Pawn of Prophecy

Arends, of course, were very brave, but were also notoriously thick-wined.
    Garion's second playmate was Doroon, a small, quick boy whose background was so mixed that he could only be called a Sendar. The most notable thing about Doroon was the fact that he was always running; he never walked if he could run. Like his feet, his mind seemed to tumble over itself, and his tongue as well. He talked continually and very fast and he was always excited.
    The undisputed leader of the little foursome was the girl Zubrette, a golden-haired charmer who invented their games, made up stories to tell them, and set them to stealing apples and plums from Faldor's orchard for her. She ruled them as a little queen, playing one against the other and inciting them into fights. She was quite heartless, and each of the three boys at times hated her even while remaining helpless thralls to her tiniest whim.
    In the winter they slid on wide boards down the snowy hillside behind the farmhouse and returned home, wet and snow-covered, with chapped hands and glowing cheeks as evening's purple shadows crept across the snow. Or, after Durnik the smith had proclaimed the ice safe, they would slide endlessly across the frozen pond that lay glittering frostily in a little dale just to the east of the farm buildings along the road to Upper Gralt. And, if the weather was too cold or on toward spring when rains and warm winds had made the snow slushy and the pond unsafe, they would gather in the hay barn and leap by the hour from the loft into the soft hay beneath, filling their hair with chaff and their noses with dust that smelled of summer.
    In the spring they caught polliwogs along the marshy edges of the pond and climbed trees to stare in wonder at the tiny blue eggs the birds had laid in twiggy nests in the high branches.
    It was Doroon, naturally, who fell from a tree and broke his arm one fine spring morning when Zubrette urged him into the highest branches of a tree near the edge of the pond. Since Rundorig stood helplessly gaping at his injured friend and Zubrette had run away almost before he hit the ground, it fell to Garion to make certain necessary decisions. Gravely he considered the situation for a few moments, his young face seriously intent beneath his shock of sandy hair. The arm was obviously broken, and Doroon, pale and frightened, bit his lip to keep from crying.
    A movement caught Garion's eye, and he glanced up quickly. A man in a dark cloak sat astride a large black horse not far away, watching intently. When their eyes met, Garion felt a momentary chill, and he knew that he had seen the man before-that indeed that dark figure had hovered on the edge of his vision for as long as he could remember, never speaking, but always watching. There was in that silent scrutiny a kind of cold animosity curiously mingled with something that was almost, but not quite, fear. Then Doroon whimpered, and Garion turned back.
    Carefully he bound the injured arm across the front of Doroon's body with his rope belt, and then he and Rundorig helped the injured boy to his feet.
    "At least he could have helped us," Garion said resentfully.
    "Who?" Rundorig said, looking around.
    Garion turned to point at the dark-cloaked man, but the rider was gone.
    "I didn't see anyone," Rundorig said.
    "It hurts," Doroon said.
    "Don't worry," Garion said. "Aunt Pol will fix it."
    And so she did. When the three appeared at the door of her kitchen, she took in the situation with a single glance.
    "Bring him over here," she told them, her voice not even excited. She set the pale and violently trembling boy on a stool near one of the ovens and mixed a tea of several herbs taken from earthenware jars on a high shelf in the back of one of her pantries.
    "Drink this," she instructed Doroon, handing him a steaming mug.
    "Will it make my arm well?" Doroon asked, suspiciously eyeing the evil-smelling brew.
    "Just drink it," she ordered, laying out some splints and linen strips.
    "Ick! It tastes awful," Doroon said, making a face.
    "It's supposed to," she told him. "Drink it all."
    "I don't think I want any more," he said.
    "Very well," she said. She pushed back the splints and took down a long, very sharp knife from a hook on the wall.
    "What are you going to do with that?" he demanded shakily.
    "Since you don't want to take the medicine," she said blandly, "I guess it'll have to come off."
    "Off?" Doroon squeaked, his eyes bulging.
    "Probably about right there," she said,