"Just do it, Garion. "

Garion reached inside his tunic, and put his burning palm on his medallion. As a key fitting into the lock for which it was made, the contact between his hand and the throbbing amulet seemed somehow enormously right. The tingling became that now - familiar surge, and the throbbing began to echo hollowly in his ears.

"Not too much, " the voice warned him. "You're not trying to dry up the river, you know. "

"What's happening? What is all this?"

"Belgarath's trying to find us. "

"Grandfather? Where?"

"Be patient. "

The throbbing seemed to grow louder until Garion's entire body quivered with each thudding beat. He stared out over the rail, trying to see through the haze. The settling ash, so light that it coated the muddy surface of the river, made everything more than twenty paces away indistinct. It was impossible to see the city, and the wails and cries from the hidden streets seemed somehow muffled. Only the slow wash of the current against the hull seemed clear.

Then a long way out on the river, something moved. It was not very large and seemed to be little more than a dark shadow ghosting silently with the current.

The throbbing grew even louder.

The shadow drew closer, and Garion could just begin to make out the shape of a small boat. An oar caught the surface of the water with a small splash. The man at the oars turned to look over his shoulder. It was Silk. His face was covered with gray ash, and tiny rivulets of sweat streaked his cheeks.

Mister Wolf sat in the stern of the little boat, muffled in his cloak and with his hood turned up.

"Welcome back, Belgarath, " the dry voice said.

"Who's that?" Wolf's voice in Garion's mind sounded startled. "Is that you, Belgarion?"

"Not quite. " the voice replied. "Not yet anyway, but we're getting closer."

"I wondered who was making all the noise. "

"He overdoes things sometimes. He'll learn eventually."

A shout came from one of the sailors clustered around Barak at the stern, and they all turned to watch the small boat drifting toward them. Aunt Pol came up from below and stepped to the rail. "You're late," she called.

"Something came up," the old man answered across the narrowing gap. He pushed back his hood and shook the floury ash out of his cloak. Then Garion saw that the old man's left arm was bound up in a dirty sling across the front of his body.

"What happened to your arm?" Aunt Pol asked.

"I'd rather not talk about it." There was an ugly scratch running down one of Wolf's cheeks into his short, white beard, and his eyes seemed to glitter with some huge irritation.

The grin on Silk's ash-coated face was malicious as he dipped his oars once, deftly pulling the little boat in beside Greldik's ship with a slight thump.