David Eddings - Pawn of Prophecy

"Foolishness," Aunt Pol said.

"We’re all foolish at one time or another," Anheg said philosophically. "But let’s get back to this other matter. If these rumors I mentioned are true, aren’t you taking some serious risks? Your search is likely to be very dangerous."

"No place is really safe," Mister Wolf said.

"Why take chances you don’t have to?" Anheg asked. "Asharak isn’t the only Grolim in the world you know."

"I can see why they call you Anheg the sly," Wolf said with a smile.

"Wouldn’t it be safer to leave this certain thing in my care until you return?" Anheg suggested.

"We’ve already found that not even Val Alorn is safe from the Grolims, Anheg," Aunt Pol said firmly. "The mines of Cthol Murgos and Gar og Nadrak are endless, and the Grolims have more gold at their disposal than you could even imagine. How many others like Jarvik have they bought? The Old Wolf and I are very experienced at protecting this certain thing you mentioned. It will be safe with us."

"Thank you for your concern, however," Mister Wolf said.

"The matter concerns us all," Anheg said.

Garion, despite his youth and occasional recklessness, was not stupid. It was obvious that what they were talking about involved him in some way and quite possibly had to do with the mystery of his parentage as well. To conceal the fact that he was listening as hard as he could, he picked up a small book bound in a strangely textured black leather. He opened it, but there were neither pictures or illuminations, merely a spidery-looking script that seemed strangely repulsive.

Aunt Pol, who always seemed to know what he was doing, looked over at him. "What are you doing with that?" She said sharply.

"Just looking," He said. "I can’t read."

"Put it down immediately," she told him.

King Anheg smiled. "You wouldn’t be able to read it anyway, Garion," he said. "It’s written in Old Angarak."

"What are you doing with that filthy thing anyway?" Aunt Pol asked Anheg. "You of all people should know that it’s forbidden."

"It’s only a book, Pol," Mister Wolf said. "It doesn’t have any power unless it’s permitted to."

"Besides," Anheg said, rubbing thoughtfully at the side of his face, "the book gives us clues to the mind of our enemy. That’s always a good thing to know."

"You can’t know Torak’s mind," Aunt Pol said, "and it’s dangerous to open yourself to him, He can poison you without your even knowing what’s happening."

"I don’t think there’s any danger of that, Pol," Wolf said. "Anheg’s mind is well-trained enough to avoid the traps in Torak’s book, They’re pretty obvious after all."

"You’re an observant young man, Garion," Anheg said gravely. "You’ve done me a service today, and you can call on me at any time for service in return. Know that Anheg of Cherek is your friend." He extended hs right hand, and Garion took it into his own without thinking.

King Anheg’s eyes grew suddenly wide, and his face paled slightly. He turned Garion’s hand over and looked down at the silvery mark on the boy’s palm.

Then Aunt Pol’s hands were also there, firmly closing Garion’s fingers and removing him from Anheg’s grip.

"It’s true, then," Anheg said softly.

"Enough," Aunt Pol said. "Don’t confuse the boy." Her hands were still firmly holding Garion’s. "Come along, dear," she said. "It’s time to finish packing." And she turned and led him from the room.

Garion’s mind was racing, What was there about the mark on his hand that had so startled Anheg? The birthmark, he knew, was hereditary. Aunt Pol had once told him that his father’s hand had had the same mark, but why would that be of interest to Anheg? It had gone too far, His need to know became almost unbearable. He had to know about his parents, about Aunt Pol—about all of it. If the answers hurt, then they’d just have to hurt. At least he would know.

The next morning was clear, and they left the palace for the harbor quite early. They all gathered in the courtyard where the sleighs waited.

"There’s no need for you to come out in the cold like this, Merel," Barak told his fur-robed wife as she mounted the sleigh beside him.

"I have a duty to see my Lord safely to his ship," she replied with an arrogant lift of her chin.

Barak sighed. "Whatever you wish," he said.

With King Anheg and Queen Islena in the lead, the sleighs whirled out of the courtyard and into the snowy streets.

The sun was very bright, and the air was crisp. Garion rode silently with Silk and Hettar.

"Why so quiet, Garion?" Silk asked.

"A lot of things have happened here that I don’t understand," Garion said.

"No one can understand everything," Hettar said rather sententiously.

"Chereks are a violent and moody people," Silk said. "They don’t even understand themselves."

"It’s not just the Chereks," Garion said, struggling with the words. "It’s Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf and Asharak—all of it. Things are happening too fast. I can’t get it all sorted out."

"Events are like horses," Hettar told him. "Sometimes they run away. After they’ve run for a while, though, they’ll start to walk again, Then there’ll be time to put everything together."

"I hope so," Garion said dubiously and fell silent again.

The sleighs came round a corner into the broad square before the temple of Belar. The blind woman was there again and Garion realized that he had been half-expecting her. She stood on the steps of the temple and raised her staff. Unaccountably, the horses which pulled the sleighs stopped, trembling, despite the urgings of the drivers.

"Hail, Great One," the blind woman said. "I wish thee well on thy journey."

The sleigh in which Garion was riding had stopped closest to the temple steps, and it seemed that the old woman was speaking to him. Almost without thinking he answered, "Thank you. But why do you call me that?"

She ignored the question. "Remember me," she commanded, bowing deeply. "Remember Martje when thou comest into thine inheritance."

It was the second time she’d said that, and Garion felt a sharp pang of curiosity. "What inheritance?" he demanded.

But Barak was roaring with fury and struggling to throw off the fur robe and draw his sword at the same time. King Anheg was also climbing down from his sleigh, his coarse face livid with rage.

"No!" Aunt Pol said sharply from nearby. "I’ll tend to this." She stood up. "Hear me witch-woman," she said in a clear voice, casting back the hood of her cloak. "I think you see too much with those blind eyes of yours. I’m going to do you a favor so that you’ll no longer be troubled by the darkness and these disturbing visions which grow out of it."

"Strike me down if it please thee, Polgara," the old woman said. "I see what I see."

"I won’t strike you down, Martje," Aunt Pol said. "I’m going to give you a gift instead." She raised her hand in a brief and curious gesture.

Garion saw it happen quite plainly, so there was no way that he could persuade himself that it had all been some trick of the eye. He was looking directly at Martje’s face and saw the white film drain down off her eyes like milk draining down the inside of a glass.

The old woman stood frozen on the spot as the bright blue of her eyes emerged from the film which had covered them. And then she screamed. She held up her hands and looked at them and screamed again. There was in her scream a wrenching note of indescribable loss.

"What did you do," Queen Islena demanded.

"I gave her back her eyes," Aunt Pol said, sitting down again and rearranging the fur robe about her.

"You can do that?" Islena asked, her face blanching and her voice weak.

"Can’t you? It’s a simple thing, really."