Pawn of Prophecy tb-1

by David Eddings

  The man at the corner turned in irritation toward the light, and Garion caught the sudden white gleam from one of his eyes. It was Brill. The unkempt man moved quickly out of the light, obviously not wishing to be seen, then he stopped.

  Garion hugged the wall, watching Brill's impatient pacing at the corner. The wisest thing would have been to slip away and hurry back to the inn, but Garion quickly dismissed that idea. He was safe enough here in the deep shadow beside the wall, and he was too caught up by curiosity to leave without seeing exactly what Brill was doing here.

  After what seemed hours, but was really only a few more minutes, another shadowy shape came scurrying down the street. The man was hooded, so it was impossible to see his face, but the outline of his form revealed a figure dressed in the tunic, hose and calf length boots of an ordinary Sendar. There was also, when he turned, the outline of a sword belted at his waist, and that was far from ordinary. While it was not precisely illegal for Sendars of the lower classes to bear arms, it was uncommon enough to attract notice.

  Garion tried to edge close enough to hear what Brill said to the man with the sword, but they spoke only briefly. There was a clink as some coins changed hands, and then the two separated. Brill moved quietly off around the corner, and the man with the sword walked up the narrow, crooked street toward the spot where Garion stood.

  There was no place to hide, and as soon as the hooded man came close enough, he would be able to see Garion. To turn and run would be even more dangerous. Since there was no alternative, Garion put on a bold front and marched determinedly toward the oncoming figure.

  "Who's there?" the hooded man demanded, his hand going to his sword-hilt.

  "Good evening, sir," Garion said, deliberately forcing his voice up into the squeaky registers of a much younger boy. "Cold night, isn't it?"

  The hooded man grunted and seemed to relax.

  Garion's legs quivered with the desire to run. He passed the man with the sword, and his back prickled as he felt that suspicious gaze follow him.

  "Boy," the man said abruptly.

  Garion stopped.

  "Yes, sir?" he said, turning.

  "Do you live here?"

  "Yes, sir," Garion lied, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

  "Is there a tavern hereabouts?"

  Garion had just explored the town, and he spoke confidently.

  "Yes, sir," he said. "You go on up this street to the next corner and turn to your left. There are torches out front. You can't miss it."

  "My thanks," the hooded man said shortly, and walked on up the narrow street.

  "Good night, sir," Garion called after him, made bold by the fact that the danger seemed past.

  The man did not answer, and Garion marched on down to the corner, exhilarated by his brief encounter. Once he was around the corner, however, he dropped the guise of a simple village boy and ran.

  He was breathless by the time he reached the inn and burst into the smoky common room where Mister Wolf and the others sat talking by the fire.

  At the last instant, realizing that to blurt out his news in the common room where others might overhear would be a mistake, he forced himself to walk calmly to where his friends sat. He stood before the fire as if warming himself and spoke in a low tone. "I just saw Brill in the village," he said.

  "Brill?" Silk asked. "Who's Brill?"

  Wolf frowned. "A farmhand with too much Angarak gold in his purse to be entirely honest," he said. Quickly he told Silk and Barak about the adventure in Faldor's stable.

  "You should have killed him," Barak rumbled.

  "This isn't Cherek," Wolf said. "Sendars are touchy about casual killings." He turned to Garion. "Did he see you?" he asked.

  "No," Garion said. "I saw him first and hid in the dark. He met another man and gave him some money, I think. The other man had a sword." Briefly he described the whole incident.

  "This changes things," Wolf said. "I think we'll leave earlier in the morning than we'd planned."

  "It wouldn't be hard to make Brill lose interest in us," Durnik said. "I could probably find him and hit him on the head a few times."

  "Tempting." Wolf grinned. "But I think it might be better just to slip out of town early tomorrow and leave him with no notion that we've ever been here. We don't really have time to start fighting with everyone we run across."

  "I'd like a closer look at this sword-carrying Sendar, however," Silk said, rising. "If it turns out that he's following us, I'd rather know what he looks like. I don't like being followed by strangers."

  "Discreetly," Wolf cautioned.

  Silk laughed. "Have you ever known me to be otherwise?" he asked. "This won't take long. Where did you say that tavern was, Garion?"

  Garion gave him directions.

  Silk nodded, his eyes bright and his long nose twitching. He turned, went quickly across the smoky common room and out into the chill night.

  "I wonder," Barak considered. "If we're being followed this closely, wouldn't it be better to discard the wagons and this tiresome disguise, buy good horses and simply make straight for Muros at a gallop?"

  Wolf shook his head. "I don't think the Murgos are all that certain where we are," he said. "Brill could be here for some other dishonesty, and we'd be foolish to start running from shadows. Better just to move on quietly. Even if Brill is still working for the Murgos, I'd rather just slip away and leave them all beating the bushes here in central Sendaria." He stood up. "I'm going to step upstairs and let Pol know what's happened." He crossed the common room and mounted the stairs.

  "I still don't like it," Barak muttered, his face dark.

  They sat quietly then, waiting for Silk's return. The fire popped, and Garion started slightly. It occurred to him as he waited that he had changed a great deal since they'd left Faldor's farm. Everything had seemed simple then with the world neatly divided into friends and enemies. In the short time since they'd left, however, he'd begun to perceive complexities that he hadn't imagined before. He'd grown wary and distrustful and listened more frequently to that interior voice that always advised caution if not outright guile. He'd also learned not to accept anything at face value. Briefly he regretted the loss of his former innocence, but the dry voice told him that such regret was childish.

  Then Mister Wolf came back down the stairs and rejoined them. After about a half hour Silk returned. "Thoroughly disreputable-looking fellow," he said, standing in front of the fire. "My guess is that he's a common footpad."

  "Brill's seeking his natural level," Wolf observed. "If he's still working for the Murgos, he's probably hiring ruffians to watch for us. They'll be looking for four people on foot, however, rather than six in wagons. If we can get out of Winold early enough in the morning, I think we can elude them altogether."

  "I think Durnik and I should stand watch tonight," Barak said.

  "Not a bad idea," Wolf agreed. "Let's plan to leave about the fourth hour after midnight. I'd like to have two or three leagues of back roads between us and this place when the sun comes up."

  Garion scarcely slept that night; when he did, there were nightmares about a hooded man with a cruel sword chasing him endlessly down dark, narrow streets. When Barak woke them, Garion's eyes felt sandy, and his head was thick from the exhausting night.

  Aunt Pol carefully drew the shutters in their chamber before lighting a single candle. "It's going to be colder now," she said, opening the large bundle she'd had him carry up from the wagons. She took out a pair of heavy woolen hose and winter boots lined with lambswool. "Put these on," she instructed Garion, "and your heavy cloak."

  "I'm not a baby any more, Aunt Pol," Garion said.

  "Do you enjoy being cold?"

  "Well, no, but " He stopped, unable to think of any words to explain how he felt. He began to dress. He could hear the faint murmur of the others talking softly in the adjoining chamber in that curious, hushed tone that men always assume when they rise before the sun.

  "We're ready, M
istress Pol," Silk's voice came through the doorway.

  "Let's leave then," she said, drawing up the hood of her cloak.

  The moon had risen late that night and shone brightly on the frostsilvered stones outside the inn. Durnik had hitched the horses to the wagons and had led them out of the stable.

  "We'll lead the horses out to the road," Wolf said very quietly. "I see no need of rousing the villagers as we pass."

  Silk again took the lead, and they moved slowly out of the innyard. The fields beyond the village were white with frost, and the pale, smoky-looking moonlight seemed to have leeched all color from them.

  "As soon as we're well out of earshot," Wolf said, climbing up into his wagon, "let's put some significant distance between us and this place. The wagons are empty, and a little run won't hurt the horses."

  "Truly," Silk agreed.

  They all mounted their wagons and set off at a walk. The stars glittered overhead in the crisp, cold sky. The fields were very white in the moonlight, and the clumps of trees back from the road very dark.

  Just as they went over the first hilltop, Garion looked back at the dark cluster of houses in the valley behind. A single flicker of light came from a window somewhere, a lone, golden pinpoint that appeared and then vanished.

  "Someone's awake back there," he told Silk. "I just saw a light."

  "Some early riser perhaps," Silk suggested. "But then again, perhaps not." He shook the reins slightly, and the horses increased their pace. He shook them again, and they began to trot.

  "Hang on, boy," he instructed, reached forward and slapped the reins down smartly on the rumps of the horses.

  The wagon bounced and clattered fearfully behind the running team, and the bitterly chill air rushed at Garion's face as he clung to the wagon seat.

  At full gallop the three wagons plunged down into the next valley, rushing between the frost-white fields in the bright moonlight, leaving the village and its single light far behind.

  By the time the sun rose, they had covered a good four leagues, and Silk reined in his steaming horses. Garion felt battered and sore from the wild ride over the iron-hard roads and was glad for the chance to rest. Silk handed him the reins and jumped down from the wagon. He walked back and spoke briefly to Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol, then returned to the wagon.

  "We turn off at that lane just ahead," he told Garion as he massaged his fingers.

  Garion offered him the reins.

  "You drive," Silk told him. "My hands are frozen stiff. Just let the horses walk."

  Garion clucked at the horses and shook the reins slightly. Obediently, the team started out again.

  "The lane circles around to the back of that hill," Silk said, pointing with his chin since his hands were tucked inside his tunic. "On the far side there's a copse of fir trees. We'll stop there to rest the horses."

  "Do you think we're being followed?" Garion asked.

  "This'll be a good time to find out," Silk said.

  They rounded the hill and drove on down to where the dark firs bordered the road. Then Garion turned the horses and moved in under the shadowy trees.

  "This will do fine," Silk said, getting down. "Come along."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I want to have a look at that road behind us," Silk said. "We'll go up through the trees to the top of the hill and see if our back trail has attracted any interest."

  And he started up the hill, moving quite rapidly but making absolutely no sound as he went. Garion floundered along behind him, his feet cracking the dead twigs underfoot embarrassingly until he began to catch the secret of it. Silk nodded approvingly once, but said nothing.

  The trees ended just at the crest of the hill, and Silk stopped there. The valley below with the dark road passing through it was empty except for two deer who had come out of the woods on the far side to graze in the frosty grass.

  "We'll wait a while," Silk said. "If Brill and his hireling are following, they shouldn't be far behind."

  He sat on a stump and watched the empty valley.

  After a while, a cart moved slowly along the road toward Winold. It looked tiny in the distance, and its pace along the scar of the road seemed very slow.

  The sun rose a bit higher, and they squinted into its full morning brightness.

  "Silk," Garion said finally in a hesitant tone.

  "Yes, Garion?"

  "What's this all about?" It was a bold question to ask, but Garion felt he knew Silk well enough now to ask it.

  "All what?"

  "What we're doing. I've heard a few things and guessed a few more, but it doesn't really make any sense to me."

  "And just what have you guessed, Garion?" Silk asked, his small eyes very bright in his unshaven face.

  "Something's been stolen-something very important—and Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol—and the rest of us—are trying to get it back."

  "All right," Silk said. "That much is true."

  "Mister Wolf and Aunt Pol are not at all what they seem to be," Garion went on.

  "No," Silk agreed, "they aren't."

  "I think they can do things that other people can't do," Garion said, struggling with the words. "Mister Wolf can follow this thing—whatever it is—without seeing it. And last week in those woods when the Murgos passed, they did something—I don't even know how to describe it, but it was almost as if they reached out and put my mind to sleep. How did they do that? And why?"

  Silk chuckled.

  "You're a very observant lad," he said. Then his tone became more serious. "We're living in momentous times, Garion. The events of a thousand years and more have all focused on these very days. The world, I'm told, is like that. Centuries pass when nothing happens, and then in a few short years events of such tremendous importance take place that the world is never the same again."

  "I think that if I had my choice, I'd prefer one of those quiet centuries," Garion said glumly.

  "Oh, no," Silk said, his lips drawing back in a ferretlike grin. "Now's the time to be alive—to see it all happen, to be a part of it. That makes the blood race, and each breath is an adventure."

  Garion let that pass.

  "What is this thing we're following?" he asked.

  "It's best if you don't even know its name," Silk told him seriously, "or the name of the one who stole it. There are people trying to stop us; and what you don't know, you can't reveal."

  "I'm not in the habit of talking to Murgos," Garion said stiffly.

  "It's not necessary to talk to them," Silk said. "There are some among them who can reach out and pick the thoughts right out of your mind."

  "That isn't possible," Garion said.

  "Who's to say what's possible and what isn't?" Silk asked. And Garion remembered a conversation he had once had with Mister Wolf about the possible and the impossible.

  Silk sat on the stump in the newly risen sun looking thoughtfully down into the still-shadowy valley, an ordinary-looking little man in ordinary-looking tunic and hose and a rough brown shoulder cape with its hood turned up over his head.

  "You were raised as a Sendar, Garion," he said, "and Sendars are solid, practical men with little patience for such things as sorcery and magic and other things that can't be seen or touched. Your friend, Durnik, is a perfect Sendar. He can mend a shoe or fix a broken wheel or dose a sick horse, but I doubt that he could bring himself to believe in the tiniest bit of magic."

  "I am a Sendar," Garion objected. The hint implicit in Silk's observation struck at the very center of his sense of his own identity.

  Silk turned and looked at him closely.

  "No," he said, "you aren't. I know a Sendar when I see one just as I can recognize the difference between an Arend and a Tolnedran or a Cherek and an Algar. There's a certain set of the head, a certain look about the eyes of Sendars that you don't have. You're not a Sendar."

  "What am I then?" Garion challenged.

  "I don't know," Silk said with a puzzled frown, "and that's very unusual, since
I've been trained to know what people are. It may come to me in time, though."

  "Is Aunt Pol a Sendar?" Garion asked.

  "Of course not." Silk laughed.

  "That explains it then," Garion said. "I'm probably the same thing she is."

  Silk looked sharply at him.

  "She's my father's sister, after all," Garion said. "At first I thought it was my mother she was related to, but that was wrong. It was my father; I know that now."

  "That's impossible," Silk said flatly.

  "Impossible?"

  "Absolutely out of the question. The whole notion's unthinkable."

  "Why?"

  Silk chewed at his lower lip for a moment. "Let's go back to the wagons," he said shortly.

  They turned and went down through the dark trees with the bright morning sunlight slanting on their backs in the frosty air.

  They rode the back lanes for the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon when the sun had begun to drop into a purple bank of clouds toward the west, they arrived at the farm where they were to pick up Mingan's hams. Silk spoke with the stout farmer and showed him the piece of parchment Mingan had given them in Darine.

  "I'll be glad to get rid of them," the farmer said. "They've been occupying storage space I sorely need."

  "That's frequently the case when one has dealings with Tolnedrans," Silk observed. "They're gifted at getting a bit more than they pay foreven if it's only the free use of someone else's storage sheds."

  The farmer glumly agreed.

  "I wonder," Silk said as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I wonder if you might have seen a friend of mine—Brill by name? A medium-sized man with black hair and beard and a cast to one eye?"

  "Patched clothes and a sour disposition?" the stout farmer asked.

  "That's him," Silk said.

  "He's been about the area," the farmer said, "looking—or so he said—for an old man and a woman and a boy. He said that they stole some things from his master and that he'd been sent to find them."

  "How long ago was that?" Silk asked.