“A good one, though.” The sorcerer smiled again and lifted his ale cup. His hand was trembling violently, and he stared at it in astonishment.
“Aunt Pol!” Garion called urgently.
“Are you all right, father?”
“Fine, Pol, perfectly fine.” He smiled vaguely at her, his unfocused eyes blinking owlishly. He rose suddenly to his feet and began to move toward her, but his steps were lurching, almost staggering. And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor like a pole-axed cow.
“Father!” Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side.
Garion, moving almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on the other side of the unconscious old man. “What’s wrong with him?” he demanded. But Aunt Pol did not answer. Her hands were at Belgarath’s wrist and brow, feeling for his pulse. She peeled back one of his eyelids and stared intently into his blank, unseeing eyes. “Durnik!” she snapped. “Get my herb-bag-quickly!”
The smith bolted for the door.
King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. “He isn’t-”
“No,” she answered tensely. “He’s alive, but only barely.”
“Is something attacking him?” Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, his hand unconsciously on his dagger.
“No. It’s nothing like that.” Aunt Pol’s hands had moved to the old man’s chest. “I should have known,” she berated herself. “The stubborn, proud old fool! I should have been watching him.”
“Please, Aunt Pol,” Garion begged desperately, “what’s wrong with him?”
“He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik,” she replied. “He’s been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine – but he wouldn’t quit. Now he’s burned up all his vital energy and will. He barely has enough strength left to keep breathing.”
Garion had lifted his grandfather’s head and cradled it on his lap. “Help me, Garion!”
He knew instinctively what she wanted. He gathered his will and held out his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of him.
Her eyes were very wide as she intently watched the old man’s face. “Again!” And once more she pulled the quickly gathered will out of him.
“What are we doing?” Garion’s voice was shrill.
“Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe-” She glanced toward the door. “Hurry, Durnik!” she shouted.
Durnik rushed back into the wagon.
“Open the bag,” she instructed, “and give me that black jar – the one that’s sealed with lead – and a pair of iron tongs.”
“Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?” the smith asked.
“No. Just break the seal – carefully. And give me a glove – leather, if you can find one.”
Wordlessly, Silk pulled a leather gauntlet from under his belt and handed it to her. She pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with the tongs. With great care, she removed a single dark, oily-looking green leaf. She held it very carefully in the tongs. “Pry his mouth open, Garion,” she ordered.
Garion wedged his fingers between Belgarath’s clenched teeth and carefully pried the old man’s jaws apart. Aunt Pol pulled down her father’s lower lip, reached inside his mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his tongue with it, once and once only.
Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.
“Hold him down,” Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled back sharply and held the leaf out of the way while Mandorallen and Barak jumped in to hold down Belgarath’s convulsing body. “Give me a bowl,” she ordered. “A wooden one.”
Durnik handed her one, and she deposited the leaf and the tongs in it. Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. “Take this,” she told the smith. “Don’t touch any part of the glove.”
“What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?”
“Take it out and burn it – bowl and all – and don’t let anyone get into the smoke from it.”
“Is it that dangerous?” Silk asked.
“It’s even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here.”
Durnik swallowed very hard and left the wagon, holding the bowl as if it were a live snake.
Polgara took a small mortar and pestle and began grinding certain herbs from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. “How far is it to the Stronghold, Cho-Hag?” she asked the Algar king.
“A man on a good horse could make it in half a day,” he replied.
“How long by wagon-a wagon driven carefully to avoid bouncing?”
“Two days.”
She frowned, still mixing the herbs in the mortar. “All right, there’s no help for it, I guess. Please send Hettar to Queen Silar. Have him tell her that I’m going to need a warm, well-lighted chamber with a good bed and no drafts. Durnik, I want you to drive the wagon. Don’t hit any bumps even if it means losing an hour.”
The smith nodded.
“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Barak asked, his voice strained and his face shocked by Belgarath’s sudden collapse.
“It’s really too early to say,” she replied. “He’s been on the point of collapse for days maybe. But he wouldn’t let himself go. I think he’s past this crisis, but there may be others.” She laid one hand on her father’s chest. “Put him in bed carefully. Then I want a screen of some kind around the bed – blankets will do. We have to keep him very quiet and out of drafts. No loud noises.”
They all stared at her as the significance of her extreme precautions struck them.
“Move, gentlemen,” she told them firmly. “His life may depend on a certain speed.”
Chapter Six
THE WAGON SEEMED barely to crawl. The high, thin cloud had swept in again to hide the sun, and a kind of leaden chill descended on the featureless plain of southern Algaria. Garion rode inside the wagon, thick-headed and numb with exhaustion, watching with dreadful concern as Aunt Pol hovered over the unconscious Belgarath. Sleep was out of the question. Another crisis could arise at any time and he had to be ready to leap to her aid, joining his will and the power of his amulet with hers. Errand, his small face grave, sat quietly in a chair at the far side of the wagon, his hands firmly clasped around the pouch Durnik had made for hirn. The sound of the Orb still hung in Garion’s ears, muted but continual. He had grown almost accustomed to the song in the weeks since they had left Rak Cthol; but at quiet moments or when he was tired, it always seemed to return with renewed strength. It was somehow a comforting sound.
Aunt Pol leaned forward to touch Belgarath’s chest. “What’s wrong?” Garion asked in a sharp whisper.
“Nothing’s wrong, Garion,” she replied calmly. “Please don’t keep saying that every time I so much as move. If something’s wrong, I’ll tell you.”
“I’m sorry – I’m just worried, that’s all.”
She turned to give him a steady look. “Why don’t you take Errand and go up and ride on top of the wagon with Silk and Durnik?”
“What if you need me?”
“I’ll call you, dear.”
“I’d really rather stay, Aunt Pol.”
“I’d really rather you didn’t. I’ll call if I need you.”
“But ”
“Now, Garion.”
Garion knew better than to argue. He took Errand out the back door of the wagon and up the steps to the top.
“How is he?” Silk asked.
“How should I know? All I know is that she chased me out.” Garion’s reply was a bit surly.
“That might be a good sign, you know.”
“Maybe.” Garion looked around. Off to the west there was a range of low hills. Rearing above them stood a vast pile of rock.
“The Algar Stronghold,” Durnik told Garion, pointing.
“Are we that close?”
“That’s still a good day’s ride.”
“How high is it?” Garion asked.
“Four or five hundred feet at least,” Silk told him. “The Algars have been building at it for several thousand years. It gives them something to do after the calving season.”
Barak rode up. “How’s Belgarath?” he asked as he approached.
“I think he might be improving just a little,” Garion answered. “I don’t know for sure, though.”
“That’s something, anyway.” The big man pointed toward a gully just ahead. “You’d better go around that,” he told Durnik. “King ChoHag says that the ground gets a bit rough through there.”
Durnik nodded and changed the wagon’s direction.
Throughout the day, the Stronghold of the Algars loomed higher and higher against the western horizon. It was a vast, towering fortress rearing out of the dun-colored hills.
“A monument to an idea that got out of hand,” Silk observed as he lounged idly atop the wagon.