Pawn of Prophecy

realized that he had been half-expecting her. She stood on the steps of the temple and raised her staff. Unaccountably, the horses which pulled the sleighs stopped, trembling, despite the urgings of the drivers.
    "Hail, Great One," the blind woman said. "I wish thee well on thy journey."
    The sleigh in which Garion was riding had stopped closest to the temple steps, and it seemed that the old woman was speaking to him. Almost without thinking he answered, "Thank you. But why do you call me that?"
    She ignored the question. "Remember me," she commanded, bowing deeply. "Remember Martje when thou comest into thine inheritance."
    It was the second time she'd said that, and Garion felt a sharp pang of curiosity. "What inheritance?" he demanded.
    But Barak was roaring with fury and struggling to throw off the fur robe and draw his sword at the same time. King Anheg was also climbing down from his sleigh, his coarse face livid with rage.
    "No!" Aunt Pol said sharply from nearby. "I'll tend to this." She stood up. "Hear me witch-woman," she said in a clear voice, casting back the hood of her cloak. "I think you see too much with those blind eyes of yours. I'm going to do you a favor so that you'll no longer be troubled by the darkness and these disturbing visions which grow out of it."
    "Strike me down if it please thee, Polgara," the old woman said. "I see what I see."
    "I won't strike you down, Martje," Aunt Pol said. "I'm going to give you a gift instead." She raised her hand in a brief and curious gesture.
    Garion saw it happen quite plainly, so there was no way that he could persuade himself that it had all been some trick of the eye. He was looking directly at Martje's face and saw the white film drain down off her eyes like milk draining down the inside of a glass.
    The old woman stood frozen on the spot as the bright blue of her eyes emerged from the film which had covered them. And then she screamed. She held up her hands and looked at them and screamed again. There was in her scream a wrenching note of indescribable loss.
    "What did you do," Queen Islena demanded.
    "I gave her back her eyes," Aunt Pol said, sitting down again and rearranging the fur robe about her.
    "You can do that?" Islena asked, her face blanching and her voice weak.
    "Can't you? It's a simple thing, really."
    "But," Queen Porenn objected, "with her eyes restored, she'll lose that other vision, won't she?"
    "I imagine so," Aunt Pol said, "but that's a small price to pay, isn't it?"
    "She'll no longer be a witch, then?" Porenn pressed.
    "She wasn't a very good witch anyway," Aunt Pol said. "Her vision was clouded and uncertain. It's better this way, She won't be disturbing herself and others with shadows anymore." She looked at King Anheg who sat frozen in awe beside his half-fainting queen. "Shall we continue?" she asked calmly. "Our ship is waiting."
    The horses, as if released by her words, leaped forward, and the sleighs sped away from the temple, spraying snow from their runners.
    Garion glanced back once. Old Martje stood on the steps of the temple looking at her two outstretched hands and sobbing uncontrollably.
    "We've been been privileged to witness a miracle, my friends," Hettar said.
    "I gather, however, that the beneficiary was not very pleased with it," Silk said dryly. "Remind me not to offend Polgara. Her miracles seem to have two edges to them."

Chapter Twenty-one
    The low-slanting rays of the morning sun glittered on the icy waters of the harbor as their sleighs halted near the stone quays. Greldik's ship rocked and strained at her hawsers, and a smaller ship also waited with seeming impatience.
    Hettar stepped down and went over to speak to Cho-Hag and Queen Silar. The three of them talked together quietly and seriously, drawing a kind of shell of privacy about them.
    Queen Islena had partially regained her composure and sat in her sleigh straight-backed and with a fixed smile on her face. After Anheg had gone to speak with Mister Wolf, Aunt Pol crossed the Icy wharf and stopped near the sleigh of the Queen of Cherek.
    "If I were you, Islena," she said firmly, "I'd find another hobby. Your gifts in the arts of sorcery are limited, and it's a dangerous area for dabbling. Too many things can go wrong if you don't know what you are doing.
    The queen stared at her mutely.
    "Oh," Aunt Pol said, "one other thing. It would be best, I think, if you broke off your connections with the Bear-cult. It's hardly proper for a queen to have