They talked then of other things, standing close together beside the shattered wall with their dark cloaks drawn tightly about them.
Shortly before noon Garion heard the muffled sound of horses' hooves somewhere out in the forest. A few minutes later, Hettar materialized out of the fog with a dozen wild-looking horses trailing after him. The tall Algar wore a short, fleece-lined leather cape. His boots were mudspattered and his clothes travel-stained, but otherwise he seemed unaffected by his two weeks in the saddle.
"Garion," he said gravely by way of greeting and Garion and Lelldorin stepped out to meet him.
"We've been waiting for you," Garion told him and introduced Lelldorin. "We'll show you where the others are."
Hettar nodded and followed the two young men through the ruins to the tower where Mister Wolf and the others were waiting. "Snow in the mountains," the Algar remarked laconically by way of explanation as he swung down from his horse. "It delayed me a bit." He pulled his hood back from his shaved head and shook out his long, black scalp lock.
"No harm's been done," Mister Wolf replied. "Come inside to the fire and have something to eat. We've got a lot to talk about."
Hettar looked at the horses, his tan, weathered face growing strangely blank as if he were concentrating. The horses all looked back at him, their eyes alert and their ears pointed sharply forward. Then they turned and picked their way off among the trees.
"Won't they stray?" Durnik wanted to know. "No," Hettar answered. "I asked them not to." Durnik looked puzzled, but he let it pass.
They all went into the tower and sat near the fireplace. Aunt Pol cut dark bread and pale, yellow cheese for them while Durnik put more wood on the fire.
"Cho-Hag sent word to the Clan-Chiefs," Hettar reported, pulling off his cape. He wore a black, long-sleeved horsehide jacket with steel discs riveted to it to form a kind of flexible armor. "They're gathering at the Stronghold for council." He unbelted the curved sabre he wore, laid it to one side and sat near the fire to eat.
Wolf nodded. "Is anyone trying to get through to Prolgu?"
"I sent a troop of my own men to the Gorim before I left," Hettar responded. "They'll get through if anyone can."
"I hope so," Wolf stated. "The Gorim's an old friend of mine, and I'll need his help before all this is finished."
"Aren't your people afraid of the Land of the Ulgos?" Lelldorin inquired politely. "I've heard that there are monsters there that feed on the flesh of men."
Hettar shrugged. "They stay in their lairs in the wintertime. Besides, they're seldom brave enough to attack a full troop of mounted men." He looked over at Mister Wolf. "Southern Sendaria's crawling with Murgos. Or did you know that?"
"I could have guessed," Wolf replied. "Did they seem to be looking for anything in particular?"
"I don't talk with Murgos," Hettar said shortly. His hooked nose and fierce eyes made him look at that moment like a hawk about to swoop down to the kill.
"I'm surprised you weren't delayed even more," Silk bantered. "The whole world knows how you feel about Murgos."
"I indulged myself once," Hettar admitted. "I met two of them alone on the highway. It didn't take very long."
"Two less to worry about, then," Barak grunted with approval.
"I think it's time for some plain talk," Mister Wolf said, brushing crumbs off the front of his tunic. "Most of you have some notion of what we're doing, but I don't want anybody blundering into something by accident. We're after a man named Zedar. He used to be one of my Master's disciples - then he went over to Torak. Early last fall he somehow slipped into the throne room at Riva and stole the Orb of Aldur. We're going to chase him down and get it back."
"Isn't he a sorcerer too?" Barak asked, tugging absently at a thick red braid.
"That's not the term we use," Wolf replied, "but yes, he does have a certain amount of that kind of power. We all did - me, Beltira and Belkira, Belzedar - all the rest of us. That's one of the things I wanted to warn you about."
"You all seem to have the same sort of names," Silk noticed.
"Our Master changed our names when he took us as disciples. It was a simple change, but it meant a great deal to us."
"Wouldn't that mean that your original name was Garath?" Silk asked, his ferret eyes narrowing shrewdly.
Mister Wolf looked startled and then laughed. "I haven't heard that name for thousands of years. I've been Belgarath for so long that I'd almost completely forgotten Garath. It's probably just as well. Garath was a troublesome boy - a thief and a liar among other things."
"Some things never change," Aunt Pol observed. "Nobody's perfect," Wolf admitted blandly.
"Why did Zedar steal the Orb?" Hettar asked, setting aside his plate.
"He's always wanted it for himself," the old man replied. "That could be it - but more likely he's trying to take it to Torak. The one who delivers the Orb to One-Eye is going to be his favorite."
"But Torak's dead," Lelldorin objected. "The Rivan Warder killed him at Vo Mimbre."
"No," Wolf said. "Torak isn't dead; only asleep. Brand's sword wasn't the one destined to kill him. Zedar carried him off after the battle and hid him someplace. Someday he'll awaken - probably someday fairly soon, if I'm reading the signs right. We've got to get the Orb back before that happens."
"This Zedar's caused a lot of trouble," Barak rumbled. "You should have dealt with him a long time ago."
"Possibly," Wolf admitted.
"Why don't you just wave your hand and make him disappear?" Barak suggested, making a sort of gesture with his thick fingers.
Wolf shook his head. "I can't. Not even the Gods can do that." "We've got some big problems, then," Silk said with a frown. "Every Murgo from here to Rak Goska's going to try to stop us from catching Zedar."
"Not necessarily," Wolf disagreed. "Zedar's got the Orb, but Ctuchik commands the Grolims."
"Ctuchik?" Lelldorin asked.
"The Grolim High Priest. He and Zedar hate each other. I think we can count on him to try to keep Zedar from getting to Torak with the Orb."
Barak shrugged. "What difference does it make? You and Polgara can use magic if we run into anything difficult, can't you?"
"There are limitations on that sort of thing," Wolf said a bit evasively. "I don't understand," Barak said, frowning.
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. "All right. As long as it's come up, let's go into that too. Sorcery - if that's what you want to call it - is a disruption of the natural order of things. Sometimes it has certain unexpected effects, so you have to be very careful about what you do with it. Not only that, it makes-" He frowned. "-Let's call it a sort of noise. That's not exactly what it is, but it serves well enough to explain. Others with the same abilities can hear that noise. Once Polgara and I start changing things, every Grolim in the West is going to know exactly where we are and what we're doing. They'll keep piling things in front of us until we're exhausted."
"It takes almost as much energy to do things that way as it does to do them with your arms and back," Aunt Pol explained. "It's very tiring."
She sat beside the fire, carefully mending a small tear in one of Garion's tunics.
"I didn't know that," Barak admitted. "Not many people do."
"If we have to, Pol and I can take certain steps," Wolf went on, "but we can't keep it up forever and we can't simply make things vanish. I'm sure you can see why."
"Oh, of course," Silk professed, though his tone indicated that he did not.
"Everything that exists depends on everything else," Aunt Pol explained quietly. "If you were to unmake one thing, it's altogether possible that everything would vanish."
The fire popped, and Garion jumped slightly. The vaulted chamber seemed suddenly dark, and shadows lurked in the corners.
"That can't happen, of course," Wolf told them. "When you try to unmake something, your will simply recoils on you. If you say, `Be not,' then you are the one who vanishes. That's why we're very careful about what we say."
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"I can understand why," Silk said, his eyes widening slightly. "Most of the things we'll encounter can be dealt with by ordinary means," Wolf continued. "That's the reason we've brought you together - at least that's one of the reasons. Among you, you'll be able to handle most of the things that get in our way. The important thing to remember is that Polgara and I have to get to Zedar before he can reach Torak with the Orb. Zedar's found some way to touch the Orb - I don't know how. If he can show Torak how it's done, no power on earth will be able to stop One-Eye from becoming King and God over the whole world."
They all sat in the ruddy, flickering light of the fire, their faces serious as they considered that possibility.
"I think that pretty well covers everything, don't you, Pol?"
"I believe so, father," she replied, smoothing the front of her gray, homespun gown.
Later, outside the tower as gray evening crept in among the foggy ruins of Vo Wacune and the smell of the thick stew Aunt Pol was cooking for supper drifted out to them, Garion turned to Silk. "Is it all really true?" he asked.
The small man looked out into the fog. "Let's act as if we believed that it is," he suggested. "Under the circumstances, I think it would be a bad idea to make a mistake."
"Are you afraid too, Silk?" Garion asked.
Silk sighed. "Yes," he admitted, "but we can behave as if we believed that we aren't, can't we?"
"I guess we can try," Garion said, and the two of them turned to go back into the chamber at the foot of the tower where the firelight danced on the low stone arches, holding the fog and chill at bay.
Chapter Three
THE NEXT MORNING Silk came out of the tower wearing a rich maroon doublet and a baglike black velvet cap cocked jauntily over one ear.
"What's all that about?" Aunt Pol asked him.
"I chanced across an old friend in one of the packs," Silk replied airily. "Radek of Boktor by name."
"What happened to Ambar of Kotu?"
"Ambar's a good enough fellow, I suppose," Silk said a bit deprecatingly, "but a Murgo named Asharak knows about him and may have dropped his name in certain quarters. Let's not look for trouble if we don't have to."
"Not a bad disguise," Mister Wolf agreed. "One more Drasnian merchant on the Great West Road won't attract any attention - whatever his name."
"Please," Silk objected in an injured tone. "The name's very important. You hang the whole disguise on the name."
"I don't see any difference," Barak asserted bluntly.
"There's all the difference in the world. Surely you can see that Ambar's a vagabond with very little regard for ethics, while Radek's a man of substance whose word is good in all the commercial centers of the West. Besides, Radek's always accompanied by servants."
"Servants?" One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows shot up.
"Just for the sake of the disguise," Silk assured her quickly. "You, of course, could never be a servant, Lady Polgara."
"Thank you."
"No one would ever believe it. You'll be my sister instead, traveling with me to see the splendors of To1 Honeth."
"Your sister?"
"You could be my mother instead, if you prefer," Silk suggested blandly, "making a religious pilgrimage to Mar Terrin to atone for a colorful past."
Aunt Pol gazed steadily at the small man for a moment while he grinned impudently at her. "Someday your sense of humor's going to get you into a great deal of trouble, Prince Kheldar."
"I'm always in trouble, Lady Polgara. I wouldn't know how to act if I weren't."
"Do you two suppose we could get started?" Mister Wolf asked. "Just a moment more," Silk replied. "If we meet anyone and have to explain things, you, Lelldorin, and Garion are Polgara's servants. Hettar, Barak, and Durnik are mine."
"Anything you say," Wolf agreed wearily. "There are reasons."
"All right."
"Don't you want to hear them?" "Not particularly."
Silk looked a bit hurt.
"Are we ready?" Wolf asked.
"Everything's out of the tower," Durnik told him. "Oh just a moment. I forgot to put out the fire." He went back inside.
Wolf glanced after the smith in exasperation. "What difference does it make?" he muttered. "This place is a ruin anyway."
"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said placidly. "It's the way he is."
As they prepared to mount, Barak's horse, a large, sturdy gray, sighed and threw a reproachful look at Hettar, and the Algar chuckled. "What's so funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously.
"The horse said something," Hettar replied. "Never mind."
Then they swung into their saddles and threaded their way out of the foggy ruins and along the narrow, muddy track that wound into the forest. Sodden snow lay under wet trees, and water dripped continually from the branches overhead. They all drew their cloaks about them to ward off the chill and dampness. Once they were under the trees, Lelldorin pulled his horse in beside Garion's, and they rode together. "Is Prince Kheldar always so - well - extremely complicated?" he asked.
"Silk? Oh yes. He's very devious. You see, he's a spy, and disguises and clever lies are second nature to him."
"A spy? Really?" Lelldorin's eyes brightened as his imagination caught hold of the idea.
"He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia," Garion explained. "From what I understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries."
"We've got to stop and pick up the rest of the packs," Silk was reminding Mister Wolf.
"I haven't forgotten," the old man replied. "Packs?" Lelldorin asked.
"Silk picked up some wool cloth in Camaar," Garion told him. "He said it would give us a legitimate reason to be on the highway. We hid them in a cave when we left the road to come to Vo Wacune."
"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"
"He tries. We're lucky to have him with us."
"Maybe we could have him show us a few things about disguises," Lelldorin suggested brightly. "It might be very useful when we go looking for your enemy."
Garion had thought that Lelldorin had forgotten his impulsive pledge. The young Arend's mind seemed too flighty to keep hold of one idea for very long, but he saw now that Lelldorin only seemed to forget things. The prospect of a serious search for his parents' murderer with this young enthusiast adding embellishments and improvisations at every turn began to present itself alarmingly.
By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk's packs and lashed them to the backs of the spare horses, they were back out on the Great West Road, the Tolnedran highway running through the heart of the forest. They rode south at a loping canter that ate up the miles.
They passed a heavily burdened serf clothed in scraps and pieces of sackcloth tied on with bits of string. The serf's face was gaunt, and he was very thin under his dirty rags. He stepped off the road and stared at them with apprehension until they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of compassion. He briefly remembered Lammer and Detton, and he wondered what would finally happen to them. It seemed important for some reason. "Is it really necessary to keep them so poor?" he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to hold it in any longer.
"Who?" Lelldorin asked, looking around. "That serf."
Lelldorin glanced back over his shoulder at the ragged man. "You didn't even see him," Garion accused.
Lelldorin shrugged. "There are so many."
"And they all dress in rags and live on the edge of starvation."
"Mimbrate taxes," Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything. "You seem to have always had enough to eat."
"I'm not a serf, Garion," Lelldorin answered patiently. "The poorest people always suffer the most. It's the way the world is."
"It doesn't have to be," Garion retorted. "You just don't understand."
"No. And I never will."
"Naturally not," Lelldorin said with infuriating complacency. "You're not Arendish."
Garion clenched his teeth to hold back the obvious reply.
By late afternoon they
had covered ten leagues, and the snow had largely disappeared from the roadside. "Shouldn't we start to give some thought to where we're going to spend the night, father?" Aunt Pol suggested.
Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard as he squinted at the shadows hovering in the trees around them.
"I have an uncle who lives not far from here," Lelldorin offered, "Count Reldegen. I'm sure he'll be glad to give us shelter."
"Thin?" Mister Wolf asked. "Dark hair?"
"It's gray now," Lelldorin replied. "Do you know him?"
"I haven't seen him for twenty years," Wolf told him. "As I recall, he used to be quite a hothead."
"Uncle Reldegen? You must have him confused with somebody else, Belgarath."
"Maybe," Wolf said. "How far is it to his house?" "No more than a league and a half away."
"Let's go see him," Wolf decided.
Lelldorin shook his reins and moved into the lead to show them the way.
"How are you and your friend getting along?" Silk asked, falling in beside Garion.
"Fine, I suppose," Garion replied, not quite sure how the rat-faced little man intended the question. "It seems to be a little hard to explain things to him though."
"That's only natural," Silk observed. "He's an Arend, after all." Garion quickly came to Lelldorin's defense. "He's honest and very brave."
"They all are. That's part of the problem." "I like him," Garion asserted.
"So do I, Garion, but that doesn't keep me from realizing the truth about him."
"If you're trying to say something, why don't you just go ahead and say it?"
"All right, I will. Don't let friendship get the better of your good sense. Arendia's a very dangerous place, and Arends tend to blunder into disasters quite regularly. Don't let your exuberant young companion drag you into something that's none of your business." Silk's look was direct, and Garion realized that the little man was quite serious. "I'll be careful," he promised.
"I knew I could count on you," Silk said gravely. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Would I do that, Garion?" Silk asked mockingly. Then he laughed and they rode on together through the gloomy afternoon.
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