"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.
4
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.
Quite naturally it was Garion who was aboard the raft—showing off—on that fine autumn day when the raft quite suddenly decided once and for all to revert to its original state. The bindings all came undone, and the logs began to go their separate ways.
Realizing his danger only at the last moment, Garion made a desperate effort to pole for shore, but his haste only made the disintegration of his craft more rapid. In the end he found himself standing on a single log, his arms windmilling wildly in a futile effort to retain his balance. His eyes, desperately searching for some aid, swept the marshy shore. Some distance up the slope behind his playmates he saw the familiar figure of the man on the black horse. The man wore a dark robe, and his burning eyes watched the boy’s plight. Then the spiteful log rolled under Garion’s feet, and he toppled and fell with a resounding splash.
Garion’s education, unfortunately, had not included instruction in the art of swimming; and while the water was not really very deep, it was deep enough.
The bottom of the pond was very unpleasant, a kind of dark, weedy ooze inhabited by frogs, turtles and a singularly unsavory-looking eel that slithered away snakelike when Garion plunged like a sinking rock into the weeds. Garion struggled, gulped water and launched himself with his legs toward the surface again. Like a broaching whale, he rose from the depths, gasped a couple of quick, sputtering breaths and heard the screams of his playmates. The dark figure on the slope had not moved, and for a single instant every detail of that bright afternoon was etched on Garion’s mind. He even observed that, although the rider was in the open under the full glare of the autumn sun, neither man nor horse cast any shadow. Even as his mind grappled with that impossibility, he sank once more to the murky bottom.