lurching, almost staggering. And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the floor like a pole-axed cow.
"Father!" Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side.
Garion, moving almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on the other side of the unconscious old man. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded. But Aunt Pol did not answer. Her hands were at Belgarath's wrist and brow, feeling for his pulse. She peeled back one of his eyelids and stared intently into his blank, unseeing eyes. "Durnik!" she snapped. "Get my herb-bag-quickly!"
The smith bolted for the door.
King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. "He isn't-"
"No," she answered tensely. "He's alive, but only barely."
"Is something attacking him?" Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, his hand unconsciously on his dagger.
"No. It's nothing like that." Aunt Pol's hands had moved to the old man's chest. "I should have known," she berated herself. "The stubborn, proud old fool! I should have been watching him."
"Please, Aunt Pol," Garion begged desperately, "what's wrong with him?"
"He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik," she replied. "He's been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine - but he wouldn't quit. Now he's burned up all his vital energy and will. He barely has enough strength left to keep breathing."
Garion had lifted his grandfather's head and cradled it on his lap. "Help me, Garion!"
He knew instinctively what she wanted. He gathered his will and held out his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of him.
Her eyes were very wide as she intently watched the old man's face. "Again!" And once more she pulled the quickly gathered will out of him.
"What are we doing?" Garion's voice was shrill.
"Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe-" She glanced toward the door. "Hurry, Durnik!" she shouted.
Durnik rushed back into the wagon.
"Open the bag," she instructed, "and give me that black jar - the one that's sealed with lead - and a pair of iron tongs."
"Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?" the smith asked.
"No. Just break the seal - carefully. And give me a glove - leather, if you can find one."
Wordlessly, Silk pulled a leather gauntlet from under his belt and handed it to her. She pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with the tongs. With great care, she removed a single dark, oily-looking green leaf. She held it very carefully in the tongs. "Pry his mouth open, Garion," she ordered.
Garion wedged his fingers between Belgarath's clenched teeth and carefully pried the old man's jaws apart. Aunt Pol pulled down her father's lower lip, reached inside his mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his tongue with it, once and once only.
Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.
"Hold him down," Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled back sharply and held the leaf out of the way while Mandorallen and Barak jumped in to hold down Belgarath's convulsing body. "Give me a bowl," she ordered. "A wooden one."
Durnik handed her one, and she deposited the leaf and the tongs in it. Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. "Take this," she told the smith. "Don't touch any part of the glove."
"What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?"
"Take it out and burn it - bowl and all - and don't let anyone get into the smoke from it."
"Is it that dangerous?" Silk asked.
"It's even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here."
Durnik swallowed very hard and left the wagon, holding the bowl as if it were a live snake.
Polgara took a small mortar and pestle and began grinding certain herbs from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. "How far is it to the Stronghold, Cho-Hag?" she asked the Algar king.
"A man on a good horse could make it in half a day," he replied.
"How long by wagon-a
"Father!" Aunt Pol exclaimed, leaping to his side.
Garion, moving almost as fast as his Aunt, knelt on the other side of the unconscious old man. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded. But Aunt Pol did not answer. Her hands were at Belgarath's wrist and brow, feeling for his pulse. She peeled back one of his eyelids and stared intently into his blank, unseeing eyes. "Durnik!" she snapped. "Get my herb-bag-quickly!"
The smith bolted for the door.
King Cho-Hag had half risen, his face deathly pale. "He isn't-"
"No," she answered tensely. "He's alive, but only barely."
"Is something attacking him?" Silk was on his feet, looking around wildly, his hand unconsciously on his dagger.
"No. It's nothing like that." Aunt Pol's hands had moved to the old man's chest. "I should have known," she berated herself. "The stubborn, proud old fool! I should have been watching him."
"Please, Aunt Pol," Garion begged desperately, "what's wrong with him?"
"He never really recovered from his fight with Ctuchik," she replied. "He's been forcing himself, drawing on his will. Then those rocks in the ravine - but he wouldn't quit. Now he's burned up all his vital energy and will. He barely has enough strength left to keep breathing."
Garion had lifted his grandfather's head and cradled it on his lap. "Help me, Garion!"
He knew instinctively what she wanted. He gathered his will and held out his hand to her. She grasped it quickly, and he felt the force surge out of him.
Her eyes were very wide as she intently watched the old man's face. "Again!" And once more she pulled the quickly gathered will out of him.
"What are we doing?" Garion's voice was shrill.
"Trying to replace some of what he has lost. Maybe-" She glanced toward the door. "Hurry, Durnik!" she shouted.
Durnik rushed back into the wagon.
"Open the bag," she instructed, "and give me that black jar - the one that's sealed with lead - and a pair of iron tongs."
"Should I open the jar, Mistress Pol?" the smith asked.
"No. Just break the seal - carefully. And give me a glove - leather, if you can find one."
Wordlessly, Silk pulled a leather gauntlet from under his belt and handed it to her. She pulled it on, opened the black jar, and reached inside with the tongs. With great care, she removed a single dark, oily-looking green leaf. She held it very carefully in the tongs. "Pry his mouth open, Garion," she ordered.
Garion wedged his fingers between Belgarath's clenched teeth and carefully pried the old man's jaws apart. Aunt Pol pulled down her father's lower lip, reached inside his mouth with the shiny leaf, and lightly brushed his tongue with it, once and once only.
Belgarath jumped violently, and his feet suddenly scraped on the floor. His muscles heaved, and his arms began to flail about.
"Hold him down," Aunt Pol commanded. She pulled back sharply and held the leaf out of the way while Mandorallen and Barak jumped in to hold down Belgarath's convulsing body. "Give me a bowl," she ordered. "A wooden one."
Durnik handed her one, and she deposited the leaf and the tongs in it. Then, with great care, she took off the gauntlet and laid it atop the leaf. "Take this," she told the smith. "Don't touch any part of the glove."
"What do you want me to do with it, Mistress Pol?"
"Take it out and burn it - bowl and all - and don't let anyone get into the smoke from it."
"Is it that dangerous?" Silk asked.
"It's even worse, but those are the only precautions we can take out here."
Durnik swallowed very hard and left the wagon, holding the bowl as if it were a live snake.
Polgara took a small mortar and pestle and began grinding certain herbs from her bag into a fine powder as she watched Belgarath intently. "How far is it to the Stronghold, Cho-Hag?" she asked the Algar king.
"A man on a good horse could make it in half a day," he replied.
"How long by wagon-a
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