Mandorallen's face became gravely thoughtful as Durnik's words slowly sank in. "I will consider this," he said. "It may be, good friend, that I will owe thee more than my life for thy gentle instruction."
Once more the mare groaned, a deep, tearing sound, and Durnik straightened and began rolling up his sleeves. "The foal's going to have to be turned, Mistress Pol," he said decisively. "And soon, or we'll lose the foal and the mare both."
"Let me get some of this into her first," she replied, quenching her boiling pot with some cold water. "Hold her head," she told Hettar. Hettar nodded and firmly wrapped his arms around the laboring mare's head. "Garion," Aunt Pol said, as she spooned the liquid between the mare's teeth, "why don't you and Ce'Nedra go over there where Silk and your grandfather are?"
"Have you ever turned a foal before, Durnik?" Hettar asked anxiously.
"Not a foal, but calves many times. A horse isn't that much different from a cow, really."
Barak stood up quickly. His face had a slight greenish cast to it. "I'll go with Garion and the princess," he rumbled. "I don't imagine I'd be much help here."
"And I will join thee," Mandorallen declared. His face was also visibly pale. "It were best, I think, to leave our friends ample room for their midwifery."
Aunt Pol looked at the two warriors with a slight smile on her face, but said nothing.
Garion and the others moved rather quickly away.
Silk and Mister Wolf were standing beyond the huge stone table, peering into another of the circular openings in the shimmering wall. "I've never seen fruits exactly like those," the little man was saying.
"I'd be surprised if you had," Wolf replied.
"They look as fresh as if they'd just been picked." Silk's hand moved almost involuntarily toward the tempting fruit.
"I wouldn't," Wolf warned.
"I wonder what they taste like."
"Wondering won't hurt you. Tasting might."
"I hate an unsatisfied curiosity."
"You'll get over it." Wolf turned to Garion and the others. "How's the horse?"
"Durnik says he's going to have to turn the foal," Barak told him. "We thought it might be better if we all got out of the way."
Wolf nodded. "Silk!" he admonished sharply, not turning around.
"Sorry." Silk snatched his hand back.
"Why don't you just get away from there? You're only going to get yourself in trouble."
Silk shrugged. "I do that all the time anyway."
"Just do it, Silk," Wolf told him firmly. "I can't watch over you every minute." He slipped his fingers up under the dirty and rather ragged bandage on his arm, scratching irritably. "That's enough of that," he declared. "Garion, take this thing off me." He held out his arm.
Garion backed away. "Not me," he refused. "Do you know what Aunt Pol would say to me if I did that without her permission?"
"Don't be silly. Silk, you do it."
"First you say to stay out of trouble, and then you tell me to cross Polgara? You're inconsistent, Belgarath."
"Oh, here," Ce'Nedra said. She took hold of the old man's arm and began picking at the knotted bandage with her tiny fingers. "Just remember that this was your idea. Garion, give me your knife."
Somewhat reluctantly, Garion handed over his dagger. The princess sawed through the bandage and began to unwrap it. The splints fell clattering to the stone floor.
"What a dear child you are." Mister Wolf beamed at her and began to scratch at his arm with obvious relief.
"Just remember that you owe me a favor," she told him.
"She's a Tolnedran, all right," Silk observed.
It was about an hour later when Aunt Pol came around the table to them, her eyes somber.
"How's the mare?" Ce'Nedra asked quickly.
"Very weak, but I think she'll be all right."
"What about the baby horse?"
Aunt Pol sighed. "We were too late. We tried everything, but we just couldn't get him to start breathing."
Ce'Nedra gasped, her little face suddenly a deathly white. "You're not going to just give up, are you?" She said it almost accusingly.
"There's nothing more we can do, dear," Aunt Pol told her sadly. "It took too long. He just didn't have enough strength left."
Ce'Nedra stared at her, unbelieving. "Do something!" she demanded. "You're a sorceress. Do something!"
"I'm sorry, Ce'Nedra, that's beyond our power. We can't reach beyond that barrier."
The little princess wailed then and began to cry bitterly. Aunt Pol put her arms comfortingly about her and held her as she sobbed.
But Garion was already moving. With absolute clarity he now knew what it was that the cave expected of him, and he responded without thinking, not running or even hurrying. He walked quietly around the stone table toward the fire.
Hettar sat cross-legged on the floor with the unmoving colt in his lap, his head bowed with sorrow and his manelike scalp lock falling across the spindle-shanked little animal's silent face.
"Give him to me, Hettar," Garion said.
"Garion! No!" Aunt Pol's voice, coming from behind him, was alarmed.
Hettar looked up, his hawk face filled with deep sadness.
"Let me have him, Hettar," Garion repeated very quietly. Wordlessly Hettar raised the limp little body, still wet and glistening in the firelight, and handed it to Garion. Garion knelt and laid the foal on the floor in front of the shimmering fire. He put his hands on the tiny ribcage and pushed gently. "Breathe," he almost whispered.
"We tried that, Garion," Hettar told him sadly. "We tried everything."
Garion began to gather his will.
"Don't do that, Garion," Aunt Pol told him firmly. "It isn't possible, and you'll hurt yourself if you try."
Garion was not listening to her. The cave itself was speaking to him too loudly for him to hear anything else. He focused his every thought on the wet, lifeless body of the foal. Then he stretched out his right hand and laid his palm on the unblemished, walnut-colored shoulder of the dead animal. Before him there seemed to be a blank wall - black and higher than anything else in the world, impenetrable and silent beyond his comprehension. Tentatively he pushed at it, but it would not move. He drew in a deep breath and hurled himself entirely into the struggle. "Live," he said.
"Garion, stop."
"Live," he said again, throwing himself deeper into his effort against that blackness.