Barak was laughing gleefully and mopping spray from his beard. "Well, lad," he said, "what do you think of the Bore?"
Garion didn’t trust himself to answer and concentrated on trying to pry his numb fingers from the iron ring.
A familiar voice rang out from the stern.
"Garion!"
"Now you’ve gone and got me in trouble," Garion said resentfully, ignoring the fact that standing in the prow had been his own idea. Aunt Pol spoke scathingly to Barak about his irresponsibility and then turned her attention to Garion.
"Well?" she said. "I’m waiting. Would you like to explain?"
"It wasn’t Barak’s fault," Garion said. "It was my own idea." There was no point in their both being in trouble, after all.
"I see," she said. "And what was behind that?"
The confusion and doubt which had been troubling him made him reckless. "I felt like it," he said, half defiantly. For the first time in his life he felt on the verge of open rebellion.
"You what?"
"I felt like it," he repeated. "What difference does it make why I did it? You’re going to punish me anyway."
Aunt Pol stiffened, and her eyes blazed.
Mister Wolf, who was sitting nearby, chuckled.
"What’s so funny?" she snapped.
"Why don’t you let me handle this, Pol?" the old man suggested.
"I can deal with it," she said.
"But not well, Pol," he said. "Not well at all. Your temper’s too quick, and your tongue’s too sharp. He’s not a child anymore. He’s not a man yet, but he’s not a child either. The problem needs to be dealt with in a special way. I’ll take care of it." He stood up. "I think I insist, Pol."
"You what?"
"I insist." His eyes hardened.
"Very well," she said in an icy voice, turned, and walked away. "Sit down, Garion," the old man said.
"Why’s she so mean?" Garion blurted.
"She isn’t," Mister Wolf said. "She’s angry because you frightened her. Nobody likes to be frightened."
"I’m sorry," Garion mumbled, ashamed of himself.
"Don’t apologize to me," Wolf said. "I wasn’t frightened." He looked for a moment at Garion, his eyes penetrating. "What’s the problem?" he asked.
"They call you Belgarath," Garion said as if that explained it all, "and they call her Polgara."
"So."
"It’s just not possible."
"Didn’t we have this conversation before? A long time ago?"
"Are you Belgarath?" Garion demanded bluntly.
"Some people call me that. What difference does it make?"
"I’m sorry," Garion said. "I just don’t believe it:"
"All right," Wolf shrugged. "You don’t have to if you don’t want to. What’s that got to do with your being impolite to your Aunt?"
"It’s just " Garion faltered. "Well—" Desperately he wanted to ask Mister Wolf that ultimate, fatal question, but despite his certainty that there was no kinship between himself and Aunt Pol, he could not bear the thought of having it finally and irrevocably confirmed.
"You’re confused," Wolf said. "Is that it? Nothing seems to be like it ought to be, and you’re angry with your Aunt because it seems like it has to be her fault."
"You make it sound awfully childish," Garion said, flushing slightly.
"Isn’t it?"
Garion flushed even more.
"It’s your own problem, Garion," Mister Wolf said. "Do you really think it’s proper to make others unhappy because of it?"
"No," Garion admitted in a scarcely audible voice.
"Your Aunt and I are who we are," Wolf said quietly. "People have made up a lot of nonsense about us, but that doesn’t really matter. There are things that have to be done, and we’re the ones who have to do them. That’s what matters. Don’t make things more difficult for your Aunt just because the world isn’t exactly to your liking. That’s not only childish, it’s ill-mannered, and you’re a better boy than that. Now, I really think you owe her an apology, don’t you?"
"I suppose so," Garion said.
"I’m glad we had this chance to talk," the old man said, "but I wouldn’t wait too long before making up with her. You wouldn’t believe how long she can stay angry." He grinned suddenly. "She’s been angry with me for as long as I can remember, and that’s so long that I don’t even like to think about it."
"I’ll do it right now," Garion said.
"Good," Wolf approved.
Garion stood up and walked purposefully to where Aunt Pol stood staring out at the swirling currents of the Cherek Bore.
"Aunt Pol," he said.
"Yes, dear?"
"I’m sorry. I was wrong."
She turned and looked at him gravely.
"Yes," she said, "you were."
"I won’t do it again."
She laughed then, a low, warm laugh, and ran her fingers through his tangled hair. "Don’t make promises you can’t keep, dear," she said, and she embraced him, and everything was all right again.
After the fury of the tide through the Cherek Bore had abated, they sailed north along the snow-muffled east coast of the Cherek peninsula toward the ancient city which was the ancestral home of all Alorns, Algar and Drasnian as well as Cherek and Rivan. The wind was chill and the skies threatening, but the remainder of the voyage was uneventful. After three more days their ship entered the harbor at Val Alorn and tied up at one of the ice-shrouded wharves.
Val Alorn was unlike any Sendarian city. Its walls and buildings were so incredibly ancient that they seemed more like natural rock formations than the construction of human hands. The narrow, crooked streets were clogged with snow, and the mountains behind the city loomed high and white against the dark sky.
Several horse-drawn sleighs awaited them at the wharf with savage-looking drivers and shaggy horses stamping impatiently in the packed snow. There were fur robes in the sleighs, and Garion drew one of them about him as he waited for Barak to conclude his farewells to Greldik and the sailors.
"Let’s go," Barak told the driver as he climbed into the sleigh. "See if you can’t catch up with the others."
"If you hadn’t talked so long, they wouldn’t be so far ahead, Lord Barak," the driver said sourly.
"That’s probably true," Barak agreed.
The driver grunted, touched his horses with his whip, and the sleigh started up the street where the others had already disappeared. Fur-clad Cherek warriors swaggered up and down the narrow streets, and many of them bellowed greetings to Barak as the sleigh passed. At one corner their driver was forced to halt while two burly men, stripped to the waist in the biting cold, wrestled savagely in the snow in the center of the street to the encouraging shouts of a crowd of onlookers.
"A common pastime," Barak told Garion. "Winter’s a tedious time in Val Alorn."
"Is that the palace ahead?" Garion asked.
Barak shook his head. "The temple of Belar," he said. "Some men say that the Bear-God resides there in spirit. I’ve never seen him myself, though, so I can’t say for sure."
Then the wrestlers rolled out of the way, and they continued.
On the steps of the temple an ancient woman wrapped in ragged woolen robes stood with a long staff clutched in one honey hand and her stringy hair wild about her face. "Hail, Lord Barak," she called in a cracked voice as they passed. "Thy Doom still awaits thee."
"Stop the sleigh," Barak growled at the driver, and he threw off his fur robe and jumped to the ground. "Martje," he thundered at the old woman. "You’ve been forbidden to loiter here. If I tell Anheg that you’ve disobeyed him, he’ll have the priests of the temple burn you for a witch."
The old woman cackled at him, and Garion noted with a shudder that her eyes were milk-white blankness.
"The fire will not touch old Martje," she laughed shrilly. "That is not the Doom which awaits her."
"Enough of dooms," Barak said. "Get away from the temple."
"Martje sees what she sees," the old woman said. "The mark of thy Doom is still upon thee, great Lord Barak. When it comes to thee, thou shalt remember the words of old Martje." And then she seemed to look at the sleigh where Garion sat, though her milky eyes were obviously blind. Her expression suddenly changed from malicious glee to one strangely awestruck.