"The universe doesn't make any distinction between a pebble and a man." The old man looked at him somewhat sternly. "Your Aunt's been trying to explain the necessity for keeping yourself under control for several months now, and you've been fighting her every step of the way."
Garion hung his head. "I didn't know what she was getting at," he apologized.
"That's because you weren't listening. That's a great failing of yours, Garion."
Garion flushed. "What happened the first time you found out you could - well - do things?" he asked quickly, wanting to change the subject.
"It was something silly," Wolf replied. "It usually is, the first time."
"What was it?"
Wolf shrugged. "I wanted to move a big rock. My arms and back weren't strong enough, but my mind was. After that I didn't have any choice but to learn to live with it because, once you unlock it, it's unlocked forever. That's the point where your life changes and you have to start learning to control yourself."
"It always gets back to that, doesn't it?"
"Always," Wolf said. "It's not as difficult as it sounds, really. Look at Mandorallen." He pointed at the knight, who was riding with Durnik. The two of them were in a deep discussion. "Now, Mandorallen's a nice enough fellow - honest, sincere, toweringly noble - but let's be honest. His mind has never been violated by an original thought - until now. He's learning to control fear, and learning to control it is forcing him to think - probably for the first time in his whole life. It's painful for him, but he's doing it. If Mandorallen can learn to control fear with that limited brain of his, surely you can learn the same kind of control over the other emotions. After all, you're quite a bit brighter than he is."
Silk, who had been scouting ahead, came riding back to join them. "Belgarath," he said, "there's something about a mile in front of us that I think you'd better take a look at."
"All right," Wolf replied. "Think about what I've been saying, Garion. We'll talk more about it later." Then he and Silk moved off through the trees at a gallop.
Garion pondered what the old man had told him. The one thing that bothered him the most was the crushing responsibility his unwanted talent placed upon him.
The colt frisked along beside him, galloping off into the trees from time to time and then rushing back, his little hooves pattering on the damp ground. Frequently he would stop and stare at Garion, his eyes full of love and trust.
"Oh, stop that," Garion told him.
The colt scampered away again.
Princess Ce'Nedra moved her horse up until she was beside Garion. "What were you and Belgarath talking about?" she asked.
Garion shrugged. "A lot of things."
There was immediately a hard little tightening around her eyes. In the months that they had known each other, Garion had learned to catch those minute danger signals. Something warned him that the princess was spoiling for an argument, and with an insight that surprised him he reasoned out the source of her unspoken belligerence. What had happened in the cave had shaken her badly, and Ce'Nedra did not like to be shaken. To make matters even worse, the princess had made a few coaxing overtures to the colt, obviously wanting to turn the little animal into her personal pet. The colt, however, ignored her completely, fixing all his attention on Garion, even to the point of ignoring his own mother unless he was hungry. Ce'Nedra disliked being ignored even more than she disliked being shaken. Glumly, Garion realized how small were his chances of avoiding a squabble with her.
"I certainly wouldn't want to pry into a private conversation," she said tartly.
"It wasn't private. We were talking about sorcery and how to keep accidents from happening. I don't want to make any more mistakes."
She turned that over in her mind, looking for something offensive in it. His mild answer seemed to irritate her all the more. "I don't believe in sorcery," she said flatly. In the light of all that had recently happened, her declaration was patently absurd, and she seemed to realize that as soon as she said it. Her eyes hardened even more.
Garion sighed. "All right," he said with resignation, "was there anything in particular you wanted to fight about, or did you just want to start yowling and sort of make it up as we go along?"
"Yowling?" Her voice went up several octaves. "Yowling?"
"Screeching, maybe," he suggested as insultingly as possible. As long as the fight was inevitable anyway, he determined to get in a few digs at her before her voice rose to the point where she could no longer hear him.
"SCREECHING?" she screeched.
The fight lasted for about a quarter of an hour before Barak and Aunt Pol moved forward to separate them. On the whole, it was not very satisfactory. Garion was a bit too preoccupied to put his heart into the insults he flung at the tiny girl, and Ce'Nedra's irritation robbed her retorts of their usual fine edge. Toward the end, the whole thing had degenerated into a tedious repetition of "spoiled brat" and "stupid peasant" echoing endlessly back from the surrounding mountains.
Mister Wolf and Silk rode back to join them. "What was all the yelling?" Wolf asked.
"The children were playing," Aunt Pol replied with a withering look at Garion.
"Where's Hettar?" Silk asked.
"Right behind us," Barak said. He turned to look back toward the packhorses, but the tall Algar was nowhere to be seen. Barak frowned. "He was just there. Maybe he stopped for a moment to rest his horse or something."
"Without saying anything?" Silk objected. "That's not like him. And it's not like him to leave the packhorses unattended."
"He must have some good reason," Durnik said.
"I'll go back and look for him," Barak offered.
"No," Mister Wolf told him. "Wait a few minutes. Let's not get scattered all over these mountains. If anybody goes back, we'll all go back."
They waited. The wind stirred the branches of the pines around them, making a mournful, sighing sound.
After several moments, Aunt Pol let out her breath almost explosively. "He's coming." There was a steely note in her voice. "He's been entertaining himself."
From far back up the trail, Hettar appeared in his black leather clothing, riding easily at a loping canter with his long scalp lock flowing in the wind. He was leading two saddled but riderless horses. As he drew nearer, they could hear him whistling rather tunelessly to himself.
"What have you been doing?" Barak demanded.
"There were a couple of Murgos following us," Hettar replied as if that explained everything.
"You might have asked me to go along," Barak said, sounding a little injured.
Hettar shrugged. "There were only two. They were riding Algar horses, so I took it rather personally."
"It seems that you always find some reason to take it personally where Murgos are concerned," Aunt Pol said crisply.
"It does seem to work out that way, doesn't it?"
"Didn't it occur to you to let us know you were going?" she asked.
"There were only two," Hettar said again. "I didn't expect to be gone for very long."
She drew in a deep breath, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Let it go, Pol," Mister Wolf told her.
"But-"
"You're not going to change him, so why excite yourself about it? Besides, it's just as well to discourage pursuit." The old man turned to Hettar, ignoring the dangerous look Aunt Pol leveled at him. "Were the Murgos some of those who were with Brill?" he asked.
Hettar shook his head. "No. Brill's Murgos were from the south and they were riding Murgo horses. These two were northern Murgos."
"Is there a visible difference?" Mandorallen asked curiously.
"The armor is slightly different, and the southerners have flatter faces and they're not quite so tall."
"Where did they get Algar horses?" Garion asked.
"They're herd raiders," Hettar answered bleakly. "Algar horses are valuable in Cthol Murgos, and certain Murgos make a practice of creeping down into Algaria on horse-stealing expeditions. We try to discourage that as much as possible."
"These horses aren't in very good shape," Durnik observed, looking at the two weary-looking animals Hettar was leading. "They've been ridden hard, and there are whip cuts on them."
Hettar nodded grimly. "That's another reason to hate Murgos."
"Did you bury them?" Barak asked.
"No. I left them where any other Murgos who might be following could find them. I thought it might help to educate any who come along later."
"There are some signs that others have been through here, too," Silk said. "I found the tracks of a dozen or so up ahead."
"It was to be expected, I suppose," Mister Wolf commented, scratching at his beard. "Ctuchik's got his Grolims out in force, and Taur Urgas is probably having the region patrolled. I'm sure they'd like to stop us if they could. I think we should move on down into the Vale as fast as possible. Once we're there, we won't be bothered any more."
"Won't they follow us into the Vale?" Durnik asked, looking around nervously.
"No. Murgos won't go into the Vale - not for any reason. Aldur's Spirit is there, and the Murgos are desperately afraid of him."
"How many days to the Vale?" Silk asked.
"Four or five, if we ride hard," Wolf replied.
"We'd better get started then."