"Then he isn't always with you?"
"Not always. Sometimes he goes away for months - sometimes even longer. He's been there for quite a long while this time - ever since Asharak burned up."
"Where exactly is he when he's with you?" the old man asked curiously.
"In here." Garion tapped his head.
"Have you been awake ever since we entered Maragor?" Aunt Pol asked.
"Not exactly awake," Garion answered. "Part of me was asleep."
"You could see the ghosts?"
"Yes."
"But they didn't frighten you?"
"No. Some of them surprised me, and one of them made me sick."
Wolf looked up quickly. "It wouldn't make you sick now though, would it?"
"No. I don't think so. Right at first I could still feel things like that a little bit. Now I can't."
Wolf looked thoughtfully at the fire as if looking for a way to phrase his next question. "What did the other one in your head say to you when you talked together?"
"He told me that something had happened a long time ago that wasn't supposed to happen and that I was supposed to fix it."
Wolf laughed shortly. "That's a succinct way of putting it," he observed. "Did he say anything about how it was going to turn out?"
"He doesn't know."
Wolf sighed. "I'd hoped that maybe we'd picked up an advantage somewhere, but I guess not. It looks like both prophecies are still equally valid."
Aunt Pol was looking steadily at Garion. "Do you think you'll be able to remember any of this when you wake up again?" she asked.
"I think so."
"All right then, listen carefully. There are two prophecies, both leading toward the same event. The Grolims and the rest of the Angaraks are following one; we're following the other. The event turns out differently at the end of each prophecy."
"I see."
"Nothing in either prophecy excludes anything that will happen in the other until they meet in that event," she continued. "The course of everything that follows will be decided by how that event turns out. One prophecy will succeed; the other will fail. Everything that has happened and will happen comes together at that point and becomes one. The mistake will be erased, and the universe will go in one direction or the other, as if that were the direction it had been going from its very beginning.The only real difference is that something that's very important will never happen if we fail."
Garion nodded, feeling suddenly very tired.
"Beldin call it the theory of convergent destinies," Mister Wolf said. "Two equally possible possibilities. Beldin can be very pompous sometimes."
"It's not an uncommon failing, father," Aunt Pol told him.
"I think I'd like to sleep now," Garion said.
Wolf and Aunt Pol exchanged a quick glance. "All right," Aunt Pol said. She rose and took him by the arm and led him to his blankets.
After she had covered him, drawing the blankets up snugly, she laid one cool hand on his forehead. "Sleep, my Belgarion," she murmured.
And he did that.
Part Two - THE VALE OF ALDUR
Chapter Seven
THEY WERE ALL standing in a circle with their hands joined when they awoke. Ce'Nedra was holding Garion's left hand, and Durnik was on his right. Garion's awareness came flooding back as sleep left him. The breeze was fresh and cool, and the morning sun was very bright. Yellow-brown foothills rose directly in front of them and the haunted plain of Maragor lay behind.Silk looked around sharply as he awoke, his eyes wary. "Where are we?" he asked quickly.
"On the northern edge of Maragor," Wolf told him, "about eighty leagues east of Tol Rane."
"How long were we asleep?"
"A week or so."
Silk kept looking around, adjusting his mind to the passage of time and distance. "I guess it was necessary," he conceded finally.
Hettar went immediately to check the horses, and Barak began massaging the back of his neck with both hands. "I feel as if I've been sleeping on a pile of rocks," he complained.
"Walk around a bit," Aunt Pol advised. "That will work the stiffness out."
Ce'Nedra had not removed her hand from Garion's, and he wondered if he should mention it to her. Her hand felt very warm and small in his and, on the whole, it was not unpleasant. He decided not to say anything about it.
Hettar was frowning when he came back. "One of the pack mares is with foal, Belgarath," he said.
"How long has she got to go?" Wolf asked, looking quickly at him.
"It's hard to say for sure - no more than a month. It's her first."
"We can break down her pack and distribute the weight among the other horses," Durnik suggested. "She'll be all right if she doesn't have to carry anything."
"Maybe." Hettar sounded dubious.
Mandorallen had been studying the yellowed foothills directly ahead. "We are being watched, Belgarath," he said somberly, pointing at several wispy columns of smoke rising toward the blue morning sky.
Mister Wolf squinted at the smoke and made a sour face. "Goldhunters, probably. They hover around the borders of Maragor like vultures over a sick cow. Take a look, Pol."
But Aunt Pol's eyes already had that distant look in them as she scanned the foothills ahead. "Arends," she said, "Sendars, Tolnedrans, a couple of Drasnians. They aren't very bright."
"Any Murgos?"
"No."
"Common rabble then," Mandorallen observed. "Such scavengers will not impede us significantly."
"I'd like to avoid a fight if possible," Wolf told him. "These incidental skirmishes are dangerous and don't really accomplish anything." He shook his head with disgust. "We'll never be able to convince them that we're not carrying gold out of Maragor, though, so I guess there's no help for it."
"If gold's all they want, why don't we just give them some?" Silk suggested.
"I didn't bring all that much with me, Silk," the old man replied.
"It doesn't have to be real," Silk said, his eyes bright. He went to one of the packhorses, came back with several large pieces of canvas, and quickly cut them into foot-wide squares. Then he took one of the squares and laid a double handful of gravel in its center. He pulled up the corners and wrapped a stout piece of cord around them, forming a heavy-looking pouch. He hefted it a few times. "Looks about like a sackful of gold, wouldn't you say?"