"I don't think so. Who was he?"

"He was the only survivor when the Nyissan assassins killed King Gorek and his family. He escaped by throwing himself into the sea."

"How old was he?"

"Six. He was a very brave child. Everyone thought that he had drowned and that his body had been washed out to sea. Your grandfather and I encouraged that belief. For thirteen hundred years we've hidden Prince Gared's descendants. For generations they've lived out their lives in quiet obscurity for the single purpose of bringing you to the throne - and now you say that you don't want to be king?"

"I don't know any of those people," he said sullenly. He knew he was behaving badly, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

"Would it help if you did know them - some of them, anyway?"

The question baffled him.

"Perhaps it might," she decided. She laid her sewing aside and stood up, drawing him to his feet. "Come with me," she told him and led him to the tall window that looked out over the city below. There was a small balcony outside; in one corner where a rain-gutter had cracked, there had built up during the fall and winter a sheet of shiny black ice, curving down over the railing and spreading out on the balcony floor.

Aunt Pol unlatched the window and it swung open, admitting a blast of icy air that made the candles dance. "Look directly into the ice, Garion," she told him, pointing at the glittering blackness. "Look deep into it."

He did as she told him and felt the force of her mind at work. Something was in the ice - shapeless at first but emerging slowly and becoming more and more visible. It was, he saw finally, the figure of a pale blond woman, quite lovely and with a warm smile on her lips. She seemed young, and her eyes were directly on Garion's face. "My baby," a voice seemed to whisper to him. "My little Garion."

Garion began to tremble violently. "Mother?" he gasped.

"So tall now," the whisper continued. "Almost a man."

"And already a king, Ildera," Aunt Pol told the phantom in a gentle voice.

"Then he was the chosen one," the ghost of Garion's mother exulted. "I knew it. I could feel it when I carried him under my heart."

A second shape had begun to appear beside the first. It was a tall young man with dark hair but a strangely familiar face. Garion clearly saw its resemblance to his own. "Hail Belgarion, my son," the second shape said to him.

"Father," Garion replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Our blessings, Garion," the second ghost said as the two figures started to fade.

"I avenged you, father," Garion called after them. It seemed important that they know that. He was never sure, however, if they had heard him.

Aunt Pol was leaning against the window frame with a look of exhaustion on her face.