Chapter Seventeen
“BARAK,” GARION CALLED through the door after he had knocked for several minutes without any answer.
“Go away,” Barak’s voice came thickly through the door.
“Barak, it’s me, Garion. I have to talk with you.”
There was a long silence inside the room, and finally a slow movement. Then the door opened.
Barak’s appearance was shocking. His tunic was rumpled and stained. His red beard was matted, the long braids he usually wore were undone, and his hair was tangled. The haunted look in his eyes, however, was the worst. The look was a mixture of horror and self loathing so naked that Garion was forced to avert his eyes.
“You saw it, didn’t you, boy?” Barak demanded “You saw what happened to me out there.”
“I didn’t really see anything,” Garion said carefully. “I hit my head on that tree, and all I really saw were stars.”
“You must have seen it,” Barak insisted. “You must have seen my Doom.”
“Doom?” Garion said. “What are you talking about? You’re still alive.”
“A Doom doesn’t always mean death,” Barak said morosely, flinging himself into a large chair. “I wish mine did. A Doom is some terrible thing that’s fated to happen to a man, and death’s not the worst thing there is.”
“You’ve just let the words of that crazy old blind woman take over your imagination,” Garion said.
“It’s not only Martje,” Barak said. “She’s just repeating what everybody in Cherek knows. An augurer was called in when I was born – it is the custom here. Most of the time the auguries don’t show anything at all, and nothing special is going to happen during the child’s life. But sometimes the future lies so heavily on one of us that almost anyone can see the Doom.”
“That’s just superstition,” Garion scoffed. “I’ve never seen any fortune-teller who could even tell for sure if it’s going to rain tomorrow. One of them came to Faldor’s farm once and told Durnik that he was going to die twice. Isn’t that silly?”
“The augurers and soothsayers of Cherek have more skill,” Barak said, his face still sunk in melancholy. “The Doom they saw for me was always the same – I’m going to turn into a beast. I’ve had dozens of them tell me the same thing. And now it’s happened. I’ve been sitting here for two days now, watching. The hair on my body’s getting longer, and my teeth are starting to get pointed.”
“You’re imagining things,” Garion said. “You look exactly the same to me as you always have.”
“You’re a kind boy, Garion,” Barak said. “I know you’re just trying to make me feel better, but I’ve got eyes of my own. I know that my teeth are getting pointed and my body’s starting to grow fur. It won’t be long until Anheg has to chain me up in his dungeon so I won’t be able to hurt anyone, or I’ll have to run off into the mountains and live with the trolls.”
“Nonsense,” Garion insisted.
“Tell me what you saw the other day,” Barak pleaded. “What did I look like when I changed into a beast?”
“All I saw were stars from banging my head on that tree,” Garion said again, trying to make it sound true.
“I just want to know what kind of beast I’m turning into,” Barak said, his voice thick with self pity. “Am I going to be a wolf or a bear or some kind of monster no one even has a name for?”
“Don’t you remember anything at all about what happened?” Garion asked carefully, trying to blot the strange double image of Barak and the bear out of his memory.
“Nothing,” Barak said. “I heard you shouting, and the next thing I remember was the boar lying dead at my feet and you lying under that tree with his blood all over you. I could feel the beast in me, though. I could even smell him.”
“All you smelled was the boar,” Garion said, “and all that happened was that you lost your head in all the excitement.”
“Berserk, you mean?” Barak said, looking up hopefully. Then he shook his head. “No, Garion. I’ve been berserk before. It doesn’t feel at all the same. This was completely different.” He sighed.
“You’re not turning into a beast,” Garion insisted.
“I know what I know,” Barak said stubbornly.
And then Lady Merel, Barak’s wife, stepped into the room through the still-open door. “I see that my Lord is recovering his wits,” she said.
“Leave me alone, Merel,” Barak said. “I’m not in the mood for these games of yours.”
“Games, my Lord?” she said innocently. “I’m simply concerned about my duties. If my Lord is unwell, I’m obliged to care for him. That’s a wife’s right, isn’t it?”
“Quit worrying so much about rights and duties, Merel,” Barak said. “Just go away and leave me alone.”
“My Lord was quite insistent about certain rights and duties on the night of his return to Val Alorn,” she said. “Not even the locked door of my bedchamber was enough to curb his insistence.”
“All right,” Barak said, Hushing slightly. “I’m sorry about that. I hoped that things might have changed between us. I was wrong. I won’t bother you again.”
“Bother, my Lord?” she said. “A duty is not a bother. A good wife is obliged to submit whenever her husband requires it of her – no matter how drunk or brutal he may be when he comes to her bed. No one will ever be able to accuse me of laxity in that regard.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Barak accused.
“Enjoying what, my Lord?” Her voice was light, but there was a cutting edge to it.
“What do you want, Merel?” Barak demanded bluntly.
“I want to serve my Lord in his illness,” she said. “I want to care for him and watch the progress of his disease-each symptom as it appears.”
“Do you hate me that much?” Barak asked with heavy contempt. “Be careful, Merel. I might take it into my head to insist that you stay with me. How would you like that? How would you like to be locked in this room with a raging beast?”
“If you grow unmanageable, my Lord, I can always have you chained to the wall,” she suggested, meeting his enraged glare with cool unconcern.
“Barak,” Garion said uncomfortably, “I have to talk to you.”
“Not now, Garion,” Barak snapped.
“It’s important. There’s a spy in the palace.”
“A spy-“,
“A man in a green cloak,” Garion said. “I’ve seen him several times.”
“Many men wear green cloaks,” Lady Merel said.
“Stay out of this, Merel,” Barak said. He turned to Garion. “What makes you think he’s a spy?”
“I saw him again this morning,” Garion said, “and I followed him. He was sneaking along a corridor that nobody seems to use. It passes above the hall where the kings are meeting with Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol. He could hear every word they said.”
“How do you know what he could hear?” Merel asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I was up there too,” Garion said. “I hid not far from him, and I could hear them myself – almost as if I were in the same room with them.”
“What does he look like?” Barak asked.
“He has sandy-colored hair,” Garion said, “and a beard and, as I said, he wears a green cloak. I saw him the day we went down to look at your ship. He was going into a tavern with a Murgo.”
“There aren’t any Murgos in Val Alorn,” Merel said.
“There’s one,” Garion said. “I’ve seen him before. I know who he is.” He had to move around the subject carefully. The compulsion not to speak about his dark-robed enemy was as strong as always. Even the hint he had given made his tongue seem stiff and his lips numb.
“Who is he?” Barak demanded.
Garion ignored the question. “And then on the day of the boar hunt I saw him in the forest.”
“The Murgo?” Barak asked.
“No. The man in the green cloak. He met some other men there. They talked for a while not far from where I was waiting for the boar to come. They didn’t see me.”
“`There’s nothing suspicious about that,” Barak said. “A man can meet with his friends anywhere he likes.”
“I don’t think they were friends exactly,” Garion said. “The one in the green cloak called one of the other men `my Lord,’ and that one was giving him orders to get close enough so that he could hear what Mister Wolf and the kings were saying.”
“That’s more serious,” Barak said, seeming to forget his melancholy. “Did they say anything else?”
“The flaxen-haired man wanted to know about us,” Garion said. “You, me, Durnik, Silk – all of us.”
“Flaxen-colored hair?” Merel asked quickly.
“The one he called `my Lord,’ ” Garion explained. “He seemed to know about us. He even knew about me.”