Chapter Nine

   THE ALMOST TWO WEEKS it took them to reach Muros were the most uncomfortable Garion had ever spent. Their route skirted the edge of the foothills through rolling and sparsely settled country, and the sky hung gray and cold overhead. There were occasional spits of snow, and the mountains loomed black against the skyline to the east.
   It seemed to Garion that he would never be warm again. Despite Durnik's best efforts to find dry firewood each night, their fires always seemed pitifully small, and the great cold around them enormously large. The ground upon which they slept was always frozen, and the chill seemed actually to seep into Garion's bones.
   His education in the Drasnian secret language continued and he became, if not adept, at least competent by the time they passed Lake Camaar and began the long, downhill grade that led to Muros.
   The city of Muros in south-central Sendaria was a sprawling, unattractive place that had been since time immemorial the site of a great annual fair. Each year in late summer, Algar horsemen drove vast cattle herds through the mountains along the Great North Road to Muros where cattle buyers from all over the west gathered to await their coming. Huge sums changed hands, and, because the Algar clansmen also commonly made their yearly purchases of useful and ornamental articles at that time, merchants from as far away as Nyissa in the remote south gathered to offer their wares. A large plain which lay to the east of the city was given over entirely to the cattle pens that stretched for miles but were still inadequate to contain the herds which arrived at the height of the season. Beyond the pens to the east lay the more or less permanent encampment of the Algars.
   It was to this city one midmorning at the tag end of the fair, when the cattle pens were nearly empty and most of the Algars had departed and only the most desperate merchants remained, that Silk led the three wagons laden with the hams of Mingan the Tolnedran.
   The delivery of the hams took place without incident, and the wagons soon drew into an innyard near the northern outskirts of the city.
   "This is a respectable inn, great lady," Silk assured Aunt Pol as he helped her down from the wagon. "I've stopped here before."
   "Let's hope so," she said. "The inns of Muros have an unsavory reputation."
   "Those particular inns lie along the eastern edge of town," Silk assured her delicately. "I know them well."
   "I'm certain you do," she said with an arched eyebrow.
   "My profession sometimes requires me to seek out places I might otherwise prefer to avoid," he said blandly.
   The inn, Garion noted, was surprisingly clean, and its guests seemed for the most part to be Sendarian merchants.
   "I thought there'd be many different kinds of people here in Muros," he said as he and Silk carried their bundles up to the chambers on the second floor.
   "There are," Silk said, "but each group tends to remain aloof from the others. The Tolnedrans gather in one part of town, the Drasnians in another, the Nyissans in yet another. The Earl of Muros prefers it that way. Tempers sometimes flare in the heat of the day's business, and it's best not to have natural enemies housed under the same roof."
   Garion nodded. "You know," he said as they entered the chambers they had taken for their stay in Muros, "I don't think I've ever seen a Nyissan."
   "You're lucky," Silk said with distaste. "They're an unpleasant race."
   "Are they like Murgos?"
   "No," Silk said. "The Nyissans worship Issa, the Snake-God, and it's considered seemly among them to adopt the mannerisms of the serpent. I don't find it at all that attractive myself. Besides, the Nyissans murdered the Rivan King, and all Alorns have disliked them since then."
   "The Rivans don't have a king," Garion objected.
   "Not anymore," Silk said. "They did once, though—until Queen Salmissra decided to have him murdered."
   "When was that?" Garion asked, fascinated.
   "Thirteen hundred years ago," Silk said, as if it had only been yesterday.
   "Isn't that sort of a long time to hold a grudge?" Garion asked.
   "Some things are unforgivable," Silk said shortly.
   Since there was still a good part of the day left, Silk and Wolf left the inn that afternoon to search the streets of Muros for those strange, lingering traces that Wolf could apparently see or feel and which would tell him whether the object they sought had passed this way. Garion sat near the fire in the chamber he shared with Aunt Pol, trying to bake the chill out of his feet. Aunt Pol also sat by the fire, mending one of his tunics, her shining needle flickering in and out of the fabric.
   "Who was the Rivan King, Aunt Pol?" he asked her. She stopped sewing.
   "Why do you ask?" she said.
   "Silk was telling me about Nyissans," he said. "He told me that their queen murdered the Rivan King. Why would she do that?"
   "You're full of questions today, aren't you?" she asked, her needle moving again.
   "Silk and I talk about a lot of things as we ride along," Garion said, pushing his feet even closer to the fire.
   "Don't burn your shoes," she told him.
   "Silk says that I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says that he doesn't know what I am, but that I'm not a Sendar."
   "Silk talks too much," Aunt Pol observed.
   "You never tell me anything, Aunt Pol," he said in irritation.
   "I tell you everything you need to know," she said calmly. "Right now it's not necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens."
   "All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child," Garion said petulantly. "I'm almost a man, and I don't even know what I am—or who."
   "I know who you are," she said, not looking up.
   "Who am I then?"
   "You're a young man who's about to catch his shoes on fire," she said.
   He jerked his feet back quickly.
   "You didn't answer me," he accused.
   "That's right," she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.
   "Why not?"
   "It's not necessary for you to know yet. When it's time, I'll tell you, but not until."
   "That's not fair," he objected.
   "The world's full of injustice," she said. "Now, since you're feeling so manly, why don't you fetch some more firewood? That'll give you something useful to think about."
   He glared at her and stamped across the room.
   "Garion," she said.
   "What?"
   "Don't even think about slamming the door."
   That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn and stared moodily at the fire. "I don't think it
   passed this way," he said finally. "There are a few places left to try, but I'm almost certain that it hasn't been here."
   "Then we go on to Camaar?" Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his bristling beard.
   "We must," Wolf said. "Most likely we should have gone there first."
   "There was no way to know," Aunt Pol told him. "Why would he go to Camaar if he's trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?"
   "I can't even be certain where he's going," Wolf said irritably. "Maybe he wants to keep the thing for himself. He's always coveted it." He stared into the fire again.
   "We're going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar," Silk said.
   Wolf shook his head. "It slows us too much," he said. "It's not unusual for wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it's reaching the point where we'll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It's forty leagues to Camaar, and the weather's turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop the wagons entirely, and I don't have time to spend the whole winter mired down in a snowbank."
   Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.
   "What's amiss?" Barak asked quickly.
   "I just saw Brill," Durnik said. "He was in that doorway."
   "Are you sure?" Wolf demanded.
   "I know him," Durnik said grimly. "It was Brill, all right."
   Silk pounded his fist down on the table.
   "Idiot!" he accused himself. "I underestimated the man."
   "That doesn't matter now," Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of relief in his voice. "Our disguise is useless now. I think it's time for speed."
   "I'll see to the wagons," Durnik said.
   "No," Wolf said. "The wagons are too slow. We'll go to the camp of the Algars and buy good horses." He stood up quickly.
   "What of the wagons?" Durnik persisted.
   "Forget them," Wolf said. "They're only a hindrance now. We'll ride the wagon horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry. Let's get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you can." He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night.
   It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few Bakes of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny feathers to the frozen ground.
   Durnik was the last to join them. He came breathlessly out of the inn and pressed a small handful of coins upon Mister Wolf.
   "It was the best I could do," he apologized. "It's scarce half the worth of the wagons, but the innkeeper sensed my haste and bargained meanly." He shrugged then. "At least we're rid of them," he said. "It's not good to leave things of value behind. They nag at the mind and distract one from the business at hand."
   Silk laughed. "Durnik," he said, "you're the absolute soul of a Sendar."
   "One must follow one's nature," Durnik said.
   "Thank you, my friend," Wolf said gravely, dropping the coins in his purse. "Let's lead the horses," he went on. "Galloping through these narrow streets at night would only attract attention."
   "I'll lead," Barak announced, drawing his sword. "If there's any trouble, I'm best equipped to deal with it."
   "I'll walk along beside you, friend Barak;" Durnik said, hefting a stout cudgel of firewood.
   Barak nodded, his eyes grimly bright, and led his horse out through the gate with Durnik closely at his side.
   Taking his lead from Durnik, Garion paused momentarily as he passed the woodpile and selected a good oak stick. It had a comforting weight, and he swung it a few times to get the feel of it. Then he saw Aunt Pol watching him, and he hurried on without any further display.
   The streets through which they passed were narrow and dark, and the snow had begun to fall a bit more heavily now, settling almost lazily through the dead calm air. The horses, made skittish by the snow, seemed to be fearful and crowded close to those who led them.
   When the attack came, it was unexpected and swift. There was a sudden rush of footsteps and a sharp ring of steel on steel as Barak fended off the first blow with his sword.
   Garion could see only shadowy figures outlined against the falling snow, and then, as once before when in his boyhood he had struck down his friend Rundorig in mock battle, his ears began to ring; his blood surged boilingly in his veins as he leaped into the fight, ignoring the single cry from Aunt Pol.
   He received a smart rap on the shoulder, whirled and struck with his stick. He was rewarded with a muffled grunt. He struck again—and then again, swinging his club at those parts of his shadowy enemy which he instinctively knew were most sensitive.
   The main fight, however, surged around Barak and Durnik. The ring of Barak's sword and the thump of Durnik's cudgel resounded in the narrow street along with the groans of their assailants.
   "There's the boy!" a voice rang out from behind them, and Garion whirled. Two men were running down the street toward him, one with a sword and the other with a wicked-looking curved knife. Knowing it was hopeless, Garion raised his club, but Silk was there. The small man launched himself from the shadows directly at the feet of the two, and all three crashed to the street in a tangle of arms and legs. Silk rolled to his feet like a cat, spun and kicked one of the floundering men solidly just below the ear. The man sank twitching to the cobblestones. The other scrambled away and half rose just in time to receive both of Silk's heels in his face as the rat-faced Drasnian leaped into the air, twisted and struck with both legs. Then Silk turned almost casually.
   "Are you all right?" he asked Garion.
   "I'm fine," Garion said. "You're awfully good at this kind of thing."
   "I'm an acrobat," Silk said. "It's simple once you know how."
   "They're getting away," Garion told him.
   Silk turned, but the two he had just put down were dragging themselves into a dark alley.
   There was a triumphant shout from Barak, and Garion saw that the rest of the attackers were fleeing.
   At the end of the street in the snow-speckled light from a small window was Brill, almost dancing with fury. "Cowards!" he shouted at his hirelings. "Cowards!" And then Barak started for him, and he too turned and ran.
   "Are you all right, Aunt Pol?" Garion said, crossing the street to where she stood.
   "Of course I am," she snapped. "And don't do that again, young man. Leave street brawling to those better suited for it."
   "I was all right," he objected. "I had my stick here."
   "Don't argue with me," she said. "I didn't go to all the trouble of raising you to have you end up dead in a gutter."
   "Is everyone all right?" Durnik asked anxiously, coming back to them.
   "Of course we are," Aunt Pol snapped peevishly. "Why don't you see if you can help the Old Wolf with the horses?"
   "Certainly, Mistress Pol," Durnik said mildly.
   "A splendid little fight," Barak said, wiping his sword as he joined them. "Not much blood, but satisfying all the same."
   "I'm delighted you found it so," Aunt Pol said acidly. "I don't much care for such encounters. Did they leave anyone behind?"
   "Regrettably no, dear lady," Barak said. "The quarters were too narrow for good strokes, and these stones too slippery for good footing. I marked a couple of them quite well, however. We managed to break a few bones and dent a head or two. As a group, they were much better at running than at fighting."
   Silk came back from the alley where he had pursued the two who had tried to attack Garion. His eyes were bright, and his grin was vicious.
   "Invigorating," he said, and then laughed for no apparent reason.
   Wolf and Durnik had managed to calm their wild-eyed horses and led them back to where Garion and the others stood.
   "Is anyone hurt?" Wolf demanded.
   "We're all intact," Barak rumbled. "The business was hardly worth drawing a sword for."
   Garion's mind was racing; in his excitement, he spoke without stopping to consider the fact that it might be wiser to think the whole thing through first.
   "How did Brill know we were in Muros?" he asked.
   Silk looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowing.
   "Perhaps he followed us from Winold," he said.
   "But we stopped and looked back," Garion said. "He wasn't following when we left, and we've kept a watch behind us every day."
   Silk frowned.
   "Go on, Garion," he said.
   "I think he knew where we were going," Garion blurted, struggling against a strange compulsion not to speak what his mind saw clearly now.
   "And what else do you think?" Wolf asked.
   "Somebody told him," Garion said. "Somebody who knew we were coming here."
   "Mingan knew," Silk said, "but Mingan's a merchant, and he wouldn't talk about his dealings to somebody like Brill."
   "But Asharak the Murgo was in Mingan's counting room when Mingan hired us." The compulsion was so strong now that Garion's tongue felt stiff.
   Silk shrugged.
   "Why should it concern him? Asharak didn't know who we were."
   "But what if he did?" Garion struggled. "What if he isn't just an ordinary Murgo, but one of those others—like the one who was with those ones who passed us a couple days after we left Darine?"
   "A Grolim?" Silk said, and his eyes widened. "Yes, I suppose that if Asharak is a Grolim, he'd have known who we are and what we're doing."
   "And what if the Grolim who passed us that day was Asharak?" Garion fought to say. "What if he wasn't really looking for us, but just coming south to find Brill and send him here to wait for us?"
   Silk looked very hard at Garion.
   "Very good," he said softly. "Very, very good." He glanced at Aunt Pol. "My compliments, Mistress Pol. You've raised a rare boy here."
   "What did this Asharak look like?" Wolf asked quickly.
   "A Murgo." Silk shrugged. "He said he was from Rak Goska. I took him to be an ordinary spy on some business that didn't concern us. My mind seems to have gone to sleep."
   "It happens when one deals with Grolims," Wolf told him.
   "Someone's watching us," Durnik said quietly, "from that window up there."
   Garion looked up quickly and saw a dark shape at a second-story window outlined by a dim light. The shape was hauntingly familiar. Mister Wolf did not look up, but his face turned blank as if he were looking inward, or his mind were searching for something. Then he drew himself up and looked at the figure in the window, his eyes blazing. "A Grolim," he said shortly.
   "A dead one perhaps," Silk said. He reached inside his tunic and drew out a long, needle-pointed dirk. He took two quick steps away from the house where the Grolim stood watching, spun and threw the dirk with a smooth, overhand cast.
   The dirk crashed through the window. There was a muffled shout, and the light went out. Garion felt a strange pang in his left arm.
   "Marked him," Silk said with a grin.
   "Good throw," Barak said admiringly.
   "One has picked up certain skills," Silk said modestly. "If it was Asharak, I owed him that for deceiving me in Mingan's counting room."
   "At least it'll give him something to think about," Wolf said. "There's no point in trying to creep through town now. They know we're here. Let's mount and ride." He climbed onto his horse and led the way down the street at a quick walk.
   The compulsion was gone now, and Garion wanted to tell them about Asharak, but there was no chance for that as they rode.
   Once they reached the outskirts of the city, they nudged their horses into a fast canter. The snow was falling more seriously now, and the hoof churned ground in the vast cattle pens was already faintly dusted with white.
   "It's going to be a cold night," Silk shouted as they rode.
   "We could always go back to Muros," Barak suggested. "Another scuffle or two might warm your blood."
   Silk laughed and put his heels to his horse again.
   The encampment of the Algars was three leagues to the east of Muros. It was a large area surrounded by a stout palisade of poles set in the ground. The snow by now was falling thickly enough to make the camp look hazy and indistinct. The gate, flanked by hissing torches, was guarded by two fierce-looking warriors in leather leggings, snow-dusted jerkins of the same material, and pot-shaped steel helmets. The points of their lances glittered in the torchlight.
   "Halt," one of the warriors commanded, leveling his lance at Mister Wolf. "What business have you here at this time of night?"
   "I have urgent need of speaking with your herd master," Wolf replied politely. "May I step down?"
   The two guards spoke together briefly.
   "You may come down," one of them said. "Your companions, however, must withdraw somewhat—but not beyond the light."
   "Algars!" Silk muttered under his breath. "Always suspicious."
   Mister Wolf climbed down from his horse, and, throwing back his hood, approached the two guards through the snow.
   Then a strange thing happened. The elder of the two guards stared at Mister Wolf, taking in his silver hair and beard. His eyes suddenly opened very wide. He quickly muttered something to his companion, and the two men bowed deeply to Wolf.
   "There isn't time for that," Wolf said in annoyance. "Convey me to your herd master."
   "At once, Ancient One," the elder guard said quickly and hurried to open the gate.
   "What was that about?" Garion whispered to Aunt Pol.
   "Algars are superstitious," she said shortly. "Don't ask so many questions."
   They waited with snow settling down upon them and melting on their horses. After about a half hour, the gate opened again and two dozen mounted Algars, fierce in their rivet-studded leather vests and steel helmets, herded six saddled horses out into the snow.
   Behind them Mister Wolf walked, accompanied by a tall man with his head shaved except for a flowing scalp lock.
   "You have honored our camp by your visit, Ancient One," the tall man was saying, "and I wish you all speed on your journey."
   "I have little fear of being delayed with Algar horses under us," Wolf replied.
   "My riders will accompany you along a route they know which will put you on the far side of Muros within a few hours," the tall man said. "They will then linger for a time to be certain you are not followed."
   "I cannot express my gratitude, noble herd master," Wolf said, bowing.
   "It is I who am grateful for the opportunity to be of service," the herd master said, also bowing.
   The change to their new horses took only a minute. With half of their contingent of Algars leading and the other half bringing up the rear, they turned and rode back toward the west through the dark, snowy night.

Chapter Ten

   GRADUALLY, ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY, the darkness became paler as the softly falling snow made indistinct even the arrival of morning. Their seemingly inexhaustible horses pounded on through the growing light, the sound of their hooves muffled by the snow now lying fetlock-deep on the broad surface of the Great North Road. Garion glanced back once and saw the jumbled tracks of their passage stretching behind them and, already at the hazy gray limit of his vision, beginning to fill with concealing snow.
   When it was fully light, Mister Wolf reined in his steaming horse and proceeded at a walk for a time.
   "How far have we come?" he asked Silk.
   The weasel-faced man who had been shaking the snow out of the folds of his cloak looked around, trying to pick out a landmark in the misty veil of dropping flakes.
   "Ten leagues," he said finally. "Perhaps a bit more."
   "This is a miserable way to travel," Barak rumbled, wincing slightly as he shifted his bulk in the saddle.
   "Think of how your horse must feel." Silk grinned at him.
   "How far is it to Camaar?" Aunt Pol asked.
   "Forty leagues from Muros," Silk told her.
   "We'll need shelter then," she said. "We can't gallop forty leagues without rest, no matter who's behind us."
   "I don't think we need to worry about pursuit just now," Wolf said. "The Algars will detain Brill and his hirelings or even Asharak if they try to follow us."
   "At least there's something Algars are good for," Silk said dryly.
   "If I remember correctly, there should be an imperial hostel about five leagues farther to the west," Wolf said. "We ought to reach it by noon."
   "Will we be allowed to stay there?" Durnik asked doubtfully. "I've never heard that Tolnedrans are noted for hospitality."
   "Tolnedrans will sell anything for a price," Silk said. "The hostel would be a good place to stop. Even if Brill or Asharak should evade the Algars and follow us there, the legionnaires won't permit any foolishness within their walls."
   "Why should there be Tolnedran soldiers in Sendaria?" Garion asked, feeling a brief surge of patriotic resentment at the thought.
   "Wherever the great roads are, you'll find the legions," Silk said. "Tolnedrans are even better at writing treaties than they are at giving short weight to their customers."
   Mister Wolf chuckled. "You're inconsistent, Silk," he said. "You don't object to their highways, but you dislike their legions. You can't have the one without the other."
   "I've never pretended to be consistent," the sharp-nosed man said airily. "If we want to reach the questionable comfort of the imperial hostel by noon, hadn't we better move along? I wouldn't want to deny His Imperial Majesty the opportunity to pick my pocket."
   "All right," Wolf said, "let's ride." And he put his heels to the flanks of the Algar horse which had already begun to prance impatiently under him.
   The hostel, when they reached it in the full light of snowy noon, proved to be a series of stout buildings surrounded by an even stouter wall. The legionnaires who manned it were not the same sort of men as the Tolnedran merchants Garion had seen before. Unlike the oily men of commerce, these were hard-faced professional fighting men in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets. They carried themselves proudly, even arrogantly, each bearing the knowledge that the might of all Tolnedra was behind him.
   The food in the dining hall was plain and wholesome, but dreadfully expensive. The tiny sleeping cubicles were scrupulously clean, with hard, narrow beds and thick woolen blankets, and were also expensive. The stables were neat, and they too reached deeply into Mister Wolf's purse. Garion wondered at the thought of how much their lodging was costing, but Wolf paid for it all with seeming indifference as if his purse were bottomless.
   "We'll rest here until tomorrow," the white-bearded old man announced when they had finished eating. "Maybe it will snow itself out by morning. I'm not happy with all this plunging blindly through a snowstorm. Too many things can hide in our path in such weather."
   Garion, who by now was numb with exhaustion, heard these words gratefully as he half drowsed at the table. The others sat talking quietly, but he was too tired to listen to what they said.
   "Garion," Aunt Pol said finally, "why don't you go to bed?"
   "I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he said, rousing himself quickly, mortified once more at being treated like a child.
   "Now, Garion," she said in that infuriating tone he knew so well. It seemed that all his life she had been saying "Now, Garion," to him. But he knew better than to argue.
   He stood up and was surprised to feel that his legs were trembling. Aunt Pol also rose and led him from the dining hall.
   "I can find my way by myself," he objected.
   "Of course," she said. "Now come along."
   After he had crawled into bed in his cubicle, she pulled his blankets up firmly around his neck. "Stay covered," she told him. "I don't want you taking cold." She laid her cool hand briefly on his forehead as she had done when he was a small child.
   "Aunt Pol?" he asked drowsily.
   "Yes, Garion?"
   "Who were my parents? I mean, what were their names?"
   She looked at him gravely. "We can talk about that later," she said.
   "I want to know," he said stubbornly.
   "All right. Your father's name was Geran; your mother's was Ildera."
   Garion thought about that.
   "The names don't sound Sendarian," he said finally.
   "They're not," Aunt Pol said.
   "Why was that?"
   "It's a very long story," she said, "and you're much too tired to hear it just now."
   On a sudden impulse he reached out and touched the white lock at her brow with the mark on the palm of his right hand. As had some times happened before, a window seemed to open in his mind at the tingling touch, but this time that window opened on something much more serious. There was anger, and a single face-a face that was strangely like Mister Wolf's, but was not his face, and all the towering fury in the world was directed at that face.
   Aunt Pol moved her head away. "I've asked you not to do that, Garion," she said, her tone very matter-of fact. "You're not ready for it yet.
   "You're going to have to tell me what it is someday," he said.
   "Perhaps," she said, "but not now. Close your eyes and go to sleep."
   And then, as if that command had somehow dissolved his will, he fell immediately into a deep, untroubled sleep.
   By the next morning it had stopped snowing. The world outside the walls of the imperial hostel was mantled in thick, unbroken white, and the air was filmy with a kind of damp haze that was almost-but not quite-fog.
   "Misty Sendaria," Silk said ironically at breakfast. "Sometimes I'm amazed that the entire kingdom doesn't rust shut."
   They traveled all that day at a mile-eating canter, and that night there was another imperial hostel, almost identical to the one they had left that morning—so closely identical in fact that it almost seemed to Garion that they had ridden all day and merely arrived back where they had started. He commented on that to Silk as they were putting their horses in the stable.
   "Tolnedrans are nothing if not predictable," Silk said. "All their hostels are exactly the same. You can find these same buildings in Drasnia, Algaria, Arendia and any place else their great roads go. It's their one weakness—this lack of imagination."
   "Don't they get tired of doing the same thing over and over again?"
   "It makes them feel comfortable, I guess." Silk laughed. "Let's go see about supper."
   It snowed again the following day, but by noon Garion caught a scent other than that faintly dusty odor snow always seemed to have. Even as he had done when they had approached Darine, he began to smell the sea, and he knew their journey was almost at an end.
   Camaar, the largest city in Sendaria and the major seaport of the north, was a sprawling place which had existed at the mouth of the Greater Camaar River since antiquity. It was the natural western terminus of the Great North Road which stretched to Boktor in Drasnia and the equally natural northern end of the Great West Road which reached down across Arendia into Tolnedra and the imperial capital at Tol Honeth. With some accuracy it could be said that all roads ended at Camaar.
   Late on a chill, snowy afternoon, they rode down a gradual hill toward the city. Some distance from the gate, Aunt Pol stopped her horse. "Since we're no longer posing as vagabonds," she announced, "I see no further need for selecting the most disreputable inns, do you?"
   "I hadn't really thought about it," Mister Wolf said.
   "Well, I have," she said. "I've had more than enough of wayside hostels and seedy village inns. I need a bath, a clean bed and some decent food. If you don't mind, I'll choose our lodging this time."
   "Of course, Pol," Wolf said mildly. "Whatever you say."
   "Very well, then," she said and rode on toward the city gate with the rest of them trailing behind her.
   "What is your business in Camaar?" one of the fur-mantled guards at the broad gate asked rather rudely.
   Aunt Pol threw back her hood and fixed the man with a steely gaze. "I am the Duchess of Erat," she announced in ringing tones. "These are my retainers, and my business in Camaar is my own affair."
   The guard blinked and then bowed respectfully.
   "Forgive me, your Grace," he said. "I didn't intend to give offense."
   "Indeed?" Aunt Pol said, her tone still cold and her gaze still dangerous.
   "I did not recognize your Grace," the poor man floundered, squirming under that imperious stare. "May I offer any assistance?"
   "I hardly think so," Aunt Pol said, looking him up and down. "Which is the finest inn in Camaar?"
   "That would be the Lion, my Lady."
   "And-?" she said impatiently.
   "And what, my Lady?" the man said, confused by her question.
   "Where is it?" she demanded. "Don't stand there gaping like a dolt. Speak up."
   "It lies beyond the customs houses," the guard replied, flushing at her words. "Follow this street until you reach Customs Square. Anyone there can direct you to the Lion."
   Aunt Pol pulled her hood back up.
   "Give the fellow something," she said over her shoulder and rode on into the city without a backward glance.
   "My thanks," the guard said as Wolf leaned down to hand him a small coin. "I must admit that I haven't heard of the Duchess of Erat before."
   "You're a fortunate man," Wolf said.
   "She's a great beauty," the man said admiringly.
   "And has a temper to match," Wolf told him.
   "I noticed that," the guard said.
   "We noticed you noticing," Silk told him slyly.
   They nudged their horses and caught up with Aunt Pol.
   "The Duchess of Erat?" Silk asked mildly.
   "The fellow's manner irritated me," Aunt Pol said loftily, "and I'm tired of putting on a poor face in front of strangers."
   At Customs Square Silk accosted a busy-looking merchant trudging across the snow-covered paving. "You-fellow," he said in the most insulting way possible, pulling his horse directly in front of the startled merchant. "My mistress, the Duchess of Erat, requires directions to an inn called the Lion. Be so good as to provide them."
   The merchant blinked, his face flushing at the rat-faced man's tone.
   "Up that street," he said shortly, pointing. "Some goodly way. It will be on your left. There's a sign of a Lion at the front."
   Silk sniffed ungraciously, tossed a few coins into the snow at the man's feet and whirled his horse in a grand manner. The merchant, Garion noted, looked outraged, but he did grope in the snow for the coins Silk had thrown.
   "I doubt that any of these people will quickly forget our passage," Wolf said sourly when they were some ways up the street.
   "They'll remember the passage of an arrogant noblewoman," Silk said. "This is as good a disguise as any we've tried."
   When they arnved at the inn, Aunt Pol commanded not just the usual sleeping chambers but an entire apartment. "My chamberlain there will pay you," she said to the innkeeper, indicating Mister Wolf. "Our baggage horses are some days behind with the rest of my servants, so I'll require the services of a dressmaker and a maid. See to it." And she turned and swept imperially up the long staircase that led to her apartment, following the servant who scurried ahead to show her the way.
   "The duchess has a commanding presence, doesn't she?" the innkeeper ventured as Wolf began counting out coins.
   "She has indeed," Wolf agreed. "I've discovered the wisdom of not countering her wishes."
   "I'll be guided by you then," the innkeeper assured him. "My youngest daughter is a serviceable girl. I'll dispatch her to serve as her Grace's maid."
   "Many thanks, friend," Silk told him. "Our Lady becomes most irntable when those things she desires are delayed, and we're the ones who suffer most from her displeasure."
   They trooped up the stairs to the apartments Aunt Pol had taken and stepped into the main sitting room, a splendid chamber far richer than any Garion had seen before. The walls were covered by tapestries with intricate pictures woven into the fabric. A wealth of candles—real wax instead of smoky tallow—gleamed in sconces on the walls and in a massive candelabra on the polished table. A good warm fire danced merrily on the hearth, and a large carpet of curious design lay on the floor.
   Aunt Pol was standing before the fire, warming her hands. "Isn't this better than some shabby, wharfside inn reeking of fish and unwashed sailors?" she asked.
   "If the Duchess of Erat will forgive my saying so," Wolf said somewhat tartly, "this is hardly the way to escape notice, and the cost of these lodgings would feed a legion for a week."
   "Don't grow parsimonious in your dotage, Old Wolf," she replied. "No one takes a sPolled noblewoman seriously, and your wagons weren't able to keep that disgusting Brill from finding us. This guise is at least comfortable, and it permits us to move more rapidly."
   Wolf grunted. "I only hope we won't regret all this," he said.
   "Stop grumbling, old man," she told him.
   "Have it your way, Pol." He sighed.
   "I intend to," she said.
   "How are we to behave, Mistress Po1?" Durnik asked hesitantly. Her sudden regal manner had obviously confused him. "I'm not familiar with the ways of the gentry."
   "It's quite simple, Durnik," she said. She eyed him up and down, noting his plain, dependable face and his solid competence. "How would you like to be chief groom to the Duchess of Erat? And master of her stables?"
   Durnik laughed uncomfortably. "Noble titles for work I've done all my life," he said. "I could manage the work easily enough, but the titles might grow a bit heavy."
   "You'll do splendidly, friend Durnik," Silk assured him. "That honest face of yours makes people believe anything you choose to tell them. If I had a face like yours, I could steal half the world." He turned to Aunt Pol. "And what role am I to play, my Lady?" he asked.
   "You'll be my reeve," she said. "The thievery usually associated with the position should suit you."
   Silk bowed ironically.
   "And I?" Barak said, grinning openly.
   "My man-at-arms," she said. "I doubt that any would believe you to be a dancing master. Just stand around looking dangerous."
   "What of me, Aunt Pol?" Garion asked. "What do I do?"
   "You can be my page."
   "What does a page do?"
   "You fetch things for me."
   "I've always done that. Is that what it's called?"
   "Don't be impertinent. You also answer doors and announce visitors; and when I'm melancholy, you may sing to me."
   "Sing?" he said incredulously. "Me?"
   "It's customary."
   "You wouldn't make me do that, would you, Aunt Pol?"
   "Your Grace," she corrected.
   "You won't be very gracious if you have to listen to me sing," he warned. "My voice isn't very good."
   "You'll do just fine, dear," she said.
   "And I've already been appointed to your Grace's chamberlain," Wolf said.
   "My chief steward," she told him. "Manager of my estates and keeper of my purse."
   "Somehow I knew that would be part of it."
   There was a timid rap at the door.
   "See who that is, Garion," Aunt Pol said.
   When he opened the door, Garion found a young girl with light brown hair in a sober dress and starched apron and cap standing outside. She had very large brown eyes that looked at him apprehensively.
   "Yes?" he asked.
   "I've been sent to wait upon the duchess," she said in a low voice.
   "Your maid has arrived, your Grace," Garion announced.
   "Splendid," Aunt Pol said. "Come in, child."
   The girl entered the room.
   "What a pretty thing you are," Aunt Pol said.
   "Thank you, my Lady," the girl answered with a brief curtsy and a rosy blush.
   "And what is your name?"
   "I am called Donia, my Lady."
   "A lovely name," Aunt Pol said. "Now to important matters. Is there a bath on the premises?"
   It was still snowing the next morning. The roofs of nearby houses were piled high with white, and the narrow streets were deep with it.
   "I think we're close to the end of our search," Mister Wolf said as he stared intently out through the rippled glass of the window in the room with the tapestries.
   "It's unlikely that the one we're after would stay in Camaar for long," Silk said.
   "Very unlikely," Wolf agreed, "but once we've found his trail, we'll be able to move more rapidly. Let's go into the city and see if I'm right."
   After Mister Wolf and Silk had left, Garion sat for a while talking with Donia, who seemed to be about his own age. Although she was not quite as pretty as Zubrette, Garion found her soft voice and huge brown eyes extremely attractive. Things were going along well between them until Aunt Pol's dressmaker arrived and Donia's presence was required in the chamber where the Duchess of Erat was being fitted for her new gowns.
   Since Durnik, obviously ill at ease in the luxurious surroundings of their chambers, had adjourned to the stables after breakfast, Garion was left in the company of the giant Barak, who worked patiently with a small stone, polishing a nick out of the edge of his sword—a memento of the skirmish in Muros. Garion had never been wholly comfortable with the huge, red-bearded man. Barak spoke rarely, and there seemed to be a kind of hulking menace about him. So it was that Garion spent the morning examining the tapestries on the walls of the sitting room. The tapestries depicted knights in full armor and castles on hilltops and strangely angular-looking maidens moping about in gardens.
   "Arendish," Barak said, directly behind him. Garion jumped. The huge man had moved up so quietly that Garion had not heard him.
   "How can you tell?" Garion asked politely.
   "The Arends have a fondness for tapestry," Barak rumbled, "and the weaving of pictures occupies their women while the men are off denting each other's armor."
   "Do they really wear all that?" Garion asked, pointing at a heavily armored knight pictured on the tapestry.
   "Oh yes." Barak laughed. "That and more. Even their horses wear armor. It's a silly way to make war."
   Garion scuffed his shoe on the carpet.
   "Is this Arendish too?" he asked.
   Barak shook his head.
   "Mallorean," he said.
   "How did it get here all the way from MaIlorea?" Garion asked. "I've heard that Mallorea's all the way on the other end of the world."
   "It's a goodly way off," Barak agreed, "but a merchant would go twice as far to make a profit. Such goods as this commonly move along the North Caravan Route out of Gar og Nadrak to Boktor. Mallorean carpets are prized by the wealthy. I don't much care for them myself, since I'm not fond of anything that has to do with the Angaraks."
   "How many kinds of Angaraks are there?" Garion asked. "I know there are Murgos and Thulls, and I've heard stories about the Battle of Vo Mimbre and all, but I don't know much about them really."
   "There are five tribes of them," Barak said, sitting back down and resuming his polishing, "Murgos and Thulls, Nadraks and Malloreans, and of course the Grolims. They live in the four kingdoms of the east Mallorea, Gar og Nadrak, Mishrak ac Thull and Cthol Murgos."
   "Where do the Grolims live?"
   "They have no special place," Barak replied grimly. "The Grolims are the priests of Torak One-eye and are everywhere in the lands of the Angaraks. They're the ones who perform the sacrifices to Torak. Grolim knives have spilled more Angarak blood than a dozen Vo Mimbres."
   Garion shuddered.
   "Why should Torak take such pleasure in the slaughter of his own people?" he asked.
   "Who can say?" Barak shrugged. "He's a twisted and evil God. Some believe that he was made mad when he used the Orb of Aldur to crack the world and the Orb repaid him by burning out his eye and consuming his hand."
   "How could the world be cracked?" Garion asked. "I've never understood that part of the story."
   "The power of the Orb of Aldur is such that it can accomplish anything," Barak told him. "When Torak raised it, the earth was split apart by its power, and the seas came in to drown the land. The story's very old, but I think that it's probably true."
   "Where is the Orb of Aldur now?" Garion asked suddenly.
   Barak looked at him, his eyes icy blue and his face thoughtful, but he didn't say anything.
   "Do you know what I think?" Garion said on a sudden impulse. "I think that it's the Orb of Aldur that's been stolen. I think it's the Orb that Mister Wolf is trying to find."
   "And I think it would be better if you didn't think so much about such things," Barak warned.
   "But I want to know," Garion protested, his curiosity driving him even in the face of Barak's words and the warning voice in his mind. "Everyone treats me like an ignorant boy. All I do is tag along with no idea of what we're doing. Who is Mister Wolf, anyway? Why did the Algars behave the way they did when they saw him? How can he follow something that he can't see? Please tell me, Barak."
   "Not I." Barak laughed. "Your Aunt would pull out my beard whisker by whisker if I made that mistake."
   "You're not afraid of her, are you?"
   "Any man with good sense is afraid of her," Barak said, rising and sliding his sword into its sheath.
   "Aunt Pol?" Garion asked incredulously.
   "Aren't you afraid of her?" Barak asked pointedly.
   "No," Garion said, and then realized that was not precisely true. "Well-not really afraid. It's more-" He left it hanging, not knowing how to explain it.
   "Exactly," Barak said. "And I'm no more foolhardy than you, my boy. You're too full of questions I'd be far wiser not to answer. If you want to know about these things, you'll have to ask your Aunt."
   "She won't tell me," Garion said glumly. "She won't tell me anything. She won't even tell me about my parents-not really."
   Barak frowned.
   "That's strange," he said.
   "I don't think they were Sendars," Garion said. "Their names weren't Sendarian, and Silk says that I'm not a Sendar—at least I don't look like one."
   Barak looked at him closely. "No," he said finally. "Now that you mention it, you don't. You look more like a Rivan than anything else, but not quite that either."
   "Is Aunt Pol a Rivan?"
   Barak's eyes narrowed slightly. "I think we're getting to some more of those questions I hadn't better answer," he said.
   "I'm going to find out someday," Garion said.
   "But not today," Barak said. "Come along. I need some exercise. Let's go out into the innyard and I'll teach you how to use a sword."
   "Me?" Garion said, all his curiosity suddenly melting away in the excitement of that thought.
   "You're at an age where you should begin to learn," Barak said. "The occasion may someday arise when it will be a useful thing for you to know."
   Late that afternoon when Garion's arm had begun to ache from the effort of swinging Barak's heavy sword and the whole idea of learning the skills of a warrior had become a great deal less exciting, Mister Wolf and Silk returned. Their clothes were wet from the snow through which they had trudged all day, but Wolf's eyes were bright, and his face had a curiously exultant expression as he led them all back up the stairs to the sitting room.
   "Ask your Aunt to join us," he told Garion as he removed his sodden mantle and stepped to the fire to warm himself.
   Garion sensed quickly that this was not the time for questions. He hurried to the polished door where Aunt Pol had been closeted with her dressmaker all day and rapped.
   "What is it?" her voice came from inside.
   "Mister-uh-that is, your chamberlain has returned, my Lady," Garion said, remembering at the last moment that she was not alone. "He requests a word with you."
   "Oh, very well," she said. After a minute she came out, firmly closing the door behind her.
   Garion gasped. The rich, blue velvet gown she wore made her so magnificent that she quite took his breath away. He stared at her in helpless admiration.
   "Where is he?" she asked. "Don't stand and gape, Garion. It's not polite."
   "You're beautiful, Aunt Pol," he blurted.
   "Yes, dear," she said, patting his cheek, "I know. Now where's the Old Wolf?"
   "In the room with the tapestries," Garion said, still unable to take his eyes from her.
   "Come along, then," she said and swept down the short hall to the sitting room. They entered to find the others all standing by the fireplace.
   "Well?" she asked.
   Wolf looked up at her, his eyes still bright. "An excellent choice, Pol," he said admiringly. "Blue has always been your best color."
   "Do you like it?" she asked, holding out her arms and turning almost girlishly so that they all might see how fine she looked. "I hope it pleases you, old man, because it's costing you a great deal of money."
   Wolf laughed. "I was almost certain it would," he said.
   The effect of Aunt Pol's gown on Durnik was painfully obvious. The poor man's eyes literally bulged, and his face turned alternately very pale and then very red, then finally settled into an expression of such hopelessness that Garion was touched to the quick by it.
   Silk and Barak in curious unison both bowed deeply and wordlessly to Aunt Pol, and her eyes sparkled at their silent tribute.
   "It's been here," Wolf announced seriously.
   "You're certain?" Aunt Pol demanded.
   He nodded. "I could feel the memory of its passage in the very stones."
   "Did it come by sea?" she asked.
   "No. He probably came ashore with it in some secluded cove up the coast and then traveled here by land."
   "And took ship again?"
   "I doubt that," Wolf said. "I know him well. He's not comfortable on the sea."
   "Besides which," Barak said, "one word to King Anheg of Cherek would have put a hundred warships on his trail. No one can hide on the sea from the ships of Cherek, and he knows that."
   "You're right," Wolf agreed. "I think he'll avoid the domains of the Alorns. That's probably why he chose not to pass along the North Road through Algaria and Drasnia. The Spirit of Belar is strong in the kingdoms of the Alorns, and not even this thief is bold enough to risk a confrontation with the Bear-God."
   "Which leaves Arendia," Silk said, "or the land of the Ulgos."
   "Arendia, I think," Wolf said. "The wrath of UL is even more fearsome than that of Belar."
   "Forgive me," Durnik said, his eyes still on Aunt Pol. "This is all most confusing. I've never heard just exactly who this thief is."
   "I'm sorry, gentle Durnik," Wolf said. "It's not a good idea to speak his name. He has certain powers which might make it possible for him to know our every move if we alert him to our location, and he can hear his name spoken a thousand leagues away."
   "A sorcerer?" Durnik asked unbelievingly.
   "The word isn't one I'd choose," Wolf said. "It's a term used by men who don't understand that particular art. Instead let's call him `thief,' though there are a few other names I might call him which are far less kindly."
   "Can we be certain that he'll make for the kingdoms of the Angaraks?" Silk asked, frowning. "If that's the case, wouldn't it be quicker to take a ship directly to Tol Honeth and pick up his trail on the South Caravan Route into Cthol Murgos?"
   Wolf shook his head. "Better to stay with this trail now that we've found it. We don't know what he intends. Maybe he wants to keep the thing he's stolen for himself rather than deliver it over to the Grolims. He might even seek sanctuary in Nyissa."
   "He couldn't do that without the connivance of Salmissra," Aunt Pol said.
   "It wouldn't be the first time that the Queen of the Serpent People has tampered with things that are none of her concern," Wolf pointed out.
   "If that turns out to be true," Aunt Pol said grimly, "I think I'll give myself the leisure to deal with the snake-woman permanently."
   "It's too early to know," Wolf said. "Tomorrow we'll buy provisions and ferry across the river to Arendia. I'll take up the trail there. For the time being all we can do is follow that trail. Once we know for certain where it leads, we'll be able to consider our alternatives."
   From the evening-darkened innyard outside there came suddenly the sound of many horses.
   Barak stepped quickly to the window and glanced out.
   "Soldiers," he said shortly.
   "Here?" Silk said, also hurrying to the window.
   "They appear to be from one of the king's regiments," Barak said. "They won't be interested in us," Aunt Pol said.
   "Unless they aren't what they seem," Silk said. "Uniforms of one kind or another aren't that difficult to come by."
   "They aren't Murgos," Barak said. "I'd recognize Murgos."
   "Brill isn't a Murgo either," Silk said, staring down into the innyard.
   "See if you can hear what they say," Wolf instructed.
   Barak carefully opened one of the windows a crack, and the candles all flickered in the gust of icy wind. In the yard below the captain of the soldiers was speaking with the innkeeper.
   "He's a man of somewhat more than medium height, with white hair and a short white beard. He may be traveling with some others."
   "There's such a one here, your Honor," the innkeeper said dubiously, "but I'm sure he isn't the one you seek. This one is chief steward to the Duchess of Erat, who honors my inn with her presence."
   "The Duchess of where?" the captain asked sharply.
   "Of Erat," the innkeeper replied. "A most noble lady of great beauty and a commanding presence."
   "I wonder if I might have a word with her Grace," the captain said, climbing down from his horse.
   "I'll ask her if she will receive your Honor," the innkeeper replied.
   Barak closed the window.
   "I'll deal with this meddlesome captain," he said firmly.
   "No," Wolf said. "He's got too many soldiers with him, and if they're who they seem to be, they're good men who haven't done us any harm."
   "There's the back stairs," Silk suggested. "We could be three streets away before he reached our door."
   "And if he stationed soldiers at the back of the inn?" Aunt Pol suggested. "What then? Since he's coming to speak with the Duchess of Erat, why don't we let the duchess deal with him?"
   "What have you got in mind?" Wolf asked.
   "If the rest of you stay out of sight, I'll speak with him," she said. "I should be able to put him off until morning. We can be across the river into Arendia before he comes back."
   "Perhaps," Wolf said, "but this captain sounds like a determined man."
   "I've dealt with determined men before," she said.
   "We'll have to decide quickly," Silk said from the door. "He's on the stairs right now."
   "We'll try it your way, Pol," Wolf said, opening the door to the next chamber.
   "Garion," Aunt Pol said, "you stay here. A duchess wouldn't be unattended."
   Wolf and the others quickly left the room.
   "What do you want me to do, Aunt Pol?" Garion whispered.
   "Just remember that you're my page, dear," she said, seating herself in a large chair near the center of the room and carefully arranging the folds of her gown. "Stand near my chair and try to look attentive. I'll take care of the rest."
   "Yes, my Lady," Garion said.
   The captain, when he arrived behind the innkeeper's knock, proved to be a tall, sober-looking man with penetrating gray eyes. Garion, trying his best to sound officious, requested the soldier's name and then turned to Aunt Pol.
   "There's a Captain Brendig to see you, your Grace," he announced. "He says that it's a matter of importance."
   Aunt Pol looked at him for a moment as if considering the request. "Oh, very well," she said finally. "Show him in."
   Captain Brendig stepped into the room, and the innkeeper left hurriedly.
   "Your Grace," the captain said, bowing deferentially to Aunt Pol.
   "What is it, Captain?" she demanded.
   "I would not trouble your Grace if my mission were not of such urgency," Brendig apologized. "My orders are directly from the king himself, and you of all people will know that we must defer to his wishes."
   "I suppose I can spare you a few moments for the king's business," she said.
   "There's a certain man the king wishes to have apprehended," Brendig said. "An elderly man with white hair and beard. I'm informed that you have such a one among your servants."
   "Is the man a criminal?" she asked.
   "The king didn't say so, your Grace," he told her. "I was only told that the man was to be seized and delivered to the palace at Sendarand, all who are with him as well."
   "I am seldom at court," Aunt Pol said. "It's most unlikely that any of my servants would be of such interest to the king."
   "Your Grace," Brendig said delicately, "in addition to my duties in one of the king's own regiments, I also have the honor to hold a baronetcy. I've been at court all my life and must confess that I've never seen you there. A lady of your striking appearance would not be soon forgotten."
   Aunt Pol inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of the compliment. "I suppose I should have guessed, my Lord Brendig," she said. "Your manners are not those of a common soldier."
   "Moreover, your Grace," he continued, "I'm familiar with all the holdings of the kingdom. If I'm not mistaken, the district of Erat is an earldom, and the Earl of Erat is a short, stout man—my great uncle incidentally. There has been no duchy in that part of Sendaria since the kingdom was under the dominion of the Wacite Arends."
   Aunt Pol fixed him with an icy stare.
   "My Lady," Brendig said almost apologetically, "the Wacite Arends were exterminated by their Asturian cousins in the last years of the third millenium. There has been no Wacite nobility for over two thousand years."
   "I thank you for the history lesson, my Lord," Aunt Pol said coldly.
   "All of that, however, is hardly the issue, is it?" Brendig continued. "I am bidden by my king to seek out the man of whom I spoke. Upon your honor, Lady, do you know such a man?"
   The question hung in the air between them, and Garion, knowing in sudden panic that they were caught, almost shouted for Barak.
   Then the door to the next chamber opened, and Mister Wolf stepped into the room. "There's no need to continue with this," he said. "I'm the one you're looking for. What does Fulrach of Sendaria want with me?"
   Brendig looked at him without seeming surprise. "His Majesty did not see fit to take me into his confidence," he said. "He will explain it himself, I have no doubt, as soon as we reach the palace at Sendar."
   "The sooner the better then," Wolf said. "When do we leave?"
   "We depart for Sendar directly after breakfast in the morning," Brendig said. "I will accept your word that none of you will attempt to leave this inn during the night. I'd prefer not to subject the Duchess of Erat to the indignity of confinement at the local barracks. The cells there are most uncomfortable, I'm told."
   "You have my word," Mister Wolf said.
   "Thank you," Brendig said, bowing slightly. "I must also advise you that I am obliged to post guards about this inn—for your protection, of course."
   "Your solicitude overwhelms us, my Lord," Aunt Pol said dryly.
   "Your servant, my Lady," Brendig said with a formal bow. And then he turned and left the room.
   The polished door was only wood; Garion knew that, but as it closed behind the departing Brendig it seemed to have that dreadful, final clang of the door to a dungeon.

Chapter Eleven

   THEY WERE NINE DAYS on the coast road from Camaar to the capital at Sendar, though it was only fifty-five leagues. Captain Brendig measured their pace carefully, and his detachment of soldiers was arranged in such fashion that even the thought of escape was impossible. Although it had stopped snowing, the road was still difficult, and the wind which blew in off the sea and across the broad, snow-covered salt marshes was raw and chill. They stayed each night in the evenly spaced Sendarian hostels which stood like mileposts along that uninhabited stretch of coast. The hostels were not quite so well appointed as were their Tolnedran counterparts along the Great North Road, but they were at least adequate. Captain Brendig seemed solicitous about their comfort, but he also posted guards each night.
   On the evening of the second day, Garion sat near the fire with Durnik, staring moodily into the flames. Durnik was his oldest friend, and Garion felt a desperate need for friendship just then.
   "Durnik," he said finally.
   "Yes, lad?"
   "Have you ever been in a dungeon?"
   "What could I have done to be put in a dungeon?"
   "I thought that you might have seen one sometime."
   "Honest folk don't go near such places," Durnik said.
   "I've heard they're awful-dark and cold and full of rats." "What is this talk of dungeons?" Durnik asked.
   "I'm afraid we may find out all about places like that very soon," Garion said, trying not to sound too frightened.
   "We've done nothing wrong," Durnik said.
   "Then why would the king have us seized like this? Kings don't do things like that without good reason."
   "We haven't done anything wrong," Durnik repeated stubbornly.
   "But maybe Mister Wolf has," Garion suggested. "The king wouldn't send all these soldiers after him without some reason—and we could all be thrown in the dungeon with him just because we happened to be his companions."
   "Thing like that don't happen in Sendaria," Durnik said firmly.
   The next day the wind was very strong as it blew in off the sea; but it was a warm wind, and the foot-deep snow on the road began to turn slushy. By midday it had started to rain. They rode in sodden misery toward the next hostel.
   "I'm afraid we'll have to delay our journey until this blows out," Captain Brendig said that evening, looking out one of the tiny windows of the hostel. "The road's going to be quite impassable by morning."
   They spent the next day, and the next, sitting in the cramped main room of the hostel listening to the wind-driven rain slashing at the walls and roof, all the while under the watchful eyes of Brendig and his soldiers.
   "Silk," Garion said on the second day, moving over to the bench where the rat-faced little man sat dozing.
   "Yes, Garion?" Silk asked, rousing himself.
   "What kind of man is the king?"
   "Which king?"
   "Of Sendaria."
   "A foolish man—like all kings." Silk laughed. "The Sendarian kings are perhaps a bit more foolish, but that's only natural. Why do you ask?"
   "Well" Garion hesitated. "Let's suppose that somebody did something that the king didn't like, and there were some other people traveling with him, and the king had these people seized. Would the king just throw them all into the dungeon? Or would he let the others go and just keep the one who'd angered him?"
   Silk looked at him for a moment and then spoke firmly.
   "That question is unworthy of you, Garion."
   Garion flushed. "
   I'm afraid of dungeons," he said in a small voice, suddenly very ashamed of himself. "I don't want to be locked up in the dark forever when I don't even know what for."
   "The kings of Sendaria are just and honest men," Silk told him. "Not too bright, I'm afraid, but always fair."
   "How can they be kings if they aren't wise?" Garion objected.
   "Wisdom's a useful trait in a king," Silk said, "but hardly essential."
   "How do they get to be kings, then?" Garion demanded.
   "Some are born to it," Silk said. "The stupidest man in the world can be a king if he has the right parents. Sendarian kings have a disadvantage because they started so low."
   "Low?"
   "They were elected. Nobody ever elected a king before—only the Sendars."
   "How do you elect a king?"
   Silk smiled.
   "Very badly, Garion. It's a poor way to select a king. The other ways are worse, but election is a very bad way to choose a king."
   "Tell me how it was done," Garion said.
   Silk glanced briefly at the rain-spattered window across the room and shrugged.
   "It's a way to pass the time," he said. And then he leaned back, stretched his feet toward the fire and began.
   "It all started about fifteen hundred years ago," he said, his voice loud enough to reach the ears of Captain Brendig, who sat nearby writing on a piece of parchment. "Sendaria wasn't a kingdom then, nor even a separate country. It had belonged from time to time to Cherek, Algaria or the northern Arends—Wacite or Asturian, depending on the fortunes of the Arendish civil war. When that war finally came to an end and the Wacites were destroyed and the Asturians had been defeated and driven into the untracked reaches of the great forest in northern Arendia, the Emperor of Tolnedra, Ran Horb II, decided that there ought to be a kingdom here."
   "How could a Tolnedran emperor make that kind of decision for Sendaria?" Garion asked.
   "The arm of the Empire is very long," Silk said. "The Great North Road had been built during the Second Borune Dynasty—I think it was Ran Borune IV who started the construction, wasn't it, Captain?"
   "The fifth," Brendig said somewhat sourly without looking up. "Ran Borune V."
   "Thank you, Captain," Silk said. "I can never keep the Borune Dynasties straight. Anyway, there were already imperial legions in Sendaria to maintain the highway, and if one has troops in an area, one has a certain authority, wouldn't you say, Captain?"
   "It's your story," Brendig said shortly.
   "Indeed it is," Silk agreed. "Now it wasn't really out of any kind of generosity that Ran Horb made his decision, Garion. Don't misunderstand that. Tolnedrans never give anything away. It was just that the Mimbrate Arends had finally won the Arendish civil war—a thousand years of bloodshed and treachery—and Tolnedra couldn't afford to allow the Mimbrates to expand into the north. The creation of an independent kingdom in Sendaria would block Mimbrate access to the trade routes down out of Drasnia and prevent the seat of world power from moving to Vo Mimbre and leaving the imperial capital at Tol Honeth in a kind of backwater."
   "It all sounds terribly involved," Garion said.
   "Not really," Silk said. "It's only politics, and that's a very simple game, isn't it, Captain?"
   "A game I do not play," Brendig said, not looking up.
   "Really?" Silk asked. "So long at court and not a politician? You're a rare man, Captain. At any rate, the Sendars suddenly discovered that they had themselves a kingdom but that they had no genuine hereditary nobility. Oh, there were a few retired Tolnedran nobles living on estates here and there, assorted pretenders to this or that Wacite or Asturian title, a Cherek war chief or two with a few followers, but no genuine Sendarian nobility. And so it was that they decided to hold a national election—select a king, don't you see, and then leave the bestowing of titles up to him. A very practical approach, and typically Sendarian."
   "How do you elect a king?" Garion asked, beginning to lose his dread of dungeons in his fascination with the story.
   "Everybody votes," Silk said simply. "Parents, of course, probably cast the votes for their children, but it appears that there was very little cheating. The rest of the world stood around and laughed at all this foolishness, but the Sendars continued to cast ballot after ballot for a dozen years."
   "Six years, actually," Brendig said with his face still down over his parchment. "3827 to 3833."
   "And there were over a thousand candidates," Silk said expansively.
   "Seven hundred and forty-three," Brendig said tightly.
   "I stand corrected, noble Captain," Silk said. "It's an enormous comfort to have such an expert here to catch my errors. I'm but a simple Drasnian merchant with little background in history. Anyway, on the twenty-third ballot, they finally elected their king—a rutabaga farmer named Fundor."
   "He raised more than just rutabagas," Brendig said, looking up with an angry face.
   "Of course he did," Silk said, smacking his forehead with an open palm. "How could I have forgotten the cabbages? He raised cabbages, too, Garion. Never forget the cabbages. Well, everybody in Sendaria who thought he was important journeyed to Fundor's farm and found him vigorously fertilizing his fields, and they greeted him with a great cry, `Hail, Fundor the Magnificent, King of Sendaria,' and fell on their knees in his august presence."
   "Must we continue with this?" Brendig asked in a pained voice, looking up.
   "The boy wants to know, Captain," Silk replied with an innocent face. "It's our duty as his elders to instruct him in the history of our past, wouldn't you say?"
   "Say whatever you like," Brendig said in a stiff voice.
   "Thank you for your permission, Captain," Silk said, inclining his head. "Do you know what the King of Sendaria said then, Garion?" he asked.
   "No," Garion said. "What?"
   " `I pray you, your eminences,' the king said, `have a care for your finery. I have just well manured the bed in which you are kneeling.' "
   Barak, who was sitting nearby, roared with laughter, pounding his knee with one huge hand.
   "I find this less than amusing, sir," Captain Brendig said coldly, rising to his feet. "I make no jokes about the King of Drasnia, do I?"
   "You're a courteous man, Captain," Silk said mildly, "and a noble man. I'm merely a poor man trying to make his way in the world."
   Brendig looked at him helplessly and then turned and stamped from the room.
   The following morning the wind had blown itself out and the rain had stopped. The road was very nearly a quagmire, but Brendig decided that they must continue. Travel that day was difficult, but the next was somewhat easier as the road began to drain.
   Aunt Pol seemed unconcerned by the fact that they had been seized at the king's orders. She maintained her regal bearing even though Garion saw no real need to continue the subterfuge and wished fervently that she would abandon it. The familiar practical sensibility with which she had ruled her kitchen at Faldor's farm had somehow been replaced by a kind of demanding willfulness that Garion found particularly distressing. For the first time in his life he felt a distance between them, and it left a vacancy that had never been there before. To make matters worse, the gnawing uncertainty which had been steadily growing since Silk's unequivocal declaration on the hilltop outside Winold that Aunt Pol could not possibly be his Aunt sawed roughly at his sense of his own identity, and Garion often found himself staring at the awful question, "Who am I?"
   Mister Wolf seemed changed as well. He seldom spoke either on the road nor at night in the hostels. He spent a great deal of time sitting by himself with an expression of moody irritability on his face.
   Finally, on the ninth day after their departure from Camaar, the broad salt marshes ended, and the land along the coast became more rolling. They topped a hill about midday just as the pale winter sun broke through the clouds, and there in the valley below them the walled city of Sendar lay facing the sea.
   The detachment of guards at the south gate of the city saluted smartly as Captain Brendig led the little party through, and he returned their salute crisply. The broad streets of the city seemed filled with people in the finest clothing, all moving about importantly as if their errands were the most vital in the world.
   "Courtiers." Barak, who chanced to be riding beside Garion, snorted with contempt. "Not a real man amongst them."
   "A necessary evil, my dear Barak," Silk said back over his shoulder to the big man. "Little jobs require little men, and it's the little jobs that keep a kingdom running."
   After they had passed through a magnificently large square, they moved up a wide avenue to the palace. It was a very large building with many stories and broad wings extending out on each side of the paved courtyard. The entire structure was surmounted by a round tower that was easily the highest edifice in the whole city.
   "Where do you suppose the dungeons are?" Garion whispered to Durnik when they stopped.
   "I would take it most kindly, Garion," Durnik said with a pained look, "if you would not speak so much of dungeons."
   Captain Brendig dismounted and went to meet a fussy-looking man in an embroidered tunic and feathered cap who came down the wide steps at the front of the palace to meet them. They spoke for a few moments and seemed to be arguing.
   "My orders are from the king himself," Brendig said, his voice carrying to where they sat. "I am commanded to deliver these people directly to him immediately upon our arrival."
   "My orders are also from the king," the fussy-looking man said, "and l am commanded to have them made presentable before they are delivered to the throne room. I will take charge of them."
   "They will remain in my custody, Count Nilden, until they have been delivered to the king himself," Brendig said coldly.
   "I will not have your muddy soldiers tracking through the halls of the palace, Lord Brendig," the Count replied.
   "Then we will wait here, Count Nilden," Brendig said. "Be so good as to fetch his Majesty."
   "Fetch?" The Count's face was aghast. "I am Chief Butler to his Majesty's household, Lord Brendig. I do not fetch anything or anybody."
   Brendig turned as if to remount his horse.
   "Oh, very well," Count Nilden said petulantly, "if you must have it your own way. At least have them wipe their feet."
   Brendig bowed coldly.
   "I won't forget this, Lord Brendig," Nilden threatened.
   "Nor shall I, Count Nilden," Brendig replied.
   Then they all dismounted and, with Brendig's soldiers drawn up in close order about them, they crossed the courtyard to a broad door near the center of the west wing.
   "Be so good as to follow me," Count Nilden said, glancing with a shudder at the mud-spattered soldiers, and he led them into the wide corridor which lay beyond the door.
   Apprehension and curiosity struggled in Garion's mind. Despite the assurances of Silk and Durnik and the hopeful implications of Count Nilden's announcement that he was going to have them made presentable, the threat of some clammy, rat-infested dungeon, complete with a rack and a wheel and other unpleasant things, still seemed very real. On the other hand, he had never been in a palace before, and his eyes tried to be everywhere at once. That part of his mind which sometimes spoke to him in dry detachment told him that his fears were probably groundless and that his gawking made him appear to be a doltish country bumpkin.
   Count Nilden led them directly to a part of the corndor where there were a number of highly polished doors. "This one is for the boy," he announced, pointing at one of them.
   One of the soldiers opened the door, and Garion reluctantly stepped through, looking back over his shoulder at Aunt Pol.
   "Come along now," a somewhat impatient voice said. Garion whirled, not knowing what to expect.
   "Close the door, boy," the fine-looking man who had been waiting for him said. "We don't have all day, you know." The man was waiting beside a large wooden tub with steam rising from it. "Quickly, boy, take off those filthy rags and get into the tub. His Majesty is waiting."
   Too confused to object or even answer, Garion numbly began to unlace his tunic.
   After he had been bathed and the knots had been brushed out of his hair, he was dressed in clothes which lay on a nearby bench. His coarse woolen hose of serviceable peasant brown were exchanged for ones of a much finer weave in a lustrous blue. His scuffed and muddy boots were traded for soft leather shoes. His tunic was soft white linen, and the doublet he wore over it was a rich blue, trimmed with a silvery fur.
   "I guess that's the best I can do on short notice," the man who had bathed and dressed him said, looking him up and down critically. "At least I won't be totally embarrassed when you're presented to the king."
   Garion mumbled his thanks and then stood, waiting for further instructions.
   "Well, go along, boy. You mustn't keep his Majesty waiting."
   Silk and Barak stood in the corridor, talking quietly. Barak was hugely splendid in a green brocade doublet, but looked uncomfortable without his sword. Silk's doublet was a rich black, trimmed in silver, and his scraggly whiskers had been carefully trimmed into an elegant short beard.
   "What does all of this mean?" Garion asked as he joined them. "We're to be presented to the king," Barak said, "and our honest clothes might have given offense. Kings aren't accustomed to looking at ordinary men."
   Durnik emerged from one of the rooms, his face pale with anger. "That overdressed fool wanted to give me a bath!" he said in choked outrage.
   "It's the custom," Silk explained. "Noble guests aren't expected to bathe themselves. I hope you didn't hurt him."
   "I'm not a noble, and I'm quite able to bathe myself," Durnik said hotly. "I told him that I'd drown him in his own tub if he didn't keep his hands to himself. After that, he didn't pester me anymore, but he did steal my clothes. I had to put these on instead." He gestured at his clothes which were quite similar to Garion's. "I hope nobody sees me in all this frippery."
   "Barak says the king might be offended if he saw us in our real clothes," Garion told him.
   "The king won't be looking at me," Durnik said, "and I don't like this business of trying to look like something I'm not. I'll wait outside with the horses if I can get my own clothes back."
   "Be patient, Durnik," Barak advised. "We'll get this business with the king straightened out and then be on our way again."
   If Durnik was angry, Mister Wolf was in what could best be described as a towering fury. He came out into the corridor dressed in a snowy white robe, deeply cowled at the back. "Someone's going to pay for this," he raged.
   "It does become you," Silk said admiringly.
   "Your taste has always been questionable, Master Silk," Wolf said in a frosty tone. "Where's Pol?"
   "The lady has not yet made her appearance," Silk said.
   "I should have known," Wolf said, sitting down on a nearby bench. "We may as well be comfortable. Pol's preparations usually take quite a while."
   And so they waited. Captain Brendig, who had changed his boots and doublet, paced up and down as the minutes dragged by. Garion was totally baffled by their reception. They did not seem to be under arrest, but his imagination still saw dungeons, and that was enough to make him very jumpy.
   And then Aunt Pol appeared. She wore the blue velvet gown that had been made for her in Camaar and a silver circlet about her head which set off the single white lock at her brow. Her bearing was regal and her face stern.
   "So soon, Mistress Pol?" Wolf asked dryly. "I hope you weren't rushed."
   She ignored that and examined each of them in turn.
   "Adequate, I suppose," she said finally, absently adjusting the collar of Garion's doublet. "Give me your arm, Old Wolf, and let's find out what the King of the Sendars wants with us."
   Mister Wolf rose from his bench, extended his arm, and the two of them started down the corridor. Captain Brendig hastily assembled his soldiers and followed them all in some kind of ragged order. "If you please, my Lady," he called out to Aunt Pol, "permit me to show you the way."
   "We know the way, Lord Brendig," she replied without so much as turning her head.
   Count Nilden, the Chief Butler, stood waiting for them in front of two massive doors guarded by uniformed men-at-arms. He bowed slightly to Aunt Pol and snapped his fingers. The men-at-arms swung the heavy doors inward.
   Fulrach, the King of Sendaria, was a dumpy-looking man with a short brown beard. He sat, rather uncomfortably it appeared, on a highbacked throne which stood on a dais at one end of the great hall into which Count Nilden led them. The throne room was vast, with a high, vaulted ceiling and walls covered with what seemed acres of heavy, red velvet drapery. There were candles everywhere, and dozens of people strolled about in fine clothes and chatted idly in the corners, all but ignoring the presence of the king.
   "May I announce you?" Count Nilden asked Mister Wolf.
   "Fulrach knows who I am," Wolf replied shortly and strode down the long scarlet carpet toward the throne with Aunt Pol still on his arm. Garion and the others followed, with Brendig and his soldiers close behind, through the suddenly quiet crowd of courtiers and their ladies.
   At the foot of the throne they all stopped, and Wolf bowed rather coldly. Aunt Pol, her eyes frosty, curtsied, and Barak and Silk bowed in a courtly manner. Durnik and Garion followed suit, though not nearly as gracefully.
   "If it please your Majesty," Brendig's voice came from behind them, "these are the ones you sought."
   "I knew you could be depended upon, Lord Brendig," the King replied in a rather ordinary-sounding voice. "Your reputation is well deserved. You have my thanks." Then he looked at Mister Wolf and the rest of them, his expression undecipherable.
   Garion began to tremble.
   "My dear old friend," the king said to Mister Wolf. "It's been too many years since we met last."
   "Have you lost your wits entirely, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf snapped in a voice which carried no further than the king's ears. "Why do you choose to interfere with me—now, of all times? And what possessed you to outfit me in this absurd thing?" He plucked at the front of his white robe in disgust. "Are you trying to announce my presence to every Murgo from here to the hook of Arendia?"
   The king's face looked pained. "I was afraid you might take it this way," he said in a voice no louder than Mister Wolf's had been. "I'll explain when we can speak more privately." He turned quickly to Aunt Pol as if trying to preserve the appearance at least of dignity. "It's been much too long since we have seen you, dear Lady. Layla and the children have missed you, and I have been desolate in your absence."
   "Your Majesty is too kind," Aunt Pol said, her tone as cold as Wolf's. The king winced. "Pray, dear Lady," he apologized, "don't judge me too hastily. My reasons were urgent. I hope that Lord Brendig's summons did not too greatly inconvenience you."
   "Lord Brendig was the soul of courtesy," Aunt Pol said, her tone unchanged. She glanced once at Brendig, who had grown visibly pale.
   "And you, my Lord Barak," the king hurned on as if trying to make the best of a bad situation, "how fares your cousin, our dear brother king, Anheg of Cherek?"
   "He was well when last I saw him, your Majesty," Barak replied formally. "A bit drunk, but that's not unusual for Anheg."
   The king chuckled a bit nervously and turned quickly to Silk. "Prince Kheldar of the Royal House of Drasnia," he said. "We are amazed to find such noble visitors in our realm, and more than a little injured that they chose not to call upon us so that we might greet them. Is the King of the Sendars of so little note that he's not even worth a brief stop?"
   "We intended no disrespect, your Majesty," Silk replied, bowing, "but our errand was of such urgency that there was no time for the usual courtesies."
   The king flickered a warning glance at that and surprisingly wove his fingers in the scarce perceptible gestures of the Drasnian secret language. Not here. Too many ears about. He then looked inquiringly at Durnik and Garion.
   Aunt Pol stepped forward.
   "This is Goodman Durnik of the District of Erat, your Majesty," she said, "a brave and honest man."
   "Welcome, Goodman Durnik," the king said. "I can only hope that men may also one day call me a brave and honest man."
   Durnik bowed awkwardly, his face filled with bewilderment. "I'm just a simple blacksmith, your Honor," he said, "but I hope all men know that I am your Honor's most loyal and devoted subject."
   "Well-spoken, Goodman Durnik," the king said with a smile, and then he looked at Garion.
   Aunt Pol followed his glance.
   "A boy, your Majesty," she said rather indifferently. "Garion by name. He was placed in my care some years ago and accompanies us because I didn't know what else to do with him."
   A terrible coldness struck at Garion's stomach. The certainty that her casual words were in fact the bald truth came crashing down upon him. She had not even tried to soften the blow. The indifference with which she had destroyed his life hurt almost more than the destruction itself.
   "Also welcome, Garion," the king said. "You travel in noble company for one so young."
   "I didn't know who they were, your Majesty," Garion said miserably. "Nobody tells me anything."
   The king laughed in tolerant amusement.
   "As you grow older, Garion," he said, "you'll probably find that during these days such innocence is the most comfortable state in which to live. I've been told things of late that I'd much prefer not to know."
   "May we speak privately now, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf said, his voice still irritated.
   "In good time, my old friend," the king replied. "I've ordered a banquet prepared in your honor. Let's all go in and dine. Layla and the children are waiting for us. There will be time later to discuss certain matters." And with that he rose and stepped down from the dais.
   Garion, sunk in his private misery, fell in beside Silk. "Prince Kheldar?" he said, desperately needing to take his mind off the shocking reality that had just fallen upon him.
   "An accident of birth, Garion," Silk said with a shrug. "Something over which I had no control. Fortunately I'm only the nephew of the King of Drasnia and far down in the line of succession. I'm not in any immediate danger of ascending the throne."
   "And Barak is-?"
   "The cousin of King Anheg of Cherek," Silk replied. He looked over his shoulder. "What is your exact rank, Barak?" he asked.
   "The Earl of Trellheim," Barak rumbled. "Why do you ask?"
   "The lad here was curious," Silk said.
   "It's all nonsense anyway," Barak said, "but when Anheg became king, someone had to become Clan-Chief. In Cherek you can't be both. It's considered unlucky—particularly by the chiefs of the other clans."
   "I can see why they might feel that way." Silk laughed.
   "It's an empty title anyway," Barak observed. "There hasn't been a clan war in Cherek for over three thousand years. I let my youngest brother act in my stead. He's a simpleminded fellow and easily amused. Besides, it annoys my wife."
   "You're married?" Garion was startled.
   "If you want to call it that," Barak said sourly.
   Silk nudged Garion warningly, indicating that this was a delicate subject.
   "Why didn't you tell us?" Garion demanded accusingly. "About your titles, I mean."
   "Would it have made any difference?" Silk asked.
   "Well—no," Garion admitted, "but " He stopped, unable to put his feelings about the matter into words. "I don't understand any of this," he concluded lamely.
   "It will all become clear in time," Silk assured him as they entered the banquet hall.
   The hall was almost as large as the throne room. There were long tables covered with fine linen cloth and once again candles everywhere. A servant stood behind each chair, and everything was supervised by a plump little woman with a beaming face and a tiny crown perched precariously atop her head. As they all entered, she came forward quickly.
   "Dear Pol," she said, "you look just wonderful." She embraced Aunt Pol warmly, and the two began talking together animatedly.
   "Queen Layla," Silk explained briefly to Garion. "They call her the Mother of Sendaria. The four children over there are hers. She has four or five others—older and probably away on state business, since Fulrach insists that his children earn their keep. It's a standard joke among the other kings that Queen Layla's been pregnant since she was fourteen, but that's probably because they're expected to send royal gifts at each new birth. She's a good woman, though, and she keeps King Fulrach from making too many mistakes."
   "She knows Aunt Pol," Garion said, and that fact disturbed him for some reason.
   "Everybody knows your Aunt Pol," Silk told him.
   Since Aunt Pol and the queen were deep in conversation and already drifting toward the head of the table, Garion stayed close to Silk. Don't let me make any mistakes, he gestured, trying to keep the movements of his fingers inconspicuous.
   Silk winked in reply.
   Once they were all seated and the food began to arrive, Garion began to relax. He found that all he had to do was follow Silk's lead, and the intricate niceties of formal dining no longer intimidated him. The talk around him was dignified and quite incomprehensible, but he reasoned that no one was likely to pay much attention to him and that he was probably safe if he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on his plate.
   An elderly nobleman with a beautifully curled silvery beard, however, leaned toward him. "You have traveled recently, I'm told," he said in a somewhat condescending tone. "How fares the kingdom, young man?"
   Garion looked helplessly across the table at Silk. What do I say? he gestured with his fingers.
   Tell him that the kingdom fares no better nor no worse than might be anticipated' under the present circumstances, Silk replied.
   Garion dutifully repeated that.
   "Ah," the old nobleman said, "much as I had expected. You're a very observant boy for one so young. I enjoy talking with young people. Their views are so fresh."
   Who is he? Garion gestured.
   The Earl of Seline, Silk replied. He's a tiresome old bore, but be polite to him. Address him as my Lord.
   "And how did you find the roads?" the earl inquired.
   "Somewhat in disrepair, my Lord," Garion replied with Silk's prompting. "But that's normal for this time of year, isn't it?"
   "Indeed it is," the earl said approvingly. "What a splendid boy you are."
   The strange three-way conversation continued, and Garion even began to enjoy himself as the comments fed to him by Silk seemed to amaze the old gentleman.
   At last the banquet was over, and the king rose from his seat at the head of the table. "And now, dear friends," he announced, "Queen Layla and I would like to visit privately with our noble guests, and so we pray you will excuse us." He offered his arm to Aunt Pol, Mister Wolf offered his to the plump little queen, and the four of them walked toward the far door of the hall.
   The Earl of Seline smiled broadly at Garion and then looked across the table. "I've enjoyed our conversation, Prince Kheldar," he said to Silk. "I may indeed be a tiresome old bore as you say, but that can sometimes be an advantage, don't you think?"
   Silk laughed ruefully. "I should have known that an old fox like you would be an adept at the secret language, my Lord."
   "A legacy from a misspent youth." The earl laughed. "Your pupil is most proficient, Prince Kheldar, but his accent is strange."
   "The weather was cold while he was learning, my Lord," Silk said, "and our fingers were a bit stiff. I'll correct the problem when we have leisure."
   The old nobleman seemed enormously pleased with himself at having outsmarted Silk. "Splendid boy," he said, patting Garion's shoulder, and then he went off chuckling to himself.
   "You knew he understood all along," Garion accused Silk.
   "Of course," Silk said. "Drasnian intelligence knows every adept at our secret speech. Sometimes it's useful to permit certain carefully selected messages to be intercepted. Don't ever underestimate the Earl of Seline, however. It's not impossible that he's at least as clever as I am, but look how much he enjoyed catching us."
   "Can't you ever do anything without being sly?" Garion asked. His tone was a bit grumpy, since he was convinced that somehow he had been the butt of the whole joke.
   "Not unless I absolutely have to, my Garion." Silk laughed. "People such as I continually practice deception—even when it's not necessary. Our lives sometimes depend on how cunning we are, and so we need to keep our wits sharp."
   "It must be a lonely way to live," Garion observed rather shrewdly at the silent prompting of his inner voice. "You never really trust anyone, do you?"
   "I suppose not," Silk said. "It's a game we play, Garion. We're all very skilled at it—at least we are if we intend to live very long. We all know each other, since we're members of a very small profession. The rewards are great, but after a while we play our game only for the joy of defeating each other. You're right, though. It is lonely, and sometimes disgusting—but most of the time it's a great deal of fun."
   Count Nilden came up to them and bowed politely. "His Majesty asks that you and the boy join him and your other friends in his private apartments, Prince Kheldar," he said. "If you'll be so good as to follow me."
   "Of course," Silk said. "Come along, Garion."
   The king's private apartments were much simpler than the ornate halls in the main palace. King Fulrach had removed his crown and state robes and now looked much like any other Sendar in rather ordinary clothes. He stood talking quietly with Barak. Queen Layla and Aunt Pol were seated on a couch deep in conversation, and Durnik was not far away, trying his best to look inconspicuous. Mister Wolf stood alone near a window, his face like a thundercloud.
   "Ah, Prince Kheldar," the king said. "We thought perhaps you and Garion had been waylaid."
   "We were fencing with the Earl of Seline, your Majesty," Silk said lightly. "Figuratively speaking, of course."
   "Be careful of him," the king cautioned. "It's quite possible that he's too shrewd even for one of your talents."
   "I have a great deal of respect for the old scoundrel." Silk laughed.
   King Fulrach glanced apprehensively at Mister Wolf, then squared his shoulders and sighed. "I suppose we'd better get this unpleasantness over with," he said. "Layla, would you entertain our other guests while I give our grim-faced old friend there and the Lady the opportunity to scold me. It's obvious that he's not going to be happy until they've said a few unkind things to me about some matters that weren't really my fault."
   "Of course, dear," Queen Layla said. "Try not to be too long and please don't shout. The children have been put to bed and they need their rest."
   Aunt Pol rose from the couch, and she and Mister Wolf, whose expression hadn't changed, followed the king into an adjoining chamber.
   "Well, then," Queen Layla said pleasantly; "what shall we talk about?"
   "I am instructed, your Highness, to convey the regards of Queen Porenn of Drasnia to you should the occasion arise," Silk said in a courtly manner. "She asks leave of you to broach a correspondence on a matter of some delicacy."
   "Why, of course," Queen Layla beamed. "She's a dear child, far too pretty and sweet-natured for that fat old bandit, Rhodar. I hope he hasn't made her unhappy."
   "No, your Highness," Silk said. "Amazing though it may seem, she loves my uncle to distraction, and he, of course, is delirious with joy over so young and beautiful a wife. It's positively sickening the way they dote on each other."
   "Some day, Prince Kheldar, you will fall in love," the queen said with a little smirk, "and the twelve kingdoms will stand around and chortle over the fall of so notorious a bachelor. What is this matter Porenn wishes to discuss with me?"
   "It's a question of fertility, your Highness," Silk said with a delicate cough. "She wants to present my uncle with an heir and she needs to seek your advice in the business. The entire world stands in awe of your gifts in that particular area."
   Queen Layla blushed prettily and then laughed.
   "I'll write to her at once," she promised.
   Garion by now had carefully worked his way to the door through which King Fulrach had taken Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf. He began a meticulous examination of a tapestry on the wall to conceal the fact that he was trying to hear what was going on behind the closed door. It took him only a moment to begin to pick up familiar voices.
   "Exactly what does all this foolishness mean, Fulrach?" Mister Wolf was saying.
   "Please don't judge me too hastily, Ancient One," the King said placatingly. "Some things have happened that you might not be aware of."
   "You know that I'm aware of everything that happens," Wolf said.
   "Did you know that we are defenseless if the Accursed One awakens? That which held him in check has been stolen from off the throne of the Rivan King."
   "As a matter of fact, I was following the trail of the thief when your noble Captain Brendig interrupted me in my search."
   "I'm sorry," Fulrach said, "but you wouldn't have gone much farther anyway. All the Kings of Aloria have been searching for you for three months now. Your likeness, drawn by the finest artists, is in the hands of every ambassador, agent and official of the five kingdoms of the north. Actually, you've been followed since you left Darine."
   "Fulrach, I'm busy. Tell the Alorn Kings to leave me alone. Why are they suddenly so interested in my movements?"
   "They want to have council with you," the king said. "The Alorns are preparing for war, and even my poor Sendaria is being quietly mobilized. If the Accursed One arises now, we're all doomed. The power that's been stolen can very possibly be used to awaken him, and his first move will be to attack the west—you know that, Belgarath. And you also know that until the return of the Rivan King, the west has no real defense."
   Garion blinked and started violently, then tried to cover the sudden movement by bending to look at some of the finer detail on the tapestry. He told himself that he had heard wrong. The name King Fulrach had spoken could not have really been Belgarath. Belgarath was a fairy-tale figure, a myth.
   "Just tell the Alorn Kings that I'm in pursuit of the thief," Mister Wolf said. "I don't have time for councils just now. If they'll leave me alone, I should be able to catch up with him before he can do any mischief with the thing he's managed to steal."
   "Don't tempt fate, Fulrach," Aunt Pol advised. "Your interference is costing us time we can't afford to lose. Presently I'll become vexed with you."
   The king's voice was firm as he answered. "I know your power, Lady Polgara," he said, and Garion jumped again. "I don't have any choice, however," the king continued. "I'm bound by my word to deliver you all up at Val Alorn to the Kings of Aloria, and a king can't break his word to other kings."
   There was a long silence in the other room while Garion's mind raced through a dozen possibilities.
   "You're not a bad man, Fulrach," Mister Wolf said. "Not perhaps as bright as I might wish, but a good man nonetheless. I won't raise my hand against you—nor will my daughter."
   "Speak of yourself, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said grimly.
   "No, Polgara," he said. "If we have to go to Val Alorn, let's go with all possible speed. The sooner we explain things to the Alorns, the sooner they'll stop interfering."
   "I think age is beginning to soften your brain, Father," Aunt Pol said. "We don't have the time for this excursion to Val Alorn. Fulrach can explain to the Alorn Kings."
   "It won't do any good, Lady Polgara," the king said rather ruefully. "As your father so pointedly mentioned, I'm not considered very bright. The Alorn Kings won't listen to me. If you leave now, they'll just send someone like Brendig to apprehend you again."
   "Then that unfortunate man may suddenly find himself living out the remainder of his days as a toad or possibly a radish," Aunt Pol said ominously.
   "Enough of that, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Is there a ship ready, Fulrach?"
   "It lies at the north wharf, Belgarath," the king replied. "A Cherek vessel sent by King Anheg."
   "Very well," Mister Wolf said. "Tomorrow then we'll go to Cherek. It seems that I'm going to have to point out a few things to some thickheaded Alorns. Will you be going with us?"
   "I'm obliged to," Fulrach said. "The council's to be general, and Sendaria's involved."
   "You haven't heard the last of this, Fulrach," Aunt Pol said.
   "Never mind, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "He's only doing what he thinks is right. We'll straighten it all out in Val Alorn."
   Garion was trembling as he stepped away from the door. It was impossible. His skeptical Sendarian upbringing made him at first incapable of even considering such an absurdity. Reluctantly, however, he finally forced himself to look the idea full in the face.
   What if Mister Wolf really was Belgarath the Sorcerer, a man who had lived for over seven thousand years? And what if Aunt Pol was really his daughter, Polgara the Sorceress, who was only slightly younger? All the bits and pieces, the cryptic hints, the half truths, fell together. Silk had been right; she could not be his Aunt. Garion's orphaning was complete now. He was adrift in the world with no ties of blood or heritage to cling to. Desperately he wanted to go home, back to Faldor's farm, where he could sink himself in unthinking obscurity in a quiet place where there were no sorcerers or strange searches or anything that would even remind him of Aunt Pol and the cruel hoax she had made of his life.

Part Two
CHEREK

Chapter Twelve

   IN THE GRAY FIRST LIGHT Of early morning they rode through the quiet streets of Sendar to the harbor and their waiting ship. The finery of the evening before had been put aside, and they had all resumed their customary clothes. Even King Fulrach and the Earl of Seline had donned plain garb and now resembled nothing quite so much as two moderately prosperous Sendars on a business trip. Queen Layla, who was not to go with them, rode beside her husband, talking earnestly to him with an expression on her face that seemed almost to hover on the verge of tears. The party was accompanied by soldiers, cloaked against the raw, chill wind off the sea.
   At the foot of the street which led down from the palace to the harbor, the stone wharves of Sendar jutted out into the choppy water, and there, rocking and straining against the hawsers which held her, was their ship. She was a lean vessel, narrow of beam and high-prowed, with a kind of wolfish appearance that did little to quiet Garion's nervousness about his first sea voyage. Lounging about on her deck were a number of savage-looking sailors, bearded and garbed in shaggy garments made of fur. With the exception of Barak, these were the first Chereks Garion had ever seen, and his first impression was that they would probably prove to be totally unreliable.
   "Barak!" a burly man halfway up the mast shouted and dropped hand over hand down a steeply slanting rope to the deck and then jumped across to the wharf.
   "Greldik!" Barak roared in response, swung down from his horse and clasped the evil-looking sailor in a bear hug.
   "It would seem that Lord Barak is acquainted with our captain," the Earl of Seline observed.
   "That's disquieting," Silk said wryly. "I was hoping for a sober, sensible captain of middle years and a conservative disposition. I'm not fond of ships and sea travel to begin with."
   "I'm told that Captain Greldik is one of the finest seamen in all of Cherek," the earl assured him.
   "My Lord," Silk said with a pained look, "Cherek definitions can be deceptive." Sourly he watched Barak and Greldik toasting their reunion with tankards of ale that had been passed down to them from the ship by a grinning sailor.
   Queen Layla had dismounted and she embraced Aunt Pol. "Please watch out for my poor husband, Pol," she said with a little laugh that quivered a bit. "Don't let those Alorn bullies goad him into doing anything foolish."
   "Of course, Layla," Aunt Pol said comfortingly.
   "Now, Layla," King Fulrach said in an embarrassed voice. "I'll be all right. I'm a grown man, after all."
   The plump little queen wiped her eyes. "I want you to promise to wear warm clothes," she said, "and not to sit up all night drinking with Anheg."
   "We're on serious business, Layla," the kind said. "There won't be time for any of that."
   "I know Anheg too well," the queen sniffed. She turned to Mister Wolf, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his bearded cheek. "Dear Belgarath," she said. "When this is over, promise that you and Pol will come back for a long visit."
   "I promise, Layla," Mister Wolf said gravely.
   "The tide is turning, Lord King," Greldik said, "and my ship is growing restless."
   "Oh dear," the queen said. She put her arms around the king's neck and buried her face in his shoulder.
   "Now, now," Fulrach said awkwardly.
   "If you don't go now, I'm going to cry right here in public," she said, pushing him away.
   The stones of the wharf were slippery, and the slim Cherek ship bobbed and rolled in the chop. The narrow plank they had to cross heaved and swayed dangerously, but they all managed to board without accident. The sailors slipped the hawsers and took their places at the oars. The lean vessel leaped away from the wharf and moved swiftly into the harbor past the stout and bulky merchantmen anchored nearby. Queen Layla stood forlornly on the wharf, surrounded by tall soldiers. She waved a few times and then stood watching, her chin lifted bravely.
   Captain Greldik took his place at the tiller with Barak by his side and signaled to a squat, muscular warrior crouched nearby. The squat man nodded and pulled a ragged square of sailcloth off a hide-topped drum.
   He began a slow beat, and the oarsmen immediately took up the rhythm. The ship surged ahead and made for the open sea.
   Once they were beyond the protection of the harbor, the swells grew so ponderous that the ship no longer rocked but ran instead down the back of each wave and up the face of the next. The long oars, dipping to the rhythm of the sullen drum, left little swirls on the surface of the waves. The sea was lead-gray beneath the wintry sky, and the low, snow-covered coastline of Sendaria slid by on their right, bleak and desolate-looking.
   Garion spent most of the day shivering in a sheltered spot near the high prow, moodily staring out at the sea. The shards and shambles into which his life had fallen the night before lay in ruins around him. The idea that Wolf was Belgarath and Aunt Pol was Polgara was of course an absurdity. He was convinced, however, that a part of the whole thing at least was true. She might not be Polgara, but she was almost certainly not his Aunt. He avoided looking at her as much as possible, and did not speak to anyone.
   They slept that night in cramped quarters beneath the stern deck of the ship. Mister Wolf sat talking for a long time with King Fulrach and the Earl of Seline. Garion covertly watched the old man whose silvery hair and short-cropped beard seemed almost to glow in the light from a swinging oil lamp hanging from one of the low beams. He still looked the same as always, and Garion finally turned over and went to sleep.
   The next day they rounded the hook of Sendaria and beat northeasterly with a good following wind. The sails were raised, and the oarsmen were able to rest. Garion continued to wrestle with his problem.
   On the third day out the weather turned stormy and bitterly cold. The rigging crackled with ice, and sleet hissed into the sea around them. "If this doesn't break, it will be a rough passage through the Bore," Barak said, frowning into the sleet.
   "The what?" Durnik asked apprehensively. Durnik was not at all comfortable on the ship. He was just recovering from a bout of seasickness, and he was obviously a bit edgy.
   "The Cherek Bore," Barak explained. "It's a passage about a league wide between the northern tip of Sendaria and the southern end of the Cherek peninsula—riptides, whirlpools, that sort of thing. Don't be alarmed, Durnik. This is a good ship, and Greldik knows the secret of navigating the Bore. It may be a bit rough, but we'll be perfectly safe unless we're unlucky, of course."
   "That's a cheery thing to say," Silk observed dryly from nearby. "I've been trying for three days not to think about the Bore."
   "Is it really that bad?" Durnik asked in a sinking voice.
   "I make a special point of not going through it sober," Silk told him.
   Barak laughed. "You ought to be thankful for the Bore, Silk," he said. "It keeps the Empire out of the Gulf of Cherek. All Drasnia would be a Tolnedran province if it wasn't there."
   "I admire it politically," Silk said, "but personally I'd be much happier if I never had to look at it again."
   On the following day they anchored near the rocky coast of northern Sendaria and waited for the tide to turn. In time it slackened and reversed, and the waters of the Sea of the Winds mounted and plunged through the Bore to raise the level of the Gulf of Cherek.
   "Find something solid to hold on to, Garion," Barak advised as Greldik ordered the anchor raised. "With this following wind, the passage could be interesting." He strode along the narrow deck, his teeth gleaming in a broad grin.
   It was foolish. Garion knew that, even as he stood up and began to follow the red-bearded man toward the prow, but four days of solitary brooding over a problem that refused to yield to any kind of logic made him feel almost belligerently reckless. He set his teeth together and took hold of a rusted iron ring embedded in the prow.
   Barak laughed and clapped him a stunning blow on the shoulder. "Good boy," he said approvingly. "We'll stand together and look the Bore right down the throat."
   Garion decided not to answer that.
   With wind and tide behind her, Greldik's ship literally flew through the passage, yawing and shuddering as she was seized by the violent riptides. Icy spray stung their faces, and Garion, half blinded by it, did not see the enormous whirlpool in the center of the Bore until they were almost upon it. He seemed to hear a vast roar and cleared his eyes just in time to see it yawning in front of him.
   "What's that?" he yelled over the noise.
   "The Great Maelstrom," Barak shouted. "Hold on."
   The Maelstrom was fully as large as the village of Upper Gralt and descended horribly down into a seething, mist-filled pit unimaginably far below. Incredibly, instead of guiding his vessel away from the vortex, Greldik steered directly at it.
   "What's he doing?" Garion screamed.
   "It's the secret of passing through the Bore," Barak roared. "We circle the Maelstrom twice to gain more speed. If the ship doesn't break up, she comes out like a rock from a sling, and we pass through the riptides beyond the Maelstrom before they can slow us down and drag us back."
   "If the ship doesn't what?"
   "Sometimes a ship is torn apart in the Maelstrom," Barak said. "Don't worry, boy. It doesn't happen very often, and Greldik's ship seems stout enough."
   The ship's prow dipped hideously into the outer edges of the Maelstrom and then raced twice around the huge whirlpool with the oarsmen frantically bending their backs to the frenzied beat of the drum. The wind tore at Garion's face, and he clung to his iron ring, keeping his eyes averted from the seething maw gaping below.
   And then they broke free and shot like a whistling stone through the churning water beyond the Maelstrom. The wind of their passage howled in the rigging, and Garion felt half suffocated by its force.
   Gradually the ship slowed in the swirling eddies, but the speed they had gained from the Maelstrom carried them on to calm water in a partially sheltered cove on the Sendarian side.
   Barak was laughing gleefully and mopping spray from his beard. "Well, lad," he said, "what do you think of the Bore?"
   Garion didn't trust himself to answer and concentrated on trying to pry his numb fingers from the iron ring.
   A familiar voice rang out from the stern.
   "Garion!"
   "Now you've gone and got me in trouble," Garion said resentfully, ignoring the fact that standing in the prow had been his own idea. Aunt Pol spoke scathingly to Barak about his irresponsibility and then turned her attention to Garion.
   "Well?" she said. "I'm waiting. Would you like to explain?"
   "It wasn't Barak's fault," Garion said. "It was my own idea." There was no point in their both being in trouble, after all.
   "I see," she said. "And what was behind that?"
   The confusion and doubt which had been troubling him made him reckless. "I felt like it," he said, half defiantly. For the first time in his life he felt on the verge of open rebellion.
   "You what?"
   "I felt like it," he repeated. "What difference does it make why I did it? You're going to punish me anyway."
   Aunt Pol stiffened, and her eyes blazed.
   Mister Wolf, who was sitting nearby, chuckled.
   "What's so funny?" she snapped.
   "Why don't you let me handle this, Pol?" the old man suggested.
   "I can deal with it," she said.
   "But not well, Pol," he said. "Not well at all. Your temper's too quick, and your tongue's too sharp. He's not a child anymore. He's not a man yet, but he's not a child either. The problem needs to be dealt with in a special way. I'll take care of it." He stood up. "I think I insist, Pol."
   "You what?"
   "I insist." His eyes hardened.
   "Very well," she said in an icy voice, turned, and walked away. "Sit down, Garion," the old man said.
   "Why's she so mean?" Garion blurted.
   "She isn't," Mister Wolf said. "She's angry because you frightened her. Nobody likes to be frightened."
   "I'm sorry," Garion mumbled, ashamed of himself.
   "Don't apologize to me," Wolf said. "I wasn't frightened." He looked for a moment at Garion, his eyes penetrating. "What's the problem?" he asked.
   "They call you Belgarath," Garion said as if that explained it all, "and they call her Polgara."
   "So."
   "It's just not possible."
   "Didn't we have this conversation before? A long time ago?"
   "Are you Belgarath?" Garion demanded bluntly.
   "Some people call me that. What difference does it make?"
   "I'm sorry," Garion said. "I just don't believe it:"
   "All right," Wolf shrugged. "You don't have to if you don't want to. What's that got to do with your being impolite to your Aunt?"
   "It's just " Garion faltered. "Well-" Desperately he wanted to ask Mister Wolf that ultimate, fatal question, but despite his certainty that there was no kinship between himself and Aunt Pol, he could not bear the thought of having it finally and irrevocably confirmed.
   "You're confused," Wolf said. "Is that it? Nothing seems to be like it ought to be, and you're angry with your Aunt because it seems like it has to be her fault."
   "You make it sound awfully childish," Garion said, flushing slightly.
   "Isn't it?"
   Garion flushed even more.
   "It's your own problem, Garion," Mister Wolf said. "Do you really think it's proper to make others unhappy because of it?"
   "No," Garion admitted in a scarcely audible voice.
   "Your Aunt and I are who we are," Wolf said quietly. "People have made up a lot of nonsense about us, but that doesn't really matter. There are things that have to be done, and we're the ones who have to do them. That's what matters. Don't make things more difficult for your Aunt just because the world isn't exactly to your liking. That's not only childish, it's ill-mannered, and you're a better boy than that. Now, I really think you owe her an apology, don't you?"
   "I suppose so," Garion said.
   "I'm glad we had this chance to talk," the old man said, "but I wouldn't wait too long before making up with her. You wouldn't believe how long she can stay angry." He grinned suddenly. "She's been angry with me for as long as I can remember, and that's so long that I don't even like to think about it."
   "I'll do it right now," Garion said.
   "Good," Wolf approved.
   Garion stood up and walked purposefully to where Aunt Pol stood staring out at the swirling currents of the Cherek Bore.
   "Aunt Pol," he said.
   "Yes, dear?"
   "I'm sorry. I was wrong."
   She turned and looked at him gravely.
   "Yes," she said, "you were."
   "I won't do it again."
   She laughed then, a low, warm laugh, and ran her fingers through his tangled hair. "Don't make promises you can't keep, dear," she said, and she embraced him, and everything was all right again.
   After the fury of the tide through the Cherek Bore had abated, they sailed north along the snow-mufled east coast of the Cherek peninsula toward the ancient city which was the ancestral home of all Alorns, Algar and Drasnian as well as Cherek and Rivan. The wind was chill and the skies threatening, but the remainder of the voyage was uneventful. After three more days their ship entered the harbor at Val Alorn and tied up at one of the ice-shrouded wharves.
   Val Alorn was unlike any Sendarian city. Its walls and buildings were so incredibly ancient that they seemed more like natural rock formations than the construction of human hands. The narrow, crooked streets were clogged with snow, and the mountains behind the city loomed high and white against the dark sky.
   Several horse-drawn sleighs awaited them at the wharf with savagelooking drivers and shaggy horses stamping impatiently in the packed snow. There were fur robes in the sleighs, and Garion drew one of them about him as he waited for Barak to conclude his farewells to Greldik and the sailors.
   "Let's go," Barak told the driver as he climbed into the sleigh. "See if you can't catch up with the others."
   "If you hadn't talked so long, they wouldn't be so far ahead, Lord Barak," the driver said sourly.
   "That's probably true," Barak agreed.
   The driver grunted, touched his horses with his whip, and the sleigh started up the street where the others had already disappeared. Fur-clad Cherek warriors swaggered up and down the narrow streets, and many of them bellowed greetings to Barak as the sleigh passed. At one corner their driver was forced to halt while two burly men, stripped to the waist in the biting cold, wrestled savagely in the snow in the center of the street to the encouraging shouts of a crowd of onlookers.
   "A common pastime," Barak told Garion. "Winter's a tedious time in Val Alorn."
   "Is that the palace ahead?" Garion asked.
   Barak shook his head. "The temple of Belar," he said. "Some men say that the Bear-God resides there in spirit. I've never seen him myself, though, so I can't say for sure."
   Then the wrestlers rolled out of the way, and they continued.
   On the steps of the temple an ancient woman wrapped in ragged woolen robes stood with a long staff clutched in one honey hand and her stringy hair wild about her face. "Hail, Lord Barak," she called in a cracked voice as they passed. "Thy Doom still awaits thee."
   "Stop the sleigh," Barak growled at the driver, and he threw off his fur robe and jumped to the ground. "Martje," he thundered at the old woman. "You've been forbidden to loiter here. If I tell Anheg that you've disobeyed him, he'll have the priests of the temple burn you for a witch."
   The old woman cackled at him, and Garion noted with a shudder that her eyes were milk-white blankness.
   "The fire will not touch old Martje," she laughed shrilly. "That is not the Doom which awaits her."
   "Enough of dooms," Barak said. "Get away from the temple."
   "Martje sees what she sees," the old woman said. "The mark of thy Doom is still upon thee, great Lord Barak. When it comes to thee, thou shalt remember the words of old Martje." And then she seemed to look at the sleigh where Garion sat, though her milky eyes were obviously blind. Her expression suddenly changed from malicious glee to one strangely awestruck.
   "Hail, greatest of Lords," she crooned, bowing deeply. "When thou comest into throe inheritance, remember that it was old Martje who first greeted thee."
   Barak started toward her with a roar, but she scurried away, her staff tapping on the stone steps.
   "What did she mean?" Garion asked when Barak returned to the sleigh.
   "She's a crazy woman," Barak replied, his face pale with anger. "She's always lurking around the temple, begging and frightening gullible housewives with her gibberish. If Anheg had any sense, he'd have had her driven out of the city or burned years ago." He climbed back into the sleigh. "Let's go," he growled at the driver.
   Garion looked back over his shoulder as they sped away, but the old blind woman was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Thirteen

   THE PALACE OF KING ANHEG Of Cherek was a vast, brooding structure near the center of Val Alorn. Huge wings, many of them crumbled into decay with unpaned windows staring emptily at the open sky through collapsed roofs, stretched out from the main building in all directions. So far as Garion could tell there was no plan to the palace whatsoever. It had, it seemed, merely grown over the three thousand years and more that the kings of Cherek had ruled there.
   "Why is so much of it empty and broken down like that?" he asked Barak as their sleigh whirled into the snow-packed courtyard.
   "What some kings build, other kings let fall down," Barak said shortly. "It's the way of kings." Barak's mood had been black since their encounter with the blind woman at the temple.
   The others had all dismounted and stood waiting.
   "You've been away from home too long if you can get lost on the way from the harbor to the palace," Silk said pleasantly.
   "We were delayed," Barak grunted.
   A broad, ironbound door at the top of the wide steps that led up to the palace opened then as if someone behind it had been waiting for them all to arrive. A woman with long flaxen braids and wearing a deep scarlet cloak trimmed with rich fur stepped out onto the portico at the top of the stairs and stood looking down at them. "Greetings, Lord Barak, Earl of Trellheim and husband," she said formally.
   Barak's face grew even more somber. "Merel," he acknowledged with a curt nod.
   "King Anheg granted me permission to greet you, my Lord," Barak's wife said, "as is my right and my duty."
   "You've always been most attentive to your duties, Merel," Barak said. "Where are my daughters?"
   "At Trellheim, my Lord," she said. "I didn't think it would be a good idea for them to travel so far in the cold." There was a faintly malicious note in her voice.
   Barak sighed. "I see," he said.
   "Was I in error, my Lord?" Merel asked.
   "Let it pass," Barak said.
   "If you and your friends are ready, my Lord," she said, "I'll escort you to the throne room."
   Barak went up the stairs, briefly and rather formally embraced his wife, and the two of them went through the wide doorway.
   "Tragic," the Earl of Seline murmured, shaking his head as they all went up the stairs to the palace door.
   "Hardly that," Silk said. "After all, Barak got what he wanted, didn't he?"
   "You're a cruel man, Prince Kheldar," the earl said.
   "Not really," Silk said. "I'm a realist, that's all. Barak spent all those years yearning after Merel, and now he's got her. I'm delighted to see such steadfastness rewarded. Aren't you?"
   The Earl of Seline sighed.
   A party of mailed warriors joined them and escorted them through a maze of corridors, up broad stairs and down narrow ones, deeper and deeper into the vast pile.
   "I've always admired Cherek architecture," Silk said sardonically. "It's so unanticipated."
   "Expanding the palace gives weak kings something to do," King Fulrach observed. "It's not a bad idea, really. In Sendaria bad kings usually devote their time to street-paving projects, but all of Val Alorn was paved thousands of years ago."
   Silk laughed. "It's always been a problem, your Majesty," he said. "How do you keep bad kings out of mischief?"
   "Prince Kheldar," King Fulrach said, "I don't wish your uncle any misfortune, but I think it might be very interesting if the crown of Drasnia just happened to fall to you."
   "Please, your Majesty," Silk said with feigned shock, "don't even suggest that."
   "Also a wife," the Earl of Seline said slyly. "The prince definitely needs a wife."
   "That's even worse," Silk said with a shudder.
   The throne room of King Anheg was a vaulted chamber with a great fire pit in the center where whole logs blazed and crackled. Unlike the lushly draped hall of King Fulrach, the stone walls here were bare, and torches flared and smoked in iron rings sunk in the stone. The men who lounged near the fire were not the elegant courtiers of Fulrach's court, but rather were bearded Cherek warriors, gleaming in chain mail. At one end of the room sat five thrones, each surmounted by a banner. Four of the thrones were occupied, and three regal-looking women stood talking nearby.
   "Fulrach, King of Sendaria!" one of the warriors who had escorted them boomed, striking the butt of his spear hollowly on the rush-strewn stone floor.
   "Hail, Fulrach," a large, black-bearded man on one of the thrones called, rising to his feet. His long blue robe was wrinkled and spotted, and his hair was shaggy and unkempt. The gold crown he wore was dented in a place or two, and one of its points had been broken off
   "Hail, Anheg," the King of the Sendars replied, bowing slightly. "Thy throne awaits thee, my dear Fulrach," the shaggy-haired man said, indicating the banner of Sendaria behind the one vacant throne. "The Kings of Aloria welcome the wisdom of the King of Sendaria at this council."
   Garion found the stilted, archaic form of address strangely impressive.
   "Which king is which, friend Silk?" Durnik whispered as they approached the thrones.
   "The fat one in the red robe with the reindeer on his banner is my uncle, Rhodar of Drasnia. The lean-faced one in black under the horse banner is Cho-Hag of Algaria. The big, grim-faced one in gray with no crown who sits beneath the sword banner is Brand, the Rivan Warder."
   "Brand?" Garion interrupted, startled as he remembered the stories of the Battle of Vo Mimbre.
   "All Rivan Warders are named Brand," Silk explained.
   King Fulrach greeted each of the other kings in the formal language that seemed to be customary, and then he took his place beneath the green banner with its golden sheaf of wheat that was the emblem of Sendaria.
   "Hail Belgarath, Disciple of Aldur," Anheg said, "and hail Lady Polgara, honored daughter of immortal Belgarath."
   "There's little time for all this ceremony, Anheg," Mister Wolf said tartly, throwing back his cloak and striding forward. "Why have the Kings of Aloria summoned me?"
   "Permit us our little ceremonies, Ancient One," Rhodar, the grossly fat King of Drasnia said slyly. "We so seldom have the chance to play king. We won't be much longer at it."
   Mister Wolf shook his head in disgust.
   One of the three regal-looking women came forward then. She was a tall, raven-haired beauty in an elaborately cross-tied black velvet gown. She curtsied to King Fulrach and touched her cheek briefly to his. "Your Majesty," she said, "your presence honors our home."
   "Your Highness," Fulrach replied, inclining his head respectfully.
   "Queen Islena," Silk murmured to Durnik and Garion, "Anheg's wife." The little man's nose twitched with suppressed mirth. "Watch her when she greets Polgara."
   The queen turned and curtsied deeply to Mister Wolf. "Divine Belgarath," she said, her rich voice throbbing with respect.
   "Hardly divine, Islena," the old man said dryly.
   "Immortal son of Aldur," she swept on, ignoring the interruption, "mightiest sorcerer in all the world. My poor house trembles at the awesome power you bring within its walls."
   "A pretty speech, Islena," Wolf said. "A little inaccurate, but pretty all the same."
   But the queen had already turned to Aunt Pol. "Glorious sister," she intoned.
   "Sister?" Garion was startled.
   "She's a mystic," Silk said softly. "She dabbles a bit in magic and thinks of herself as a sorceress. Watch."
   With an elaborate gesture the queen produced a green jewel and presented it to Aunt Pol.
   "She had it up her sleeve," Silk whispered gleefully.
   "A royal gift, Islena," Aunt Pol said in a strange voice. "A pity that I can only offer this in return." She handed the queen a single deep red rose.
   "Where did she get that?" Garion asked in amazement. Silk winked at him.
   The queen looked at the rose doubtfully and cupped it between her two hands. She examined it closely, and her eyes widened. The color drained out of her face, and her hands began to tremble.
   The second queen had stepped forward. She was a tiny blonde with a beautiful smile. Without ceremony she kissed King Fulrach and then Mister Wolf and embraced Aunt Pol warmly. Her affection seemed simple and unselfconscious.
   "Porenn, Queen of Drasnia," Silk said, and his voice had an odd note to it. Garion glanced at him and saw the faintest hint of a bitter, self mocking expression flicker across his face. In that single instant, as clearly as if it had suddenly been illuminated by a bright light, Garion saw the reason for Silk's sometimes strange manner. An almost suffocating surge of sympathy welled up in his throat.
   The third queen, Silar of Algaria, greeted King Fulrach, Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol with a few brief words in a quiet voice.
   "Is the Rivan Warder unmarried?" Durnik asked, looking around for another queen.
   "He had a wife," Silk said shortly, his eyes still on Queen Porenn, "but she died some years ago. She left him four sons."
   "Ah," Durnik said.
   Then Barak, grim-faced and obviously angry, entered the hall and strode to King Anheg's throne.
   "Welcome home, cousin," King Anheg said. "I thought perhaps you'd lost your way."
   "Family business, Anheg," Barak said. "I had to have a few words with my wife."
   "I see," Anheg said and let it drop.
   "Have you met our friends?" Barak asked.
   "Not as yet, Lord Barak," King Rhodar said. "We were involved with the customary formalities." He chuckled, and his great paunch jiggled. "I'm sure you all know the Earl of Seline," Barak said, "and this is Durnik, a smith and a brave man. The boy's name is Garion. He's in Lady Polgara's care—a good lad."
   "Do you suppose we could get on with this?" Mister Wolf asked impatiently.
   Cho-Hag, King of the Algars, spoke in a strangely soft voice. "Are thou aware, Belgarath, of the misfortune which hath befallen us? We turn to thee for counsel."
   "Cho-Hag," Wolf said testily, "you sound like a bad Arendish epic. Is all this theeing and thouing really necessary?"
   Cho-Hag looked embarrassed and glanced at King Anheg.
   "My fault, Belgarath," Anheg said ruefully. "I set scribes to work to record our meetings. Cho-Hag was speaking to history as well as to you." His crown had slipped a bit and perched precariously over one ear.
   "History's very tolerant, Anheg," Wolf said. "You don't have to try to impress her. She'll forget most of what we say anyway." He turned to the Rivan Warder. "Brand," he said, "do you suppose you could explain all this without too much embellishment?"
   "I'm afraid it's my fault, Belgarath," the gray-robed Warder said in a deep voice. "The Apostate was able to carry off his theft because of my laxity."
   "The thing's supposed to protect itself, Brand," Wolf told him. "You can't even touch it. I know the thief, and there's no way you could have kept him out of Riva. What concerns me is how he was able to lay hands on it without being destroyed by its power."
   Brand spread his hands helplessly. "We woke one morning, and it was gone. The priests were only able to divine the name of the thief. The Spirit of the Bear-God wouldn't say any more. Since we knew who he was, we were careful not to speak his name or the name of the thing he took."
   "Good," Wolf said. "He has ways to pick words out of the air at great distances. I taught him how to do that myself."
   Brand nodded. "We knew that," he said. "It made phrasing our message to you difficult. When you didn't come to Riva and my messenger didn't return, I thought something had gone wrong. That's when we sent men out to find you."
   Mister Wolf scratched at his beard. "I guess it's my own fault that I'm here then," he said. "I borrowed your messenger. I had to get word to some people in Arendia. I suppose I should have known better."
   Silk cleared his throat. "May I speak?" he asked politely.
   "Certainly, Prince Kheldar," King Anheg said.
   "Is it entirely prudent to continue these discussions in public?" Silk asked. "The Murgos have enough gold to buy ears in many places, and the arts of the Grolims can lift the thoughts out of the minds of the most loyal warriors. What isn't known can't be revealed, if you take my meaning."
   "The warriors of Anheg aren't so easily bought, Silk," Barak said testily, "and there aren't any Grolims in Cherek."
   "Are you also confident about the serving men and the kitchen wenches?" Silk suggested. "And I've found Grolims in some very unexpected places."
   "There's something in what my nephew says," King Rhodar said, his face thoughtful. "Drasnia has centuries of experience in the gathering of information, and Kheldar is one of our best. If he thinks that our words might go further than we'd want them to, we might be wise to listen to him."
   "Thank you, uncle," Silk said, bowing.
   "Could you penetrate this palace, Prince Kheldar?" King Anheg challenged.
   "I already have, your Majesty," Silk said modestly, "a dozen times or more."
   Anheg looked at Rhodar with one raised eyebrow.
   Rhodar coughed slightly. "It was some time ago, Anheg. Nothing serious. I was just curious about something, that's all."
   "All you had to do was ask," Anheg said in a slightly injured tone.
   "I didn't want to bother you," Rhodar said with a shrug. "Besides, it's more fun to do it the other way."
   "Friends," King Fulrach said, "the issue before us is too important to chance compromising it. Wouldn't it be better to be overcautious rather than take any risks?"
   King Anheg frowned and then shrugged. "Whatever you wish," he said. "We'll continue in private then. Cousin, would you clear old King Eldrig's hall for us and set guards in the hallways near it?"
   "I will, Anheg," Barak said. He took a dozen warriors and left the hall.
   The kings rose from their thrones-all except Cho-Hag. A lean warrior, very nearly as tall as Barak and with the shaved head and flowing scalp lock of the Algars, stepped forward and helped him up.
   Garion looked inquiringly at Silk.
   "An illness when he was a child," Silk explained softly. "It left his legs so weak that he can't stand unaided."
   "Doesn't that make it kind of hard for him to be king?" Garion asked.
   "Algars spend more time sitting on horses than they do standing on their feet," Silk said. "Once he's on a horse, Cho-Hag's the equal of any man in Algaria. The warrior who's helping him is Hettar, his adopted son."
   "You know him?" Garion asked.
   "I know everyone, Garion." Silk laughed softly. "Hettar and I have met a few times. I like him, though I'd rather he didn't know that."
   Queen Porenn came over to where they stood. "Islena's taking Silar and me to her private quarters," she said to Silk. "Apparently women aren't supposed to be involved in matters of state here in Cherek."
   "Our Cherek cousins have a few blind spots, your Highness," Silk said. "They're arch-conservatives, of course, and it hasn't occurred to them yet that women are human."
   Queen Porenn winked at him with a sly little grin. "I'd hoped that we might get a chance to talk, Kheldar, but it doesn't look like it now. Did you get my message to Layla?"
   Silk nodded. "She said she'd write to you immediately," he said. "If we'd known you were going to be here, I could have carried her letter myself."
   "It was Islena's idea," she said. "She decided that it might be nice to have a council of queens while the kings were meeting. She'd have invited Layla too, but everyone knows how terrified she is of sea travel."
   "Has your council produced anything momentous, Highness?" Silk asked lightly.
   Queen Porenn made a face. "We sit around and watch Islena do tricks—disappearing coins, things up her sleeves, that kind of thing," she said. "Or she tells fortunes. Silar's too polite to object, and I'm the youngest, so I'm not supposed to say too much. It's terribly dull, particularly when she goes into trances over that stupid crystal ball of hers. Did Layla think she could help me?"
   "If anyone can," Silk assured her. "I should warn you, though, that her advice is likely to be quite explicit. Queen Layla's an earthy little soul, and sometimes very blunt."
   Queen Porenn giggled wickedly. "That's all right," she said. "I'm a grown woman, after all."
   "Of course," Silk said. "I just wanted to prepare you, that's all."
   "Are you making fun of me, Kheldar?" she asked.
   "Would I do that, your Highness?" Silk asked, his face full of innocence.
   "I think you would," she said.
   "Coming, Porenn?" Queen Islena asked from not far away.
   "At once, your Highness," the queen of Drasnia said. Her fingers flickered briefly at Silk. What a bore.
   Patience, Highness, Silk gestured in reply.
   Queen Porenn docilely followed the stately Queen of Cherek and the silent Queen of Algaria from the hall. Silk's eyes followed her, and his face had that same self mocking expression as before.
   "The others are leaving," Garion said delicately and pointed to the far end of the hall where the Alorn Kings were just going out the door.
   "All right," Silk said and led the way quickly after them.
   Garion stayed at the rear of the group as they all made their way through the drafty corridors toward King Eldrig's hall. The dry voice in his mind told him that if Aunt Pol saw him, she'd probably find a reason to send him away.
   As he loitered along at the rear of the procession, a furtive movement flickered briefly far down one of the side corridors. He caught only one glimpse of the man, an ordinary-looking Cherek warrior wearing a dark green cloak, and then they had moved past that corridor. Garion stopped and stepped back to look again, but the man in the green cloak was gone.
   At the door to King Eldrig's hall, Aunt Pol stood waiting with her arms crossed. "Where have you been?" she asked.
   "I was just looking," he said as innocently as possible.
   "I see," she said. Then she turned to Barak. "The council's probably going to last for a long time," she said, "and Garion's just going to get restless before it's over. Is there someplace where he can amuse himself until suppertime?"
   "Aunt Pol!" Garion protested.
   "The armory, perhaps?" Barak suggested.
   "What would I do in an armory?" Garion demanded.
   "Would you prefer the scullery?" Aunt Pol asked pointedly.
   "On second thought, 1 think I might like to see the armory."
   "I thought you might."
   "It's at the far end of this corridor, Garion," Barak said. "The room with the red door."
   "Run along, dear," Aunt Pol said, "and try not to cut yourself on anything."
   Garion sulked slowly down the corridor Barak had pointed out to him, keenly feeling the injustice of the situation. The guards posted in the passageway outside King Eldrig's hall even made eavesdropping impossible. Garion sighed and continued his solitary way toward the armory.
   The other part of his mind was busy, however, mulling over certain problems. Despite his stubborn refusal to accept the possibility that Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol were indeed Belgarath and Polgara, the behavior of the Alorn Kings made it obvious that they at least did believe it. Then there was the question of the rose Aunt Pol had given to Queen Islena. Setting aside the fact that roses do not bloom in the winter, how had Aunt Pol known that Islena would present her with that green jewel and therefore prepared the rose in advance? He deliberately avoided the idea that his Aunt had simply created the rose on the spot.
   The corridor along which he passed, deep in thought, was dim, with only a few torches set in rings on the walls to light the way. Side passages branched out from it here and there, gloomy, unlighted openings that stretched back into the darkness. He had almost reached the armory when he heard a faint sound in one of those dark passages. Without knowing exactly why, he drew back into one of the other openings and waited.
   The man in the green cloak stepped out into the lighted corridor and looked around furtively. He was an ordinary-looking man with a short, sandy beard, and he probably could have walked anywhere in the palace without attracting much notice. His manner, however, and his stealthy movements cried out louder than words that he was doing something he was not supposed to be doing. He hurried up the corridor in the direction from which Garion had come, and Garion shrank back into the protective darkness of his hiding place. When he carefully poked his head out into the corridor again, the man had disappeared, and it was impossible to know down which of those dark side passageways he had gone.
   Garion's inner voice told him that even if he told anyone about this, they wouldn't listen. He'd need more than just an uneasy feeling of suspicion to report if he didn't want to appear foolish. All he could do for the time being was to keep his eyes open for the man in the green cloak.

Chapter Fourteen

   IT WAS SNOWING the following morning, and Aunt Pol, Silk, Barak, and Mister Wolf again met for council with the kings, leaving Garion in Durnik's keeping. The two sat near the fire in the huge hall with the thrones, watching the two dozen or so bearded Cherek warriors who lounged about or engaged in various activities to pass the time. Some of them sharpened their swords or polished their armor; others ate or sat drinking-even though it was still quite early in the morning; several were engaged in a heated dice game; and some simply sat with their backs against the wall and slept.
   "These Chereks seem to be very idle people," Durnik said quietly to Garion. "I haven't seen anyone actually working since we arrived, have you?"
   Garion shook his head. "I think these are the king's own warriors," he said just as quietly. "I don't think they're supposed to do anything except sit around and wait for the king to tell them to go fight someone."
   Durnik frowned disapprovingly. "It must be a terribly boring way to live," he said.
   "Durnik," Garion asked after a moment, "did you notice the way Barak and his wife acted toward each other?"
   "It's very sad," Durnik said. "Silk told me about it yesterday. Barak fell in love with her when they were both very young, but she was highborn and didn't take him very seriously."
   "How does it happen that they're married, then?" Garion asked.
   "It was her family's idea," Durnik explained. "After Barak became the Earl of Trellheim, they decided that a marriage would give them a valuable connection. Merel objected, but it didn't do her any good. Silk said that Barak found out after they were married that she's really a very shallow person, but of course it was too late by then. She does spiteful things to try to hurt him, and he spends as much time away from home as possible."
   "Do they have any children?" Garion asked.
   "Two," Durnik said. "Both girls—about five and seven. Barak loves them very much, but he doesn't get to see them very often."
   Garion sighed. "I wish there was something we could do," he said.
   "We can't interfere between a man and his wife," Durnik said. "Things like that just aren't done."
   "Did you know that Silk's in love with his aunt?" Garion said without stopping to think.
   "Garion!" Durnik's voice was shocked. "That's an unseemly thing to say."
   "It's true all the same," Garion said defensively. "Of course she's not really his aunt, I guess. She's his uncle's second wife. It's not exactly like she was his real aunt."
   "She's married to his uncle," Durnik said firmly. "Who made up this scandalous story?"
   "Nobody made it up," Garion said. "I was watching his face when he talked to her yesterday. It's pretty plain the way he feels about her."
   "I'm sure you just imagined it," Durnik said disapprovingly. He stood up. "Let's look around. That will give us something better to do than sit here gossiping about our friends. It's really not the sort of thing decent men do."
   "All right," Garion agreed quickly, a little embarrassed. He stood up and followed Durnik across the smoky hall and out into the corridor. "Let's have a look at the kitchen," Garion suggested.
   "And the smithy, too," Durnik said.
   The royal kitchens were enormous. Entire oxen roasted on spits, and whole flocks of geese simmered in lakes of gravy. Stews bubbled in cartsized cauldrons, and battalions of loaves were marched into ovens big enough to stand in. Unlike Aunt Pol's well-ordered kitchen at Faldor's farm, everything here was chaos and confusion. The head cook was a huge man with a red face who screamed orders which everyone ignored. There were shouts and threats and a great deal of horseplay. A spoon heated in a fire and left where an unsuspecting cook would pick it up brought shrieks of mirth, and one man's hat was stolen and deliberately thrown into a seething pot of stew.
   "Let's go someplace else, Durnik," he said. "This isn't what I expected at all."
   Durnik nodded. "Mistress Pol would never tolerate all of this foolishness," he agreed disapprovingly.
   In the hallways outside the kitchen a maid with reddish-blond hair and a pale green dress cut quite low at the bodice loitered.
   "Excuse me," Durnik said to her politely, "could you direct us to the smithy?"
   She looked him up and down boldly. "Are you new here?" she asked. "I haven't seen you before."
   "We're just visiting," Durnik said.
   "Where are you from?" she demanded.
   "Sendaria," Durnik said.
   "How interesting. Perhaps the boy could run this errand for you, and you and I could talk for a while." Her look was direct.
   Durnik coughed, and his ears reddened. "The smithy?" he asked again.
   The maid laughed lightly. "In the courtyard at the end on this corridor," she said. "I'm usually around here someplace. I'm sure you can find me when you finish your business with the smith."
   "Yes," Durnik said, "I'm sure I could. Come along, Garion."
   They went on down the corridor and out into a snowy inner courtyard.
   "Outrageous!" Durnik said stiffly, his ears still flaming. "The girl has no sense of propriety whatsoever. I'd report her if I knew to whom."
   "Shocking," Garion agreed, secretly amused by Durnik's embarrassment. They crossed the courtyard through the lightly sifting snow.
   The smithy was presided over by a huge, black-bearded man with forearms as big as Garion's thighs. Durnik introduced himself and the two were soon happily talking shop to the accompaniment of the ringing blows of the smith's hammer. Garion noticed that instead of the plows, spades, and hoes that would fill a Sendarian smithy, the walls here were hung with swords, spears, and war axes. At one forge an apprentice was hammering out arrowheads, and at another, a lean, one-eyed man was working on an evil-looking dagger.
   Durnik and the smith talked together for most of the remainder of the morning while Garion wandered about the inner courtyard watching the various workmen at their tasks. There were coopers and wheelwrights, cobblers and carpenters, saddlers and candlemakers, all busily at work to maintain the huge household of King Anheg. As he watched, Garion also kept his eyes open for the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak he'd seen the night before. It wasn't likely that the man would be here where honest work was being done, but Garion stayed alert all the same.
   About noon, Barak came looking for them and led them back to the great hall where Silk lounged, intently watching a dice game.
   "Anheg and the others want to meet privately this afternoon," Barak said. "I've got an errand to run, and I thought you might want to go along."
   "That might not be a bad idea," Silk said, tearing his eyes from the game. "Your cousin's warriors dice badly, and I'm tempted to try a few rolls with them. It would probably be better if I didn't. Most men take offense at losing to strangers."
   Barak grinned. "I'm sure they'd be glad to let you play, Silk," he said. "They've got just as much chance of winning as you do."
   "Just as the sun has as much chance of coming up in the west as in the east," Silk said.
   "Are you that sure of your skill, friend Silk?" Durnik asked.
   "I'm sure of theirs." Silk chuckled. He jumped up. "Let's go," he said. "My fingers are starting to itch. Let's get them away from temptation."
   "Anything you say, Prince Kheldar." Barak laughed.
   They all put on fur cloaks and left the palace. The snow had almost stopped, and the wind was brisk.
   "I'm a bit confused by all these names," Durnik said as they trudged toward the central part of Val Alorn. "I've been meaning to ask about it. You, friend Silk, are also Prince Kheldar and sometimes the merchant Ambar of Kotu, and Mister Wolf is called Belgarath, and Mistress Pol is also Lady Polgara or the Duchess of Erat. Where I come from, people usually have one name."
   "Names are like clothes, Durnik," Silk explained. "We put on what's most suitable for the occasion. Honest men have little need to wear strange clothes or strange names. Those of us who aren't so honest, however, occasionally have to change one or the other."
   "I don't find it amusing to hear Mistress Pol described as not being honest," Durnik said stifliy.
   "No disrespect intended," Silk assured him. "Simple definitions don't apply to Lady Polgara; and when I say that we're not honest, I simply mean that this business we're in sometimes requires us to conceal ourselves from people who are evil as well as devious."
   Durnik looked unconvinced but let it pass.
   "Let's take this street," Barak suggested. "I don't want to pass the Temple of Belar today."
   "Why?" Garion asked.
   "I'm a little behind in my religious duties," Barak said with a pained look, "and I'd rather not be reminded of it by the High Priest of Belar. His voice is very penetrating, and I don't like being called down in front of the whole city. A prudent man doesn't give either a priest or a woman the opportunity to scold him in public."
   The streets of Val Alorn were narrow and crooked, and the ancient stone houses were tall and narrow with overhanging second stories. Despite the intermittent snow and the crisp wind, the streets seemed full of people, most of them garbed in furs against the chill.
   There was much good-humored shouting and the exchange of bawdy insults. Two elderly and dignified men were pelting each other with snowballs in the middle of one street to the raucous encouragement of the bystanders.
   "They're old friends," Barak said with a broad grin. "They do this every day all winter long. Pretty soon they'll go to an alehouse and get drunk and sing old songs together until they fall off their benches. They've been doing it for years now."
   "What do they do in the summer?" Silk asked.
   "They throw rocks," Barak said. "The drinking and singing and falling off the benches stays the same, though."
   "Hello, Barak," a green-eyed young woman called from an upper window. "When are you coming to see me again?"
   Barak glanced up, and his face flushed, but he didn't answer.
   "That lady's talking to you, Barak," Garion said.
   "I heard her," Barak replied shortly.
   "She seems to know you," Silk said with a sly look.
   "She knows everyone," Barak said, flushing even more. "Shall we move along?"
   Around another corner a group of men dressed in shaggy furs shufted along in single file. Their gait was a kind of curious swaying from side to side, and people quickly made way for them.
   "Hail, Lord Barak," their leader intoned.
   "Hail, Lord Barak," the others said in unison, still swaying. Barak bowed stitpy.
   "May the arm of Belar protect thee," the leader said. "All praise to Belar, Bear-God of Aloria," the others said. Barak bowed again and stood until the procession had passed.
   "Who were they?" Durnik asked.
   "Bear-cultists," Barak said with distaste. "Religious fanatics."
   "A troublesome group," Silk explained. "They have chapters in all the Alorn kingdoms. They're excellent warriors, but they're the instruments of the High Priest of Belar. They spend their time in rituals, military training, and interfering in local politics."
   "Where's this Aloria they spoke of?" Garion asked.
   "All around us," Barak said with a broad gesture. "Aloria used to be all the Alorn kingdoms together. They were all one nation. The cultists want to reunite them."
   "That doesn't seem unreasonable," Durnik said.
   "Aloria was divided for a reason," Barak said. "A certain thing had to be protected, and the division of Aloria was the best way to do that."
   "Was this thing so important?" Durnik asked.
   "It's the most important thing in the world," Silk said. "The Bearcultists tend to forget that."
   "Only now it's been stolen, hasn't it?" Garion blurted as that dry voice in his mind informed him of the connection between what Barak and Silk had just said and the sudden disruption of his own life. "It's this thing that Mister Wolf is following."
   Barak glanced quickly at him. "The lad is wiser than we thought, Silk," he said soberly.
   "He's a clever boy," Silk agreed, "and it's not hard to put it all together." His weasel face was grave. "You're right, of course, Garion," he said. "We don't know how yet, but somebody's managed to steal it. If Belgarath gives the word, the Alorn Kings will take the world apart stone by stone to get it back."
   "You mean war?" Durnik said in a sinking voice.
   "There are worse things than war," Barak said grimly. "It might be a good opportunity to dispose of the Angaraks once and for all."
   "Let's hope that Belgarath can persuade the Alorn Kings otherwise," Silk said.
   "The thing has to be recovered," Barak insisted.
   "Granted," Silk agreed, "but there are other ways, and I hardly think a public street's the place to discuss our alternatives."
   Barak looked around quickly, his eyes narrowing.
   They had by then reached the harbor where the masts of the ships of Cherek rose as thickly as trees in a forest. They crossed an icy bridge over a frozen stream and came to several large yards where the skeletons of ships lay in the snow.
   A limping man in a leather smock came from a low stone building in the center of one of the yards and stood watching their approach.
   "Ho, Krendig," Barak called.
   "Ho, Barak," the man in the leather smock replied.
   "How does the work go?" Barak asked.
   "Slowly in this season," Krendig said. "It's not a good time to work with wood. My artisans are fashioning the fittings and sawing the boards, but we won't be able to do much more until spring."
   Barak nodded and walked over to lay his hand on the new wood of a ship prow rising out of the snow. "Krendig is building this for me," he said, patting the prow. "She'll be the finest ship afloat."
   "If your oarsmen are strong enough to move her," Krendig said. "She'll be very big, Barak, and very heavy."
   "Then I'll man her with big men," Barak said, still gazing at the ribs of his ship.
   Garion heard a gleeful shout from the hillside above the shipyard and looked up quickly. Several young people were sliding down the hill on smooth planks. It was obvious that Barak and the others were going to spend most of the rest of the afternoon discussing the ship. While that might be all very interesting, Garion realized that he hadn't spoken with anyone his own age for a long time. He drifted away from the others and stood at the foot of the hill, watching.
   One blond girl particularly attracted his eye. In some ways she reminded him of Zubrette, but there were some differences. Where Zubrette had been petite, this girl was as big as a boy—though she was noticeably not a boy. Her laughter rang out merrily, and her cheeks were pink in the cold afternoon air as she slid down the hill with her long braids flying behind her.
   "That looks like fun," Garion said as her improvised sled came to rest nearby.
   "Would you like to try?" she asked, getting up and brushing the snow from her woolen dress.
   "I don't have a sled," he told her.
   "I might let you use mine," she said, looking at him archly, "if you give me something."
   "What would you want me to give you?" he asked.
   "We'll think of something," she said, eyeing him boldly. "What's your name?"
   "Garion," he said.
   "What an odd name. Do you come from here?"
   "No. I'm from Sendaria."
   "A Sendar? Truly?" Her blue eyes twinkled. "I've never met a Sendar before. My name is Maidee."
   Garion inclined his head slightly.
   "Do you want to use my sled?" Maidee asked.
   "I might like to try it," Garion said.
   "I might let you," she said, "for a kiss."
   Garion blushed furiously, and Maidee laughed.
   A large red-haired boy in a long tunic slid to a stop nearby and rose with a menacing look on his face.
   "Maidee, come away from there," he ordered.
   "What if I don't want to?" she asked.
   The red-haired boy swaggered toward Garion.
   "What are you doing here?" he demanded.
   "I was talking with Maidee," Garion said.
   "Who gave you permission?" the red-haired boy asked. He was a bit taller than Garion and somewhat heavier.
   "I didn't bother to ask permission," Garion said.
   The red-haired boy glowered, flexing his muscles threateningly.
   "I can thrash you if I like," he announced.
   Garion realized that the redhead was feeling belligerent and that a fight was inevitable. The preliminaries-threats, insults and the likewould probably go on for several more minutes, but the fight would take place as soon as the boy in the long tunic had worked himself up to it. Garion decided not to wait. He doubled his fist and punched the larger boy in the nose.
   The blow was a good one, and the redhead stumbled back and sat down heavily in the snow. He raised one hand to his nose and brought it away bright red.
   "It's bleeding!" he wailed accusingly. "You made my nose bleed."
   "It'll stop in a few minutes," Garion said.
   "What if it doesn't?"
   "Nose bleeds don't last forever," Garion told him.
   "Why did you hit me?" the redhead demanded tearfully, wiping his nose. "I didn't do anything to you."
   "You were going to," Garion said. "Put snow on it, and don't be such a baby."
   "It's still bleeding," the boy said.
   "Put snow on it," Garion said again.
   "What if it doesn't stop bleeding?"
   "Then you'll probably bleed to death," Garion said in a heartless tone. It was a trick he had learned from Aunt Pol. It worked as well on the Cherek boy as it had on Doroon and Rundorig. The redhead blinked at him and then took a large handful of snow and held it to his nose.
   "Are all Sendars so cruel?" Maidee asked.
   "I don't know all the people in Sendaria," Garion said. The affair hadn't turned out well at all, and regretfully he turned and started back toward the shipyard.
   "Garion, wait," Maidee said. She ran after him and caught him by the arm. "You forgot my kiss," she said, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips.
   "There," she said, and she turned and ran laughing back up the hill, her blond braids flying behind her.
   Barak, Silk and Durnik were all laughing when he returned to where they stood.
   "You were supposed to chase her," Barak said.
   "What for?" Garion asked, flushing at their laughter.
   "She wanted you to catch her."
   "I don't understand."
   "Barak," Silk said, "I think that one of us is going to have to inform the Lady Polgara that our Garion needs some further education."
   "You're skilled with words, Silk," Barak said. "I'm sure you ought to be the one to tell her."
   "Why don't we throw dice for the privilege?" Silk suggested.
   "I've seen you throw dice before, Silk." Barak laughed.
   "Of course we could simply stay here a while longer," Silk said slyly. "I rather imagine that Garion's new playmate would be quite happy to complete his education, and that way we wouldn't have to bother Lady Polgara about it."
   Garion's ears were flaming. "I'm not as stupid as all that," he said hotly. "I know what you're talking about, and you don't have to say anything to Aunt Pol about it." He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow.
   After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter, and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets hurried to get home before dark.
   Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he couldn't see the hooded man's face, there was no need of that. They had looked at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo's presence here was very important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried another approach.
   "Barak," he asked, "are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?"
   "There aren't any Murgos in Cherek," Barak said. "Angaraks aren't allowed in the kingdom on pain of death. It's our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?"
   "I was just wondering," Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen.
   That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg's central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a broadly exaggerated account of Garion's encounter with the young people on the hillside.
   "A great blow it was," he said in expansive tones, "worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the brighteyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero's greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid's fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory's true compensation."
   The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the table and their knees and each others' backs in their glee. Queen Islena and Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel, however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked at her husband.
   Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and advice.
   "Is that really the way it happened, nephew?" King Rhodar demanded of Silk, wiping tears from his eyes.
   "More or less," Silk replied. "Lord Barak's telling was masterly, though a good deal embellished."
   "We should send for a minstrel," the Earl of Seline said. "This exploit should be immortalized in song."
   "Don't tease him," Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion.
   Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.
   "Isn't it odd that three grown men can't keep one boy out of trouble?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
   "It was only one blow, my Lady," Silk protested, "and only one kiss, after all."
   "Really?" she said. "And what's it going to be next time? A duel with swords, perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?"
   "There was no real harm in it, Mistress Pol," Durnik assured her. Aunt Pol shook her head. "I thought you at least had good sense, Durnik," she said, "but now I see that I was wrong."
   Garion suddenly resented her remarks. It seemed that no matter what he did, she was ready to take it in the worst possible light. His resentment flared to the verge of open rebellion. What right had she to say anything about what he did? There was no tie between them, after all, and he could do anything he wanted without her permission if he felt like it. He glared at her in sullen anger.
   She caught the look and returned it with a cool expression that seemed almost to challenge him. "Well?" she asked.
   "Nothing," he said shortly.

Chapter Fifteen

   THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and crisp. The sky was a deep blue, and the sunlight was dazzling on the white mountaintops that rose behind the city. After breakfast, Mister Wolf announced that he and Aunt Pol would again meet privately that day with Fulrach and the Alorn Kings.
   "Good idea," Barak said. "Gloomy ponderings are good for kings. Unless one has regal obligations, however, it's much too fine a day to be wasted indoors." He grinned mockingly at his cousin.
   "There's a streak of cruelty in you that I hadn't suspected, Barak," King Anheg said, glancing longingly out a nearby window.
   "Do the wild boars still come down to the edges of the forest?" Barak asked.
   "In droves," Anheg replied even more disconsolately.
   "I thought I might gather a few good men and go out and see if we can thin their numbers a bit," Barak said, his grin even wider now.
   "I was almost sure you had something like that in mind," Anheg said moodily, scratching at his unkempt hair.
   "I'm doing you a service, Anheg," Barak said. "You don't want your kingdom overrun with the beasts, do you?"
   Rhodar, the fat King of Drasnia, laughed hugely. "I think he's got you, Anheg," he said.
   "He usually does," Anheg agreed sourly.
   "I gladly leave such activities to younger and leaner men," Rhodar said. He slapped his vast paunch with both hands. "I don't mind a good supper, but I'd rather not have to fight with it first. I make too good a target. The blindest boar in the world wouldn't have much trouble finding me."
   "Well, Silk," Barak said, "what do you say?"
   "You're not serious," Silk said.
   "You must go along, Prince Kheldar," Queen Porenn insisted. "Someone has to represent the honor of Drasnia in this venture."
   Silk's face looked pained.
   "You can be my champion," she said, her eyes sparkling.
   "Have you been reading Arendish epics again, your Highness?" Silk asked acidly.
   "Consider it a royal command," she said. "Some fresh air and exercise won't hurt you. You're starting to look dyspeptic."
   Silk bowed ironically. "As you wish, your Highness," he said. "I suppose that if things get out of hand I can always climb a tree."
   "How about you, Durnik?" Barak asked.
   "I don't know much about hunting, friend Barak," Durnik said doubtfully, "but I'll come along if you like."
   "My Lord?" Barak asked the Earl of Seline politely.
   "Oh, no, Lord Barak." Seline laughed. "I outgrew my enthusiasm for such sport years ago. Thanks for the invitation, however."
   "Hettar?" Barak asked the rangy Algar. Hettar glanced quickly at his father.
   "Go along, Hettar," Cho-Hag said in his soft voice. "I'm sure King Anheg will lend me a warrior to help me walk."
   "I'll do it myself, Cho-Hag," Anheg said. "I've carned heavier burdens."
   "I'll go with you then, Lord Barak," Hettar said. "And thanks for asking me." His voice was deep and resonant, but very soft, much like that of his father.
   "Well, lad?" Barak asked Garion.
   "Have you lost your wits entirely, Barak?" Aunt Pol snapped. "Didn't you get him into enough trouble yesterday?"
   That was the last straw. The sudden elation he'd felt at Barak's invitation turned to anger. Garion gritted his teeth and threw away all caution. "If Barak doesn't think I'll just be in the way, I'll be glad to go along," he announced defiantly.
   Aunt Pol stared at him, her eyes suddenly very hard.
   "Your cub is growing teeth, Pol." Mister Wolf chuckled.
   "Be still, father," Aunt Pol said, still glaring at Garion.
   "Not this time, Miss," the old man said with a hint of iron in his voice. "He's made his decision, and you're not going to humiliate him by unmaking it for him. Garion isn't a child now. You may not have noticed, but he's almost man high and filling out now. He'll soon be fifteen, Pol. You're going to have to relax your grip sometime, and now's as good a time as any to start treating him like a man."
   She looked at him for a moment.
   "Whatever you say, father," she said at last with deceptive meekness. "I'm sure we'll want to discuss this later, though-in private."
   Mister Wolf winced.
   Aunt Pol looked at Garion then. "Try to be careful, dear," she said, "and when you come back, we'll have a nice long talk, won't we?"
   "Will my Lord require my aid in arming himself for the hunt?" Lady Merel asked in the stilted and insulting manner she always assumed with Barak.
   "That won't be necessary, Merel," Barak said.
   "I would not neglect any of my duties," she said.
   "Leave it alone, Merel," Barak said. "You've made your point."
   "Have I my Lord's permission then to withdraw?" she asked.
   "You have," he said shortly.
   "Perhaps you ladies would like to join me," Queen Islena said. "We'll cast auguries and see if we can predict the outcome of the hunt."
   Queen Porenn, who stood somewhat behind the Queen of Cherek, rolled her eyes upward in resignation.
   Queen Silar smiled at her.
   "Let's go then," Barak said. "The boars are waiting."
   "Sharpening their tusks, no doubt," Silk said.
   Barak led them down to the red door of the armory where they were joined by a grizzled man with enormously broad shoulders who wore a bullhide shirt with metal plates sewn on it.
   "This is Torvik," Barak introduced the grizzled man, "Anheg's chief huntsman. He knows every boar in the forest by his first name."
   "My Lord Barak is overkind," Torvik said, bowing.
   "How does one go about this hunting of boars, friend Torvik?" Durnik asked politely. "I've never done it before."
   "It's a simple thing," Torvik explained. "I take my huntsmen into the forest and we drive the beasts with noise and shouting. You and the other hunters wait for them with these." He gestured at a rack of stout, broad-headed boar spears. "When the boar sees you standing in his way, he charges you and tries to kill you with his tusks, but instead you kill him with your spear."
   "I see," Durnik said somewhat doubtfully. "It doesn't sound very complicated."
   "We wear mail shirts, Durnik," Barak said. "Our hunters are hardly ever injured seriously."
   " `Hardly ever' has an uncomfortable ring of frequency to it, Barak," Silk said, fingering a mail shirt hanging on a peg by the door.
   "No sport is very entertaining without a certain element of risk." Barak shrugged, hefting a boar spear.
   "Have you ever thought of throwing dice instead?" Silk asked.
   "Not with your dice, my friend." Barak laughed.
   They began pulling on mail shirts while Torvik's huntsmen carried several armloads of boar spears out to the sleighs waiting in the snowy courtyard of the palace.
   Garion found the mail shirt heavy and more than a little uncomfortable. The steel rings dug at his skin even through his heavy clothes, and every time he tried to shift his posture to relieve the pressure of one of them, a half dozen others bit at him. The air was very cold as they climbed into the sleighs, and the usual fur robes seemed hardly adequate.
   They drove through the narrow, twisting streets of Val Alorn toward the great west gate on the opposite side of the city from the harbor. The breath of the horses steamed in the icy air as they rode.
   The ragged old blind woman from the temple stepped from a doorway as they passed in the bright morning sun. "Hail, Lord Barak," she croaked. "Thy Doom is at hand. Thou shalt taste of it before this day's sun finds its bed."
   Without a word Barak rose in his sleigh, took up a boar spear and cast it with deadly accuracy full at the old woman.
   With surprising speed, the witch-woman swung her staff and knocked the spear aside in midair. "It will avail thee not to try to kill old Martje." She laughed scornfully. "Thy spear shall not find her, neither shall thy sword. Go thou, Barak. Thy Doom awaits thee." And then she turned toward the sleigh in which Garion sat beside the startled Durnik. "Hail, Lord of Lords," she intoned. "Thy peril this day shall be great, but thou shall survive it. And it is thy peril which shall reveal the mark of the beast which is the Doom of thy friend Barak." And then she bowed and scampered away before Barak could lay his hands on another spear.
   "What was that about, Garion?" Durnik asked, his eyes still surprised.
   "Barak says she's a crazy old blind woman," Garion said. "She stopped us when we arrived in Val Alorn after you and the others had already passed."
   "What was all that talk about Doom?" Durnik asked with a shudder.
   "I don't know," Garion said. "Barak wouldn't explain it."
   "It's a bad omen so early in the day," Durnik said. "These Chereks are a strange people."
   Garion nodded in agreement.
   Beyond the west gate of the city were open fields, sparkling white in the full glare of the morning sun. They crossed the fields toward the dark edge of the forest two leagues away with great plumes of powdery snow flying out behind their racing sleighs.
   Farmsteads lay muffled in snow along their track. The buildings were all made of logs and had high-peaked wooden roofs.
   "These people seem to be indifferent to danger," Durnik said. "I certainly wouldn't want to live in a wooden house—what with the possibility of fire and all."
   "It's a different country, after all," Garion said. "We can't expect the whole world to live the way we do in Sendaria."
   "I suppose not," Durnik sighed, "but I'll tell you, Garion, I'm not very comfortable here. Some people just aren't meant for travel. Sometimes I wish we'd never left Faldor's farm."
   "I do too, sometimes," Garion admitted, looking at the towering mountains that seemed to rise directly out of the forest ahead. "Someday it will be over, though, and we'll be able to go home again."
   Durnik nodded and sighed once more.
   By the time they had entered the woods, Barak had regained his temper and his good spirits, and he set about placing the hunters as if nothing had happened. He led Garion through the calf deep snow to a large tree some distance from the narrow sleigh track.
   "This is a good place," he said. "There's a game trail here, and the boars may use it to try to escape the noise of Torvik and his huntsmen. When one comes, brace yourself and hold your spear with its point aimed at his chest. They don't see very well, and he'll run full into your spear before he even knows it's there. After that it's probably best to jump behind a tree. Sometimes the spear makes them very angry."
   "What if I miss?" Garion asked.
   "I wouldn't do that," Barak advised. "It's not a very good idea."
   "I didn't mean that I was going to do it on purpose," Garion said. "Will he try to get away from me or what?"
   "Sometimes they'll try to run," Barak said, "but I wouldn't count on it. More likely he'll try to split you up the middle with his tusks. At that point it's usually a good idea to climb a tree."
   "I'll remember that," Garion said.
   "I won't be far away if you have trouble," Barak promised, handing Garion a pair of heavy spears. Then he trudged back to his sleigh, and they all galloped off, leaving Garion standing alone under the large oak tree.
   It was shadowy among the dark tree trunks, and bitingly cold. Garion walked around a bit through the snow, looking for the best place to await the boar. The trail Barak had pointed out was a beaten path winding back through the dark brush, and Garion found the size of the tracks imprinted in the snow on the path alarmingly large. The oak tree with low-spreading limbs began to look very inviting, but he dismissed that thought angrily. He was expected to stand on the ground and meet the charge of the boar, and he decided that he would rather die than hide in a tree like a frightened child.
   The dry voice in his mind advised him that he spent far too much time worrying about things like that. Until he was grown, no one would consider him a man, so why should he go to all the trouble of trying to seem brave when it wouldn't do any good anyway?
   The forest was very quiet now, and the snow muffled all sounds. No bird sang, and there was only the occasional padded thump of snow sliding from overloaded branches to the earth beneath. Garion felt terribly alone. What was he doing here? What business had a good, sensible Sendarian boy here in the endless forests of Cherek, awaiting the charge of a savage wild pig with only a pair of unfamiliar spears for company?
   What had the pig ever done to him? He realized that he didn't even particularly like the taste of pork.
   He was some distance from the beaten forest track along which their sleighs had passed, and he set his back to the oak tree, shivered, and waited.
   He didn't realize how long he had been listening to the sound when he became fully aware of it. It was not the stamping, squealing rush of a wild boar he had been expecting but was, rather, the measured pace of several horses moving slowly along the snow-carpeted floor of the forest, and it was coming from behind him. Cautiously he eased his face around the tree.
   Three riders, muffled in furs, emerged from the woods on the far side of the sleigh-churned track. They stopped and sat waiting. Two of them were bearded warriors, little different from dozens of others Garion had seen in King Anheg's palace. The third man, however, had long, flaxencolored hair and wore no beard. His face had the sullen, pampered look of a sPolled child, although he was a man of middle years, and he sat his horse disdainfully as if the company of the other two somehow offended him.
   After a time, the sound of another horse came from near the edge of the forest. Almost holding his breath, Garion waited. The other rider slowly approached the three who sat their horses in the snow at the edge of the trees. It was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak whom Garion had seen creeping through the passageways of King Anheg's palace two nights before.
   "My Lord," the green-cloaked man said deferentially as he joined the other three.
   "Where have you been?" the flaxen-haired man demanded.
   "Lord Barak took some of his guests on a boar hunt this morning. His route was the same as mine, and I didn't want to follow too closely."
   The nobleman grunted sourly.
   "We saw them deeper in the wood," he said. "Well, what have you heard?"
   "Very little, my Lord. The kings are meeting with the old man and the woman in a guarded chamber. I can't get close enough to head what they're saying."
   "I'm paying you good gold to get close enough. I have to know what they're saying. Go back to the palace and work out a way to hear what they're talking about."
   "I'll try, my Lord," the green-cloaked man said, bowing somewhat stifliy.
   "You'll do more than try," the flaxen-haired man snapped.
   "As you wish, my Lord," the other said, starting to turn his horse.
   "Wait," the nobleman commended. "Were you able to meet with our friend?"
   "Your friend, my Lord," the other corrected with distaste. "I met him, and we went to a tavern and talked a little."
   "What did he say?"
   "Nothing very useful. His kind seldom do."
   "Will he meet us as he said he would?"
   "He told me that he would. If you want to believe him, that's your affair."
   The nobleman ignored that.
   "Who arrived with the King of the Sendars?"
   "The old man and the woman, another old man-some Sendarian noble, I think, Lord Barak and a weasel-faced Drasnian, and another Sendar—a commoner of some sort."
   "That's all? Wasn't there a boy with them as well?"
   The spy shrugged.
   "I didn't think the boy was important," he said.
   "He's there then-in the palace?"
   "He is, my Lord-an ordinary Sendarian boy of about fourteen, I'd judge. He seems to be some kind of servant to the woman."
   "Very well. Go back to the palace and get close enough to that chamber to hear what the kings and the old man are saying."
   "That may be very dangerous, my Lord."
   "It'll be more dangerous if you don't. Now go, before that ape Barak comes back and finds you loitering here." He whirled his horse and, followed by his two warriors, plunged back into the forest on the far side of the snowy track that wound among the dark trees.
   The man in the green cloak sat grimly watching for a moment, then he too turned his horse and rode back the way he had come.
   Garion rose from his crouched position behind the tree. His hands were clenched so tightly around the shaft of his spear that they actually ached. This had gone entirely too far, he decided. The matter must be brought to someone's attention.
   And then, some way ofi in the snowy depths of the wood, he heard the sound of hunting horns and the steely clash of swords ringing rhythmically on shields. The huntsmen were coming, driving all the beasts of the forest before them.
   He heard a crackling in the bushes, and a great stag bounded into view, his eyes wild with fright and his antlers flaring above his head. With three huge leaps he was gone. Garion trembled with excitement.
   Then there was a squealing rush, and a red-eyed sow plunged down the trail followed by a half dozen scampering piglets. Garion stepped behind his tree and let them pass.
   The next squeals were deeper and rang less with fright than with rage. It was the boar-Garion knew that before the beast even broke out of the heavy brush. When the boar appeared, Garion felt his heart quail.
   This was no fat, sleepy porker, but rather a savage, infuriated beast. The horrid tusks jutting up past the flaring snout were yellow, and bits of twigs and bark clung to them, mute evidence that the boar would slash at anything in his path-trees, bushes or a Sendarian boy without sense enough to get out of his way.
   Then a peculiar thing happened. As in the long-ago fight with Rundorig or in the scuffle with Brill's hirelings in the dark streets of Muros, Garion felt his blood begin to surge, and there was a wild ringing in his ears. He seemed to hear a defiant, shouted challenge and could scarcely accept the fact that it came from his own throat. He suddenly realized that he was stepping into the middle of the trail and crouching with his spear braced and leveled at the massive beast.
   The boar charged. Red-eyed and frothing from the mouth, with a deep-throated squeal of fury, he plunged at the waiting Garion. The powdery snow sprayed up from his churning hooves like foam from the prow of a ship.The snow crystals seemed to hang in the air, sparkling in a single ray of sunlight that chanced just there to reach the forest floor.
   The shock as the boar hit the spear was frightful, but Garion's aim was good. The broad-bladed spearhead penetrated the coarsely haired chest, and the white froth dripping from the boar's tusks suddenly became bloody foam. Garion felt himself driven back by the impact, his feet slipping out from under him, and then the shaft of his spear snapped like a dry twig and the boar was on him.
   The first slashing, upward-ripping blow of the boar's tusks took Garion full in the stomach, and he felt the wind whoosh out of his lungs. The second slash caught his hip as he tried to roll, gasping, out of the way. His chain-mail shirt deflected the tusks, saving him from being wounded, but the blows were stunning. The boar's third slash caught him in the back, and he was flung through the air and crashed into a tree. His eyes filled with shimmering light as his head banged against the rough bark.
   And then Barak was there, roaring and charging through the snowbut somehow it seemed not to be Barak. Garion's eyes, glazed from the shock of the blow to his head, looked uncomprehendingly at something that could not be true. It was Barak, there could be no doubt of that, but it was also something else. Oddly, as if somehow occupying the same space as Barak, there was also a huge, hideous bear. The images of the two figures crashing through the snow were superimposed, their movements identical as if in sharing the same space they also shared the same thoughts.
   Huge arms grasped up the wriggling, mortally wounded boar and crushed in upon it. Bright blood fountained from the boar's mouth, and the shaggy, half man thing that seemed to be Barak and something else at the same time raised the dying pig and smashed it brutally to the ground. The man-thing lifted its awful face and roared in earthshaking triumph as the light slid away from Garion's eyes and he felt himself drifting down into the gray well of unconsciousness.
   There was no way of knowing how much time passed until he came to in the sleigh. Silk was applying a cloth filled with snow to the back of his neck as they flew across the glaring white fields toward Val Alorn.
   "I see you've decided to live." Silk grinned at him.
   "Where's Barak?" Garion mumbled groggily.
   "In the sleigh behind us," Silk said, glancing back.
   "Is he-all right?"
   "What could hurt Barak?" Silk asked.
   "I mean—does he seem like himself?"
   "He seems like Barak to me." Silk shrugged. "No, boy, lie still. That wild pig may have cracked your ribs." He placed his hands on Garion's chest and gently held him down.
   "My boar?" Garion demanded weakly. "Where is it?"
   "The huntsmen are bringing it," Silk said. "You'll get your triumphal entry. If I might suggest it, however, you should give some thought to the virtue of constructive cowardice. These instincts of yours could shorten your life."
   But Garion had already slipped back into unconsciousness.
   And then they were in the palace, and Barak was carrying him, and Aunt Pol was there, white-faced at the sight of all the blood.
   "It's not his," Barak assured her quickly. "He speared a boar, and it bled on him while they were tussling. I think the boy's all right—a little rap on the head is all."
   "Bring him," Aunt Pol said curtly and led the way up the stairs toward Garion's room.
   Later, with his head and chest wrapped and a foul-tasting cup of Aunt Pol's brewing making him light-headed and sleepy, Garion lay in his bed listening as Aunt Pol finally turned on Barak.
   "You great overgrown dolt," she raged. "Do you see what all your foolishness has done?"
   "The lad is very brave," Barak said, his voice low and sunk in a kind of bleak melancholy.
   "Brave doesn't interest me," Aunt Pol snapped. Then she stopped. "What's the matter with you?" she demanded. She reached out suddenly and put her hands on the sides of the huge man's head. She looked for a moment into his eyes and then slowly released him. "Oh," she said softly, "it finally happened, I see."
   "I couldn't control it, Polgara," Barak said in misery.
   "It'll be all right, Barak," she said, gently touching his bowed head.
   "It'll never be all right again," Barak said.
   "Get some sleep," she told him. "It won't seem so bad in the morning."
   The huge man turned and quietly left the room.
   Garion knew they were talking about the strange thing he had seen when Barak had rescued him from the boar, and he wanted to ask Aunt Pol about it; but the bitter drink she had given him pulled him down into a deep and dreamless sleep before tIe could put the words together to ask the question.

Chapter Sixteen

   THE NEXT DAY Garion was too stiff and sore to even think about getting out of bed. A stream of visitors, however, kept him too occupied to think about his aches and pains. The visits from the Alorn Kings in their splendid robes were particularly flattering, and each of them praised his courage. Then the queens came and made a great fuss over his injuries, offering warm sympathy and gentle, stroking touches to his forehead. The combination of praise, sympathy and the certain knowledge that he was the absolute center of attention was overwhelming, and his heart was full.
   The last visitor of the day, however, was Mister Wolf, who came when evening was creeping through the snowy streets of Val Alorn. The old man wore his usual tunic and cloak, and his hood was turned up as if he had been outside.
   "Have you seen my boar, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked proudly.
   "An excellent animal," Wolf said, though without much enthusiasm, "but didn't anyone tell you it's customary to jump out of the way after the boar has been speared?"
   "I didn't really think about it," Garion admitted, "but wouldn't that seem—well—cowardly?"
   "Were you that concerned about what a pig might think of you?"
   "Well," Garion faltered, "not really, I guess."
   "You're developing an amazing lack of good sense for one so young," Wolf observed. "It normally takes years and years to reach the point you seem to have arrived at overnight." He turned to Aant Pol, who sat nearby. "Polgara, are you quite certain that there's no hint of Arendish blood in our Garion's background? He's been behaving most Arendish lately. First he rides the Great Maelstrom like a rocking horse, and then he tries to break a wild boar's tusks with his ribs. Are you sure you didn't drop him on his head when he was a baby?"
   Aunt Pol smiled, but said nothing.
   "I hope you recover soon, boy," Wolf said, "and try to give some thought to what I've said."
   Garion sulked, mortally offended by Mister Wolf's words. Tears welled up in his eyes despite all his efforts to control them.
   "Thank you for stopping by, Father," Aunt Pol said.
   "It's always a pleasure to call on you, my daughter," Wolf said and quietly left the room.
   "Why did he have to talk to me like that?" Garion burst out, wiping his nose. "Now he's gone and spoiled it all."
   "Spoiled what, dear?" Aunt Pol asked, smoothing the front of her gray dress.
   "All of it," Garion complained. "The kings all said I was very brave."
   "Kings say things like that," Aunt Pol said. "I wouldn't pay too much attention, if I were you."
   "I was brave, wasn't I?"
   "I'm sure you were, dear," she said. "And I'm sure the pig was very impressed."
   "You're as bad as Mister Wolf is," Garion accused.
   "Yes, dear," she said, "I suppose I probably am, but that's only natural. Now, what would you like for supper?"
   "I'm not hungry," Garion said defiantly.
   "Really? You probably need a tonic then. I'll fix you one."
   "I think I've changed my mind," Garion said quickly.
   "I rather thought you might," Aunt Pol said. And then, without explanation, she suddenly put her arms around him and held him close to her for a long time. "What am I going to do with you?" she said finally.
   "I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he assured her.
   "This time perhaps," she said, taking his face between her hands. "It's a splendid thing to be brave, my Garion, but try once in a while to think a little bit first. Promise me."
   "All right, Aunt Pol," he said, a little embarrassed by all this. Oddly enough she still acted as if she really cared about him. The idea that there could still be a bond between them even if they were not related began to dawn on him. It could never be the same, of course, but at least it was something. He began to feel a little better about the whole thing.
   The next day he was able to get up. His muscles still ached a bit, and his ribs were somewhat tender, but he was young and was healing fast. About midmorning he was sitting with Durnik in the great hall of Anheg's palace when the silvery-bearded Earl of Seline approached them.
   "King Fulrach wonders if you would be so kind as to join us in the council chamber, Goodman Durnik," he said politely.
   "Me, your Honor?" Durnik asked incredulously.
   "His Majesty is most impressed with your sensibility," the old gentleman said. "He feels that you represent the very best of Sendarian practicality. What we face involves all men, not just the Kings of the West, and so it's only proper that good, solid common sense be represented in our proceedings."
   "I'll come at once, your Honor," Durnik said, getting up quickly, "but you'll have to forgive me if I say very little."
   Garion waited expectantly.
   "We've all heard of your adventure, my boy," the Earl of Seline said pleasantly to Garion. "Ah, to be young again," he sighed. "Coming, Durnik?"
   "Immediately, your Honor," Durnik said, and the two of them made their way out of the great hall toward the council chamber.
   Garion sat alone, wounded to the quick by his exclusian. He was at an age where his self esteem was very tender, and inwardly he writhed at the lack of regard implicit in his not being invited to join them. Hurt and offended, he sulkily left the great hall and went to visit his boar which hung in an ice-filled cooling room just oti the kitchen. At least the boar had taken him seriously.
   One could, however, spend only so much time in the company of a dead pig without becoming depressed. The boar did not seem nearly so big as he had when he was alive and charging, and the tusks were impressive but neither so long nor so sharp as Garion remembered them. Besides, it was cold in the cooling room and sore muscles stiffened quickly in chilly places.
   There was no point in trying to visit Barak. The red-bearded man had locked himself in his chamber to brood in blackest melancholy and refused to answer his door, even to his wife. And so Garion, left entirely on his own, moped about for a while and then decided that he might as well explore this vast palace with its dusty, unused chambers and dark, twisting corridors. He walked for what seemed hours, opening doors and following hallways that sometimes ended abruptly against blank stone walls.
   The palace of Anheg was enormous, having been, as Barak had explained, some three thousand years and more in construction. One southern wing was so totally abandoned that its entire roof had fallen in centuries ago. Garion wandered there for a time in the second-floor corridors of the ruin, his mind filled with gloomy thoughts of mortality and transient glory as he looked into rooms where snow lay thickly on ancient beds and stools and the tiny tracks of mice and squirrels ran everywhere. And then he came to an unroofed corridor where there were other tracks, those of a man. The footprints were quite fresh, for there was no sign of snow in them and it had snowed heavily the night before. At first he thought the tracks might be his own and that he had somehow circled and come back to a corridor he had already explored, but the footprints were much larger than his.
   There were a dozen possible explanations, of course, but Garion felt his breath quicken. The man in the green cloak was still lurking about the palace, Asharak the Murgo was somewhere in Val Alorn, and the flaxen-haired nobleman was hiding somewhere in the forest with obviously unfriendly intentions.
   Garion realized that the situation might be dangerous and that he was unarmed except for his small dagger. He retraced his steps quickly to a snowy chamber he had just explored and took down a rusty sword from a peg where it had hung forgotten for uncountable years. Then, feeling a bit more secure, he returned to follow the silent tracks.
   So long as the path of the unknown intruder lay in that roofless and long-abandoned corridor, following him was simplicity itself; the undisturbed snow made tracking easy. But once the trail led over a heap of fallen debris and into the gaping blackness of a dusty corridor where the roof was still intact, things became a bit more difficult. The dust on the floor helped, but it was necessary to do a great deal of stooping and bending over. Garion's ribs and legs were still sore, and he winced and grunted each time he had to bend down to examine the stone floor. In a very short while he was sweating and gritting his teeth and thinking about giving the whole thing up.
   Then he heard a faint sound far down the corridor ahead. He shrank back against the wall, hoping that no light from behind him would filter dimly through to allow him to be seen. Far ahead, a figure passed stealthily through the pale light from a single tiny window. Garion caught a momentary flicker of green and knew finally whom he was following. He kept close to the wall and moved with catlike silence in his soft leather shoes, the rusty sword gripped tightly in his hand. If it had not been for the startling nearness of the voice of the Earl of Seline, however, he would probably have walked directly into the man he had been following.
   "Is it at all possible, noble Belgarath, that our enemy can be awakened before all the conditions of the ancient prophecy are met?" the earl was asking.
   Garion stopped. Directly ahead of him in a narrow embrasure in the wall of the corridor, he caught sight of a slight movement. The green cloaked man lurked there, listening in the dimness to the words that seemed to come from somewhere beneath. Garion shrank back against the wall, scarcely daring to breathe. Carefully he stepped backward until he found another embrasure and drew himself into the concealing darkness.
   "A most appropriate question, Belgarath," the quiet voice of ChoHag of the Algars said. "Can this Apostate use the power now in his hands to revive the Accursed One?"
   "The power is there," the familiar voice of Mister Wolf said, "but he might be afraid to use it. If it isn't done properly, the power will destroy him. He won't rush into such an act, but will think very carefully before he tries it. It's that hesitation that gives us the little bit of time we have."
   Then Silk spoke. "Didn't you say that he might want the thing for himself? Maybe he plans to leave his Master in undisturbed slumber and use the power he's stolen to raise himself as king in the lands of the Angaraks."
   King Rhodar of Drasnia chuckled. "Somehow I don't see the Grolim Priesthood so easily relinquishing their power in the lands of Angarak and bowing down to an outsider. The High Priest of the Grolims is no mean sorcerer himself, I'm told."
   "Forgive me, Rhodar," King Anheg said, "but if the power is in the thief's hands, the Grolims won't have any choice but to accept his dominion. I've studied the power of this thing, and if even half of what I've read is true, he can use it to rip down Rak Cthol as easily as you'd kick apart an anthill. Then, if they still resist, he could depopulate all of Cthol Murgos from Rak Goska to the Tolnedran border. No matter what, however, whether it's the Apostate or the Accursed One who eventually raises that power, the Angaraks will follow and they will come west."
   "Shouldn't we inform the Arends and Tolnedrans-and the Ulgos as well-what has happened then?" Brand, the Rivan Warder, asked. "Let's not be taken by surprise again."
   "I wouldn't be in too much hurry to rouse our southern neighbors," Mister Wolf said. "When Pol and I leave here, we'll be moving south. If Arendia and Tolnedra are mobilizing for war, the general turmoil would only hinder us. The Emperor's legions are soldiers. They can respond quickly when the need arises, and the Arends are always ready for war. The whole kingdom hovers on the brink of general warfare all the time."
   "It's premature," Aunt Pol's familiar voice agreed. "Armies would just get in the way of what we're trying to do. If we can apprehend my father's old pupil and return the thing he pilfered to Riva, the crisis will be past. Let's not stir up the southerners for nothing."
   "She's right," Wolf said. "There's always a risk in a mobilization. A king with an army on his hands often begins to think of mischief. I'll advise the King of the Arends at Vo Mimbre and the Emperor at Tol Honeth of as much as they need to know as I pass through. But we should get word through to the Gorim of Ulgo. Cho-Hag, do you think you could get a messenger through to Prolgu at this time of the year?"
   "It's hard to say, Ancient One," Cho-Hag said. "The passes into those mountains are difficult in the winter. I'll try, though."
   "Good," Wolf said. "Beyond that, there's not much more we can do. For the time being it might not be a bad idea to keep this matter in the family-so to speak. If worse comes to worst and the Angaraks invade again, Aloria at least will be armed and ready. There'll be time for Arendia and the Empire to make their preparations."
   King Fulrach spoke then in a troubled voice. "It's easy for the Alorn Kings to talk of war," he said. "Alorns are warriors; but my Sendaria is a peaceful kingdom. We don't have castles or fortified keeps, and my people are farmers and tradesmen. Kal Torak made a mistake when he chose the battlefield at Vo Mimbre; and it's not likely that the Angaraks will make the same mistake again. I think they'll strike directly across the grasslands of northern Algaria and fall upon Sendaria. We have a lot of food and very few soldiers. Our country would provide an ideal base for a campaign in the west, and I'm afraid that we'd fall quite easily."
   Then, to Garion's amazement, Durnik spoke. "Don't cheapen the men of Sendaria so, Lord King," he said in a firm voice. "I know my neighbors, and they'll fight. We don't know very much about swords and lances, but we'll fight. If Angaraks come to Sendaria, they won't find the taking as easy as some might imagine, and if we put torches to the fields and storehouses there won't be all that much food for them to eat."
   There was a long silence, and then Fulrach spoke again in a voice strangely humble. "Your words shame me, Goodman Durnik," he said. "Maybe I've been king for so long that I've forgotten what it means to be a Sendar."
   "One remembers that there are only a few passes leading through the western escarpment into Sendaria," Hettar, the son of King Cho-Hag, said quietly. "A few avalanches in the right places could make Sendaria as inaccessible as the moon. If the avalanches took place at the right times, whole armies of Angaraks might find themselves trapped in those narrow corridors."
   "Now that's an entertaining thought." Silk chuckled. "Then we could let Durnik put his incendiary impulses to a better use than burning turnip patches. Since Torak One-eye seems to enjoy the smell of burning sacrifices so much, we might be able to accommodate him."
   Far down the dusty passageway in which he was hiding, Garion caught the sudden flicker of a torch and heard the faint jingling of several mail shirts. He almost failed to recognize the danger until the last instant. The man in the green cloak also heard the sounds and saw the light of the torch. He stepped from his hiding place and fled back the way he had come-directly past the embrasure where Garion had concealed himself. Garion shrank back, clutching his rusty sword; but as luck had it, the man was looking back over his shoulder at the twinkling torch as he ran by on soft feet.
   As soon as he had passed, Garion also slipped out of his hiding place and fled. The Cherek warriors were looking for intruders, and it might be difficult to explain what he was doing in the dark hallway. He briefly considered following the spy again, but decided that he'd had enough of that for one day. It was time to tell someone about the things he'd seen. Someone had to be told-someone to whom the kings would listen. Once he reached the more frequented corridors of the palace, he firmly began to make his way toward the chamber where Barak brooded in silent melancholy.

Chapter Seventeen

   "BARAK," GARION CALLED through the door after he had knocked for several minutes without any answer.
   "Go away," Barak's voice came thickly through the door.
   "Barak, it's me, Garion. I have to talk with you."
   There was a long silence inside the room, and finally a slow movement. Then the door opened.
   Barak's appearance was shocking. His tunic was rumpled and stained. His red beard was matted, the long braids he usually wore were undone, and his hair was tangled. The haunted look in his eyes, however, was the worst. The look was a mixture of horror and self loathing so naked that Garion was forced to avert his eyes.
   "You saw it, didn't you, boy?" Barak demanded "You saw what happened to me out there."
   "I didn't really see anything," Garion said carefully. "I hit my head on that tree, and all I really saw were stars."
   "You must have seen it," Barak insisted. "You must have seen my Doom."
   "Doom?" Garion said. "What are you talking about? You're still alive."
   "A Doom doesn't always mean death," Barak said morosely, flinging himself into a large chair. "I wish mine did. A Doom is some terrible thing that's fated to happen to a man, and death's not the worst thing there is."
   "You've just let the words of that crazy old blind woman take over your imagination," Garion said.
   "It's not only Martje," Barak said. "She's just repeating what everybody in Cherek knows. An augurer was called in when I was born—it is the custom here. Most of the time the auguries don't show anything at all, and nothing special is going to happen during the child's life. But sometimes the future lies so heavily on one of us that almost anyone can see the Doom."
   "That's just superstition," Garion scoffed. "I've never seen any fortune-teller who could even tell for sure if it's going to rain tomorrow. One of them came to Faldor's farm once and told Durnik that he was going to die twice. Isn't that silly?"
   "The augurers and soothsayers of Cherek have more skill," Barak said, his face still sunk in melancholy. "The Doom they saw for me was always the same—I'm going to turn into a beast. I've had dozens of them tell me the same thing. And now it's happened. I've been sitting here for two days now, watching. The hair on my body's getting longer, and my teeth are starting to get pointed."
   "You're imagining things," Garion said. "You look exactly the same to me as you always have."
   "You're a kind boy, Garion," Barak said. "I know you're just trying to make me feel better, but I've got eyes of my own. I know that my teeth are getting pointed and my body's starting to grow fur. It won't be long until Anheg has to chain me up in his dungeon so I won't be able to hurt anyone, or I'll have to run off into the mountains and live with the trolls."
   "Nonsense," Garion insisted.
   "Tell me what you saw the other day," Barak pleaded. "What did I look like when I changed into a beast?"
   "All I saw were stars from banging my head on that tree," Garion said again, trying to make it sound true.
   "I just want to know what kind of beast I'm turning into," Barak said, his voice thick with self pity. "Am I going to be a wolf or a bear or some kind of monster no one even has a name for?"
   "Don't you remember anything at all about what happened?" Garion asked carefully, trying to blot the strange double image of Barak and the bear out of his memory.
   "Nothing," Barak said. "I heard you shouting, and the next thing I remember was the boar lying dead at my feet and you lying under that tree with his blood all over you. I could feel the beast in me, though. I could even smell him."
   "All you smelled was the boar," Garion said, "and all that happened was that you lost your head in all the excitement."
   "Berserk, you mean?" Barak said, looking up hopefully. Then he shook his head. "No, Garion. I've been berserk before. It doesn't feel at all the same. This was completely different." He sighed.
   "You're not turning into a beast," Garion insisted.
   "I know what I know," Barak said stubbornly.
   And then Lady Merel, Barak's wife, stepped into the room through the still-open door. "I see that my Lord is recovering his wits," she said.
   "Leave me alone, Merel," Barak said. "I'm not in the mood for these games of yours."
   "Games, my Lord?" she said innocently. "I'm simply concerned about my duties. If my Lord is unwell, I'm obliged to care for him. That's a wife's right, isn't it?"
   "Quit worrying so much about rights and duties, Merel," Barak said. "Just go away and leave me alone."
   "My Lord was quite insistent about certain rights and duties on the night of his return to Val Alorn," she said. "Not even the locked door of my bedchamber was enough to curb his insistence."
   "All right," Barak said, Hushing slightly. "I'm sorry about that. I hoped that things might have changed between us. I was wrong. I won't bother you again."
   "Bother, my Lord?" she said. "A duty is not a bother. A good wife is obliged to submit whenever her husband requires it of her—no matter how drunk or brutal he may be when he comes to her bed. No one will ever be able to accuse me of laxity in that regard."
   "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Barak accused.
   "Enjoying what, my Lord?" Her voice was light, but there was a cutting edge to it.
   "What do you want, Merel?" Barak demanded bluntly.
   "I want to serve my Lord in his illness," she said. "I want to care for him and watch the progress of his disease-each symptom as it appears."
   "Do you hate me that much?" Barak asked with heavy contempt. "Be careful, Merel. I might take it into my head to insist that you stay with me. How would you like that? How would you like to be locked in this room with a raging beast?"
   "If you grow unmanageable, my Lord, I can always have you chained to the wall," she suggested, meeting his enraged glare with cool unconcern.
   "Barak," Garion said uncomfortably, "I have to talk to you."
   "Not now, Garion," Barak snapped.
   "It's important. There's a spy in the palace."
   "A spy-",
   "A man in a green cloak," Garion said. "I've seen him several times."
   "Many men wear green cloaks," Lady Merel said.
   "Stay out of this, Merel," Barak said. He turned to Garion. "What makes you think he's a spy?"
   "I saw him again this morning," Garion said, "and I followed him. He was sneaking along a corridor that nobody seems to use. It passes above the hall where the kings are meeting with Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol. He could hear every word they said."
   "How do you know what he could hear?" Merel asked, her eyes narrowing.
   "I was up there too," Garion said. "I hid not far from him, and I could hear them myself—almost as if I were in the same room with them."
   "What does he look like?" Barak asked.
   "He has sandy-colored hair," Garion said, "and a beard and, as I said, he wears a green cloak. I saw him the day we went down to look at your ship. He was going into a tavern with a Murgo."
   "There aren't any Murgos in Val Alorn," Merel said.
   "There's one," Garion said. "I've seen him before. I know who he is." He had to move around the subject carefully. The compulsion not to speak about his dark-robed enemy was as strong as always. Even the hint he had given made his tongue seem stiff and his lips numb.
   "Who is he?" Barak demanded.
   Garion ignored the question. "And then on the day of the boar hunt I saw him in the forest."
   "The Murgo?" Barak asked.
   "No. The man in the green cloak. He met some other men there. They talked for a while not far from where I was waiting for the boar to come. They didn't see me."
   "`There's nothing suspicious about that," Barak said. "A man can meet with his friends anywhere he likes."
   "I don't think they were friends exactly," Garion said. "The one in the green cloak called one of the other men `my Lord,' and that one was giving him orders to get close enough so that he could hear what Mister Wolf and the kings were saying."
   "That's more serious," Barak said, seeming to forget his melancholy. "Did they say anything else?"
   "The flaxen-haired man wanted to know about us," Garion said. "You, me, Durnik, Silk—all of us."
   "Flaxen-colored hair?" Merel asked quickly.
   "The one he called `my Lord,' " Garion explained. "He seemed to know about us. He even knew about me."
   "Long, pale-colored hair?" Merel demanded. "No beard? A little older than Barak?"
   "It couldn't be him," Barak said. "Anheg banished him on pain of death."
   "You're a child, Barak," she said. "He'd ignore that if it suited him. I think we'd better tell Anheg about this."
   "Do you know him?" Garion asked. "Some of the things he said about Barak weren't very polite."
   "I can imagine," Merel said ironically. "Barak was one of those who said that he ought to have his head removed."
   Barak was already pulling on his mail shirt.
   "Fix your hair," Merel told him in a tone that oddly had no hint of her former rancor in it. "You look like a haystack."
   "I can't stop to fool with it now," Barak said impatiently. "Come along, both of you. We'll go to Anheg at once."
   There was no time for any further questions, since Garion and Merel almost had to run to keep up with Barak. They swept through the great hall, and startled warriors scrambled out of their way after one look at Barak's face.
   "My Lord Barak," one of the guards at the door of the council hall greeted the huge man.
   "One side," Barak commanded and flung open the door with a crash. King Anheg looked up, startled at the sudden interruption.
   "Welcome, cousin," he began.
   "Treason, Anheg!" Barak roared. "The Earl of Jarvik has broken his banishment and set spies on you in your own palace."
   "Jarvik?" Anheg said. "He wouldn't dare."
   "He dared, all right," Barak said. "He's been seen not far from Val Alorn, and some of his plotting has been overheard."
   "Who is this Jarvik?" the Rivan Warder asked.
   "An earl I banished last year," Anheg said. "One of his men was stopped, and we found a message on him. The message was to a Murgo in Sendaria, and it gave the details of one of our most secret councils. Jarvik tried to deny that the message was his, even though it had his own seal on it and his strongroom bulged with red gold from the mines of Cthol Murgos. I'd have had his head on a pole, but his wife's a kinswoman of mine and she begged for his life. I banished him to one of his estates on the west coast instead." He looked at Barak. "How did you find out about this?" he asked. "Last I heard, you'd locked yourself in your room and wouldn't talk to anybody."
   "My husband's words are true, Anheg," Lady Merel said in a voice that rang with challenge.
   "I don't doubt him, Merel," Anheg said, looking at her with a faintly surprised expression. "I just wanted to know how he learned about Jarvik, that's all."
   "This boy from Sendaria saw him," Merel said, "and heard him talk to his spy. I heard the boy's story myself, and I stand behind what my husband said, if anyone here dares to doubt him."
   "Garion?" Aunt Pol said, startled.
   "May I suggest that we hear from the lad?" Cho-Hag of the Algars said quietly. "A nobleman with a history of friendship for the Murgos who chooses this exact moment to break his banishment concerns us all, I think."
   "Tell them what you told Merel and me, Garion," Barak ordered, pushing Garion forward.
   "Your Majesty," Garion said, bowing awkwardly, "I've seen a man in a green cloak hiding here in your palace several times since we came here. He creeps along the passageways and takes a lot of trouble not to be seen. I saw him the first night we were here, and the next day I saw him going into a tavern in the city with a Murgo. Barak says there aren't any Murgos in Cherek, but I know that the man he was with was a Murgo."
   "How do you know?" Anheg asked shrewdly.
   Garion looked at him helplessly, unable to say Asharak's name.
   "Well, boy?" King Rhodar asked.
   Garion struggled with the words, but nothing would come out.
   "Maybe you know this Murgo?" Silk suggested.
   Garion nodded, relieved that someone could help him.
   "You wouldn't know many Murgos," Silk said, rubbing his nose with one finger. "Was it the one we met in Darine, perhaps—and later in Muros? The one known as Asharak?"
   Garion nodded again.
   "Why didn't you tell us?" Barak asked.
   "I—I couldn't," Garion stammered.
   "Couldn't?"
   "The words wouldn't come out," Garion said. "I don't know why, but I've never been able to talk about him."
   "Then you've seen him before?" Silk said.
   "Yes," Garion said.
   "And you've never told anybody?"
   "No."
   Silk glanced quickly at Aunt Pol. "Is this the sort of thing you might know more about than we would, Polgara?" he asked.
   She nodded slowly. "It's possible to do it," she said. "It's never been very reliable, so I don't bother with it myself. It is possible, however." Her expression grew grim.
   "The Grolims think it's impressive," Mister Wolf said. "Grolims are easily impressed."
   "Come with me, Garion," Aunt Pol said.
   "Not yet," Wolf said.
   "This is important," she said, her face hardening.
   "You can do it later," he said. "Let's hear the rest of his story first. The damage has already been done. Go ahead, Garion. What else did you see?"
   Garion took a deep breath. "All right," he said, relieved to be talking to the old man instead of the kings. "I saw the man in the green cloak again that day we all went hunting. He met in the forest with a yellowhaired man who doesn't wear a beard. They talked for a while, and I could hear what they were saying. The yellow-haired man wanted to know what all of you were saying in this hall."
   "You should have come to me immediately," King Anheg said.
   "Anyway," Garion went on, "I had that fight with the wild boar. I hit my head against a tree and was stunned. I didn't remember what I'd seen until this morning. After King Fulrach called Durnik here, I went exploring. I was in a part of the palace where the roof is all fallen in, and I found some footprints. I followed them, and then after a while I saw the man in the green cloak again. That was when I remembered all this. I followed him, and he went along a corridor that passes somewhere over the top of this hall. He hid up there and listened to what you were saying."
   "How much do you think he could hear, Garion?" King Cho-Hag asked.
   "You were talking about somebody called the Apostate," Garion said, "and you were wondering if he could use some power of some kind to awaken an enemy who's been asleep for a long time. Some of you thought you ought to warn the Arends and the Tolnedrans, but Mister Wolf didn't think so. And Durnik talked about how the men of Sendaria would fight if the Angaraks came."
   They appeared startled.
   "I was hiding not far from the man in the green cloak," Garion said. "I'm sure he could hear everything that I could. Then some soldiers came, and the man ran away. That's when I decided that I ought to tell Barak about all this."
   "Up there," Silk said, standing near one of the walls and pointing at a corner of the ceiling of the hall. "The mortar's crumbled away. The sound of our voices carries right up through the cracks between the stones into the upper corridor."
   "This is a valuable boy you've brought with you, Lady Polgara," I King Rhodar said gravely. "If he's looking for a profession, I think I might find a place for him. Gathering information is a rewarding occupation, and he seems to have certain natural gifts along those lines."
   "He has some other gifts as well," Aunt Pol said. "He seems to be very good at turning up in places where he's not supposed to be."
   "Don't be too hard on the boy, Polgara," King Anheg said. "He's done us a service that we may never be able to repay."
   Garion bowed again and retreated from Aunt Pol's steady gaze.
   "Cousin," Anheg said then to Barak, "it seems that we have an unwelcome visitor somewhere in the palace. I think I'd like to have a little talk with this lurker in the green cloak."
   "I'll take a few men," Barak said grimly. "We'll turn your palace upside down and shake it and see what falls out."
   "I'd like to have him more or less intact," Anheg cautioned.
   "Of course," Barak said.
   "Not too intact, however. As long as he's still able to talk, he'll serve our purposes."
   Barak grinned. "I'll make sure that he's talkative when I bring him to you, cousin," he said.
   A bleak answering grin touched Anheg's face, and Barak started toward the door.
   Then Anheg turned to Barak's wife. "I'd like to thank you also, Lady Merel," he said. "I'm sure you had a significant part in bringing this to us."
   "I don't need thanks, your Majesty," she said. "It was my duty."
   Anheg sighed. "Must it always be duty, Merel?" he asked sadly.
   "What else is there?" she asked.
   "A very great deal, actually," the king said, "but you're going to have to find that out for yourself."
   "Garion," Aunt Pol said, "come here."
   "Yes, ma'am," Garion said and went to her a little nervously.
   "Don't be silly, dear," she said. "I'm not going to hurt you." She put her fingertips lightly to his forehead.
   "Well?" Mister Wolf asked.
   "It's there," she said. "It's very light, or I'd have noticed it before. I'm sorry, Father."
   "Let's see," Wolf said. He came over and also touched Garion's heart with his hand. "It's not serious," he said.
   "It could have been," Aunt Pol said. "And it was my responsibility to see that something like this didn't happen."
   "Don't flog yourself about it, Pol," Wolf said. "That's very unbecoming. Just get rid of it."
   "What's the matter?" Garion asked, alarmed.
   "It's nothing to worry about, dear," Aunt Pol said. She took his right hand and touched it for a moment to the white lock at her brow. Garion felt a surge, a welter of confused impressions, and then a tingling wrench behind his ears. A sudden dizziness swept over him, and he would have fallen if Aunt Pol had not caught him.
   "Who is the Murgo?" she asked, looking into his eyes.
   "His name is Asharak," Garion said promptly.
   "How long have you known him?"
   "All my life. He used to come to Faldor's farm and watch me when I was little."
   "That's enough for now, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "Let him rest a little first. I'll fix something to keep it from happening again."
   "Is the boy ill?" King Cho-Hag asked.
   "It's not exactly an illness, Cho-Hag," Mister Wolf said. "It's a little hard to explain. It's cleared up now, though."
   "I want you to go to your room, Garion," Aunt Pol said, still holding him by the shoulders. "Are you steady enough on your feet to get there by yourself?"
   "I'm all right," he said, still feeling a little light-headed.
   "No side trips and no more exploring," she said firmly.
   "No, ma'am."
   "When you get there, lie down. I want you to think back and remember every single time you've seen this Murgo—what he did, what he said."
   "He never spoke to me," Garion said. "He just watched."
   "I'll be along in a little while," she went on, "and I'll want you to tell me everything you know about him. It's important, Garion, so concentrate as hard as you can."
   "All right, Aunt Pol," he said.
   Then she kissed him lightly on the forehead. "Run along now, dear," she said.
   Feeling strangely light-headed, Garion went to the door and out into the corridor.
   He passed through the great hall where Anheg's warriors were belting on swords and picking up vicious-looking battle-axes in preparation for the search of the palace. Still bemused, he went through without stopping.
   Part of his mind seemed half asleep, but that secret, inner part was wide awake. The dry voice observed that something significant had just happened. The powerful compulsion not to speak about Asharak was obviously gone. Aunt Pol had somehow pulled it out of his mind entirely. His feeling about that was oddly ambiguous. That strange relationship between himself and dark-robed, silent Asharak had always been intensely private, and now it was gone. He felt vaguely empty and somehow violated. He sighed and went up the broad stairway toward his room.
   There were a half dozen warriors in the hallway outside his room, probably part of Barak's search for the man in the green cloak. Garion stopped. Something was wrong, and he shook off his half daze. This pan of the palace was much too populated to make it very likely that the spy would be hiding here. His heart began racing, and step by step he began to back away toward the top of the stairs he had just climbed. The warriors looked like any other Chereks in the palace-bearded, dressed in helmets, mail shirts, and furs, but something didn't seem exactly right.
   A bulky man in a dark, hooded cloak stepped through the doorway of Garion's room into the corridor. It was Asharak. The Murgo was about to say something, but then his eyes fell on Garion. "Ah," he said softly. His dark eyes gleamed in his scarred face. "I've been looking for you, Garion," he said in that same soft voice. "Come here, boy."
   Garion felt a tentative tug at his mind that seemed to slip away as if it somehow could not get a sure grip. He shook his head mutely and continued to back away.
   "Come along now," Asharak said. "We've known each other far too long for this. Do as I say. You know that you must."
   The tug became a powerful grasp that again slipped away. "Come here, Garion!" Asharak commanded harshly. Garion kept backing away, step by step.
   "No," he said. Asharak's eyes blazed, and he drew himself up angrily.
   This time it was not a tug or a grasp, but a blow. Garion could feel the force of it even as it seemed somehow to miss or be deflected. Asharak's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. "Who did this?" he demanded. "Polgara? Belgarath? It won't do any good, Garion. I had you once, and I can take you again any time I want to. You're not strong enough to refuse me."
   Garion looked at his enemy and answered out of some need for defiance. "Maybe I'm not," he said, "but I think you'll have to catch me first."
   Asharak turned quickly to his warriors. "That's the boy I want," he barked sharply. "Take him!"
   Smoothly, almost as if it were done without thought, one of the warriors raised his bow and leveled an arrow directly at Garion. Asharak swung his arm quickly and knocked the bow aside just as the steelpointed shaft was loosed. The arrow sang in the air and clattered against the stones of the wall a few feet to Garion's left.
   "Alive, idiot," Asharak snarled and struck the bowman a crushing blow to the side of the head. The bowman fell twitching to the stone floor.
   Garion spun, dashed back to the stairs and plunged down three steps at a time. He didn't bother to look back. The sound of heavy feet told him that Asharak and his men were after him. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned sharply to the left and fled down a long, dark passageway that led back into the maze of Anheg's palace.

Chapter Eighteen

   THERE WERE WARRIORS everywhere, and the sounds of fighting. In the first instant of his flight, Garion's plan had been simple. All he had to do was to find some of Barak's warriors, and he would be safe. But there were other warriors in the palace as well. The Earl of Jarvik had led a small army into the palace by way of the ruined wings to the south, and fighting raged in the corridors.
   Garion quickly realized that there was no way he could distinguish friend from enemy. To him, one Cherek warrior looked the same as another. Unless he could find Barak or someone else he recognized, he did not dare reveal himself to any of them. The frustrating knowledge that he was running from friends as well as enemies added to his fright. It was altogether possible—even quite likely—that he would run from Barak's men directly into the arms of Jarvik's.
   The most logical thing to do would be to go directly back to the council hall, but in his haste to escape from Asharak, he had run down so many dim passageways and turned so many corners that he had no idea where he was or how to get back to the familiar parts of the palace. His headlong flight was dangerous. Asharak or his men could wait around any corner to seize him, and he knew that the Murgo could quickly re-establish that strange bond between them that Aunt Pol had shattered with her touch. It was that which had to be avoided at any cost. Once Asharak had him again, he would never let go. The only alternative to him was to find some place to hide.
   He dodged into another narrow passageway and stopped, panting and with his back pressed tightly against the stones of the wall. Dimly, at the far end of this hallway, he could see a narrow flight of worn stone steps twisting upward in the flickering light of a single torch. He quickly reasoned that the higher he went, the less likely he would be to encounter anyone. The fighting would most likely be concentrated on the lower floors. He took a deep breath and went swiftly to the foot of the stairs.
   Halfway up he saw the flaw in his plan. There were no side passages on the stairs, no way to escape and no place to hide. He had to get to the top quickly or chance discovery and capture, or even worse.
   "Boy!" a shout came from below.
   Garion looked quickly over his shoulder. A grim-faced Cherek in mail and helmet was coming up the stairs behind him, his sword drawn. Garion started to run, stumbling up the stairs.
   There was another shout from above, and Garion froze. The warrior at the top was as grim as the one below and wielded a cruel-looking axe. He was trapped between them. Garion shrank back against the stones, fumbling for his dagger, though he knew it would be of little use. Then the two warriors saw each other. With ringing shouts they both charged. The one with the sword rushed up past Garion while the one with the axe lunged down.
   The axe swung wide, missed and clashed a shower of sparks from the stones of the wall. The sword was more true. With his hair standing on end in horror, Garion saw it slide through the downward-plunging body of the axeman. The axe fell clattering down the stairs, and the axeman, still falling on top of his opponent, pulled a broad dagger from its sheath at his hip and drove it into the chest of his enemy. The impact as the two men came together tore them from their feet, and they tumbled, still grappled together down the stairs, their daggers flashing as each man struck again and again.
   In helpless horror Garion watched as they rolled and crashed past him, their daggers sinking into each other with sickening sounds and blood spurting from their wounds like red fountains.
   Garion retched once, clenched his teeth tightly, and ran up the stairs, trying to close his ears to the awful sounds coming from below as the two dying men continued their horrid work on each other.
   He no longer even considered stealth; he simply ran-fleeing more from that hideous encounter on the stairs than from Asharak or the Earl of Jarvik. At last, after how long he could not have said, gasping and winded, he plunged through the partially open door of a dusty, unused chamber. He pushed the door shut and stood trembling with his back against it.
   There was a broad, sagging bed against one wall of the room and a small window set high in the same wall. Two broken chairs leaned wearily in corners and an empty chest, its lid open, in a third, and that was all. The chamber was at least a place out of the corridors where savage men were killing each other, but Garion quickly realized that the seeming safety here was an illusion. If anyone opened this door, he would be trapped. Desperately he began to look around the dusty room.
   Hanging on the bare wall across from the bed were some drapes; and thinking that they might conceal some closet or adjoining chamber, Garion crossed the room and pulled them aside. There was an opening behind the drapes, though it did not lead into another room but instead into a dark, narrow hall. He peered into the passageway, but the darkness was so total that he could only see a short distance into it. He shuddered at the thought of groping through that blackness with armed men pounding along at his heels.
   He glanced up at the single window and then dragged the heavy chest across the room to stand on so that he could see out. Perhaps he might be able to see something from the window that would give him some idea of his location. He climbed up on the chest, stood on his tiptoes and looked out.
   Towers loomed here and there amid the long slate roofs of the endless galleries and halls of King Anheg's palace. It was hopeless. He saw nothing that he could recognize. He turned back toward the chamber and was about to jump down from the chest when he stopped suddenly. There, clearly in the dust which lay heavily on the floor, were his foot punts. He hopped quickly down and grabbed up the bolster from the long unused bed. He spread it out on the floor and dragged it around the room, erasing the footprints. He knew that he could not completely conceal the fact that someone had been in the room, but he could obliterate the footprints which, because of their size, would immediately make it obvious to Asharak or any of his men that whoever had been i hiding here was not yet full-grown. When he finished, he tossed the bolster back on the bed. The job wasn't perfect, but at least it was better than it had been.
   Then there was a shout in the corridor outside and the ring of steel on steel.
   Garion took a deep breath and plunged into the dark passageway behind the drapes.
   He had gone no more than a few feet when the darkness in the narrow passage become absolute. His skin crawled at the touch of cobwebs on his face, and the dust of years rose chokingly from the uneven floor. At first he moved quite rapidly, wanting more than anything to put as much distance between himself and the fighting in the corridor as possible, but then he stumbled, and for one heart-stopping instant it seemed that he would fall. The picture of a steep stairway dropping down into the blackness flashed through his mind, and he realized that at his present pace there would be no possible way to catch himself. He began to move more cautiously, one hand on the stones of the wall and the other in front of his face to ward off the cobwebs which hung thickly from the low ceiling.
   There was no sense of time in the dark, and it seemed to Garion that he had been groping for hours in this dark hallway that appeared to go on forever. Then, despite his care, he ran full into a rough stone wall. He felt a moment of panic. Did the passageway end here? Was it a trap?
   Then, flickering at one corner of his vision, he saw dim light. The passageway did not end, but rather made a sharp turn to the right. There seemed to be a light at the far end, and Garion gratefully followed it.
   As the light grew stronger, he moved more rapidly, and soon he reached the spot that was the source of the light. It was a narrow slot low in the wall. Garion knelt on the dusty stones and peered out.
   The hall below was enormous, and a great fire burned in a pit in the center with the smoke rising to the openings in the vaulted roof which lofted even above the place where Garion was. Though it looked much different from up here, he immediately recognized King Anheg's throne room. As he looked down, he saw the gross shape of King Rhodar and the smaller form of King Cho-Hag with the ever-present Hettar standing behind him. Some distance from the thrones, King Fulrach stood in conversation with Mister Wolf, and nearby was Aunt Pol. Barak's wife was talking with Queen Islena, and Queen Porenn and Queen Silar stood not far from them. Silk paced the floor nervously, glancing now and then at the heavily guarded doors. Garion felt a surge of relief. He was safe.
   He was about to call down to them when the great door banged open, and King Anheg, mail-shined and with his sword in his hand, strode into the hall, closely followed by Barak and the Rivan Warder, holding between them the struggling form of the flaxen-haired man Garion had seen in the forest on the day of the boar hunt.
   "This treason will cost you dearly, Jarvik," Anheg said grimly over his shoulder as he strode toward his throne.
   "Is it over, then?" Aunt Pol asked.
   "Soon, Polgara," Anheg said. "My men are chasing the last of Jarvik's brigands in the furthest reaches of the palace. If we hadn't been warned, it might have gone quite differently, though."
   Garion, his shout still hovering just behind his lips, decided at the last instant to stay silent for a few more moments.
   King Anheg sheathed his sword and took his place on his throne.
   "We'll talk for a bit, Jarvik," he said, "before what must be done is done."
   The flaxen-haired man gave up his hopeless struggle against Barak and the almost equally powerful Brand. "I don't have anything to say, Anheg," he said defiantly. "If the luck had gone differently, I'd be sitting on your throne right now. I took my chance, and that's the end of it.
   "Not quite," Anheg said. "I want the details. You might as well tell me. One way or another, you're going to talk."
   "Do your worst," Jarvik sneered. "I'll bite out my own tongue before I tell you anything."
   "We'll see about that," Anheg said grimly.
   "That won't be necessary, Anheg," Aunt Pol said, walking slowly toward the captive. "There's an easier way to persuade him."
   "I'm not going to say anything," Jarvik told her. "I'm a warrior and I'm not afraid of you, witch-woman."
   "You're a greater fool than I thought, Lord Jarvik," Mister Wolf said. "Would you rather I did it, Pol?"
   "I can manage, Father," she said, not taking her eyes off Jarvik.
   "Carefully," the old man cautioned. "Sometimes you go to extremes. Just a little touch is enough."
   "I know what I'm doing, Old Wolf," she said tartly. She stared full into the captive's eyes.
   Garion, still hidden, held his breath.
   The Earl of Jarvik began to sweat and tried desperately to pull his eyes away from Aunt Pol's gaze, but it was hopeless. Her will commanded him, locking his eyes. He trembled, and his face grew pale. She made no move, no gesture, but merely stood before him, her eyes burning into his brain.
   And then, after a moment, he screamed. Then he screamed again and collapsed, his weight sagging down in the hands of the two men who held him.
   "Take it away," he whimpered, shuddering uncontrollably. "I'll talk, but please take it away."
   Silk, now lounging near Anheg's throne, looked at Hettar. "I wonder what he saw," he said.
   "I think it might be better not to know," Hettar replied.
   Queen Islena had watched intently as if hoping to gain some hint of how the trick was done. She winced visibly when Jarvik screamed, pulling her eyes away.
   "All right, Jarvik," Anheg said, his tone strangely subdued. "Begin at the beginning. I want it all."
   "It was a little thing at first," Jarvik said in a shaking voice. "There didn't seem to be any harm in it."
   "There never does," Brand said.
   The Earl of Jarvik drew in a deep breath, glanced once at Aunt Pol and shuddered again. Then he straightened. "It started about two years ago," he said. "I'd sailed to Kotu in Drasnia, and I met a Nadrak merchant named Grashor there. He seemed to be a good enough fellow and after we'd gotten to know each other he asked me if I'd be interested in a profitable venture. I told him that I was an earl and not a common tradesman, but he persisted. He said he was nervous about the pirates who live on the islands in the Gulf of Cherek and an earl's ship manned by armed warnors was not likely to be attacked. His cargo was a single chest—not very large. I think it was some jewels he'd managed to smuggle past the customs houses in Boktor, and he wanted them delivered to Darine in Sendaria. I said that I wasn't really interested, but then he opened his purse and poured out gold. The gold was bright red, I remember, and I couldn't seem to take my eyes off it. I did need money—who doesn't after all?-and I really couldn't see any dishonor in doing what he asked.
   "Anyway, I carried him and his cargo to Darine and met his associate—a Murgo named Asharak."
   Garion started at the name, and he heard Silk's low whistle of surprise.
   "As we'd agreed," Jarvik continued, "Asharak paid me a sum equal to what Grashor had given me, and I came away from the affair with a whole pouch of gold. Asharak told me that I'd done them a great favor and that if I ever needed more gold, he'd be happy to find ways for me to earn it.
   "I now had more gold than I'd ever had at one time before, but it somehow seemed that it wasn't enough. For some reason I felt that I needed more."
   "It's the nature of Angarak gold," Mister Wolf said. "It calls to its own. The more one has, the more it comes to possess him. That's why Murgos are so lavish with it. Asharak wasn't buying your services, Jarvik; he was buying your soul."
   Jarvik nodded, his face gloomy. "At any rate," he continued, "it wasn't long before I found an excuse to sail to Darine again. Asharak told me that since Murgos are forbidden to enter Cherek, he'd developed a great curiosity about us and our kingdom. He asked me many questions and he gave me gold for every answer. It seemed to me to be a foolish way to spend money, but I gave him the answers and took his gold. When I came back to Cherek, I had another pouch full. I went to Jarviksholm and put the new gold with that I already had. I saw that I was a rich man, and I still hadn't done anything dishonorable. But now it seemed that there weren't enough hours in the day. I spent all my time locked in my strongroom, counting my gold over and over, polishing it until it gleamed red as blood and filling my ears with the sound of its tinkling.
   But after a while it seemed that I didn't really have very much, and so I went back to Asharak. He said he was still curious about Cherek and that he'd like to know Anheg's mind. He told me that he'd give me as much gold as I already had if I sent him word of what was said in the high councils here in the palace for a year. At first I said no, because I knew it would be dishonorable; but then he showed me the gold, and I couldn't say no any more."
   From where he watched Garion could see the expressions of those in the hall below. Their faces had a curious mingling of pity and contempt as Jarvik's story continued.
   "It was then, Anheg," he said, "that your men captured one of my messengers, and I was banished to Jarviksholm. At first I didn't mind, '' because I could still play with my gold. But again it wasn't long before it seemed that I didn't have enough. I sent a fast ship through the Bore to Darine with a message to Asharak begging him to find something else for me to do to earn more gold. When the ship came back, Asharak was aboard her, and we sat down and talked about what I could do to increase my hoard."
   "You're doubly a traitor then, Jarvik," Anheg said in a voice that was almost sad. "You've betrayed me and you've broken the oldest law in Cherek. No Angarak has set foot on Cherek soil since the days of Bear-shoulders himself."
   Jarvik shrugged. "I didn't really care by then," he said. "Asharak had a plan, and it seemed like a good one to me. If we could get through the city a few at a time, we could hide an army in the ruined southern wings of the palace. With surprise and a bit of luck we could kill Anheg and the other Alorn Kings, and I could take the throne of Cherek and maybe of all Aloria as well."
   "And what was Asharak's price?" Mister Wolf demanded, his eyes narrowing. "What did he want in return for making you king?"
   "A thing so small that I laughed when he told me what he wanted," Jarvik said. "But he said that he'd not only give me the crown but a roomful of gold if I'd get it for him."
   "What was it?" Wolf repeated.
   "He said that there was a boy—about fourteen—in the party of King Fulrach of Sendaria. He told me that as soon as that boy was delivered to him, he'd give me more gold than I could count and the throne of Cherek as well."
   King Fulrach looked startled.
   "The boy Garion?" he asked. "Why would Asharak want him?"
   Aunt Pol's single frightened gasp carried even up to where Garion was concealed.
   "Durnik!" she said in a ringing voice, but Durnik was already on his feet and racing toward the door with Silk close behind him. Aunt Pol spun with eyes blazing and the white lock at her brow almost incandescent in the midnight of her hair. The Earl of Jarvik flinched as her glare fell on him.
   "If anything's happened to the boy, Jarvik, men will tremble at the memory of your fate for a thousand years," she told him.
   It had gone far enough. Garion was ashamed and a little frightened by the fury of Aunt Pol's reaction.
   "I'm all right, Aunt Pol," he called down to her through the narrow slot in the wall. "I'm up here."
   "Garion?" She looked up, trying to see him. "Where are you?"
   "Up here near the ceiling," he said, "behind the wall."
   "How did you get up there?"
   "I don't know. Some men were chasing me, and I ran. This is where I ended up."
   "Come down here at once."
   "I don't know how, Aunt Pol," he said. "I ran so far and took so many turns that I don't know how to get back. I'm lost."
   "All right," she said, regaining her composure. "Stay where you are. We'll think of a way to get you down."
   "I hope so," he said.