David Eddings: Pawn of Prophecy

"You say was, " the Murgo said quickly. "Is your father dead, then?" His scarred face was intent.

Garion nodded foolishly. "A tree he was cutting fell on him," he lied. "It was a long time ago."

The Murgo suddenly seemed to lose interest. "Here’s a copper penny for you, boy," he said, indifferently tossing a small coin on the floor at Garion’s feet. "It has the likeness of the God Torak stamped on it. Perhaps it will bring you luck—or at least more wit."

Wolf stooped quickly and retrieved the coin, but the coin he handed to Garion was a common Sendarian penny.

"Thank the good man, Rundorig," he wheezed.

"My thanks, your Honor," Garion said, concealing the penny tightly in his fist.

The Murgo shrugged and looked away.

Wolf paid the Tolnedran merchant for the spices, and he and Garion left the shop.

"You played a dangerous game, boy," Wolf said once they were out of earshot of the two lounging Thulls.

"You seemed not to want him to know who we were," Garion explained. "I wasn’t sure why, but I thought I ought to do the same. Was what I did wrong?"

"You’re very quick," Wolf said approvingly. "I think we managed to deceive the Murgo."

"Why did you change the coin?" Garion asked.

"Sometimes Angarak coins are not what they seem," Wolf said. "It’s better for you not to have any of them. Let’s fetch our horse and cart. It’s a long way back to Faldor’s farm."

"I thought we were going to take lodgings for the night."

"That’s changed now. Come along, boy. It’s time for us to leave."

The horse was very tired, and he moved slowly up the long hill out of Upper Gralt as the sun went down ahead of them.

"Why wouldn’t you let me keep the Angarak penny, Mister Wolf?" Garion persisted. The subject still puzzled him.

"There are many things in this world that seem to be one thing and are in fact another," Wolf said somewhat grimly. "I don’t trust Angaraks, and I particularly don’t trust Murgos. It would be just as well, I think, if you never had in your possession anything that bears the likeness of Torak."

"But the war between the west and the Angaraks has been over for five hundred years now," Garion objected."All men say so."

"Not all men," Wolf said. "Now take that robe out of the back of the cart and cover up. Your Aunt would never forgive me if you should take a chill."

"I will if you think I should," Garion said, "but I’m not a bit cold and not at all sleepy. I’ll keep you company as we go."

"That’ll be a comfort, boy," Wolf said.

"Mister Wolf," Garion said after some time, "did you know my mother and father?"

"Yes," Wolf said quietly.

"My father’s dead too, isn’t he?"

"I’m afraid so."

Garion sighed deeply. "I thought so," he said. "I wish I’d known them. Aunt Pol says I was only a baby when—" He couldn’t bring himself to say it. "I’ve tried to remember my mother, but I can’t."

"You were very small," Wolf said.

"What were they like?" Garion asked.

Wolf scratched at his beard. "Ordinary," he said. "So ordinary you wouldn’t look twice at either one of them."

Garion was offended by that. "Aunt Pol says my mother was very beautiful," he objected.

"She was."

"Then how can you say she was ordinary?"

"She wasn’t prominent or important," Wolf said. "Neither was your father. Anyone who saw them thought that they were just simple village people—a young man with a young wife and their baby—that’s all anyone ever saw. That’s all anyone was ever supposed to see."

"I don’t understand."

"It’s very complicated."

"What was my father like?"

"Medium size," Wolf said. "Dark hair. A very serious young man. I liked him."

"Did he love my mother?"

"More than anything."

"And me?"

"Of course."

"What kind of place did they live in?"

"It was a small place," Wolf said, "a little village near the mountains, a long way from any main roads. They had a cottage at the end of the street. It was a small, solid little house. Your father built it himself—he was a stonecutter. I used to stop by there once in a while when I was in the neighborhood." The old man’s voice droned on, describing the village and the house and the two who lived there. Garion listened, not even realizing it when he fell asleep.

It must have been very late, almost on toward dawn. In a half drowse, the boy felt himself lifted from the cart and carried up a flight of stairs. The old man was surprisingly strong. Aunt Pol was there—he knew that without even opening his eyes. There was a particular scent about her that he could have found in a dark room.

"Just cover him up," Mister Wolf said softly to Aunt Pol. "Best not to wake him just now."

"What happened?" Aunt Pol asked, her voice as soft as the old man’s.

"There was a Murgo in town—at your spice merchant’s. He asked questions and he tried to give the boy an Angarak penny."

"In Upper Gralt? Are you certain he was only a Murgo?"

"It’s impossible to tell. Not even I can distinguish between Murgo and Grolim with any certainty."

"What happened to the coin?"

"I was quick enough to get it. I gave the boy a Sendarian penny instead. If our Murgo was a Grolim, we’ll let him follow me. I’m sure I can give him several months of entertainment."

"You’ll be leaving, then?" Aunt Pol’s voice seemed somehow sad.

"It’s time," Wolf said. "Right now the boy is safe enough here, and I must be abroad. There are things afoot I must see to. When Murgos begin to appear in remote places, I begin to worry. We have a great responsibility and a great care placed upon us, and we mustn’t allow ourselves to become careless."

"Will you be gone long?" Aunt Pol asked.

"Some years, I expect. There are many things I must look into and many people I’ll have to see."

"I’ll miss you," Aunt Pol said softly.

He laughed. "Sentimentality, Pol?" he said dryly. "That’s hardly in character."

"You know what I mean. I’m not suited for this task you and the others have given me. What do I know about the raising of small boys?"

"You’re doing well," Wolf said. "Keep the boy close, and don’t let his nature drive you into hysterics. Be careful; he lies like a champion."

"Garion?" Her voice was shocked.

"He lied to the Murgo so well that even I was impressed."

"Garion?"

"He’s also started asking questions about his parents," Wolf said.

"How much have you told him?"

"Very little. Only that they’re dead."

"Let’s leave it at that for now. There’s no point in telling him things he isn’t old enough to cope with yet."

Their voices went on, but Garion drifted off into sleep again, and he was almost sure that it was all a dream.

But the next morning when he awoke, Mister Wolf was gone.

The seasons turned, as seasons will. Summer ripened into autumn; the blaze of autumn died into winter; winter grudgingly relented to the urgency of spring; and spring bloomed into summer again.

With the turning of the seasons the years turned, and Garion imperceptibly grew older.

As he grew, the other children grew as well—all except poor Doroon, who seemed doomed to be short and skinny all his life. Rundorig sprouted like a young tree and was soon almost as big as any man on the farm. Zubrette, of course, did not grow so tall, but she developed in other ways which the boys began to find interesting.

In the early autumn just before Garion’s fourteenth birthday, he came very close to ending his career. In response to some primal urge all children have—given a pond and a handy supply of logs—they had built a raft that summer. The raft was neither very large nor was it particularly well-built. It had a tendency to sink on one end if the weight aboard it were improperly distributed and an alarming habit of coming apart at unexpected moments.