corpses that littered their way.

When they  emerged, they found the streets of  Sthiss Tor darker than night
and filled with hysterical crowds wailing in terror. Barak, with a torch he
had taken from the palace wall in one hand and his huge sword in the other,
led them  into the  street. Even in  their panic the Nyissans  made way for
him.

"What is  this, Polgara?"  he growled over  his shoulder, waving  the torch
slightly as  if to brush the  darkness away. "Is it  some kind of sorcery?"

"No," she answered. "It's not sorcery."

Tiny  flecks of  gray were  falling through  the torchlight.  "Snow?" Barak
asked incredulously.

"No," she said. "Ashes."

"What's burning?"

"A mountain,"  she replied.  "Let's get back  to the ship as  quickly as we
can. There's more danger  from this crowd than from any of this." She threw
her light cloak about  Garion's shoulders and pointed down a street where a
few torches bobbed here and there. "Let's go that way."

The ash  began to  fall more heavily.  It was almost like  dirty gray flour
sifting down  through the sodden  air, and there was  a dreadful, sulfurous
stink to it.

By the  time they reached the  wharves, the absolute darkness  had begun to
pale. The ash continued  to drift down, seeping into the cracks between the
cobblestones  and  gathering in  little  windrows  along the  edges of  the
buildings.  Though  it was  growing  lighter,  the falling  ash, like  fog,
blotted out everything more than ten feet away.

The wharves  were total  chaos. Crowds of Nyissans,  shrieking and wailing,
were trying  to climb into boats  to flee from the  choking ash that sifted
with deadly  silence down through the damp air.  Mad with terror, many even
leaped into the deadly waters of the river.

"We're not going to  be able to get through that mob, Polgara," Barak said.
"Stay here a moment."  He sheathed his sword, jumped up and caught the edge
of a  low roof. He pulled  himself up and stood  outlined dimly above them.
"Ho, Greldik!"  he roared in a huge voice that  carried even over the noise
of the crowd.

"Barak!" Greldik's voice came back. "Where are you?"

"At the foot of the pier," Barak shouted. "We can't get through the crowd."

"Stay   there,"   Greldik  yelled   back.   "We'll  come   and  get   you."

After a few moments  there was the tramp of heavy feet on the wharf and the
occasional sound  of blows. A few cries of pain  mingled with the sounds of
panic  from the  crowd. Then  Greldik, Mandorallen  and a half  dozen burly
sailors armed  with clubs strode out  of the ashfall, clearing  a path with
brutal efficiency.

"Did you get lost?" Greldik yelled up to Barak.

Barak  jumped down  from  the roof.  "We had  to  stop by  the  palace," he
answered shortly.

"We were growing concerned  for thy safety, my Lady," Mandorallen told Aunt
Pol, pushing a gibbering Nyissan out of his way. "Good Durnik returned some
hours ago."

"We were delayed," she  said. "Captain, can you get us on board your ship?"

Greldik gave her an evil grin.

"Let's go then," she urged. "As soon as we get on board, it might be a good
idea to anchor out  in the river a little way. This ash will settle after a
while, but these people are going to be hysterical until it does. Has there
been any word from Silk or my father yet?"

"Nothing, my Lady," Greldik said.

"What  is  he doing?"  she  demanded  irritably of  no  one in  particular.
Mandorallen drew  his broadsword and marched directly  into the face of the
crowd, neither slowing nor  altering his course. The Nyissans melted out of
his path.

The crowd pressing at  the edge of the wharf beside Greldik's ship was even
thicker, and Durnik, Hettar and the rest of the sailors lined the rail with
long    boat-hooks,    pushing    the    terror-stricken    people    away.

"Run out the plank," Greldik shouted as they reached the edge of the wharf.

"Noble captain," a bald  Nyissan blubbered, clinging to Greldik's fur vest.
"I'll give  you a hundred gold  pieces if you'll let  me aboard your ship."

Disgusted, Greldik pushed him away.

"A thousand gold pieces," the Nyissan promised, clutching Greldik's arm and
waving a purse.

"Get this baboon off me," Greldik ordered.

One of the sailors  rather casually clubbed the Nyissan into insensibility,
then  bent and  yanked the  purse from  his grip.  He opened the  purse and
poured the coins out  into one hand. "Three pieces of silver," he said with
disgust.  "All  the  rest  is  copper."  He  turned  back  and  kicked  the
unconscious man in the stomach.

They crossed  to the ship one  by one while Barak  and Mandorallen held the
crowd back with the threat of massive violence.

"Cut the  hawsers," Greldik shouted when they  were all aboard. The sailors
chopped the thick hawsers  loose to a great cry of dismay from the Nyissans
crowding the edge of the wharf. The sluggish current pulled the ship slowly
away,  and  wails  and  despairing moans  followed  them  as they  drifted.

"Garion," Aunt  Pol said,  "why don't you  go below and put  on some decent
clothes? And  wash that disgusting rouge  off your face. Then  come back up
here. I want to talk to you."

Garion had  forgotten how scantily  he was dressed and  he flushed slightly
and went quickly below deck.

It  had grown  noticeably lighter when  he came  back up, dressed  again in
tunic and  hose, but the gray ash still  sifted down through the motionless
air, making the world  around them hazy and coating everything with a heavy
layer of fine grit.  They had drifted some distance out into the river, and
Greldik's  sailors had  dropped the  anchor. The  ship swung slowly  in the
sluggish current.

"Over  here, Garion,"  Aunt  Pol called.  She was  standing near  the prow,
looking out  into the dusty haze.  Garion went to her  a little hesitantly,
the memory  of what  had happened at  the palace still strong  in his mind.

"Sit down, dear," she suggested. "There's something I have to talk with you
about."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, sitting on the bench there.

"Garion." She turned to look at him. "Did anything happen while you were in
Salmissra's palace?"

"What do you mean?"

"You  know what  I mean,"  she said  rather crisply.  "You're not  going to
embarrass  us   both  by  making  me   ask  certain  questions,  are  you?"

"Oh." Garion blushed. "That! No, nothing like that happened." He remembered
the lush overripeness of the queen with a certain regret.

"Good. That  was the  one thing I  was afraid of.  You can't  afford to get
involved  in any  of  that sort  of thing  just yet.  It has  some peculiar
effects on one in your rather special circumstances."

"I'm not sure I understand," he said.

"You have certain abilities," she told him. "And if you start experimenting
with  that  other  thing  before they're  fully  matured,  the results  can
sometimes be a bit unpredictable. It's better not to confuse things at this
point."

"Maybe  it'd be better  if something  had happened, then,"  Garion blurted.
"Maybe  it  would  have  fixed  it  so  I couldn't  hurt  people  anymore."

"I  doubt it,"  she  said. "Your  power's too  great  to be  neutralized so
easily. Do you remember what we talked about that day when we left Tolnedra
- about instruction?"

"I don't need any instruction," he protested, his tone growing sullen.

"Yes, you  do," she  said, "and you need  it now. Your power  is enormous -
more power  than I've  ever seen before, and  some of it so  complex that I
can't even  begin to understand it. You  must begin your instruction before
something  disastrous happens.  You're totally  out of control,  Garion. If
you're really serious about  not wanting to hurt people, you should be more
than willing  to start learning how to  keep any accidents from happening."

"I don't want to  be a sorcerer," he objected. "All I want to do is get rid
of it. Can't you help me do that?"

She shook her head. "No. And I wouldn't even if I could. You can't renounce
it, my Garion. It's part of you."

"Then I'm  going to be a monster?" Garion  demanded bitterly. "I'm going to
go around  burning people alive or  turning them into toads  or snakes? And
maybe after  a while I'll  get so used to  it that it won't  even bother me
anymore.  I'll live forever  - like you  and grandfather  - but I  won't be
human anymore. Aunt Pol, I think I'd rather be dead.

"Can't you  reason with him?" Her  voice inside his head  spoke directly to
that other awareness.

"Not  at the  moment,  Polgara, "  the dry  voice  replied. "He's  too busy
wallowing in self pity. "

"He must learn to control the power he has," she said.

"I'll  keep him  out  of mischief,  " the  voice  promised. "I  don't think
there's much else we can do until Belgarath gets back. He's going through a
moral crisis,  and we can't really  tamper with him until  he works out his
own solutions to it. "

"I don't like to see him suffering this way. "

"You're  too tender-hearted,  Polgara.  He's a  sturdy  boy, and  a bit  of
suffering won't damage him. "

"Will the  two of  you stop treating  me as if  I'm not  even here?" Garion
demanded angrily.

"Mistress Pol," Durnik said, coming across the deck to them, "I think you'd
better come quickly. Barak's going to kill himself."

"He's what?" she asked.

"It's something about some curse," Durnik explained. "He says he's going to
fall on his sword."

"That idiot! Where is he?"

"He's  back by the  stern," Durnik said.  "He's got  his sword out,  and he
won't let anybody near him."

"Come with me." She  started toward the stern with Garion and Durnik behind
her.

"We have all experienced  battle madness, my Lord," Mandorallen was saying,
trying to  reason with the  big Cherek. "It is  not a thing of  which to be
proud,   but   neither   is   it  a   cause   for   such  bleak   despair."

Barak did  not answer,  but stood at the  very stern of the  ship, his eyes
blank  with horror  and his  huge sword  weaving in  a slow,  menacing arc,
holding everyone at bay.

Aunt Pol walked through the crowd of sailors and directly up to him.

"Don't try to stop me, Polgara," he warned.

She reached  out quite calmly and  touched the point of  his sword with one
finger. "It's  a little  dull," she said  thoughtfully. "Why don't  we have
Durnik sharpen it? That way it'll slip more smoothly between your ribs when
you fall on it."

Barak looked a bit startled.

"Have you made all the necessary arrangements?" she asked.

"What arrangements?"

"For the  disposal of your body,"  she told him. "Really,  Barak, I thought
you had  better manners. A decent man doesn't  burden his friends with that
kind of chore." She thought a moment. "Burning is customary, I suppose, but
the wood here in  Nyissa's very soggy. You'd probably smolder for a week or
more. I imagine we'll have to settle for just dumping you in the river. The
leeches and crayfish should  have you stripped to the bone in a day or so."

Barak's expression grew hurt.

"Did  you want  us to  take your sword  and shield  back to your  son?" she
asked.

"I don't  have a son," he answered sullenly.  He was obviously not prepared
for her brutal practicality.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? How forgetful of me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind,"  she said.  "It's not important  now. Were you  just going to
fall on your sword, or would you prefer to run up against the mast with the
hilt? Either way works  rather well." She turned to the sailors. "Would you
clear  a path  so the Earl  of Tellheim can  get a  good run at  the mast?"

The sailors stared at her.

"What did you mean about a son?" Barak asked, lowering his sword.

"It would  only unsettle  your mind, Barak," she  answered. "You'd probably
make a mess of  killing yourself if I told you about it. We'd really rather
not have you lying  around groaning for weeks on end. That sort of thing is
so depressing, you know."

"I want to know what you're talking about!"

"Oh, very well," she said with a great sigh. "Your wife Merel is with child
- the result of certain courtesies you exchanged when we visited Val Alorn,
I imagine. She looks  like a rising moon at the moment, and your lusty brat
is making her life miserable with his kicking."

"A son?" Barak said, his eyes suddenly very wide.

"Really, Barak,"  she protested.  "You must learn to  pay attention. You'll
never make  anything of  yourself if you  keep blundering around  with your
ears closed like this."

"A   son?"  he   repeated,   his  sword   sliding  out   of   his  fingers.

"Now you've dropped it," she chided him. "Pick it up immediately, and let's
get on with this.  It's very inconsiderate to take all day to kill yourself
like this."

"I'm not going to kill myself," he told her indignantly.

"You're not?"

"Of course not," he sputtered, and then he saw the faint flicker of a smile
playing  about the  corners  of her  mouth.  He hung  his head  sheepishly.

"You  great fool,"  she said.  Then she  took hold  of his beard  with both
hands, pulled his head down and kissed his ash-dusted face soundly. Greldik
began to  chortle, and  Mandorallen stepped forward  and caught Barak  in a
rough embrace.  "I rejoice with thee, my friend,"  he said. "My heart soars
for thee."

"Brink up a cask," Greldik told the sailors, pounding on his friend's back.
"We'll  salute  Trellheim's heir  with  the  bright brown  ale of  timeless
Cherek."

"I expect this will  get rowdy now," Aunt Pol said quietly to Garion. "Come
with me." She led the way back toward the ship's prow.

"Will  she ever  change  back?" Garion  asked when  they were  alone again.

"What?"

"The queen," Garion explained. "Will she ever change back again?"

"In time she won't  even want to," Aunt Pol answered. "The shapes we assume
begin to  dominate our thinking after  a while. As the  years go by, she'll
become more and more a snake and less and less a woman."

Garion shuddered. "It would have been kinder to have killed her."

"I promised Lord Issa that I wouldn't," she said.

"Was that really the God?"

"His spirit,"  she replied,  looking out into the  hazy ashfall. "Salmissra
infused the  statue with Issa's spirit. For a time  at least the statue was
the God.  It's all very complicated." She  seemed a bit preoccupied. "Where
is he?" She seemed suddenly irritated.

"Who?"

"Father. He should have been here days ago."

They stood together looking out at the muddy river.

Finally she  turned from  the railing and  brushed at the  shoulders of her
cloak with distaste. The  ash puffed from under her fingers in tiny clouds.
"I'm going  below," she  told him, making  a face. "It's just  too dirty up
here."

"I thought you wanted to talk to me," he said.

"I don't think you're  ready to listen. It'll wait." She stepped away, then
stopped. "Oh, Garion."

"Yes?"

"I wouldn't drink any of that ale the sailors are swilling. After what they
made  you  drink  at   the  palace,  it  would  probably  make  you  sick."

"Oh," he agreed a trifle regretfully. "All right."

"It's up  to you, of course," she said, "but I  thought you ought to know."
Then  she turned  again  and went  to the  hatch  and disappeared  down the
stairs.

Garion's emotions were turbulent.  The entire day had been vastly eventful,
and his mind was filled with a welter of confusing images.

"Be quiet, " the voice in his mind said.

"What?"

"I'm trying to hear something. Listen. "

"Listen to what?"

"There. Can't you hear it?"

Faintly, as  if from a very  long way ofi, Garion  seemed to hear a muffled
thudding.

"What is it?"

The voice  did not answer, but the amulet about his  neck began to throb in
time with the distant thudding.

Behind him he heard a rush of tiny feet.

"Garion!" He turned just in time to be caught in Ce'Nedra's embrace. "I was
so worried about you. Where did you go?"

"Some  men came  on  board and  grabbed me,"  he  said, trying  to untangle
himself from her arms. "They took me to the palace."

"How awful!" she said. "Did you meet the queen?"

Garion nodded and then shuddered, remembering the hooded snake lying on the
divan looking at itself in the mirror.

"What's wrong?" the girl asked.

"A  lot  of things  happened,"  he  answered. "Some  of  them weren't  very
pleasant." Somewhere at the  back of his awareness, the thudding continued.

"Do  you mean  they tortured  you?" Ce'Nedra  asked, her eyes  growing very
wide.

"No, nothing like that."

"Well, what happened?" she demanded. "Tell me."

He knew  that she would not  leave him alone until  he did, so he described
what  had happened  as best he  could. The  throbbing sound seemed  to grow
louder while he talked, and his right palm began to tingle. He rubbed at it
absently.

"How absolutely  dreadful," Ce'Nedra  said after he  had finished. "Weren't
you terrified?"

"Not really," he told  her, still scratching at his palm. "Most of the time
the  things they  made  me drink  made my  head  so foggy  I  couldn't feel
anything."

"Did you  really kill Maas?" she  asked, "Just like that?"  She snapped her
fingers.

"It  wasn't exactly  just like  that," he  tried to  explain. "There  was a
little more to it."

"I knew you were  a sorcerer," she said. "I told you that you were that day
at the pool, remember?"

"I don't want to be," he protested. "I didn't ask to be."

"I didn't ask to be a princess either."

"It's not  the same.  Being a king  or a princess  is what one  is. Being a
sorcerer has to do with what one does."

"I really don't see that much difference," she objected stubbornly.

"I can make things happen," he told her. "Awful things, usually."

"So?" she said maddeningly. "I can make awful things happen too or at least
I could back  in Tol Honeth. One word from me could  have sent a servant to
the whipping-post  - or to the headsman's block. I  didn't do it of course,
but I  could have.  Power is power,  Garion. The results are  the same. You
don't have to hurt people if you don't want to."

"It just  happens sometimes. It's not that I want  to do it." The throbbing
had become a nagging thing, almost like a dull headache.

"Then you have to learn to control it."

"Now you sound like Aunt Pol."

"She's trying to help you," the princess said. "She keeps trying to get you
to  do what you're  going to have  to do  eventually anyway. How  many more
people are you going  to have to burn up before you finally accept what she
says?"

"You didn't have to say that." Garion was stung deeply by her words.

"Yes," she  told him,  "I think I  did. You're lucky  I'm not  your aunt. I
wouldn't  put  up  with  your  foolishness  the  way  Lady  Polgara  does."

"You don't understand," Garion muttered sullenly.

"I  understand much  better  than you  think,  Garion. You  know what  your
problem is?  You don't  want to grow  up. You want  to keep on  being a boy
forever. You can't, though; nobody can. No matter how much power you have -
whether you're  an emperor  or a sorcerer  - you can't stop  the years from
going  by. I  realized that  a long  time ago,  but then I'm  probably much
smarter than you are."  Then without any word of explanation, she raised up
on her toes and kissed him lightly full on the lips.

Garion blushed and lowered his head in embarrassment.

"Tell me,"  Ce'Nedra said, toying with the sleeve  of his tunic, "was Queen
Salmissra as beautiful as they say?"

"She  was the  most  beautiful woman  I've ever  seen  in my  life," Garion
answered without thinking.

The  princess caught  her  breath sharply.  "I  hate you,"  she cried  from
between clenched  teeth. Then she turned and ran  sobbing in search of Aunt
Pol.

Garion stared after her  in perplexity. He turned then to stare moodily out
at the  river and the drifting  ash. The tingling in  his palm was becoming
intolerable,  and he  scratched  at it,  digging in  with  his fingernails.

"You'll just make it sore, " the voice in his mind said.

"It itches. I can't stand it."

"Stop being a baby. "

"What's causing it?"

"Do you mean to  say you really don't know? You've got further to go than I
thought. Put your right hand on the amulet. "

"Why?"

"Just do it, Garion. "

Garion reached inside his tunic, and put his burning palm on his medallion.
As a  key fitting into the lock for which it  was made, the contact between
his  hand and  the throbbing  amulet seemed  somehow enormously  right. The
tingling became that now  - familiar surge, and the throbbing began to echo
hollowly in his ears.

"Not too  much, "  the voice warned him.  "You're not trying to  dry up the
river, you know. "

"What's happening? What is all this?"

"Belgarath's trying to find us. "

"Grandfather? Where?"

"Be patient. "

The  throbbing seemed to  grow louder  until Garion's entire  body quivered
with each thudding beat. He stared out over the rail, trying to see through
the haze.  The settling ash, so  light that it coated  the muddy surface of
the river,  made everything more than twenty  paces away indistinct. It was
impossible to see the city, and the wails and cries from the hidden streets
seemed somehow muffled. Only  the slow wash of the current against the hull
seemed clear.

Then a  long way out on  the river, something moved.  It was not very large
and seemed to be  little more than a dark shadow ghosting silently with the
current.

The throbbing grew even louder.

The shadow  drew closer, and Garion could just begin  to make out the shape
of  a small  boat. An  oar caught  the surface  of the  water with  a small
splash. The man at  the oars turned to look over his shoulder. It was Silk.
His face was covered with gray ash, and tiny rivulets of sweat streaked his
cheeks.

Mister Wolf  sat in the stern of the little boat,  muffled in his cloak and
with his hood turned up.

"Welcome back, Belgarath, " the dry voice said.

"Who's that?" Wolf's voice in Garion's mind sounded startled. "Is that you,
Belgarion?"

"Not  quite.  " the  voice  replied.  "Not yet  anyway,  but we're  getting
closer."

"I wondered who was making all the noise. "

"He overdoes things sometimes. He'll learn eventually."

A shout  came from one of the sailors clustered  around Barak at the stern,
and they all turned  to watch the small boat drifting toward them. Aunt Pol
came  up from  below and stepped  to the  rail. "You're late,"  she called.

"Something  came up,"  the old  man answered  across the narrowing  gap. He
pushed back his hood and shook the floury ash out of his cloak. Then Garion
saw that  the old man's left  arm was bound up in  a dirty sling across the
front of his body.

"What happened to your arm?" Aunt Pol asked.

"I'd rather not talk  about it." There was an ugly scratch running down one
of  Wolf's cheeks  into  his short,  white beard,  and  his eyes  seemed to
glitter with some huge irritation.

The  grin on  Silk's ash-coated face  was malicious  as he dipped  his oars
once, deftly pulling the little boat in beside Greldik's ship with a slight
thump.

"I don't  imagine you can be persuaded to keep  your mouth shut," Wolf said
irritably to the small man.

"Would I  say anything, mighty sorcerer?"  Silk asked mockingly, his ferret
eyes wide with feigned innocence.

"Just help  me aboard," Wolf told him, his  voice testy. His entire bearing
was that of a man who had been mortally insulted.

"Whatever you say, ancient  Belgarath," Silk said, obviously trying to keep
from laughing.  He steadied Wolf as the old  man awkwardly climbed over the
ship's rail.

"Let's get  out of here," Mister Wolf curtly  told Captain Greldik, who had
just joined them.

"Which way,  Ancient One?" Greldik asked  carefully, clearly not wanting to
aggravate the old man further.

Wolf stared hard at him.

"Upstream or down?" Greldik explained mollifyingly.

"Upstream, of course," Wolf snapped.

"How was I supposed  to know?" Greldik appealed to Aunt Pol. Then he turned
and crossly began barking orders to his sailors.

Aunt Pol's expression was  a peculiar mixture of relief and curiosity. "I'm
sure your story's going  to be absolutely fascinating, father," she said as
the sailors  began raising the heavy anchors. "I  simply can't wait to hear
it."

"I can  do without the sarcasm,  Pol," Wolf told her.  "I've had a very bad
day. Try not to make it any worse."

That last  was finally  too much for  Silk. The little  man, in  the act of
climbing across  the rail, suddenly collapsed  in helpless glee. He tumbled
forward to the deck, howling with laughter.

Mister Wolf  glared at his laughing companion  with a profoundly of fronted
expression as  Greldik's sailors ran  out their oars and  began turning the
ship in the sluggish current.

"What happened  to your arm, father?" Aunt  Pol's gaze was penetrating, and
her  tone said  quite clearly  that she did  not intend  to be put  off any
longer.

"I broke it," Wolf told her flatly.

"How did you manage that?"

"It was just a stupid accident, Pol. Those things happen sometimes."

"Let me see it."

"In a  minute." He scowled at Silk, who was  still laughing. "Will you stop
that? Go tell the sailors where we're going."

"Where are  we going,  father?" Aunt Pol  asked him. "Did  you find Zedar's
trail?"

"He crossed into Cthol Murgos. Ctuchik was waiting for him."

"And the Orb?"

"Ctuchik's got it now."

"Are we  going to be able  to cut him off before he  gets to Rak Cthol with
it?"

"I doubt it. Anyway, we have to go to the Vale first."

"The Vale? Father, you're not making any sense."

"Our Master's  summoned us, Pol. He  wants us at the  Vale, so that's where
we're going."

"What about the Orb?"

"Ctuchik's  got  it, and  I  know where  to  find Ctuchik.  He isn't  going
anyplace. For right now, we're going to the Vale."

"All right,  father," she  concurred placatingly. "Don't  excite yourself."
She  looked at  him closely.  "Have you  been fighting, father?"  she asked
dangerously.

"No, I haven't been fighting." He sounded disgusted.

"What happened, then?"

"A tree fell on me."

"What?"

"You heard me."

Silk  exploded  into  fresh  howls  of  mirth  at the  old  man's  grudging
confession. From the stern of the ship where Greldik and Barak stood at the
tiller, the slow beat  of the drum began, and the sailors dug in with their
oars. The  ship slid  through the oily  water, moving upstream  against the
current,  with  Silk's  laughter  trailing  behind in  the  ash-laden  air.

                                     *

    Here ends Book Two of The Belgariad. Book Three, Magician's Gambit,

  carries the quest on to the Orb through stranger lands and darker magic,
 while Garion begins to learn the incredible power of the dry voice within
                                 his mind.
