Lady Polgara nodded gravely.
Ce’Nedra heaved a great sigh. All this bickering seemed so unnecessary. What was the point of making such an issue of a simple trip? It was not as if there was any danger involved. If it would make people happy, why be stubborn about it? ‘Oh, all right,’ she surrendered. ‘If it’s so important to everyone, I suppose I can go to Riva.’ For some reason, saying it made her feel much better. The child in her arms smiled again, gently patted her cheek and went back to sleep. Lost in a sudden inexplicable happiness, the princess nestled her cheek against his curls again and began to rock back and forth gently, crooning very softly.
Part Two
RIVA
Chapter Nine
Once more Relg led them through the dark, silent world of the caves, and once more Garion hated every moment of it. It seemed an eternity ago that they had left Prolgu, where Ce’Nedra’s farewells to the frail old Gorim had been long and tearful. The princess rather baffled Garion, and he gave himself over to some speculation about her as he stumbled along in the musty-smelling darkness. Something had happened at Prolgu. In some very subtle ways, Ce’Nedra was different – and the differences made Garion jumpy for some reason.
When at last, after uncountable days in the dark, twisting galleries, they emerged once again into the world of light and air, it was through an irregular, brush-choked opening in the wall of a steep ravine. It was snowing heavily outside with large flakes settling softly down through the windless air.
‘Are you sure this is Sendaria?’ Barak asked Relg as he bulled his way through the obstructing brush at the cave mouth.
Relg shrugged, once more binding a veil across his face to protect his eyes from the light. ‘We’re no longer in Ulgo.’
‘There are a lot of places that aren’t in Ulgo, Relg,’ Barak reminded him sourly.
‘It sort of looks like Sendaria,’ King Cho-Hag observed, leaning over in his saddle to stare out of the cave at the softly falling snow. ‘Can anybody make a guess at the time of day?’
‘It’s really very hard to say when it’s snowing this hard, father,’ Hettar told him. ‘The horses think it’s about noon, but their idea of time is a bit imprecise.’
‘Wonderful,’ Silk noted sardonically. ‘We don’t know where we are or what time it is. Things are getting off to a splendid start.’
‘It’s not really that important, Silk,’ Belgarath said wearily. ‘All we have to do is go north. We’re bound to run into the Great North Road eventually.’
‘Fine,’ Silk replied. ‘But which way is north?’
Garion looked closely at his grandfather as the old man squeezed out into the snowy ravine. The old man’s face was etched with lines of weariness, and the hollows under his eyes were dark again. Despite the two weeks or more of convalescence at the Stronghold and Aunt Pol’s considered opinion that he was fit to travel, Belgarath had obviously not yet fully recovered from his collapse.
As they emerged from the cave, they pulled on their heavy cloaks and tightened the cinches on their saddles in preparation to move out.
‘Uninviting sort of place, isn’t it?’ Ce’Nedra observed to Adara, looking around critically.
‘This is mountain country,’ Garion told her, quickly coming to the defense of his homeland. ‘It’s no worse than the mountains of eastern Tolnedra.’
‘I didn’t say it was, Garion,’ she replied in an infuriating way.
They rode for several hours until they heard the sound of axes somewhere off in the forest. ‘Woodcutters,’ Durnik surmised. ‘I’ll go talk with them and get directions.’ He rode off in the directions of the sound. When he returned, he had a slightly disgusted look on his face. ‘We’ve been going south,’ he told them.
‘Naturally,’ Silk said sardonically. ‘Did you find out what time it is?’
‘Late afternoon,’ Durnik told him. ‘The woodcutters say that if we turn west, we’ll strike a road that runs northwesterly. It will bring us to the Great North Road about twenty leagues on this side of Muros.’
‘Let’s see if we can find this road before dark, then,’ Belgarath said.
It took them several days to ride down out of the mountains and several more before they had passed through the sparsely inhabited stretches of eastern Sendaria to the more thickly populated plains around Lake Sulturn. It snowed intermittently the entire time, and the heavily travelled roads of south-central Sendaria were slushy and lay like ugly brown scars across the snowy hills. Their party was large, and they usually had to split up among several inns in the neat, snow-covered villages at which they stopped. Princess Ce’Nedra quite frequently used the word ‘quaint’ to describe both the villages and the accommodations, and Garion found her fondness for the word just a trifle offensive.
The kingdom through which they travelled was not the same Sendaria he had left more than a year before. Garion saw quiet evidence of mobilization in almost every village along the way. Groups of country militia drilled in the brown slush in village squares; old swords and bent pikes, long forgotten in dusty attics or damp cellars, had been located and scraped free of rust in preparation for the war everyone knew was coming. The efforts of these peaceful farmers and villagers to look warlike were often ludicrous. Their homemade uniforms were in every possible shade of red or blue or green, and their bright-colored banners obviously showed that treasured petticoats had been sacrificed to the cause. The faces of these simple folk, however, were serious. Though young men strutted in their uniforms for the benefit of village girls, and older men tried to look like veterans, the atmosphere in each village was grave. Sendaria stood quietly on the brink of war.
At Sulturn, Aunt Pol, who had been looking thoughtfully at each village through which they passed, apparently reached a decision. ‘Father,’ she said to Belgarath as they rode into town, ‘you and Cho-Hag and the rest go straight on to Sendar. Durnik, Garion, and I need to make a little side trip.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Faldor’s farm.’
‘Faldor’s? What for?’
‘We all left things behind, father. You hustled us out of there so fast that we barely had time to pack.’ Her tone and expression were so matter-of-fact that Garion immediately suspected subterfuge, and Belgarath’s briefly raised eyebrow indicated that he also was fairly certain that she was not telling him everything.
‘We’re starting to trim this a bit close, Pol,’ the old man pointed out.
‘There’s still plenty of time, father,’ she replied. ‘It’s not really all that far out of our way. We’ll only be a few days behind you.’
‘Is it really that important, Pol?’
‘Yes, father. I think it is. Keep an eye on Errand for me, won’t you? I don’t think he really needs to go with us.’
‘All right, Pol.’
A silvery peal of laughter burst from the lips of the Princess Ce’Nedra, who was watching the stumbling efforts of a group of militiamen to execute a right turn without tripping over their own weapons. Aunt Pol’s expression did not change as she turned her gaze on the giggling jewel of the Empire. ‘I think we’ll take that one with us, however,’ she added.
Ce’Nedra protested bitterly when she was advised that she would not be travelling directly to the comforts of King Fulrach’s palace at Sendar, but her objections had no impact on Aunt Pol.
‘Doesn’t she ever listen to anybody?’ the little princess grumbled to Garion as they rode along behind Aunt Pol and Durnik on the road to Medalia.
‘She always listens,’ Garion replied.
‘But she never changes her mind, does she?’
‘Not very often – but she does listen.’
Aunt Pol glanced over her shoulder at them. ‘Pull up your hood, Ce’Nedra,’ she instructed. ‘It’s starting to snow again, and I don’t want you riding with a wet head.’
The princess drew in a quick breath as if preparing to retort.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Garion advised her softly.
‘But—’
‘She’s not in the mood for discussion just now.’
Ce’Nedra glared at him, but pulled up her hood in silence.
It was still snowing lightly when they reached Medalia that evening. Ce’Nedra’s reaction to the lodgings offered at the inn was predictable. There was, Garion had noted, a certain natural rhythm to her outbursts. She never began at the top of her voice, but rather worked her way up to it with an impressively swelling crescendo. She had just reached the point of launching herself into full voice when she was suddenly brought up short.
‘What an absolutely charming display of good breeding,’ Aunt Pol observed calmly to Durnik. ‘All of Garion’s old friends will be terribly impressed by this sort of thing, don’t you think?’
Durnik looked away, hiding a smile. ‘I’m sure of it, Mistress Pol.’
Ce’Nedra’s mouth was still open, but her tirade had been cut off instantly. Garion was amazed at her sudden silence. ‘I was being a bit silly, wasn’t I?’ she said after a moment. Her tone was reasonable – almost sweet-natured.
‘Yes, dear – just a bit,’ Aunt Pol agreed.
‘Please forgive me – all of you.’ Ce’Nedra’s voice dripped honey.
‘Don’t overdo it, Ce’Nedra,’ Aunt Pol told her.
It was perhaps noon of the following day when they turned off the main road leading to Erat into the country lane that led to Faldor’s farm. Since that morning, Garion’s excitement had risen to almost intolerable heights. Every milepost, every bush and tree was familiar to him now. And over there – wasn’t that old Cralto riding an unsaddled horse on some errand for Faldor? Finally, at the sight of a tall, familiar figure clearing brush and twigs from a drainage ditch, he was no longer able to restrain himself. He drove his heels into his horse’s flanks, smoothly jumped a fence and galloped across the snowy field toward the solitary worker.
‘Rundorig!’ he shouted, hauling his horse to a stop and flinging himself from his saddle.
‘Your Honor?’ Rundorig replied, blinking with astonishment.
‘Rundorig, it’s me – Garion. Don’t you recognize me?’
‘Garion?’ Rundorig blinked several more times, peering intently into Garion’s face. The light dawned slowly in his eyes like a sunrise on a murky day. ‘Why, I believe you’re right,’ he marvelled. ‘You are Garion, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am, Rundorig,’ Garion exclaimed, reaching out to take his friend’s hand.
But Rundorig shoved both hands behind him and stepped back. ‘Your clothing, Garion! Have a care. I’m all over mud.’
‘I don’t care about my clothes, Rundorig. You’re my friend.’
The tall lad shook his head stubbornly. ‘You mustn’t get mud on them. They’re too splendid. Plenty of time to shake hands after I clean up.’ He stared curiously at Garion. ‘Where did you get such fine things? And a sword? You’d better not let Faldor see you wearing a sword. You know he doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.’
Somehow things were not going the way they were supposed to be going. ‘How’s Doroon?’ Garion asked, ‘and Zubrette?’
‘Doroon moved away last summer,’ Rundorig replied after a moment’s struggle to remember. ‘I think his mother remarried – anyway, they’re on a farm down on the other side of Winold. And Zubrette – well, Zubrette and I started walking out together not too long after you left.’ The tall young man suddenly blushed and looked down in embarrassed confusion. ‘There’s a sort of an understanding between us, Garion,’ he blurted.
‘How splendid, Rundorig!’ Garion exclaimed quickly to cover the little dagger cut of disappointment.
Rundorig, however, had already taken the next step. ‘I know that you and she were always fond of each other,’ he said, his long face miserably unhappy. ‘I’ll have a talk with her.’ He looked up, tears standing in his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t have gone so far, Garion, except that none of us thought that you were ever coming back.’
‘I haven’t really, Rundorig,’ Garion quickly assured his friend. ‘We only came by to visit and to pick up some things we left behind. Then we’ll be off again.’
‘Have you come for Zubrette, too?’ Rundorig asked in a numb, stricken sort of voice that tore at Garion’s heart.
‘Rundorig,’ he said it very calmly, ‘I don’t even have a home any more. One night I sleep in a palace; the next night in the mud beside the road. Would either one of us want that kind of life for Zubrette?’
‘I think she’d go with you if you asked her to, though,’ Rundorig said. ‘I think she’d endure anything to be with you.’
‘But we won’t let her, will we? So far as we’re concerned, the understanding between the two of you is official.”
‘I could never lie to her, Garion,’ the tall boy objected.
‘I could,’ Garion said bluntly. ‘Particularly if it will keep her from living out her life as a homeless vagabond. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Just as in the old days.’
A slow smile crept shyly across Rundorig’s face.
The gate of the farm stood open, and good, honest Faldor, beaming and rubbing his hands with delight, was bustling around Aunt Pol, Durnik, and Ce’Nedra. The tall, thin farmer seemed as lean as always, and his long jaw appeared to have grown even longer in the year and more since they had left. There was a bit more grey at his temples, but his heart had not changed.
Princess Ce’Nedra stood demurely to one side of the little group, and Garion carefully scanned her face for danger signs. If anyone could disrupt the plan he had in mind, it would most likely be Ce’Nedra; but, try though he might, he could not read her face.
Then Zubrette descended the stairs from the gallery that encircled the interior of the courtyard. Her dress was a country dress, but her hair was still golden, and she was even more beautiful than before. A thousand memories flooded over Garion all at once, together with an actual pain at what he had to do. They had grown up together, and the ties between them were so deep that no outsider could ever fully understand what passed between them in a single glance. And it was with a glance that Garion lied to her. Zubrette’s eyes were filled with love, and her soft lips were slightly parted as if almost ready to answer the question she was sure he would ask, even before he gave it voice. Garion’s look, however, feigned friendship, affection even, but no love. Incredulity flickered across her face and then a slow flush. The pain Garion felt as he watched the hope die in her blue eyes was as sharp as a knife. Even worse, he was forced to retain his pose of indifference while she wistfully absorbed every feature of his face as if storing up those memories which would have to last her a lifetime. Then she turned and, pleading some errand, she walked away from them. Garion knew that she would avoid him thereafter and that he had seen her for the last time in his life.
It had been the right thing to do, but it had very nearly broken Garion’s heart. He exchanged a quick glance with Rundorig that said all that needed saying, then he sadly watched the departure of the girl he had always thought that one day he might marry. When she turned a corner and disappeared, he sighed rather bitterly, turned back and found Ce’Nedra’s eyes on him. Her look plainly told him that she understood precisely what he had just done and how much it had cost him. There was sympathy in that look – and a peculiar questioning.
Despite Faldor’s urgings, Polgara immediately rejected the role of honored guest. It was as if her fingers itched to touch all the familiar things in the kitchen once more. No sooner had she entered than her cloak went on a peg, an apron went about her waist, and her hands fell to work. Her polite suggestions remained so for almost a full minute and a half before they became commands, and then everything was back to normal again. Faldor and Durnik, their hands clasped behind their back, strolled about the courtyard, looking into storage sheds, talking about the weather and other matters, and Garion stood in the kitchen doorway with Princess Ce’Nedra.
‘Will you show me the farm,
Garion?’ she asked very quietly.
‘If you wish.’
‘Does Lady Polgara really like to cook that much?’ She looked across the warm kitchen to where Aunt Pol, humming happily to herself, was rolling out a pie crust.
‘I believe she does,’ Garion answered. ‘Her kitchen is an orderly kind of place, and she likes order. Food goes in one end and supper comes out the other.’ He looked around at the low-beamed room with all the polished pots and pans hanging on the wall. His life seemed to have come full-circle. ‘I grew up in this room,’ he said quietly. ‘There are worse places to grow up, I suppose.’
Ce’Nedra’s tiny hand crept into his. There was a kind of tentativeness in her touch – almost as if she were not entirely certain how the gesture would be received. There was something peculiar and rather comforting about holding her hand. It was a very small hand; sometimes Garion found himself forgetting just how diminutive Ce’Nedra really was. At the moment she seemed very tiny and very vulnerable, and Garion felt protective for some reason. He wondered if it would be appropriate to put his arm about her shoulder.
Together they wandered about the farmstead, looking into barns and stables and hen roosts. Finally they reached the hayloft that had always been Garion’s favorite hiding place. ‘I used to come here when I knew that Aunt Pol had work for me to do,’ he confessed with a rueful little laugh.
‘Didn’t you want to work?’ Ce’Nedra asked him. ‘Everybody here seems to be busy every single moment.’
‘I don’t mind working,’ Garion told her. ‘It’s just that some of the things she wanted me to do were pretty distasteful.’
‘Like scrubbing pots?’ she asked, her eyes twinkling.
‘That’s not one of my favorites – no.’
They sat together on the soft, fragrant hay in the loft. Ce’Nedra, her fingers now locked firmly in Garion’s, absently traced designs on the back of his hand with her other forefinger. ‘You were very brave this afternoon, Garion,’ she told him seriously.
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