"I need your father's help too much to have this come out or for him to be distracted by personal tragedy. This did not happen, and that's an end of it. Take these and get out of my sight." He shoved the knife and the wool scrap into Olban's hands. He was suddenly infuriated. The weeks of looking nervously over his shoulder had all been so unnecessary - so useless. "Oh, one other thing, Olban," he added as the stricken young Rivan turned to leave. "Don't throw any more knives at me. If you want to fight, let me know, and we'll go someplace private and cut each other to ribbons, if that's what you want."

Olban fled sobbing.

"Very well done, Belgarion, " the dry voice complimented him.

"Oh, shut up," Garion said.

He slept very little that night. He had a few doubts about the wisdom of the course he had taken with Olban; but on the whole, he was satisfied that what he had done had been right. Olban's act had been no more than an impulsive attempt to erase what he believed to be his father's degradation. There had been no plot involved in it. Olban might resent Garion's magnanimous gesture, but he would not throw any more daggers at his king's back. What disturbed Garion's sleep the most during that restless night was Belgarath's bleak appraisal of the war upon which they were about to embark. He slept briefly on toward dawn and awoke from a dreadful nightmare with icy sweat standing out on his forehead. He had just seen himself, old and weary, leading a pitifully small army of ragged, gray-haired men into a battle they could not possibly win.

"There's an alternative, of cours - if you've recovered enough from your bout of peevishness to listen,"the voice in his mind advised him as he sat bolt upright and trembling in his bed.

"What?" Garion answered aloud. "Oh, that - I'm sorry I spoke that way. I was irritated, that's all."

"In many ways you're like Belgamth - remarkably - so his irritability seems to be hereditary."

"It's only natural, I suppose," Garion conceded. "You said there was an alternative. An alternative to what?"

"To this war that's giving you nightmares. Get dressed I want to show you something "

Garion climbed out of his bed and hastily jerked on his clothing. "Where are we going?" he asked, still speaking aloud.

"It isn't far,"

The room to which the other awareness directed him was musty and showed little evidence of use. The books and scrolls lining the shelves along its walls were dust-covered, and cobwebs draped the corners. Garion's lone candle cast looming shadows that seemed to dance along the walls.

"On the top shelf, " the voice told him. "The scroll wrapped in yellow linen. Take it down."

Garion climbed up on a chair and took down the scroll. "What is this?" he asked.