Queen of Sorcery

Grolims. Father and I have met him before."
    "I think we'd better get off this hilltop," Wolf stated. "How soon will Lelldorin be able to ride?"
    "A week at least," Aunt Pol replied, "if then."
    "That's out of the question. We can't stay here."
    "He can't ride," she told him firmly.
    "Couldn't we make a litter of some sort?" Durnik suggested. "I'm sure I can make something we can sling between two horses so we can move him without hurting him."
    "Well, Pol?" Wolf asked.
    "I suppose it will be all right," she said a little dubiously.
    "Let's do it then. We're much too exposed up here, and we've got to move on."
    Durnik nodded and went to the packs for rope to use in building the litter.

Chapter Seven
    SIR MANDORALLEN, BARON OF VO MANDOR, was a man of slightly more than medium height. His hair was black and curly, his eyes were deep blue, and he had a resonant voice in which he expressed firmly held opinions. Garion did not like him. The knight's towering self confidence, an egotism so pure that there was a kind of innocence about it, seemed to confirm the worst of Lelldorin's dark pronouncements about Mimbrates; and Mandorallen's extravagant courtesy to Aunt Pol struck Garion as beyond the bounds of proper civility. To make matters even worse, Aunt Pol seemed quite willing to accept the knight's flatteries at face value.
    As they rode through the continuing drizzle along the Great West Road, Garion noted with some satisfaction that his companions appeared to share his opinion. Barak's expression spoke louder than words; Silk's eyebrows lifted sardonically at each of the knight's pronouncements; and Durnik scowled.
    Garion, however, had little time to sort out his feelings about the Mimbrate. He rode close beside the litter upon which Lelldorin tossed painfully as the Algroth Polson seared in his wounds. He offered his friend what comfort he could and exchanged frequent worried looks with Aunt Pol, who rode nearby. During the worst of Lelldorin's paroxysms, Garion helplessly held the young man's hand, unable to think of anything else to do to ease his pain.
    "Bear thine infirmity with fortitude, good youth," Mandorallen cheerfully advised the injured Asturian after a particularly bad bout that left Lelldorin gasping and moaning. "This discomfort of throe is but an illusion. Thy mind can put it to rest if thou wouldst have it so."
    "That's exactly the kind of comfort I'd expect from a Mimbrate," Lelldorin retorted from between clenched teeth. "I think I'd rather you didn't ride so close. Your opinions smell almost as bad as your armor."
    Mandorallen's face flushed slightly. "The venom which loth rage through the body of our injured friend hath, it would seem, bereft him of civility as well as sense," he observed coldly.
    Lelldorin half raised himself in the litter as if to respond hotly, but the sudden movement seemed to aggravate his injury, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
    "His wounds are grave," Mandorallen stated. "Thy poultice, Lady Polgara, may not suffice to save his life."
    "He needs rest," she told him. "Try not to agitate him so much."
    "I will place myself beyond the reach of his eye," Mandorallen replied. "Through no fault of mine own, my visage is hateful to him and doth stir him to unhealthful choler." He moved his warhorse ahead at a canter until he was some distance in front of the rest of them.
    "Do they all talk like that?" Garion asked with a certain rancor. "Thee's and thou's and cloth's?"
    "Mimbrates tend to be very formal," Aunt Pol explained. "You'll get used to it."
    "I think it sounds stupid," Garion muttered darkly, glaring after the knight.
    "An example of good manners won't hurt you all that much, Garion."
    They rode on through the dripping forest as evening settled among the trees.
    "Aunt Pol?" Garion asked finally.
    "Yes, dear?"
    "What was that Grolim talking about when he said that about you and Torak?"
    "It's something Torak said once when he was raving. The Grolims took it seriously, that's all." She pulled her blue cloak tighter about her.
    "Doesn't it worry you?"
    "Not particularly."
    "What was that Prophecy the Grolim was talking about? I didn't understand any of that." The word "Prophecy" for some reason stirred something very deep in him.
    "The Mrin Codex," she answered. "It's a very old version, and the writing's almost illegible. It mentions companions - the bear, the rat, and the man who will live twice. It's the only version that says anything about them. Nobody knows for