Pawn of Prophecy

Wolf replied. "The thing itself will make its trail known to me. I can follow it as easily as a fox can scent out the track of a rabbit."
    "Where will he take it?" he asked.
    "Who can say? His mind is closed to me. My guess is that he'll go north to Boktor. That's the shortest route to Gar og Nadrak. He'll know that I'll be after him, and he'll want to cross into the lands of the Angaraks as soon as possible. His theft won't be complete so long as he stays in the west."
    "When did it happen?"
    "Four weeks ago."
    "He could already be in the Angarak kingdoms."
    "That's not likely. The distances are great; but if he is, I'll have to follow him. I'll need your help."
    "But how can I leave here?" Aunt Pol asked. "I have to watch over the boy."
    Garion's curiosity was becoming almost unbearable. He edged closer to the kitchen door.
    "The boy'll be safe enough here," Wolf said. "This is an urgent matter."
    "No," Aunt Pol contradicted. "Even this place isn't safe. Last Erastide a Murgo and five Thulls came here. He posed as a merchant, but he asked a few too many questions - about an old man and a boy named Rundorig who had been seen in Upper Gralt some years ago. He may also have recognized me."
    "It's more serious than I thought, then," Wolf said thoughtfully. "We'll have to move the boy. We can leave him with friends elsewhere."
    "No," Aunt Pol disagreed again. "If I go with you, he'll have to go along. He's reaching an age where he has to be watched most carefully."
    "Don't be foolish," Wolf said sharply.
    Garion was stunned. Nobody talked to Aunt Pol that way.
    "It's my decision to make," Aunt Pol said crisply. "We all agreed that he was to be in my care until he was grown. I won't go unless he goes with me."
    Garion's heart leaped.
    "Pol," Wolf said sharply, "think where we may have to go. You can't deliver the boy into those hands."
    "He'd be safer in Cthol Murgos or in Mallorea itself than he would be here without me to watch him," Aunt Pol said. "Last spring I caught him in the barn with a girl about his own age. As I said, he needs watching."
    Wolf laughed then, a rich, merry sound.
    "Is that all?" he said. "You worry too much about such things."
    "How would you like it if we returned and found him married and about to become a father?" Aunt Pol demanded acidly. "He'd make an excellent farmer, and what matter if we'd all have to wait a hundred years for the circumstances to be right again?"
    "Surely it hasn't gone that far. They're only children."
    "You're blind, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol said. "This is backcountry Sendaria, and the boy has been raised to do the proper and honorable thing. The girl is a bright-eyed little minx who's maturing much too rapidly for my comfort. Right now charming little Zubrette is a far greater danger than any Murgo could ever be. Either the boy goes along, or I won't go either. You have your responsibilities, and I have mine."
    "There's no time to argue," Wolf said. "If it has to be this way, then so be it."
    Garion almost choked with excitement. He felt only a passing, momentary pang at leaving Zubrette behind. He turned and looked exultantly up at the clouds scudding across the evening sky. And, because his back was turned, he did not see Aunt Pol approach through the kitchen door.
    "The garden, as I recall, lies beyond the south wall," she pointed out.
    Garion started guiltily.
    "How is it that the carrots remain undug?" she demanded.
    "I had to look for the spade," he said unconvincingly.
    "Really? I see that you found it, however." Her eyebrows arched dangerously.
    "Only just now."
    "Splendid. Carrots, Garion-novel"
    Garion grabbed his spade and pail and ran.
    It was just dusk when he returned, and he saw Aunt Pol mounting the steps that led to Faldor's quarters. He might have followed her to listen, but a faint movement in the dark doorway of one of the sheds made him step instead into the shadow of the gate. A furtive figure moved from the shed to the foot of the stairs Aunt Pol had just climbed and silently crept up the stairs as soon as she went in Faldor's door. The light was fading, and Garion could not see exactly who followed his Aunt. He set down his pail and, grasping the spade like a weapon, he hurried quickly around the inner court, keeping to the shadows.
    There came the sound of a movement inside the chambers upstairs, and the figure at the door straightened quickly and scurried down the steps. Garion slipped back out of sight, his spade still held at the ready. As the