David Eddings - Belgariad 1 - Pawn Of Prophecy

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David Eddings

THE BELGARIAD

Part One

PAWN OF PROPHECY

For Theone who told me stories but could not stay for mine and for Arthur, who

showed me the way to become a man and who shows me still.

PROLOGUE

Being a History of the War of the Gods and the Acts of Belgarath the Sorcerer

-adapted from The Book of Alorn

WHEN THE WORLD was new, the seven Gods dwelt in harmony, and the races of man

were as one people. Belar, youngest of the Gods, was beloved by the Alorns. He

abode with them and cherished them, and they prospered in his care. The other

Gods also gathered peoples about them, and each God cherished his own people.

But Belar's eldest brother, Aldur, was God over no people. He dwelt apart from

men and Gods, until the day that a vagrant child sought him out. Aldur

accepted the child as his disciple and called him Belgarath. Belgarath learned

the secret of the Will and the Word and became a sorcerer. In the years that

followed, others also sought out the solitary God. They joined in brotherhood

to learn at the feet of Aldur, and time did not touch them.

Now it happened that Aldur took up a stone in the shape of a globe, no larger

than the heart of a child, and he turned the stone in his hand until it became

a living soul. The power of the living jewel, which men called the Orb of

Aldur, was very great, and Aldur worked wonders with it.

Of all the Gods, Torak was the most beautiful, and his people were the

Angaraks. They burned sacrifices before him, calling him Lord of Lords, and

Torak found the smell of sacrifice and the words of adoration sweet. The day

came, however, when he heard of the Orb of Aldur, and from that moment he knew

no peace.

Finally, in a dissembling guise, he went to Aldur. "My brother," he said, "it

is not fitting that thou shouldst absent thyself from our company and counsel.

Put aside this jewel which hath seduced thy mind from our fellowship."

Aldur looked into his brother's soul and rebuked him. "Why lost thou seek

lordship and dominion, Torak? Is not Angarak enough for thee? Do not in thy

pride seek to possess the Orb, lest it slay thee."

Great was Torak's shame at the words of Aldur, and he raised his hand and

smote his brother. Taking the jewel, he fled.

The other Gods besought Torak to return the Orb, but he would not. Then the

races of man rose up and came against the hosts of Angarak and made war on

them. The wars of the Gods and of men raged across the land until, near the

high places of Korim, Torak raised the Orb and forced its will to join with

his to split the earth asunder. The mountains were cast down, and the sea came

in. But Belar and Aldur joined their wills and set limits upon the sea. The

races of man, however, were separated one from the others, and the Gods also.

Now when Torak raised the living Orb against the earth, its mother, it awoke

and began to glow with holy flame. The face of Torak was seared by the blue

fire. In pain he cast down the mountains; in anguish he cracked open the

earth; in agony he let in the sea. His left hand flared and burned to ashes,

the flesh on the left side of his face melted like wax, and his left eye

boiled in its socket. With a great cry, he cast himself into the sea to quench

the burning, but his anguish was without end.

When Torak rose from the water, his right side was still fair, but his left

was burned and scarred hideously by the fire of the Orb. In endless pain, he

led his people away to the east, where they built a great city on the plains

of Mallorea, which they called Cthol Mishrak, City of Night, for Torak hid his

maiming in darkness. The Angaraks raised an iron tower for their God and

placed the Orb in an iron cask in the topmost chamber. Often Torak stood

before the cask, then fled weeping, lest his yearning to look on the Orb

overpower him and he perish utterly.

The centuries rolled past in the lands of the Angarak, and they came to call

their maimed God Kal-Torak, both King and God.

Belar had taken the Alorns to the north. Of all men, they were the most hardy

and warlike, and Belar put eternal hatred for Angarak in their hearts. With

cruel swords and axes they ranged the north, even to the fields of eternal

ice, seeking a way to their ancient enemies.

Thus it was until the time when Cherek Bear-shoulders, greatest king of the

Alorns, traveled to the Vale of Aldur to seek out Belgarath the Sorcerer. "The

way to the north is open," he said. "The signs and the auguries are

propitious. Now is the time ripe for us to discover the way to the City of

Night and regain the Orb from One-eye."

Poledra, wife of Belgarath, was great with child, and he was reluctant to

leave her. But Cherek prevailed. They stole away one night to join Cherek's

sons, Dras Bull-neck, Algar Fleet-foot, and Riva Iron-grip.

Cruel winter gripped the northland, and the moors glittered beneath the stars

with frost and steel-gray ice. To seek out their way, Belgarath cast an

enchantment and took the shape of a great wolf. On silent feet, he slunk

through the snow-floored forests where the trees cracked and shattered in the

sundering cold. Grim frost silvered the ruff and shoulders of the wolf, and

ever after the hair and beard of Belgarath were silver.

Through snow and mist they crossed into Mallorea and came at last to Cthol

Mishrak. Finding a secret way into the city, Belgarath led them to the foot of

the iron tower. Silently they climbed the rusted stairs which had known no

step for twenty centuries. Fearfully they passed through the chamber where

Torak tossed in pain-haunted slumber, his maimed face hidden by a steel mask.

Stealthily they crept past the sleeping God in the smoldering darkness and

came at last to the chamber where lay the iron cask in which rested the living

Orb.

Cherek motioned for Belgarath to take the Orb, but Belgarath refused. "I may

not touch it," he said, "lest it destroy me. Once it welcomed the touch of man

or God, but its will hardened when Torak raised it against its mother. It will

not be so used again. It reads our souls. Only one without ill intent, who is

pure enough to take it and convey it in peril of his life, with no thought of

power or possession, may touch it now."

"What man has no ill intent in the silence of his soul?" Cherek asked. But

Riva Iron-grip opened the cask and took up the Orb. Its fire shone through his

fingers, but he was not burned.

"So be it, Cherek," Belgarath said. "Your youngest son is pure. It shall be

his doom and the doom of all who follow him to bear the Orb and protect it."

And Belgarath sighed, knowing the burden he had placed upon Riva.

"Then his brothers and I will sustain him," Cherek said, "for so long as this

doom is upon him."

Riva muffled the Orb in his cloak and hid it beneath his tunic. They crept

again through the chambers of the maimed God, down the rusted stairs, along

the secret way to the gates of the city, and into the wasteland beyond.

Soon after, Torak awoke and went as always into the Chamber of the Orb. But

the cask stood open, and the Orb was gone. Horrible was the wrath of

Kal-Torak. Taking his great sword, he went down from the iron tower and turned

and smote it once, and the tower fell. To the Angaraks he cried out in a voice

of thunder. "Because you are become indolent and unwatchful and have let a

thief steal that for which I paid so dear, I will break your city and drive

you forth. Angarak shall wander the earth until Cthrag Yaska, the burning

stone, is returned to me." Then he cast down the City of Night in ruins and

drove the hosts of Angarak into the wilderness. Cthol Mishrak was no more.

Three leagues to the north, Belgarath heard the wailing from the city and knew

that Torak had awakened. "Now will he come after us," he said, "and only the

power of the Orb can save us. When the hosts are upon us, Iron-grip, take the

Orb and hold it so they may see it."

The hosts of Angarak came, with Torak himself in the forefront, but Riva held

forth the Orb so that the maimed God and his hosts might behold it. The Orb

knew its enemy. Its hatred flamed anew, and the sky became alight with its

fury. Torak cried out and turned away. The front ranks of the Angarak hosts

were consumed by fire, and the rest fled in terror.

Thus Belgarath and his companions escaped from Mallorea and passed again

through the marches of the north, bearing the Orb of Aldur once more into the

Kingdoms of the West.

Now the Gods, knowing all that had passed, held council, and Aldur advised

them, "If we raise war again upon our brother Torak, our strife will destroy

the world. Thus we must absent ourselves from the world so that our brother

may not find us. No longer in flesh, but in spirit only may we remain to guide

and protect our people. For the world's sake it must be so. In the day that we

war again, the world will be unmade."

The Gods wept that they must depart. But Chaldan, Bull-God of the Arends,

asked, "In our absence, shall not Torak have dominion?"

"Not so," Aldur replied. "So long as the Orb remains with the line of Riva

Iron-grip, Torak shall not prevail."

So it was that the Gods departed, and only Torak remained. But the knowledge

that the Orb in the hand of Riva denied him dominion cankered his soul.

Then Belgarath spoke with Cherek and his sons. "Here we must part, to guard

the Orb and to prepare against the coming of Torak. Let each turn aside as I

have instructed and make preparations."

"We will, Belgarath," vowed Cherek Bear-shoulders. "From this day, Aloria is

no more, but the Alorns will deny dominion to Torak as long as one Alorn

remains."

Belgarath raised his face. "Hear me, Torak One-eye," he cried. "The living Orb

is secure against thee, and thou shalt not prevail against it. In the day that

thou comest against us, I shall raise war against thee. I will maintain watch

upon thee by day and by night and will abide against thy coming, even to the

end of days."

In the wastelands of Mallorea, Kal-Torak heard the voice of Belgarath and

smote about him in fury, for he knew that the living Orb was forever beyond

his reach.

Then Cherek embraced his sons and turned away, to see them no more. Dras went

north and dwelt in the lands drained by River Mrin. He built a city at Boktor

and called his lands Drasnia. And he and his descendants stood athwart the

northern marches and denied them to the enemy. Algar went south with his

people and found horses on the broad plains drained by Aldur River. The horses

they tamed and learned to ride for the first time in the history of man,

mounted warriors appeared. Their country they called Algaria, and they became

nomads, following their herds. Cherek returned sadly to Val Alorn and renamed

his kingdom Cherek, for now he was alone and without sons. Grimly he built

tall ships of war to patrol the seas and deny them to the enemy.

Upon the bearer of the Orb, however, fell the burden of the longest journey.

Taking his people, Riva went to the west coast of Sendaria. There he built

ships, and he and his people crossed to the Isle of the Winds. They burned

their ships and built a fortress and a walled city around it. The city they

called Riva and the fortress the Hall of the Rivan King. Then Belar, God of

the Alorns, caused two iron stars to fall from the sky. Riva took up the stars

and forged a blade from one and a hilt from the other, setting the Orb upon it

as a pommel-stone. So large was the sword that none but Riva could wield it.

In the wasteland of Mallorea, Kal-Torak felt in his soul the forging of the

sword and he tasted fear for the first time.

The sword was set against the black rock that stood at the back of Riva's

throne, with the Orb at the highest point, and the sword joined to the rock so

that none but Riva could remove it. The Orb burned with cold fire when Riva

sat upon the throne. And when he took down his sword and raised it, it became

a great tongue of cold fire.

The greatest wonder of all was the marking of Riva's heir. In each generation,

one child in the line of Riva bore upon the palm of his right hand the mark of

the Orb. The child so marked was taken to the throne chamber, and his hand was

placed upon the Orb, so that it might know him. With each infant touch, the

Orb waxed in brilliance, and the bond between the living Orb and the line of

Riva became stronger with each joining.

After Belgarath had parted from his companions, he hastened to the Vale of

Aldur. But there he found that Poledra, his wife, had borne twin daughters and

then had died. In sorrow he named the elder Polgara. Her hair was dark as the

raven's wing. In the fashion of sorcerers, he stretched forth his hand to lay

it upon her brow, and a single lock at her forehead turned frost-white at his

touch. Then he was troubled, for the white lock was the mark of the sorcerers,

and Polgara was the first female child to be so marked.

His second daughter, fair-skinned and golden-haired, was unmarked. He called

her Beldaran, and he and her dark-haired sister loved her beyond all else and

contended with each other for her affection.

Now when Polgara and Beldaran had reached their sixteenth year, the Spirit of

Aldur came to Belgarath in a dream, saying, "My beloved disciple, I would join

thy house with the house of the guardian of the Orb. Choose, therefore, which

of thy daughters thou wilt give to the Rivan King to be his wife and the

mother of his line, for in that line lies the hope of the world, against which

the dark power of Torak may not prevail."

In the deep silence of his soul, Belgarath was tempted to choose Polgara. But,

knowing the burden which lay upon the Rivan King, he sent Beldaran instead,

and wept when she was gone. Polgara wept also, long and bitterly, knowing that

her sister must fade and die. In time, however, they comforted each other and

came at last to know each other.

They joined their powers to keep watch over Torak. And some men say that they

abide still, keeping their vigil through all the uncounted centuries.

Part One

SENDARIA

Chapter One

THE FIRST THING the boy Garion remebered was the kitchen at Faldor's farm. For

all the rest of his life he had a special warm feeling for kitchens and those

peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into a bustling

seriousness that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and,

above all, home. No matter how high Garion rose in life, he never forgot that

all his memories began in that kitchen.

The kitchen at Faldor's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens

and kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched

fireplaces. There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into

loaves and chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick,

crisp rocking movements of long, curved knives. When Garion was very small, he

played under those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out

from under the feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And

sometimes in the late afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner

and stare into one of the flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back

from the hundred polished pots and knives and long-handled spoons that hung

from pegs along the whitewashed walls and, all bemused, he would drift off

into sleep in perfect peace and harmony with all the world around him.

The center of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pol. She

seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that

plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or

garnished a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were

several others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or

vegetable ever went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt

Pol. She knew by smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish

required, and she seasoned them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming

shake from earthenware spice pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic

about her, a knowledge and power beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even

at her busiest, she always knew precisely where Garion was. In the very midst

of crimping a pie crust or decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly

stuffed chicken she could, without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back

out from under the feet of others with heel or ankle.

As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Garion would watch until she

seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his

sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would

laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to

watching for his next chance to run away again.

He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pol was quite the

most important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller

than the other women on Faldor's farm-very nearly as tall as a man-and her

face was always serious-even sternexcept with him, of course. Her hair was

long and very dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow

which was white as new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed

close beside her own in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach

out and touch that white lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with

a soft hand. Then he would sleep, content in the knowledge that she was there,

watching over him.

Faldor's farm lay very nearly in the center of Sendaria, a misty kingdom

bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of

Cherek. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Faldor's

farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed

complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon

a central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery

were the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands

who tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls.

Faldor himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining

hall where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during

harvest time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pol's kitchen.

All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Faldor was a

good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer

jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kindly to those who

worked for him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and

well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many

ways he was more like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived

on his freeholding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in

the district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his

presence at the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a

restraining influence on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be

boisterous. Farmer Faldor was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with

simple eloquence the blessing of the Gods before each meal. The people of his

farm, knowing this, filed with some decorum into the dining hall before each

meal and sat in the semblance at least of piety before attacking the heaping

platters and bowls of food that Aunt Pol and her helpers had placed before

them.

Because of Faldor's good heart-and the magic of Aunt Pol's deft fingers-the

farm was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work

for twenty leagues in any direction. Whole evenings were spent in the tavern

in the nearby village of Upper Gralt in minute descriptions of the

near-miraculous meals served regularly in Faldor's dining hall. Less fortunate

men who worked at other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale,

to weep openly at descriptions of one of Aunt Pol's roasted geese, and the

fame of Faldor's farm spread wide throughout the district.

The most important man on the farm, aside from Faldor, was Durnik the smith.

As Garion grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pol's

watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy. The glowing iron that

came from Durnik's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Durnik was

an ordinary-looking man with plain brown hair and a plain face, ruddy from the

heat of his forge. He was neither tall nor short, nor was he thin or stout. He

was sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously

strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both

were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also

wore tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part

of Sendaria. At first Durnik's only words to Garion were warnings to keep his

fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time,

however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.

"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad for the

iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is

needful."

"Why is that?" Garion would ask.

Durnik would shrug. "It just is."

"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a

last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he

was repairing.

"But that piece goes underneath," Garion said. "No one will ever see it."

"But I know it's there," Durnik said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't

done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go

by-and I'll see the wagon every day."

And so it went. Without even intending to, Durnik instructed the small boy in

those solid Sendarian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and

practicality which formed the backbone of the society.

At first Aunt Pol worried about Garion's attraction to the smithy with its

obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she

realized that Durnik was almost as watchful of Garion's safety as she was

herself and she became less concerned.

"If the boy becomes pestersome, Goodman Durnik, send him away," she told the

smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy

to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen."

"He's no bother, Mistress Pol," Durnik said, smiling. "He's a sensible boy and

knows enough to keep out of the way."

"You're too good-natured, friend Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "The boy is full of

questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out."

"That's the way of boys," Durnik said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into

the small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the

kettle. "I was questionsome myself when I was a boy. My father and old Barl,

the smith who taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd

repay them poorly if I didn't have the same patience with Garion."

Garion, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation.

He knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him

from the smithy. As Aunt Pol walked back across the hard-packed dirt of the

yard toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that

Durnik watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple

idea, and the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.

"Aunt Pol," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a

rough cloth.

"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.

"Why don't you marry Durnik?"

She stopped washing. "What?" she asked.

"I think it would be an awfully good idea."

"Oh, do you?" Her voice had a slight edge to it, and Garion knew he was on

dangerous ground.

"He likes you," he said defensively.

"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"

"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."

"At least that was a good idea."

"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning, if you'd like."

His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pol, Garion felt,

found his ears far too convenient.

"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Durnik or anyone

else," she said, her dark eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen

there before.

"It was only a thought," he said quickly.

"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still

holding his ear.

"Anything you say," he agreed hastily.

Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness,

he approached the problem obliquely.

"Aunt Pol?"

"Yes?"

"Since you don't want to marry Durnik, whom do you want to marry?"

"Garion," she said.

"Yes?"

"Close your mouth and go to sleep."

"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.

"Garion!"

"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about

all this."

She drew in a deep breath. "Very well," she said. "I'm not thinking of getting

married. I have never thought of getting married and I seriously doubt that

I'll ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to

attend to for any of that."

"Don't worry, Aunt Pol," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I

grow up, I'll marry you."

She laughed then, a deep, rich laugh, and reached out to touch his face in the

darkness. "Oh no, my Garion," she said. "There's another wife in store for

you."

"Who?" he demanded.

"You'll find out," she said mysteriously. "Now go to sleep."

"Aunt Pol?"

"Yes?"

"Where's my mother?" It was a question he had been meaning to ask for quite

some time.

There was a long pause, then Aunt Pol sighed.

"She died," she said quietly.

Garion felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief, an unbearable anguish. He began

to cry.

And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms

around him. Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own

bed and held him close until his grief had run its course, Garion asked

brokenly, "What was she like? My mother?"

"She was fair-haired," Aunt Pol said, "and very strong and very beautiful. Her

voice was gentle, and she was very happy."

"Did she love me?"

"More than you could imagine."

And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than

anguished.

Aunt Pol held him closely until he cried himself to sleep.

There were other children on Faldor's farm, as was only natural in a community

of sixty or so. The older ones on the farm all worked, but there were three

other children of about Garion's age on the freeholding. These three became

his playmates and his friends.

The oldest boy was named Rundorig. He was a year or two older than Garion and

quite a bit taller. Ordinarily, since he was the eldest of the children,

Rundorig would have been their leader; but because he was an Arend, his sense

was a bit limited and he cheerfully deferred to the younger ones. The kingdom

of Sendaria, unlike other kingdoms, was inhabited by a broad variety of racial

stocks. Chereks, Algars, Drasnians, Arends, and even a substantial number of

Tolnedrans had merged to form the elemental Sendar. Arends, of course, were

very brave, but were also notoriously thick-wined.

Garion's second playmate was Doroon, a small, quick boy whose background was

so mixed that he could only be called a Sendar. The most notable thing about

Doroon was the fact that he was always running; he never walked if he could

run. Like his feet, his mind seemed to tumble over itself, and his tongue as

well. He talked continually and very fast and he was always excited.

The undisputed leader of the little foursome was the girl Zubrette, a

golden-haired charmer who invented their games, made up stories to tell them,

and set them to stealing apples and plums from Faldor's orchard for her. She

ruled them as a little queen, playing one against the other and inciting them

into fights. She was quite heartless, and each of the three boys at times

hated her even while remaining helpless thralls to her tiniest whim.

In the winter they slid on wide boards down the snowy hillside behind the

farmhouse and returned home, wet and snow-covered, with chapped hands and

glowing cheeks as evening's purple shadows crept across the snow. Or, after

Durnik the smith had proclaimed the ice safe, they would slide endlessly

across the frozen pond that lay glittering frostily in a little dale just to

the east of the farm buildings along the road to Upper Gralt. And, if the

weather was too cold or on toward spring when rains and warm winds had made

the snow slushy and the pond unsafe, they would gather in the hay barn and

leap by the hour from the loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair

with chaff and their noses with dust that smelled of summer.

In the spring they caught polliwogs along the marshy edges of the pond and

climbed trees to stare in wonder at the tiny blue eggs the birds had laid in

twiggy nests in the high branches.

It was Doroon, naturally, who fell from a tree and broke his arm one fine

spring morning when Zubrette urged him into the highest branches of a tree

near the edge of the pond. Since Rundorig stood helplessly gaping at his

injured friend and Zubrette had run away almost before he hit the ground, it

fell to Garion to make certain necessary decisions. Gravely he considered the

situation for a few moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his shock

of sandy hair. The arm was obviously broken, and Doroon, pale and frightened,

bit his lip to keep from crying.

A movement caught Garion's eye, and he glanced up quickly. A man in a dark

cloak sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When

their eyes met, Garion felt a momentary chill, and he knew that he had seen

the man before-that indeed that dark figure had hovered on the edge of his

vision for as long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching.

There was in that silent scrutiny a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled

with something that was almost, but not quite, fear. Then Doroon whimpered,

and Garion turned back.

Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Doroon's body with his

rope belt, and then he and Rundorig helped the injured boy to his feet.

"At least he could have helped us," Garion said resentfully.

"Who?" Rundorig said, looking around.

Garion turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.

"I didn't see anyone," Rundorig said.

"It hurts," Doroon said.

"Don't worry," Garion said. "Aunt Pol will fix it."

And so she did. When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she took

in the situation with a single glance.

"Bring him over here," she told them, her voice not even excited. She set the

pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a

tea of several herbs taken from earthenware jars on a high shelf in the back

of one of her pantries.

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DavidEddingsTHEBELGARIADPartOnePAWNOFPROPHECYForTheonewhotoldmestoriesbutcouldnotstayformineandforArthur,whoshowedmethewaytobecomeamanandwhoshowsmestill.PROLOGUEBeingaHistoryoftheWaroftheGodsandtheActsofBelgaraththeSorcerer-adaptedfromTheBookofAlornWHENTHEWORLDwasnew,thesevenGodsdweltinharmony,andth...

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David Eddings - Belgariad 1 - Pawn Of Prophecy

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