Pawn of Prophecy

How old are you?"
    "Nine-next Erastide."
    "And in nine years you've learned everything that's both possible and impossible? You're a remarkable boy, Garion."
    Garion flushed. "Well," he said, somehow not quite so sure of himself, "the oldest man I ever heard of is old Weldrik over on Mildrin's farm. Durnik says he's over ninety and that he's the oldest man in the district."
    "And it's a very big district, of course," the old man said solemnly.
    "How old are you?" Garion asked, not wanting to give up.
    "Old enough, boy," the old man said.
    "It's still only a story," Garion insisted.
    "Many good and solid men would say so," the old man told him, looking up at the stars, "good men who will live out their lives believing only in what they can see and touch. But there's a world beyond what we can see and touch, and that world lives by its own laws. What may be impossible in this very ordinary world is very possible there, and sometimes the boundaries between the two worlds disappear, and then who can say what is possible and impossible?"
    "I think I'd rather live in the ordinary world," Garion said. "The other one sounds too complicated."
    "We don't always have that choice, Garion," the storyteller told him. "Don't be too surprised if that other world someday chooses you to do something that must be done - some great and noble thing."
    "Me?" Garion said incredulously.
    "Stranger things have happened. Go to bed, boy. I think I'll look at the stars for a while. The stars and I are very old friends."
    "The stars?" Garion asked, looking up involuntarily. "You're a very strange old man - if you don't mind my saying so."
    "Indeed," the storyteller agreed. "Quite the strangest you'll likely meet."
    "I like you all the same," Garion said quickly, not wanting to give offense.
    "That's a comfort, boy," the old man said. "Now go to bed. Your Aunt Pol will be worried about you."
    Later, as he slept, Garion's dreams were troubled. The dark figure of maimed Torak loomed in the shadows, and monstrous things pursued him across twisted landscapes where the possible and the impossible merged and joined as that other world reached out to claim him.

Chapter Three
    SOME FEW MORNINGS later, when Aunt Pol had begun to scowl at his continued lurking in her kitchen, the old man made excuse of some errand to the nearby village of Upper Gralt.
    "Good," Aunt Pol said, somewhat ungraciously. "At least my pantries will be safe while you're gone."
    He bowed mockingly, his eyes twinkling. "Do you need anything, Mistress Pol?" he asked. "Some trifling thing I might purchase for you - as long as I'm going anyway?"
    Aunt Pol thought a moment. "Some of my spice pots are a bit low," she said, "and there's a Tolnedran spice merchant in Fennel Lane just south of the Town Tavern. I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding the tavern."
    "The trip is likely to be dry," the old man admitted pleasantly. "And lonely, too. Ten leagues with no one to talk to is a long way."
    "Talk to the birds," Aunt Pol suggested bluntly.
    "Birds listen well enough," the old man said, "but their speech is repetitious and quickly grows tiresome. Why don't I take the boy along for company?"
    Garion held his breath.
    "He's picking up enough bad habits on his own," Aunt Pol said tartly. "I'd prefer his not having expert instruction."
    "Why, Mistress Pol," the old man objected, stealing a cruller almost absently, "you do me an injustice. Besides, a change will do the boy good - broaden his horizons, you might say."
    "His horizons are quite broad enough, thank you," she said.
    Garion's heart sank.
    "Still," she continued, "at least I can count on him not to forget my spices altogether or to become so fuddled with ale that he confuses peppercorns with cloves or cinnamon with nutmeg. Very well, take the boy along; but mind, I don't want you taking him into any low or disreputable places."
    "Mistress Pol!" the old man said, feigning shock. "Would I frequent such places?"
    "I know you too well, Old Wolf," she said dryly. "You take to vice and corruption as naturally as a duck takes to a pond. If I hear that you've taken the boy into any unsavory place, you and I will have words."
    "Then I'll have to make sure that you don't hear of anything like that, won't I?"
    Aunt Pol gave him a hard look. "I'll see which spices I need," she said.
    "And I'll borrow a horse and cart from Faldor," the old man said, stealing another cruller.
    In a surprisingly short time, Garion and the old man were bouncing