"Can we talk to the - other one?" Mister Wolf asked hopefully.
"He isn't there right now," Garion replied.
"Then he isn't always with you?"
"Not always. Sometimes he goes away for months - sometimes even longer. He's been there for quite a long while this time - ever since Asharak burned up."
"Where exactly is he when he's with you?" the old man asked curiously.
"In here." Garion tapped his head.
"Have you been awake ever since we entered Maragor?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Not exactly awake," Garion answered. "Part of me was asleep."
"You could see the ghosts?"
"Yes."
"But they didn't frighten you?"
"No. Some of them surprised me, and one of them made me sick."
Wolf looked up quickly. "It wouldn't make you sick now though, would it?"
"No. I don't think so. Right at first I could still feel things like that a little bit. Now I can't."
Wolf looked thoughtfully at the fire as if looking for a way to phrase his next question. "What did the other one in your head say to you when you talked together?"
"He told me that something had happened a long time ago that wasn't supposed to happen and that I was supposed to fix it."
Wolf laughed shortly. "That's a succinct way of putting it," he observed. "Did he say anything about how it was going to turn out?"
"He doesn't know."
Wolf sighed. "I'd hoped that maybe we'd picked up an advantage somewhere, but I guess not. It looks like both prophecies are still equally valid."
Aunt Pol was looking steadily at Garion. "Do you think you'll be able to remember any of this when you wake up again?" she asked.
"I think so."
"All right then, listen carefully. There are two prophecies, both leading toward the same event. The Grolims and the rest of the Angaraks are following one; we're following the other. The event turns out differently at the end of each prophecy."
"I see."
"Nothing in either prophecy excludes anything that will happen in the other until they meet in that event," she continued. "The course of everything that follows will be decided by how that event turns out. One prophecy will succeed; the other will fail. Everything that has happened and will happen comes together at that point and becomes one. The mistake will be erased, and the universe will go in one direction or the other, as if that were the direction it had been going from its very beginning.The only real difference is that something that's very important will never happen if we fail."
Garion nodded, feeling suddenly very tired.
"Beldin call it the theory of convergent destinies," Mister Wolf said. "Two equally possible possibilities. Beldin can be very pompous sometimes."
"It's not an uncommon failing, father," Aunt Pol told him.
"I think I'd like to sleep now," Garion said.
Wolf and Aunt Pol exchanged a quick glance. "All right," Aunt Pol said. She rose and took him by the arm and led him to his blankets.
After she had covered him, drawing the blankets up snugly, she laid one cool hand on his forehead. "Sleep, my Belgarion," she murmured.
And he did that.
PART TWO - THE VALE OF ALDUR
Chapter Seven
THEY WERE ALL standing in a circle with their hands joined when they awoke. Ce'Nedra was holding Garion's left hand, and Durnik was on his right. Garion's awareness came flooding back as sleep left him. The breeze was fresh and cool, and the morning sun was very bright. Yellow-brown foothills rose directly in front of them and the haunted plain of Maragor lay behind.
Silk looked around sharply as he awoke, his eyes wary. "Where are we?" he asked quickly.
"On the northern edge of Maragor," Wolf told him, "about eighty leagues east of Tol Rane."
"How long were we asleep?"
"A week or so."
Silk kept looking around, adjusting his mind to the passage of time and distance. "I guess it was necessary," he conceded finally.
Hettar went immediately to check the horses, and Barak began massaging the back of his neck with both hands. "I feel as if I've been sleeping on a pile of rocks," he complained.
"Walk around a bit," Aunt Pol advised. "That will work the stiffness out."
Ce'Nedra had not removed her hand from Garion's, and he wondered if he should mention it to her. Her hand felt very warm and small in his and, on the whole, it was not unpleasant. He decided not to say anything about it.
Hettar was frowning when he came back. "One of the pack mares is with foal, Belgarath," he said.
"How long has she got to go?" Wolf asked, looking quickly at him.
"It's hard to say for sure - no more than a month. It's her first."
"We can break down her pack and distribute the weight among the other horses," Durnik suggested. "She'll be all right if she doesn't have to carry anything."
"Maybe." Hettar sounded dubious.
Mandorallen had been studying the yellowed foothills directly ahead. "We are being watched, Belgarath," he said somberly, pointing at several wispy columns of smoke rising toward the blue morning sky.
Mister Wolf squinted at the smoke and made a sour face. "Goldhunters, probably. They hover around the borders of Maragor like vultures over a sick cow. Take a look, Pol."
But Aunt Pol's eyes already had that distant look in them as she scanned the foothills ahead. "Arends," she said, "Sendars, Tolnedrans, a couple of Drasnians. They aren't very bright."
"Any Murgos?"
"No."
"Common rabble then," Mandorallen observed. "Such scavengers will not impede us significantly."
"I'd like to avoid a fight if possible," Wolf told him. "These incidental skirmishes are dangerous and don't really accomplish anything." He shook his head with disgust. "We'll never be able to convince them that we're not carrying gold out of Maragor, though, so I guess there's no help for it."
"If gold's all they want, why don't we just give them some?" Silk suggested.
"I didn't bring all that much with me, Silk," the old man replied.
"It doesn't have to be real," Silk said, his eyes bright. He went to one of the packhorses, came back with several large pieces of canvas, and quickly cut them into foot-wide squares. Then he took one of the squares and laid a double handful of gravel in its center. He pulled up the corners and wrapped a stout piece of cord around them, forming a heavy-looking pouch. He hefted it a few times. "Looks about like a sackful of gold, wouldn't you say?"
"He's going to do something clever again," Barak said.
Silk smirked at him and quickly made up several more pouches. "I'll take the lead," he said, hanging the pouches on their saddles. "Just follow me and let me do the talking. How many of them are up there, Polgara?"
"About twenty," she replied.
"That will work out just fine," he stated confidently. "Shall we go?" They mounted their horses and started across the ground toward the broad mouth of a dry wash that opened out onto the plain. Silk rode at the front, his eyes everywhere. As they entered the mouth of the wash, Garion heard a shrill whistle and saw several furtive movements ahead of them. He was very conscious of the steep banks of the wash on either side of them.
"I'm going to need a bit of open ground to work with," Silk told them. "There." He pointed with his chin at a spot where the slope of the bank was a bit more gradual. When they reached the spot, he turned his horse sharply. "Now!" he barked. "Ride!"
They followed him, scrambling up the bank and kicking up a great deal of gravel; a thick cloud of choking yellow dust rose in the air as they clawed their way up out of the wash.
Shouts of dismay came from the scrubby thornbushes at the upper end of the wash, and a group of rough-looking men broke out into the open, running hard up through the knee-high brown grass to head them off. A black-bearded man, closer and more desperate than the rest, jumped out in front of them, brandishing a rust-pitted sword. Without hesitation, Mandorallen rode him down. The black
-bearded man howled as he rolled and tumbled beneath the churning hooves of the huge warhorse.
When they reached the hilltop above the wash, they gathered in a tight group. "This will do," Silk said, looking around at the rounded terrain. "All I need is for the mob to have enough room to think about casualties. I definitely want them to be thinking about casualties."
An arrow buzzed toward them, and Mandorallen brushed it almost contemptuously out of the air with his shield.
"Stop!" one of the brigands shouted. He was a lean, pockmarked Sendar with a crude bandage wrapped around one leg, wearing a dirty green tunic.
"Who says so?" Silk yelled back insolently.
"I'm Kroldor," the bandaged man announced importantly. "Kroldor the robber. You've probably heard of me."
"Can't say that I have," Silk replied pleasantly.
"Leave your gold - and your women," Kroldor ordered. "Maybe I'll let you live."
"If you get out of our way, maybe we'll let you live."
"I've got fifty men," Kroldor threatened, "all desperate, like me."
"You've got twenty," Silk corrected. "Runaway serfs, cowardly peasants, and sneak thieves. My men are trained warriors. Not only that, we're mounted, and you're on foot."
"Leave your gold," the self proclaimed robber insisted.
"Why don't you come and take it?"
"Let's go!" Kroldor barked at his men. He lunged forward. A couple of his outlaws rather hesitantly followed him through the brown grass, but the rest hung back, eyeing Mandorallen, Barak, and Hettar apprehensively. After a few paces, Kroldor realized that his men were not with him. He stopped and spun around. "You cowards!" he raged. "If we don't hurry, the others will get here. We won't get any of the gold."
"I'll tell you what, Kroldor," Silk said. "We're in kind of a hurry, and we've got more gold than we can conveniently carry." He unslung one of his bags of gravel from his saddle and shook it suggestively. "Here." Negligently he tossed the bag into the grass off to one side. Then he took another bag and tossed it over beside the first. At his quick gesture the others all threw their bags on the growing heap. "There you are, Kroldor," Silk continued. "Ten bags of good yellow gold that you can have without a fight. If you want more, you'll have to bleed for it."
The rough-looking men behind Kroldor looked at each other and began moving to either side, their eyes fixed greedily on the heap of bags lying in the tall grass.
"Your men are having thoughts about mortality, Kroldor," Silk said dryly. "There's enough gold there to make them all rich, and rich men don't take unnecessary risks."
Kroldor glared at him. "I won't forget this," he growled.
"I'm sure you won't," Silk replied. "We're coming through now. I suggest that you get out of our way."
Barak and Hettar moved up to flank Mandorallen, and the three of them started deliberately forward at a slow, menacing walk.
Kroldor the robber stood his ground until the last moment, then turned and scurried out of their path, spouting curses.
"Let's go," Silk snapped.
They thumped their heels to their horses' flanks and charged through at a gallop. Behind them, the outlaws circled and then broke and ran toward the heap of canvas bags. Several ugly little fights broke out almost immediately, and three men were down before anyone thought to open one of the bags. The howls of rage could be heard quite clearly for some distance.
Barak was laughing when they finally reined in their horses after a couple of miles of hard riding. "Poor Kroldor." He chortled. "You're an evil man, Silk."
"I've made a study of the baser side of man's nature," Silk replied innocently. "I can usually find a way to make it work for me."
"Kroldor's men are going to blame him for the way things turned out," Hettar observed.
"I know. But then, that's one of the hazards of leadership."
"They might even kill him."
"I certainly hope so. I'd be terribly disappointed in them if they didn't."
They pushed on through the yellow foothills for the rest of the day and camped that night in a well-concealed little canyon where the light from their fire would not betray their location to the brigands who infested the region. The next morning they started out early, and by noon they were in the mountains. They rode on up among the rocky crags, moving through a thick forest of dark green firs and spruces where the air was cool and spicy. Although it was still summer in the lowlands, the first signs of autumn had begun to appear at the higher elevations. The leaves on the underbrush had begun to turn, the air had a faint, smoky haze, and there was frost on the ground each morning when they awoke. The weather held fair, however, and they made good time.
Then, late one afternoon after they had been in the mountains for a week or more, a heavy bank of clouds moved in from the west, bringing with it a damp chill. Garion untied his cloak from the back of the saddle and pulled it around his shoulders as he rode, shivering as the afternoon grew colder.
Durnik lifted his face and sniffed at the air. "We'll have snow before morning," he predicted.
Garion could also smell the chill, dusty odor of snow in the air. He nodded glumly.
Mister Wolf grunted. "I knew this was too good to last." Then he shrugged. "Oh, well," he added, "we've all lived through winters before."
When Garion poked his head out of the tent the next morning, an inch of snow lay on the ground beneath the dark firs. Soft flakes were drifting down, settling soundlessly and concealing everything more than a hundred yards away in a filmy haze. The air was cold and gray, and the horses, looking very dark under a dusting of snow, stamped their feet and flicked their ears at the fairy touch of the snowflakes settling on them. Their breath steamed in the damp cold.
Ce'Nedra emerged from the tent she shared with Aunt Pol with a squeal of delight. Snow, Garion realized, was probably a rarity in Tol Honeth, and the tiny girl romped through the soft drifting flakes with childish abandon. He smiled tolerantly until a well-aimed snowball caught him on the side of the head. Then he chased her, pelting her with snowballs, while she dodged in and out among the trees, laughing and squealing. When he finally caught her, he was determined to wash her face with snow, but she exuberantly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, her cold little nose rubbing against his cheek and her eyelashes thick with snowflakes. He didn't realize the full extent of her deceitfulness until she had already poured a handful of snow down the back of his neck. Then she broke free and ran toward the tents, hooting with laughter, while he tried to shake the snow out of the back of his tunic before it all melted.
By midday, however, the snow on the ground had turned to slush, and the drifting flakes had become a steady, unpleasant drizzle. They rode up a narrow ravine under dripping firs while a torrentlike stream roared over boulders beside them.
Mister Wolf finally called a halt. "We're getting close to the western border of Cthol Murgos," he told them. "I think it's time we started to take a few precautions."
"I'll ride out in front," Hettar offered quickly.
"I don't think that's a very good idea," Wolf replied. "You tend to get distracted when you see Murgos."
"I'll do it," Silk said. He had pulled his hood up, but water still dripped from the end of his long, pointed nose. "I'll stay about half a mile ahead and keep my eyes open."
Wolf nodded. "Whistle if you see anything."
"Right." Silk started off up the ravine at a trot.
Late that afternoon, the rain began to freeze as it hit, coating the rocks and trees with gray ice. They rounded a large outcropping of rock and found Silk waiting for them. The stream had turned to a trickle, and the walls of the ravine had opened out onto the steep side of a mountain. "We've got about an hour of daylight left," the little man said. "What do you think? Should we go on, or do you want to drop back down the ravine a bit and set up for the night?"
Mister Wolf squinted at the sky and then at the mountainside ahead. The steep slope was covered with stunted trees, and the timberline lay not far
above them. "We have to go around this and then down the other side. It's only a couple of miles. Let's go ahead."
Silk nodded and led out again.
They rounded the shoulder of the mountain and looked down into a deep gorge that separated them from the peak they had crossed two days before. The rain had slackened with the approach of evening, and Garion could see the other side of the gorge clearly. It was not more than half a mile away, and his eyes caught a movement near the rim. "What's that?" He pointed.
Mister Wolf brushed the ice out of his beard. "I was afraid of that."
"What?"
"It's an Algroth."
With a shudder of revulsion, Garion remembered the scaly, goatfaced apes that had attacked them in Arendia. "Hadn't we better run?" he asked.
"It can't get to us," Wolf replied. "The gorge is at least a mile deep. The Grolims have turned their beasts loose, though. It's something we're going to have to watch out for." He motioned for them to continue.
Faintly, distorted by the wind that blew perpetually down the yawning gorge, Garion could hear the barking yelps of the Algroth on the far side as it communicated with the rest of its pack. Soon a dozen of the loathsome creatures were scampering along the rocky rim of the gorge, barking to one another and keeping pace with the party as they rode around the steep mountain face toward a shallow draw on the far side. The draw led away from the gorge; after a mile, they stopped for the night in the shelter of a grove of scrubby spruces.
It was colder the next morning and still cloudy, but the rain had stopped. They rode on back down to the mouth of the draw and continued following the rim of the gorge. The face on the other side fell away in a sheer, dizzying drop for thousands of feet to the tiny-looking ribbon of the river at the bottom. The Algroths still kept pace with them, barking and yelping and looking across with a dreadful hunger. There were other things as well, dimly seen back among the trees on the other side. One of them, huge and shaggy, seemed even to have a human body, but its head was the head of a beast. A herd of swift-moving animals galloped along the fir rim, manes and tails tossing.
"Look," Ce'Nedra exclaimed, pointing. "Wild horses."
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