Magician's Gambit

anyway."
    "Just do it, Silk," Wolf told him firmly. "I can't watch over you every minute." He slipped his fingers up under the dirty and rather ragged bandage on his arm, scratching irritably. "That's enough of that," he declared. "Garion, take this thing off me." He held out his arm.
    Garion backed away. "Not me," he refused. "Do you know what Aunt Pol would say to me if I did that without her permission?"
    "Don't be silly. Silk, you do it."
    "First you say to stay out of trouble, and then you tell me to cross Polgara? You're inconsistent, Belgarath."
    "Oh, here," Ce'Nedra said. She took hold of the old man's arm and began picking at the knotted bandage with her tiny fingers. "Just remember that this was your idea. Garion, give me your knife."
    Somewhat reluctantly, Garion handed over his dagger. The princess sawed through the bandage and began to unwrap it. The splints fell clattering to the stone floor.
    "What a dear child you are." Mister Wolf beamed at her and began to scratch at his arm with obvious relief.
    "Just remember that you owe me a favor," she told him.
    "She's a Tolnedran, all right," Silk observed.
    It was about an hour later when Aunt Pol came around the table to them, her eyes somber.
    "How's the mare?" Ce'Nedra asked quickly.
    "Very weak, but I think she'll be all right."
    "What about the baby horse?"
    Aunt Pol sighed. "We were too late. We tried everything, but we just couldn't get him to start breathing."
    Ce'Nedra gasped, her little face suddenly a deathly white. "You're not going to just give up, are you?" She said it almost accusingly.
    "There's nothing more we can do, dear," Aunt Pol told her sadly. "It took too long. He just didn't have enough strength left."
    Ce'Nedra stared at her, unbelieving. "Do something!" she demanded. "You're a sorceress. Do something!"
    "I'm sorry, Ce'Nedra, that's beyond our power. We can't reach beyond that barrier."
    The little princess wailed then and began to cry bitterly. Aunt Pol put her arms comfortingly about her and held her as she sobbed.
    But Garion was already moving. With absolute clarity he now knew what it was that the cave expected of him, and he responded without thinking, not running or even hurrying. He walked quietly around the stone table toward the fire.
    Hettar sat cross-legged on the floor with the unmoving colt in his lap, his head bowed with sorrow and his manelike scalp lock falling across the spindle-shanked little animal's silent face.
    "Give him to me, Hettar," Garion said.
    "Garion! No!" Aunt Pol's voice, coming from behind him, was alarmed.
    Hettar looked up, his hawk face filled with deep sadness.
    "Let me have him, Hettar," Garion repeated very quietly. Wordlessly Hettar raised the limp little body, still wet and glistening in the firelight, and handed it to Garion. Garion knelt and laid the foal on the floor in front of the shimmering fire. He put his hands on the tiny ribcage and pushed gently. "Breathe," he almost whispered.
    "We tried that, Garion," Hettar told him sadly. "We tried everything."
    Garion began to gather his will.
    "Don't do that, Garion," Aunt Pol told him firmly. "It isn't possible, and you'll hurt yourself if you try."
    Garion was not listening to her. The cave itself was speaking to him too loudly for him to hear anything else. He focused his every thought on the wet, lifeless body of the foal. Then he stretched out his right hand and laid his palm on the unblemished, walnut-colored shoulder of the dead animal. Before him there seemed to be a blank wall - black and higher than anything else in the world, impenetrable and silent beyond his comprehension. Tentatively he pushed at it, but it would not move. He drew in a deep breath and hurled himself entirely into the struggle. "Live," he said.
    "Garion, stop."
    "Live," he said again, throwing himself deeper into his effort against that blackness.
    "It's too late now, Pol," he heard Mister Wolf say from somewhere. "He's already committed himself."
    "Live," Garion repeated, and the surge he felt welling up out of him was so vast that it drained him utterly. The glowing walls flickered and then suddenly rang as if a bell had been struck somewhere deep inside the mountain. The sound shimmered, filling the air inside the domed chamber with a vibrant ringing. The light in the walls suddenly flared with a searing brightness, and the chamber was as bright as noon.
    The little body under Garion's hand quivered, and the colt drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Garion