"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.
Chapter Thirteen
IT TOOK THEM THREE DAYS to pass through the forest of Vordue. Garion, remembering the dangers of the Arendish forest, was apprehensive at first and watched the shadows beneath the trees nervously, but after a day or so with nothing out of the ordinary occurring, he began to relax. Mister Wolf, however, seemed to grow increasingly irritable as they rode south. "They're planning something," he muttered. "I wish they'd get on with it. I hate to ride with one eye over my shoulder every step of the way."Garion had little opportunity along the way to speak with Aunt Pol about what had happened to the crazy monk from Mar Terrin. It seemed almost as if she were deliberately avoiding him; when he finally did manage to ride briefly beside her and question her about the incident, her answers were vague and did little to quiet his unease about the whole affair.
It was the middle of the morning on the third day when they emerged from the trees and rode out into open farmland. Unlike the Arendish plain where vast tracts of land seemed to lie fallow, the ground here was extensively cultivated, and low stone walls surrounded each field. Although it was still far from being warm, the sun was very bright, and the well-turned earth in the fields seemed rich and black as it lay waiting for sowing. The highway was broad and straight, and they encountered frequent travelers along the way. Greetings between the party and these travelers were restrained but polite, and Garion began to feel more at ease. This country appeared to be much too civilized for the kind of dangers they had encountered in Arendia.
About midafternoon they rode into a sizable town where merchants in variously colored mantles called to them from booths and stalls which lined the streets, imploring them to stop and look at merchandise.
"They sound almost desperate," Durnik said.
"Tolnedrans hate to see a customer get away," Silk told him. "They're greedy."
Ahead, in a small square, a disturbance suddenly broke out. A half dozen slovenly, unshaven soldiers had accosted an arrogant-looking man in a green mantle.
"Stand aside, I say," the arrogant man protested sharply.
"We just want a word or two with you, Lembor," one of the.soldiers said with an evil-looking leer. He was a lean man with a long scar down one side of his face.
"What an idiot," a passer-by observed with a callous laugh. "Lembor's gotten so important that he doesn't think he has to take any precautions."
"Is he being arrested, friend?" Durnik inquired politely.
"Only temporarily," the passer-by said dryly.
"What are they going to do to him?" Durnik asked.
"The usual."
"What's the usual?"
"Watch and see. The fool should have known better than to come out without his bodyguards."
The soldiers had surrounded the man in the green mantle, and two of them took hold of his arms roughly.
"Let me go," Lembor protested. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Just come along quietly, Lembor," the scar-faced soldier ordered. "It will be a lot easier that way." They began pulling him toward a narrow alleyway.
"Help!" Lembor shouted, desperately trying to struggle.
One of the soldiers smashed the captive in the mouth with his fist, and they pulled him into the alley. There was a single, short scream and the sounds of a brief scuffle. There were other sounds as well, a few grunts and the grating sound of steel on bone, then a long, sighing moan. A wide rivulet of bright blood trickled out of the mouth of the alley and ran into the gutter. A minute or so later, the soldiers came back out into the square, grinning and wiping their swords.
"We've got to do something," Garion said, sick with outrage and horror.
"No," Silk said bluntly. "What we have to do is mind our own business. We're not here to get involved in local politics."
"Politics?" Garion objected. "That was deliberate murder. Shouldn't we at least see if he's still alive?"
"Not too likely," Barak said. "Six men with swords can usually do a pretty thorough job."