Pawn of Prophecy

three of them, and positively glowed when they glared at each other in her presence. Rundorig's duties in the fields kept him away most of the time, but Doroon was a serious worry to Garion. He became quite nervous and frequently found excuses to go about the compound to make certain that Doroon and Zubrette were not alone together.
    His own campaign was charmingly simple - he resorted to bribery. Zubrette, like all little girls, was fond of sweets, and Garion had access to the entire kitchen. In a short period of time they had worked out an arrangement. Garion would steal sweets from the kitchen for his sunnyhaired playmate, and in return she would let him kiss her. Things might perhaps have gone further if Aunt Pol had not caught them in the midst of such an exchange one bright summer afternoon in the seclusion of the hay barn.
    "That's quite enough of that," she announced firmly from the doorway.
    Garion jumped guiltily away from Zubrette.
    "I've got something in my eye," Zubrette lied quickly. "Garion was trying to get it out for me."
    Garion stood blushing furiously.
    "Really?" Aunt Pol said. "How interesting. Come with me, Garion."
    "I-" he started.
    "Now, Garion."
    And that was the end of that. Garion's time thereafter was totally occupied in the kitchen, and Aunt Pol's eyes seemed to be on him every moment. He mooned about a great deal and worried desperately about Doroon, who now appeared hatefully smug, but Aunt Pol remained watchful, and Garion remained in the kitchen.

Chapter Five
    IN MIDAUTUMN that year, when the leaves had turned and the wind had showered them down from the trees like red and gold snow, when evenings were chill and the smoke from the chimneys at Faldor's farm rose straight and blue toward the first cold stars in a purpling sky, Wolf returned. He came up the road one gusty afternoon under a lowering autumn sky with the new-fallen leaves tumbling about him and his great, dark cloak whipping in the wind.
    Garion, who had been dumping kitchen slops to the pigs, saw his approach and ran to meet him. The old man seemed travel-stained and tired, and his face under his gray hood was grim. His usual demeanor of happy-go-lucky cheerfulness had been replaced by a somber mood Garion had never seen in him before.
    "Garion," Wolf said by way of greeting. "You've grown, I see."
    "It's been five years," Garion said.
    "Has it been so long?"
    Garion nodded, falling into step beside his friend.
    "Is everyone well?" Wolf asked.
    "Oh yes," Garion said. "Everything's the same here-except that Breldo got married and moved away, and the old brown cow died last summer."
    "I remember the cow," Wolf said. Then he said, "I must speak with your Aunt Pol."
    "She's not in a very good mood today," Garion warned. "It might be better if you rested in one of the barns. I can sneak some food and drink to you in a bit."
    "We'll have to chance her mood," Wolf said. "What I have to say to her can't wait."
    They entered the gate and crossed the courtyard to the kitchen door. Aunt Pol was waiting. "You again?" she said tartly, her hands on her hips. "My kitchen still hasn't recovered from your last visit."
    "Mistress Pol," Wolf said, bowing. Then he did a strange thing. His fingers traced an intricate little design in the air in front of his chest. Garion was quite sure that he was not intended to see those gestures.
    Aunt Pol's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and her face became grim.
    "How do you-" she started, then caught herself. "Garion," she said sharply, "I need some carrots. There are still some in the ground at the far end of the kitchen garden. Take a spade and a pail and fetch me some."
    "But " he protested, and then, warned by her expression, he left quickly. He got a spade and pail from a nearby shed and then loitered near the kitchen door. Eavesdropping, of course, was not a nice habit and was considered the worst sort of bad manners in Sendaria, but Garion had long ago concluded that whenever he was sent away, the conversation was bound to be very interesting and would probably concern him rather intimately. He had wrestled briefly with his conscience about it; but, since he really saw no harm in the practice - as long as he didn't repeat anything he heard - conscience had lost to curiosity.
    Garion's ears were very sharp, but it took him a moment or two to separate the two familiar voices from the other sounds in the kitchen.
    "He will not leave you a trail," Aunt Pol was saying.
    "He doesn't have to,"