“It takes almost as much energy to do things that way as it does to do them with your arms and back,” Aunt Pol explained. “It’s very tiring.”
She sat beside the fire, carefully mending a small tear in one of Garion’s tunics.
“I didn’t know that,” Barak admitted. “Not many people do.”
“If we have to, Pol and I can take certain steps,” Wolf went on, “but we can’t keep it up forever and we can’t simply make things vanish. I’m sure you can see why.”
“Oh, of course,” Silk professed, though his tone indicated that he did not.
“Everything that exists depends on everything else,” Aunt Pol explained quietly. “If you were to unmake one thing, it’s altogether possible that everything would vanish.”
The fire popped, and Garion jumped slightly. The vaulted chamber seemed suddenly dark, and shadows lurked in the corners.
“That can’t happen, of course,” Wolf told them. “When you try to unmake something, your will simply recoils on you. If you say, `Be not,’ then you are the one who vanishes. That’s why we’re very careful about what we say.”
“I can understand why,” Silk said, his eyes widening slightly.
“Most of the things we’ll encounter can be dealt with by ordinary means,” Wolf continued. “That’s the reason we’ve brought you together – at least that’s one of the reasons. Among you, you’ll be able to handle most of the things that get in our way. The important thing to remember is that Polgara and I have to get to Zedar before he can reach Torak with the Orb. Zedar’s found some way to touch the Orb – I don’t know how. If he can show Torak how it’s done, no power on earth will be able to stop One-Eye from becoming King and God over the whole world.”
They all sat in the ruddy, flickering light of the fire, their faces serious as they considered that possibility.
“I think that pretty well covers everything, don’t you, Pol?”
“I believe so, father,” she replied, smoothing the front of her gray, homespun gown.
Later, outside the tower as gray evening crept in among the foggy ruins of Vo Wacune and the smell of the thick stew Aunt Pol was cooking for supper drifted out to them, Garion turned to Silk. “Is it all really true?” he asked.
The small man looked out into the fog. “Let’s act as if we believed that it is,” he suggested. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be a bad idea to make a mistake.”
“Are you afraid too, Silk?” Garion asked.
Silk sighed. “Yes,” he admitted, “but we can behave as if we believed that we aren’t, can’t we?”
“I guess we can try,” Garion said, and the two of them turned to go back into the chamber at the foot of the tower where the firelight danced on the low stone arches, holding the fog and chill at bay.
Chapter Three
THE NEXT MORNING Silk came out of the tower wearing a rich maroon doublet and a baglike black velvet cap cocked jauntily over one ear.
“What’s all that about?” Aunt Pol asked him.
“I chanced across an old friend in one of the packs,” Silk replied airily. “Radek of Boktor by name.”
“What happened to Ambar of Kotu?”
“Ambar’s a good enough fellow, I suppose,” Silk said a bit deprecatingly, “but a Murgo named Asharak knows about him and may have dropped his name in certain quarters. Let’s not look for trouble if we don’t have to.”
“Not a bad disguise,” Mister Wolf agreed. “One more Drasnian merchant on the Great West Road won’t attract any attention – whatever his name.”
“Please,” Silk objected in an injured tone. “The name’s very important. You hang the whole disguise on the name.”
“I don’t see any difference,” Barak asserted bluntly.
“There’s all the difference in the world. Surely you can see that Ambar’s a vagabond with very little regard for ethics, while Radek’s a man of substance whose word is good in all the commercial centers of the West. Besides, Radek’s always accompanied by servants.”
“Servants?” One of Aunt Pol’s eyebrows shot up.
“Just for the sake of the disguise,” Silk assured her quickly. “You, of course, could never be a servant, Lady Polgara.”
“Thank you.”
“No one would ever believe it. You’ll be my sister instead, traveling with me to see the splendors of To1 Honeth.”
“Your sister?”
“You could be my mother instead, if you prefer,” Silk suggested blandly, “making a religious pilgrimage to Mar Terrin to atone for a colorful past.”
Aunt Pol gazed steadily at the small man for a moment while he grinned impudently at her. “Someday your sense of humor’s going to get you into a great deal of trouble, Prince Kheldar.”
“I’m always in trouble, Lady Polgara. I wouldn’t know how to act if I weren’t.”
“Do you two suppose we could get started?” Mister Wolf asked.
“Just a moment more,” Silk replied. “If we meet anyone and have to explain things, you, Lelldorin, and Garion are Polgara’s servants. Hettar, Barak, and Durnik are mine.”
“Anything you say,” Wolf agreed wearily.
“There are reasons.”
“All right.”
“Don’t you want to hear them?”
“Not particularly.”
Silk looked a bit hurt.
“Are we ready?” Wolf asked.
“Everything’s out of the tower,” Durnik told him. “Oh just a moment. I forgot to put out the fire.” He went back inside.
Wolf glanced after the smith in exasperation. “What difference does it make?” he muttered. “This place is a ruin anyway.”
“Leave him alone, father,” Aunt Pol said placidly. “It’s the way he is.”
As they prepared to mount, Barak’s horse, a large, sturdy gray, sighed and threw a reproachful look at Hettar, and the Algar chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Barak demanded suspiciously.
“The horse said something,” Hettar replied. “Never mind.”
Then they swung into their saddles and threaded their way out of the foggy ruins and along the narrow, muddy track that wound into the forest. Sodden snow lay under wet trees, and water dripped continually from the branches overhead. They all drew their cloaks about them to ward off the chill and dampness. Once they were under the trees, Lelldorin pulled his horse in beside Garion’s, and they rode together.
“Is Prince Kheldar always so – well – extremely complicated?” he asked.
“Silk? Oh yes. He’s very devious. You see, he’s a spy, and disguises and clever lies are second nature to him.”
“A spy? Really?” Lelldorin’s eyes brightened as his imagination caught hold of the idea.
“He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia,” Garion explained. “From what I understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries.”
“We’ve got to stop and pick up the rest of the packs,” Silk was reminding Mister Wolf.
“I haven’t forgotten,” the old man replied.
“Packs?” Lelldorin asked.
“Silk picked up some wool cloth in Camaar,” Garion told him. “He said it would give us a legitimate reason to be on the highway. We hid them in a cave when we left the road to come to Vo Wacune.”
“He thinks of everything, doesn’t he?”
“He tries. We’re lucky to have him with us.”
“Maybe we could have him show us a few things about disguises,” Lelldorin suggested brightly. “It might be very useful when we go looking for your enemy.”
Garion had thought that Lelldorin had forgotten his impulsive pledge. The young Arend’s mind seemed too flighty to keep hold of one idea for very long, but he saw now that Lelldorin only seemed to forget things. The prospect of a serious search for his parents’ murderer with this young enthusiast adding embellishments and improvisations at every turn began to present itself alarmingly.
By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk’s packs and lashed them to the backs of the spare horses, they were back out on the Great West Road, the Tolnedran highway running through the heart of the forest. They rode south at a loping canter that ate up the miles.
They passed a heavily burdened serf clothed in scraps and pieces of sackcloth tied on with bits of string. The serf’s face was gaunt, and he was very thin under his dirty rags. He stepped off the road and stared at them with apprehension until they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of compassion. He briefly remembered Lammer and Detton, and he wondered what would finally happen to them. It seemed important for some reason. “Is it really necessary to keep them so poor?” he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to hold it in any longer.
“Who?” Lelldorin asked, looking around.
“That serf.”
Lelldorin glanced back over his shoulder at the ragged man. “You didn’t even see him,” Garion accused.
Lelldorin shrugged. “There are so many.”
“And they all dress in rags and live on the edge of starvation.”
“Mimbrate taxes,” Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything.
“You seem to have always had enough to eat.”
“I’m not a serf, Garion,” Lelldorin answered patiently. “The poorest people always suffer the most. It’s the way the world is.”