Pawn of Prophecy

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 ma

"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 i

"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 i

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 i

It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in the cobblestoned i

Durnik was the last to join them. He came breathlessly out of the i

"It was the best I could do," he apologized. "It's scarce half the worth of the wagons, but the i

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 a

"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.