Magician's Gambit

instruction, Pol," he explained.
    "We can manage, father," she said. "Will you be back in time for supper?"
    "Keep it warm for us. Coming, Garion?"
    The two of them rode in silence through the green meadows with the golden afternoon sunlight making the entire Vale warm and lovely. Garion was baffled by Mister Wolf's curious change of mood. Always before, there had been a sort of impromptu quality about the old man. He seemed frequently to be making up his life as he went along, relying on chance, his wits, and his power, when necessary, to see him through. Here in the Vale, he seemed serene, undisturbed by the chaotic events taking place in the world outside.
    About two miles from the tree stood another tower. It was rather squat and round and was built of rough stone. Arched windows near the top faced out in the directions of the four winds, but there seemed to be no door.
    "You said you'd like to visit my tower," Wolf said, dismounting. "This is it."
    "It isn't ruined like the others."
    "I take care of it from time to time. Shall we go up?"
    Garion slid down from his horse. "Where's the door?" he asked.
    "Right there." Wolf pointed at a large stone in the rounded wall. Garion looked skeptical.
    Mister Wolf stepped in front of the stone. "It's me," he said. "Open."
    The surge Garion felt at the old man's word seemed commonplaceordinary - a household kind of surge that spoke of something that had been done so often that it was no longer a wonder. The rock turned obediently, revealing a sort of narrow, irregular doorway. Motioning for Garion to follow, Wolf squeezed through into the dim chamber beyond the door.
    The tower, Garion saw, was not a hollow shell as he had expected, but rather was a solid pedestal, pierced only by a stairway winding upward.
    "Come along," Wolf told him, starting up the worn stone steps. "Watch that one," he said about halfway up, pointing at one of the steps. "The stone is loose."
    "Why don't you fix it?" Garion asked, stepping up over the loose stone.
    "I've been meaning to, but I just haven't gotten around to it. It's been that way for a long time. I'm so used to it now that I never seem to think of fixing it when I'm here."
    The chamber at the top of the tower was round and very cluttered. A thick coat of dust lay over everything. There were several tables in various parts of the room, covered with rolls and scraps of parchment, strange-looking implements and models, bits and pieces of rock and glass, and a couple of birds' nests; on one, a curious stick was so wound and twisted and coiled that Garion's eye could not exactly follow its convolutions. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands, trying to trace it out. "What's this, Grandfather?" he asked.
    "One of Polgara's toys," the old man said absently, staring around at the dusty chamber.
    "What's it supposed to do?"
    "It kept her quiet when she was a baby. It's only got one end. She spent five years trying to figure it out."
    Garion pulled his eyes off the fascinatingly compelling piece of wood. "That's a cruel sort of thing to do to a child."
    "I had to do something," Wolf answered. "She had a penetrating voice as a child. Beldaran was a quiet, happy little girl, but your Aunt never seemed satisfied."
    "Beldaran?"
    "Your Aunt's twin sister." The old man's voice trailed off, and he looked sadly out of one of the windows for a few moments. Finally he sighed and turned back to the round room. "I suppose I ought to clean this up a bit," he said, looking around at the dust and litter.
    "Let me help," Garion offered.
    "Just be careful not to break anything," the old man warned. "Some of those things took me centuries to make." He began moving around the chamber, picking things up and setting them down again, blowing now and then on them to clear away a bit of the dust. His efforts didn't really seem to be getting anywhere.
    Finally he stopped, staring at a low, rough-looking chair with the rail along its back, scarred and gashed as if it had been continually grasped by strong claws. He sighed again.
    "What's wrong?" Garion asked.
    "Poledra's chair," Wolf said. "-My wife. She used to perch there and watch me - sometimes for years on end."
    "Perch?"
    "She was fond of the shape of the owl."
    "Oh." Garion had somehow never thought of the old man as ever having been married, although he obviously had to have been at some time, since Aunt Pol and her twin sister were his daughters. The shadowy wife's affinity for owls, however, explained