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too busy to listen to the old tales, and a story must be told from time to time if it is not to be lost-besides, who knows these days where a king might be hiding?"
    They all laughed at that and began to push back their benches, for it was growing late and time for those who must be up with the first light of the sun to seek their beds.
    "Will you carry a lantern for me to the place where I sleep, boy?" the storyteller asked Garion.
    "Gladly," Garion said, jumping up and running into the kitchen. He fetched down a square glass lantern, lighted the candle inside it from one of the banked kitchen fires, and went back into the dining hall.
    Faldor was speaking with the storyteller. As he turned away, Garion saw a strange look pass between the old man and Aunt Pol, who still stood at the back of the hall.
    "Are we ready then, boy?" the old man asked as Garion came up to him.
    "Whenever you are," Garion replied, and the two of them turned and left the hall.
    "Why is the story unfinished?" Garion asked, bursting with curiosity. "Why did you stop before we found out what happened when Torak met the Rivan King?"
    "That's another story," the old man explained.
    "Will you tell it to me sometime?" Garion pressed.
    The old man laughed. "Torak and the Rivan King have not as yet met," he said, "so I can't very well tell it, can I?-at least not until after their meeting."
    "It's only a story," Garion objected. "Isn't it?"
    "Is it?" The old man removed a flagon of wine from under his tunic and took a long drink. "Who is to say what is only a story and what is truth disguised as a story?"
    "It's only a story," Garion said stubbornly, suddenly feeling very hardheaded and practical like any good Sendar."It can't really be true. Why, Belgarath the Sorcerer would be - would be I don't know how old - and people don't live that long."
    "Seven thousand years," the old man said.
    "What?"
    "Belgarath the Sorcerer is seven thousand years old - perhaps a bit older."
    "That's impossible," Garion said.
    "Is it? How old are you?"
    "Nine-next Erastide."
    "And in nine years you've learned everything that's both possible and impossible? You're a remarkable boy, Garion."
    Garion flushed. "Well," he said, somehow not quite so sure of himself, "the oldest man I ever heard of is old Weldrik over on Mildrin's farm. Durnik says he's over ninety and that he's the oldest man in the district."
    "And it's a very big district, of course," the old man said solemnly.
    "How old are you?" Garion asked, not wanting to give up.
    "Old enough, boy," the old man said.
    "It's still only a story," Garion insisted.
    "Many good and solid men would say so," the old man told him, looking up at the stars, "good men who will live out their lives believing only in what they can see and touch. But there's a world beyond what we can see and touch, and that world lives by its own laws. What may be impossible in this very ordinary world is very possible there, and sometimes the boundaries between the two worlds disappear, and then who can say what is possible and impossible?"
    "I think I'd rather live in the ordinary world," Garion said. "The other one sounds too complicated."
    "We don't always have that choice, Garion," the storyteller told him. "Don't be too surprised if that other world someday chooses you to do something that must be done - some great and noble thing."
    "Me?" Garion said incredulously.
    "Stranger things have happened. Go to bed, boy. I think I'll look at the stars for a while. The stars and I are very old friends."
    "The stars?" Garion asked, looking up involuntarily. "You're a very strange old man - if you don't mind my saying so."
    "Indeed," the storyteller agreed. "Quite the strangest you'll likely meet."
    "I like you all the same," Garion said quickly, not wanting to give offense.
    "That's a comfort, boy," the old man said. "Now go to bed. Your Aunt Pol will be worried about you."
    Later, as he slept, Garion's dreams were troubled. The dark figure of maimed Torak