Pawn of Prophecy

near the fire in the chamber he shared with Aunt Pol, trying to bake the chill out of his feet. Aunt Pol also sat by the fire, mending one of his tunics, her shining needle flickering in and out of the fabric.
    "Who was the Rivan King, Aunt Pol?" he asked her. She stopped sewing.
    "Why do you ask?" she said.
    "Silk was telling me about Nyissans," he said. "He told me that their queen murdered the Rivan King. Why would she do that?"
    "You're full of questions today, aren't you?" she asked, her needle moving again.
    "Silk and I talk about a lot of things as we ride along," Garion said, pushing his feet even closer to the fire.
    "Don't burn your shoes," she told him.
    "Silk says that I'm not a Sendar," Garion said. "He says that he doesn't know what I am, but that I'm not a Sendar."
    "Silk talks too much," Aunt Pol observed.
    "You never tell me anything, Aunt Pol," he said in irritation.
    "I tell you everything you need to know," she said calmly. "Right now it's not necessary for you to know anything about Rivan kings or Nyissan queens."
    "All you want to do is keep me an ignorant child," Garion said petulantly. "I'm almost a man, and I don't even know what I am - or who."
    "I know who you are," she said, not looking up.
    "Who am I then?"
    "You're a young man who's about to catch his shoes on fire," she said.
    He jerked his feet back quickly.
    "You didn't answer me," he accused.
    "That's right," she said in that same infuriatingly calm voice.
    "Why not?"
    "It's not necessary for you to know yet. When it's time, I'll tell you, but not until."
    "That's not fair," he objected.
    "The world's full of injustice," she said. "Now, since you're feeling so manly, why don't you fetch some more firewood? That'll give you something useful to think about."
    He glared at her and stamped across the room.
    "Garion," she said.
    "What?"
    "Don't even think about slamming the door."
    That evening when Wolf and Silk returned, the usually cheerful old man seemed impatient and irritable. He sat down at the table in the common room of the inn and stared moodily at the fire. "I don't think it passed this way," he said finally. "There are a few places left to try, but I'm almost certain that it hasn't been here."
    "Then we go on to Camaar?" Barak rumbled, his thick fingers combing his bristling beard.
    "We must," Wolf said. "Most likely we should have gone there first."
    "There was no way to know," Aunt Pol told him. "Why would he go to Camaar if he's trying to carry it to the Angarak kingdoms?"
    "I can't even be certain where he's going," Wolf said irritably. "Maybe he wants to keep the thing for himself. He's always coveted it." He stared into the fire again.
    "We're going to need some kind of cargo for the trip to Camaar," Silk said.
    Wolf shook his head. "It slows us too much," he said. "It's not unusual for wagons to return to Camaar from Muros without cargo, and it's reaching the point where we'll have to gamble our disguise for the sake of speed. It's forty leagues to Camaar, and the weather's turning bad. A heavy snowstorm could stop the wagons entirely, and I don't have time to spend the whole winter mired down in a snowbank."
    Durnik dropped his knife suddenly and started to scramble to his feet.
    "What's amiss?" Barak asked quickly.
    "I just saw Brill," Durnik said. "He was in that doorway."
    "Are you sure?" Wolf demanded.
    "I know him," Durnik said grimly. "It was Brill, all right."
    Silk pounded his fist down on the table.
    "Idiot!" he accused himself. "I underestimated the man."
    "That doesn't matter now," Mister Wolf said, and there was almost a kind of relief in his voice. "Our disguise is useless now. I think it's time for speed."
    "I'll see to the wagons," Durnik said.
    "No," Wolf said. "The wagons are too slow. We'll go to the camp of the Algars and buy good horses." He stood up quickly.
    "What of the wagons?" Durnik persisted.
    "Forget them," Wolf said. "They're only a hindrance now. We'll ride the wagon horses to the camp of the Algars and take only what we can conveniently carry. Let's get ready to leave immediately. Meet me in the innyard as soon as you can." He went quickly to the door and out into the cold night.
    It was only a few minutes later that they all met near the door to the stable in the cobblestoned innyard, each carrying a small bundle. Hulking Barak jingled as he walked, and Garion could smell the oiled steel of his mail shirt. A few Bakes of snow drifted down through the frosty air and settled like tiny