Garion glanced at Silk, baffled by this exchange, but the little man returned his look with blank incomprehension.
"Will you help me catch my horse, Garion?" Lelldorin asked politely, sheathing his sword.
"Of course," Garion replied, also putting away his weapon. "I think he went that way."
Lelldorin picked up his bow, and the two of them followed the horse's tracks off into the ruins.
"I'm sorry I pulled you off your horse," Garion apologized when they were out of sight of the others.
"No matter." Lelldorin laughed easily. "I should have been paying more attention." He looked quizzically at Garion. "Why did you lie to Belgarath?"
"It wasn't exactly a lie," Garion replied. "We weren't really trying to hurt each other, and sometimes it takes hours trying to explain something like that."
Lelldorin laughed again, an infectious sort of laugh. In spite of himself, Garion could not help joining in.
Both laughing, they continued together down an overgrown street between the low mounds of slush-covered rubble.
Chapter Two
Lelldorin Of Wildantor was eighteen years old, although his ingenuous nature made him seem more boyish. No emotion touched him that did not instantly register in his expression, and sincerity shone in his face like a beacon. He was impulsive, extravagant in his declarations, and probably, Garion reluctantly concluded, not overly bright. It was impossible not to like him, however.
The following morning when Garion pulled on his cloak to go out and continue his watch for Hettar, Lelldorin immediately joined him. The young Arend had changed out of his garish clothing and now wore brown hose, a green tunic, and a dark brown wool cape. He carried his bow and wore a quiver of arrows at his belt; as they walked through the snow toward the broken west wall he amused himself by loosing arrows at targets only half visible ahead of him.
"You're awfully good," Garion said admiringly after one particularly fine shot.
"I'm an Asturian," Lelldorin replied modestly. "We've been bowmen for thousands of years. My father had the limbs of this bow cut on the day I was born, and I could draw it by the time I was eight."
"I imagine you hunt a great deal," Garion said, thinking of the dense forest all around them and the tracks of game he had seen in the snow.
"It's our most common pastime." Lelldorin stopped to pull the arrow he had just shot from a tree trunk. "My father prides himself on the fact that beef or mutton are never served at his table."
"I went hunting once, in Cherek."
"Deer?" Lelldorin asked.
"No. Wild boars. We didn't use bows though. The Chereks hunt with spears."
"Spears? How can you get close enough to kill anything with a spear?"
Garion laughed a bit ruefully, remembering his bruised ribs and aching head. "Getting close isn't the problem. It's getting away after you've speared him that's the difficult part."
Lelldorin didn't seem to grasp that.
"The huntsmen form a line," Garion explained, "and they crash through the woods, making as much noise as they can. You take your spear and wait where the boars are likely to pass when they try to get away from the noise. Being chased makes them bad-tempered, and when they see you, they charge. That's when you spear them."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Lelldorin's eyes were wide.
Garion nodded. "I almost got all my ribs broken." He was not exactly boasting, but he admitted to himself that he was pleased by Lelldorin's reaction to his story.
"We don't have many dangerous animals in Asturia," Lelldorin said almost wistfully. "A few bears and once in a while a pack of wolves." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking closely at Garion. "Some men, though, find more interesting things to shoot at than wild stags." He said it with a kind of secretive sidelong glance.
"Oh?" Garion was not quite sure what he meant.
"Hardly a day goes by that some Mimbrate's horse doesn't come home riderless."
Garion was shocked at that.
"Some men think that there are too many Mimbrates in Asturia," Lelldorin explained with heavy emphasis.
"I thought that the Arendish civil war was over."
"There are many who don't believe that. There are many who believe that the war will continue until Asturia is free of the Mimbrate crown." Lelldorin's tone left no question as to where he stood in the matter.
"Wasn't the country unified after the Battle of Vo Mimbre?" Garion objected.
"Unified? How could anybody believe that? Asturia is treated like a subject province. The king's court is at Vo Mimbre; every governor, every tax collector, every bailiff, every high sheriff in the kingdom is a Mimbrate. There's not a single Asturian in a position of authority anywhere in Arendia. The Mimbrates even refuse to recognize our titles. My father, whose line extends back a thousand years, is called landowner. A Mimbrate would sooner bite out his tongue than call him Baron." Lelldorin's face had gone white with suppressed indignation.
"I didn't know that," Garion said carefully, not sure how to handle the young man's feelings.
"Asturia's humiliation is almost at an end, however," Lelldorin declared fervently. "There are some men in Asturia for whom patriotism is not dead, and the time is not far off when these men will hunt royal game." He emphasized his statement by snapping an arrow at a distant tree.
That confirmed the worst of Garion's fears. Lelldorin was a bit too familiar with the details not to be involved in this plot.
As if he had realized himself that he had gone too far, Lelldorin stared at Garion with consternation. "I'm a fool," he blurted with a guilty look around him. "I've never learned to control my tongue. Please forget what I just said, Garion. I know you're my friend, and I know you won't betray what I said in a moment of heat."
That was the one thing Garion had feared. With that single statement, Lelldorin had effectively sealed his lips. He knew that Mister Wolf should be warned that some wild scheme was afoot, but Lelldorin's declaration of friendship and trust had made it impossible for him to speak. He wanted to grind his teeth with frustration as he stared full in the face of a major moral dilemma.
They walked on, neither of them speaking and both a little embarrassed, until they reached the bit of wall where Garion had waited in ambush the day before. For a time they stared out into the fog, their strained silence growing more uncomfortable by the moment.
"What's it like in Sendaria?" Lelldorin asked suddenly. "I've never been there."
"There aren't so many trees," Garion answered, looking over the wall at the dark trunks marching off in the fog. "It's an orderly kind of place."
"Where did you live there?"
"At Faldor's farm. It's near Lake Erat."
"Is this Faldor a nobleman?"
"Faldor?" Garion laughed. "No, Faldor's as common as old shoes. He's just a farmer - decent, honest, good-hearted. I miss him."
"A commoner, then," Lelldorin said, seeming ready to dismiss Faldor as a man of no consequence.
"Rank doesn't mean very much in Sendaria," Garion told him rather pointedly. "What a man does is more important than what he is." He made a wry face. "I was a scullery boy. It's not very pleasant, but somebody's got to do it, I suppose."
"Not a serf, certainly?" Lelldorin sounded shocked.
"There aren't any serfs in Sendaria."
"No serfs?" The young Arend stared at him uncomprehendingly.
"No," Garion said firmly. "We've never found it necessary to have serfs."
Lelldorin's expression clearly showed that he was baffled by the notion. Garion remembered the voices that had come to him out of the fog the day before, but he resisted the urge to say something about serfdom. Lelldorin would never understand, and the two of them were very close to friendship. Garion felt that he needed a friend just now and he didn't want to spoil things by saying something that would offend this likeable young man.
"What sort of work does your father do?" Lelldorin asked politely.
"He's dead. So's my mother." Garion fo
und that if he said it quickly, it didn't hurt so much.
Lelldorin's eyes filled in sudden, impulsive sympathy. He put his hand consolingly on Garion's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice almost breaking. "It must have been a terrible loss."
"I was a baby." Garion shrugged, trying to sound offhand about it. "I don't even remember them." It was still too personal to talk about.
"Some pestilence?" Lelldorin asked gently.
"No," Garion answered in the same flat tone. "They were murdered."
Lelldorin gasped and his eyes went wide.
"A man crept into their village at night and set fire to their house," Garion continued unemotionally. "My grandfather tried to catch him, but he got away. From what I understand, the man is a very old enemy of my family."
"Surely you're not going to let it stand like that?" Lelldorin demanded.
"No," Garion replied, still looking out into the fog. "As soon as I'm old enough, I'm going to find him and kill him."
"Good lad!" Lelldorin exclaimed, suddenly catching Garion in a rough embrace. "We'll find him and cut him to pieces."
"We?"
"I'll be going with you, of course," Lelldorin declared. "No true friend could do any less." He was obviously speaking on impulse, but just as obviously he was totally sincere. He gripped Garion's hand firmly. "I swear to you, Garion, I won't rest until the murderer of your parents lies dead at your feet."
The sudden declaration was so totally predictable that Garion silently berated himself for not keeping his mouth shut. His feelings in the matter were very personal, and he was not really sure he wanted company in his search for his faceless enemy. Another part of his mind, however, rejoiced in Lelldorin's impulsive but unquestioning support. He decided to let the subject drop. He knew Lelldorin well enough by now to realize that the young man undoubtedly made a dozen devout promises a day, quickly offered in absolute sincerity, and just as quickly forgotten.
They talked then of other things, standing close together beside the shattered wall with their dark cloaks drawn tightly about them.
Shortly before noon Garion heard the muffled sound of horses' hooves somewhere out in the forest. A few minutes later, Hettar materialized out of the fog with a dozen wild-looking horses trailing after him. The tall Algar wore a short, fleece-lined leather cape. His boots were mudspattered and his clothes travel-stained, but otherwise he seemed unaffected by his two weeks in the saddle.
"Garion," he said gravely by way of greeting and Garion and Lelldorin stepped out to meet him.
"We've been waiting for you," Garion told him and introduced Lelldorin. "We'll show you where the others are."
Hettar nodded and followed the two young men through the ruins to the tower where Mister Wolf and the others were waiting. "Snow in the mountains," the Algar remarked laconically by way of explanation as he swung down from his horse. "It delayed me a bit." He pulled his hood back from his shaved head and shook out his long, black scalp lock.
"No harm's been done," Mister Wolf replied. "Come inside to the fire and have something to eat. We've got a lot to talk about."
Hettar looked at the horses, his tan, weathered face growing strangely blank as if he were concentrating. The horses all looked back at him, their eyes alert and their ears pointed sharply forward. Then they turned and picked their way off among the trees.
"Won't they stray?" Durnik wanted to know.
"No," Hettar answered. "I asked them not to."
Durnik looked puzzled, but he let it pass.
They all went into the tower and sat near the fireplace. Aunt Pol cut dark bread and pale, yellow cheese for them while Durnik put more wood on the fire.
"Cho-Hag sent word to the Clan-Chiefs," Hettar reported, pulling off his cape. He wore a black, long-sleeved horsehide jacket with steel discs riveted to it to form a kind of flexible armor. "They're gathering at the Stronghold for council." He unbelted the curved sabre he wore, laid it to one side and sat near the fire to eat.
Wolf nodded. "Is anyone trying to get through to Prolgu?"
"I sent a troop of my own men to the Gorim before I left," Hettar responded. "They'll get through if anyone can."
"I hope so," Wolf stated. "The Gorim's an old friend of mine, and I'll need his help before all this is finished."
"Aren't your people afraid of the Land of the Ulgos?" Lelldorin inquired politely. "I've heard that there are monsters there that feed on the flesh of men."
Hettar shrugged. "They stay in their lairs in the wintertime. Besides, they're seldom brave enough to attack a full troop of mounted men." He looked over at Mister Wolf. "Southern Sendaria's crawling with Murgos. Or did you know that?"
"I could have guessed," Wolf replied. "Did they seem to be looking for anything in particular?"
"I don't talk with Murgos," Hettar said shortly. His hooked nose and fierce eyes made him look at that moment like a hawk about to swoop down to the kill.
"I'm surprised you weren't delayed even more," Silk bantered. "The whole world knows how you feel about Murgos."
"I indulged myself once," Hettar admitted. "I met two of them alone on the highway. It didn't take very long."
"Two less to worry about, then," Barak grunted with approval.
"I think it's time for some plain talk," Mister Wolf said, brushing crumbs off the front of his tunic. "Most of you have some notion of what we're doing, but I don't want anybody blundering into something by accident. We're after a man named Zedar. He used to be one of my Master's disciples - then he went over to Torak. Early last fall he somehow slipped into the throne room at Riva and stole the Orb of Aldur. We're going to chase him down and get it back."
"Isn't he a sorcerer too?" Barak asked, tugging absently at a thick red braid.
"That's not the term we use," Wolf replied, "but yes, he does have a certain amount of that kind of power. We all did - me, Beltira and Belkira, Belzedar - all the rest of us. That's one of the things I wanted to warn you about."
"You all seem to have the same sort of names," Silk noticed.
"Our Master changed our names when he took us as disciples. It was a simple change, but it meant a great deal to us."
"Wouldn't that mean that your original name was Garath?" Silk asked, his ferret eyes narrowing shrewdly.
Mister Wolf looked startled and then laughed. "I haven't heard that name for thousands of years. I've been Belgarath for so long that I'd almost completely forgotten Garath. It's probably just as well. Garath was a troublesome boy - a thief and a liar among other things."
"Some things never change," Aunt Pol observed.
"Nobody's perfect," Wolf admitted blandly.
"Why did Zedar steal the Orb?" Hettar asked, setting aside his plate.
"He's always wanted it for himself," the old man replied. "That could be it - but more likely he's trying to take it to Torak. The one who delivers the Orb to One-Eye is going to be his favorite."
"But Torak's dead," Lelldorin objected. "The Rivan Warder killed him at Vo Mimbre."
"No," Wolf said. "Torak isn't dead; only asleep. Brand's sword wasn't the one destined to kill him. Zedar carried him off after the battle and hid him someplace. Someday he'll awaken - probably someday fairly soon, if I'm reading the signs right. We've got to get the Orb back before that happens."
"This Zedar's caused a lot of trouble," Barak rumbled. "You should have dealt with him a long time ago."
"Possibly," Wolf admitted.
"Why don't you just wave your hand and make him disappear?" Barak suggested, making a sort of gesture with his thick fingers.
Wolf shook his head. "I can't. Not even the Gods can do that."
"We've got some big problems, then," Silk said with a frown. "Every Murgo from here to Rak Goska's going to try to stop us from catching Zedar."
"Not necessarily," Wolf disagreed. "Zedar's got the Orb, but Ctuchik commands the Grolims."
"Ctuchik?" Lelldorin asked.
"The Grolim High Priest. He and Zedar hate each other. I thin
k we can count on him to try to keep Zedar from getting to Torak with the Orb."
Barak shrugged. "What difference does it make? You and Polgara can use magic if we run into anything difficult, can't you?"
"There are limitations on that sort of thing," Wolf said a bit evasively.
"I don't understand," Barak said, frowning.
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. "All right. As long as it's come up, let's go into that too. Sorcery - if that's what you want to call it - is a disruption of the natural order of things. Sometimes it has certain unexpected effects, so you have to be very careful about what you do with it. Not only that, it makes-" He frowned. "-Let's call it a sort of noise. That's not exactly what it is, but it serves well enough to explain. Others with the same abilities can hear that noise. Once Polgara and I start changing things, every Grolim in the West is going to know exactly where we are and what we're doing. They'll keep piling things in front of us until we're exhausted."
"It takes almost as much energy to do things that way as it does to do them with your arms and back," Aunt Pol explained. "It's very tiring."
She sat beside the fire, carefully mending a small tear in one of Garion's tunics.
"I didn't know that," Barak admitted.
"Not many people do."
"If we have to, Pol and I can take certain steps," Wolf went on, "but we can't keep it up forever and we can't simply make things vanish. I'm sure you can see why."
"Oh, of course," Silk professed, though his tone indicated that he did not.
"Everything that exists depends on everything else," Aunt Pol explained quietly. "If you were to unmake one thing, it's altogether possible that everything would vanish."
The fire popped, and Garion jumped slightly. The vaulted chamber seemed suddenly dark, and shadows lurked in the corners.
"That can't happen, of course," Wolf told them. "When you try to unmake something, your will simply recoils on you. If you say, 'Be not,' then you are the one who vanishes. That's why we're very careful about what we say."
"I can understand why," Silk said, his eyes widening slightly.