"Worse than you can imagine," the customs man said. "The Horbites don't have the kind of money it takes to conduct a political campaign, so they've started to poison off council members. We spend millions to buy a vote, and the next day our man turns black in the face and falls over dead. Then we have to raise more millions to buy up his successor. They're absolutely destroying me. I don't have the right kind of nerves for politics."
"Terrible," Silk sympathized.
"If Ran Borune would only die," the Tolnedran complained desperately. "We're in control now, but the Honeths are richer than we are. If they unite behind one candidate, they'll be able to buy the throne right out from under us. And all the while Ran Borune sits in the palace doting on that little monster he calls a daughter and with so many guards around that we can't persuade even the bravest assassin to make an attempt on him. Sometimes I think he intends to live forever."
"Patience, Excellency," Silk advised. "The more we suffer, the greater the rewards in the end."
The Tolnedran sighed. "I'll be very rich someday then. But I've kept you long enough, worthy Radek. I wish you good speed and cold weather in Tol Honeth to bring up the price of your wool."
Silk bowed formally, remounted his horse and led the party at a trot away from the customs station. "It's good to be back in Tolnedra again," the weasel-faced little man said expansively once they were out of earshot. "I love the smell of deceit, corruption, and intrigue."
"You're a bad man, Silk," Barak said. "This place is a cesspool."
"Of course it is." Silk laughed. "But it isn't dull, Barak. Tolnedra's never dull."
They approached a tidy Tolnedran village as evening fell and stopped for the night in a solid, well-kept inn where the food was good and the beds were clean. They were up early the next morning; after breakfast they clattered out of the innyard and onto the cobblestoned street in that curious silver light that comes just before the sun rises.
"A proper sort of place," Durnik said approvingly, looking around at the white stone houses with their red-tiled roofs. "Everything seems neat and orderly."
"It's a reflection of the Tolnedran mind," Mister Wolf explained. "They pay great attention to details."
"That's not an unseemly trait," Durnik observed.
Wolf was about to answer that when two brown-robed men ran out of a shadowy side street.
"Look out!" the one in the rear yelled. "He's gone mad!"
The man running in front was clutching at his head, his face contorted into an expression of unspeakable horror. Garion's horse shied violently as the madman ran directly at him, and Garion raised his right hand to try to push the bulging-eyed lunatic away. At the instant his hand touched the man's forehead, he felt a surge in his hand and arm, a kind of tingling as if the arm were suddenly enormously strong, and his mind filled with a vast roaring. The madman's eyes went blank, and he collapsed on the cobblestones as if Garion's touch had been some colossal blow.
Then Barak nudged his horse between Garion and the fallen man.
"What's this all about?" he demanded of the second robed man who ran up, gasping for breath.
"We're from Mar Terrin," the man answered. "Brother Obor couldn't stand the ghosts anymore, so I was given permission to bring him home until his sanity returned." He knelt over the fallen man. "You didn't have to hit him so hard," he accused.
"I didn't," Garion protested. "I only touched him. I think he fainted."
"You must have hit him," the monk said. "Look at the mark on his face."
An ugly red welt stood on the unconscious man's forehead.
"Garion," Aunt Pol said, "can you do exactly what I tell you to do without asking any questions?"
Garion nodded. "I think so."
"Get down off your horse. Go to the man on the ground and put the palm of your hand on his forehead. Then apologize to him for knocking him down."
"Are you sure it's safe, Polgara?" Barak asked.
"It will be all right. Do as I told you, Garion."
Garion hesitantly approached the stricken man, reached out, and laid his palm on the ugly welt. "I'm sorry," he said, "and I hope you get well soon." There was a surge in his arm again, but quite different from the first one.
The madman's eyes cleared, and he blinked.
"Where am I?" he asked. "What happened?" His voice sounded very normal, and the welt on his forehead was gone.
"It's all right now," Garion told him, not knowing exactly why he said it. "You've been sick, but you're better now."
"Come along, Garion," Aunt Pol said. "His friend can care for him now."
Garion went back to his horse, his thoughts churning.
"A miracle!" the second monk exclaimed.
"Hardly that," Aunt Pol said. "The blow restored your friend's mind, that's all. It happens sometimes." But she and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance that said quite plainly that something else had happened, something unexpected.
They rode on, leaving the two monks in the middle of the street.
"What happened?" Durnik asked, a stunned look on his face.
Mister Wolf shrugged. "Polgara had to use Garion," he said. "There wasn't time to do it any other way."
Durnik looked unconvinced.
"We don't do it often," Wolf explained. "It's a little cumbersome to go through someone else like that, but sometimes we don't have any choice."
"But Garion healed him," Durnik objected.
"It has to come from the same hand as the blow, Durnik," Aunt Pol said. "Please don't ask so many questions."
The dry awareness in Garion's mind, however, refused to accept any of their explanations. It told him that nothing had come from outside. With a troubled face he studied the silvery mark on his palm. It seemed different for some reason.
"Don't think about it, dear," Aunt Pol said quietly as they left the village and rode south along the highway. "It's nothing to worry about. I'll explain it all later." Then, to the caroling of birds that greeted the rising sun, she reached across and firmly closed his hand with her fingers.