Sorceress of Darshiva

murky sky. "Can anybody make a guess about the time?"
    "It's about midafternoon, Belgarath," Durnik told him after a momentary consultation with Toth.
    "Let's go find out which way she's going, then."
    They rode along the beach, following Chretienne's tracks until they reached the spot where Garion's sword swung in his hand to point inland.
    "We should be able to gain some time on her," Sadi noted.
    "Why's that?" Silk asked him.
    "She came ashore in a small boat," the eunuch replied, "so she didn't have horses."
    "That's no real problem for her, Sadi," Polgara told him. "She's a Grolim, and she can communicate with her underlings over long distances. I'm sure she was on horseback within an hour of the time her foot touched the sand.' ‘
    The eunuch sighed. "I forget about that from time to time," he admitted. "It's very convenient for us to have that advantage, but not nearly so convenient when the other side has it, too."
    Belgarath swung down from his horse. "Come along, Garion. You, too, Pol. We might as well get started." He looked over at Durnik. "We'll stay in close touch," he told the smith. "This fog could make things a little tricky."
    "Right," Durnik agreed.
    Garion took Polgara's arm to help her through the soft sand and followed his grandfather up the beach to the line of driftwood at the high-water mark.
    "This should do it," the old man decided. "Let's make the change here, and then Garion and I can scout on ahead. Pol, try to keep the others more or less in sight. I don't want them straying."
    "Yes, father," she said even as she began to shimmer and change.
    Garion formed the image in his mind, pulled in his will, and once again felt that curious melting sensation. He looked himself over carefully as he always did. On one occasion he'd made the change in a hurry and had forgotten his tail. A tail does not mean very much to a two-legged animal, but it is distinctly necessary for a four-legged one.
    "Stop admiring yourself," he heard Belgarau’s voice in the silences of his mind.
    "We've got work to do."
    "I was just making sure that I had everything, Grandfather."
    "Let's go. You won't be able to see very much in the fog, so use your nose."
    Polgara was perched sedately on a bone-white limb jutting up from a driftwood log. She was meticulously preening her snowy feathers with her hooked beak.
    Belgarath and Garion effortlessly hurdled over the driftwood and loped off into the fog. "It's going to be a wet day," Garion noted soundlessly as he ran alongside the great silver wolf.
    "Your fur won't melt."
    "I know, but my paws get cold when they're wet."
    "I'll have Durnik make you some little booties."
    "That would be absolutely ridiculous, Grandfather," Garion said indignantly. Even though he had only recently made the change, the wolfs enormous sense of decorum and propriety had already begun to permeate his consciousness.
    "There are some people just ahead," Belgarath said, sniffing at the air. "Tell your aunt."
    They separated and moved off into the tall, fog-wet marsh grass. "Aunt Pol." Garion cast the words into the foggy silence around him.
    "Yes, dear?"
    "Tell Durnik and the others to rein in. There are some strangers up ahead."
    "All right, Garion. Be careful."
    Garion slunk low to the ground through the wet grass, setting each paw down carefully.
    "Will it never lift?" he heard a voice somewhere off to his left demand irritably.
    "The local people say that it's always foggy around here in the spring," another voice replied.
    "It's not spring."
    "It is here. We're south of the line. The seasons are reversed."
    "That's a stupid sort of thing."
    "It wasn't my idea. Talk to the Gods if you want to register a complaint."
    There was a long silence. "Have the Hounds found anything yet?" the first voice asked.
    "It's very hard to sniff out a trail after three days—even for the Hounds—and all the wet from this fog isn't making it any easier."
    Garion froze. "Grandfather!" he hurled the thought into the fog.
    "Don't shout."
    "There are two men talking just up ahead. They have some of the Hounds with them. I think they're trying to find the trail, too."
    "Pol." The old man's thought seemed to crackle. "Come up here."
    "Yes, father."
    It was no more than a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. Then in the murky fog overhead, Garion heard the single stroke of soft wings.
    "There are some men over there to the left," Belgarath's voice reported. "I think they might be Grolims. Have a look, but be