"Most of the things we'll encounter can be dealt with by ordinary means," Wolf continued. "That's the reason we've brought you together - at least that's one of the reasons. Among you, you'll be able to handle most of the things that get in our way. The important thing to remember is that Polgara and I have to get to Zedar before he can reach Torak with the Orb. Zedar's found some way to touch the Orb - I don't know how. If he can show Torak how it's done, no power on earth will be able to stop One-Eye from becoming King and God over the whole world."
They all sat in the ruddy, flickering light of the fire, their faces serious as they considered that possibility.
"I think that pretty well covers everything, don't you, Pol?"
"I believe so, father," she replied, smoothing the front of her gray, homespun gown.
Later, outside the tower as gray evening crept in among the foggy ruins of Vo Wacune and the smell of the thick stew Aunt Pol was cooking for supper drifted out to them, Garion turned to Silk. "Is it all really true?" he asked.
The small man looked out into the fog. "Let's act as if we believed that it is," he suggested. "Under the circumstances, I think it would be a bad idea to make a mistake."
"Are you afraid too, Silk?" Garion asked.
Silk sighed. "Yes," he admitted, "but we can behave as if we believed that we aren't, can't we?"
"I guess we can try," Garion said, and the two of them turned to go back into the chamber at the foot of the tower where the firelight danced on the low stone arches, holding the fog and chill at bay.
Chapter Three
The next morning Silk came out of the tower wearing a rich maroon doublet and a baglike black velvet cap cocked jauntily over one ear.
"What's all that about?" Aunt Pol asked him.
"I chanced across an old friend in one of the packs," Silk replied airily. "Radek of Boktor by name."
"What happened to Ambar of Kotu?"
"Ambar's a good enough fellow, I suppose," Silk said a bit deprecatingly, "but a Murgo named Asharak knows about him and may have dropped his name in certain quarters. Let's not look for trouble if we don't have to."
"Not a bad disguise," Mister Wolf agreed. "One more Drasnian merchant on the Great West Road won't attract any attention - whatever his name."
"Please," Silk objected in an injured tone. "The name's very important. You hang the whole disguise on the name."
"I don't see any difference," Barak asserted bluntly.
"There's all the difference in the world. Surely you can see that Ambar's a vagabond with very little regard for ethics, while Radek's a man of substance whose word is good in all the commercial centers of the West. Besides, Radek's always accompanied by servants."
"Servants?" One of Aunt Pol's eyebrows shot up.
"Just for the sake of the disguise," Silk assured her quickly. "You, of course, could never be a servant, Lady Polgara."
"Thank you."
"No one would ever believe it. You'll be my sister instead, traveling with me to see the splendors of Tol Honeth."
"Your sister?"
"You could be my mother instead, if you prefer," Silk suggested blandly, "making a religious pilgrimage to Mar Terrin to atone for a colorful past."
Aunt Pol gazed steadily at the small man for a moment while he grinned impudently at her. "Someday your sense of humor's going to get you into a great deal of trouble, Prince Kheldar."
"I'm always in trouble, Lady Polgara. I wouldn't know how to act if I weren't."
"Do you two suppose we could get started?" Mister Wolf asked.
"Just a moment more," Silk replied. "If we meet anyone and have to explain things, you, Lelldorin, and Garion are Polgara's servants. Hettar, Barak, and Durnik are mine."
"Anything you say," Wolf agreed wearily.
"There are reasons."
"All right."
"Don't you want to hear them?"
"Not particularly."
Silk looked a bit hurt.
"Are we ready?" Wolf asked.
"Everything's out of the tower," Durnik told him. "Oh just a moment. I forgot to put out the fire." He went back inside.
Wolf glanced after the smith in exasperation. "What difference does it make?" he muttered. "This place is a ruin anyway."
"Leave him alone, father," Aunt Pol said placidly. "It's the way he is."
As they prepared to mount, Barak's horse, a large, sturdy gray, sighed and threw a reproachful look at Hettar, and the Algar chuckled.
"What's so funny?" Barak demanded suspiciously.
"The horse said something," Hettar replied. "Never mind."
Then they swung into their saddles and threaded their way out of the foggy ruins and along the narrow, muddy track that wound into the forest. Sodden snow lay under wet trees, and water dripped continually from the branches overhead. They all drew their cloaks about them to ward off the chill and dampness. Once they were under the trees, Lelldorin pulled his horse in beside Garion's, and they rode together.
"Is Prince Kheldar always so - well - extremely complicated?" he asked.
"Silk? Oh yes. He's very devious. You see, he's a spy, and disguises and clever lies are second nature to him."
"A spy? Really?" Lelldorin's eyes brightened as his imagination caught hold of the idea.
"He works for his uncle, the King of Drasnia," Garion explained. "From what I understand, the Drasnians have been at this sort of thing for centuries."
"We've got to stop and pick up the rest of the packs," Silk was reminding Mister Wolf.
"I haven't forgotten," the old man replied.
"Packs?" Lelldorin asked.
"Silk picked up some wool cloth in Camaar," Garion told him. "He said it would give us a legitimate reason to be on the highway. We hid them in a cave when we left the road to come to Vo Wacune."
"He thinks of everything, doesn't he?"
"He tries. We're lucky to have him with us."
"Maybe we could have him show us a few things about disguises," Lelldorin suggested brightly. "It might be very useful when we go looking for your enemy."
Garion had thought that Lelldorin had forgotten his impulsive pledge. The young Arend's mind seemed too flighty to keep hold of one idea for very long, but he saw now that Lelldorin only seemed to forget things. The prospect of a serious search for his parents' murderer with this young enthusiast adding embellishments and improvisations at every turn began to present itself alarmingly.
By midmorning, after they had picked up Silk's packs and lashed them to the backs of the spare horses, they were back out on the Great West Road, the Tolnedran highway running through the heart of the forest. They rode south at a loping canter that ate up the miles.
They passed a heavily burdened serf clothed in scraps and pieces of sackcloth tied on with bits of string. The serf's face was gaunt, and he was very thin under his dirty rags. He stepped off the road and stared at them with apprehension until they had passed. Garion felt a sudden stab of compassion. He briefly remembered Lammer and Detton, and he wondered what would finally happen to them. It seemed important for some reason. "Is it really necessary to keep them so poor?" he demanded of Lelldorin, unable to hold it in any longer.
"Who?" Lelldorin asked, looking around.
"That serf."
Lelldorin glanced back over his shoulder at the ragged man. "You didn't even see him," Garion accused.
Lelldorin shrugged. "There are so many."
"And they all dress in rags and live on the edge of starvation."
"Mimbrate taxes," Lelldorin replied as if that explained everything.
"You seem to have always had enough to eat."
"I'm not a serf, Garion," Lelldorin answered patiently. "The poorest people always suffer the most. It's the way the world is."
"It doesn't have to be," Garion retorted.
"You just don't understand."
"No. And I never will."
"Naturally not," Lelldorin said with infuriating complacency. "You're not Arendish."
<
br /> Garion clenched his teeth to hold back the obvious reply.
By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues, and the snow had largely disappeared from the roadside. "Shouldn't we start to give some thought to where we're going to spend the night, father?" Aunt Pol suggested.
Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard as he squinted at the shadows hovering in the trees around them.
"I have an uncle who lives not far from here," Lelldorin offered, "Count Reldegen. I'm sure he'll be glad to give us shelter."
"Thin?" Mister Wolf asked. "Dark hair?"
"It's gray now," Lelldorin replied. "Do you know him?"
"I haven't seen him for twenty years," Wolf told him. "As I recall, he used to be quite a hothead."
"Uncle Reldegen? You must have him confused with somebody else, Belgarath."
"Maybe," Wolf said. "How far is it to his house?"
"No more than a league and a half away."
"Let's go see him," Wolf decided.
Lelldorin shook his reins and moved into the lead to show them the way.
"How are you and your friend getting along?" Silk asked, falling in beside Garion.
"Fine, I suppose," Garion replied, not quite sure how the rat-faced little man intended the question. "It seems to be a little hard to explain things to him though."
"That's only natural," Silk observed. "He's an Arend, after all."
Garion quickly came to Lelldorin's defense. "He's honest and very brave."
"They all are. That's part of the problem."
"I like him," Garion asserted.
"So do I, Garion, but that doesn't keep me from realizing the truth about him."
"If you're trying to say something, why don't you just go ahead and say it?"
"All right, I will. Don't let friendship get the better of your good sense. Arendia's a very dangerous place, and Arends tend to blunder into disasters quite regularly. Don't let your exuberant young companion drag you into something that's none of your business." Silk's look was direct, and Garion realized that the little man was quite serious.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
"I knew I could count on you," Silk said gravely.
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Would I do that, Garion?" Silk asked mockingly. Then he laughed and they rode on together through the gloomy afternoon.
The gray stone house of Count Reldegen was about a mile back in the forest from the highway, and it stood in the center of a clearing that extended beyond bowshot in every direction. Although it had no wall, it had somehow the look of a fort. The windows facing out were narrow and covered with iron gratings. Strong turrets surmounted by battlements stood at each corner, and the gate which opened into the central courtyard of the house was made of whole tree trunks, squared off and strapped together with iron bands. Garion stared at the brooding pile as they approached in the rapidly fading light. There was a kind of haughty ugliness about the house, a grim solidity that seemed to defy the world.
"It's not a very pleasant-looking sort of place, is it?" he said to Silk.
"Asturian architecture's a reflection of their society," Silk replied. "A strong house isn't a bad idea in a country where neighborhood disputes sometimes get out of hand."
"Are they all so afraid of each other?"
"Just cautious, Garion. Just cautious."
Lelldorin dismounted before the heavy gate and spoke to someone on the other side through a small grill. There was finally a rattling of chains and the grinding sound of heavy, iron-shod bars sliding back.
"I wouldn't make any quick moves once we're inside," Silk advised quietly. "There'll probably be archers watching us."
Garion looked at him sharply.
"A quaint custom of the region," Silk informed him.
They rode into a cobblestoned courtyard and dismounted.
Count Reldegen, when he appeared, was a tall, thin man with irongray hair and beard who walked with the aid of a stout cane. He wore a rich green doublet and black hose; despite the fact that he was in his own house, he carried a sword at his side. He limped heavily down a broad flight of stairs from the house to greet them.
"Uncle," Lelldorin said, bowing respectfully.
"Nephew," the count replied in polite acknowledgment.
"My friends and I found ourselves in the vicinity," Lelldorin stated, "and we thought we might impose on you for the night."
"You're always welcome, nephew," Reldegen answered with a kind of grave formality. "Have you dined yet?"
"No, uncle."
"Then you must all take supper with me. May I know your friends?"
Mister Wolf pushed back his hood and stepped forward. "You and I are already acquainted, Reldegen," he said.
The count's eyes widened. "Belgarath? Is it really you?"
Wolf grinned. "Oh, yes. I'm still wandering about the world, stirring up mischief."
Reldegen laughed then and grasped Wolf's upper arm warmly. "Come inside, all of you. Let's not stand about in the cold." He turned and limped up the steps to the house.
"What happened to your leg?" Wolf asked him.
"An arrow in the knee." The count shrugged. "The result of an old disagreement - long since forgotten."
"As I recall, you used to get involved in quite a few of those. I thought for a while that you intended to go through life with your sword half drawn."
"I was an excitable youth," the count admitted, opening the broad door at the top of the steps. He led them down a long hallway to a room of imposing size with a large blazing fireplace at each end. Great curving stone arches supported the ceiling. The floor was of polished black stone, scattered with fur rugs, and the walls, arches, and ceiling were whitewashed in gleaming contrast. Heavy, carved chairs of dark brown wood sat here and there, and a great table with an iron candelabra in its center stood near the fireplace at one end. A dozen or so leather-bound books were scattered on its polished surface.
"Books, Reldegen?" Mister Wolf said in amazement as he and the others removed their cloaks and gave them to the servants who immediately appeared. "You have mellowed, my friend."
The count smiled at the old man's remark.
"I'm forgetting my manners," Wolf apologized. "My daughter, Polgara. Pol, this is Count Reldegen, an old friend."
"My Lady," the count acknowledged with an exquisite bow, "my house is honored."
Aunt Pol was about to reply when two young men burst into the room, arguing heatedly.
"You're an idiot, Berentain!" the first, a darkhaired youth in a scarlet doublet, snapped.
"It may please thee to think so, Torasin," the second, a stout young man with pale, curly hair and wearing a green and yellow striped tunic, replied, "but whether it please thee or not, Asturias future is in Mimbrate hands. Thy rancorous denouncements and sulfurous rhetoric shall not alter that fact."
"Don't thee me or thou me, Berentain," the dark-haired one sneered. "Your imitation Mimbrate courtesy turns my stomach."
"Gentlemen, that's enough!" Count Reldegen said sharply, rapping his cane on the stone floor. "If you two are going to insist on discussing politics, I'll have you separated - forcibly, if necessary."
The two young men scowled at each other and then stalked off to opposite sides of the room. "My son, Torasin," the count admitted apologetically, indicating the dark-haired youth, "and his cousin Berentain, the son of my late wife's brother. They've been wrangling like this for two weeks now. I had to take their swords away from them the day after Berentain arrived."
"Political discussion is good for the blood, my Lord," Silk observed, "especially in the winter. The heat keeps the veins from clogging up."
The count chuckled at the little man's remark.
"Prince Kheldar of the royal house of Drasnia," Mister Wolf introduced Silk.
"Your Highness," the count responded, bowing.
Silk winced slightly. "Please, my Lord. I've spent a lifetime running from that mode of address, and I'm sure that my connectio
n with the royal family embarrasses my uncle almost as much as it embarrasses me."
The count laughed again with easy good nature. "Why don't we all adjourn to the dining table?" he suggested. "Two fat deer have been turning on spits in my kitchen since daybreak, and I recently obtained a cask of red wine from southern Tolnedra. As I recall, Belgarath has always had a great fondness for good food and fine wines."
"He hasn't changed, my Lord," Aunt Pol told him. "My father's ternbly predictable, once you get to know him."
The count smiled and offered her his arm as they all moved toward a door on the far side of the room.
"Tell me, my Lord," Aunt Pol said, "do you by chance have a bathtub in your house?"
"Bathing in winter is dangerous, Lady Polgara," the count warned her.
"My Lord," she stated gravely, "I've been bathing winter or summer for more years than you could possibly imagine."
"Let her bathe, Reldegen," Mister Wolf urged. "Her temper deteriorates quite noticeably when she thinks she's getting dirty."
"A bath wouldn't hurt you either, Old Wolf," Aunt Pol retorted tartly. "You're starting to get a bit strong from the downwind side."
Mister Wolf looked a bit injured.
Much later, after they had eaten their fill of venison, gravy-soaked bread, and rich cherry tarts, Aunt Pol excused herself and went with a maidservant to oversee the preparation of her bath. The men all lingered at the table over their wine cups, their faces washed with the golden light of the many candles in Reldegen's dining hall.
"Let me show you to your rooms," Torasin suggested to Lelldorin and Garion, pushing back his chair and casting a look of veiled contempt across the table at Berentain.
They followed him from the room and up a long flight of stairs toward the upper stories of the house. "I don't want to offend you, Tor," Lelldorin said as they climbed, "but your cousin has some peculiar ideas."
Torasin snorted. "Berentain's a jackass. He thinks he can impress the Mimbrates by imitating their speech and by fawning on them." His dark face was angry in the light of the candle he carried to light their way.
"Why should he want to?" Lelldorin asked.
"He's desperate for some kind of holding he can call his own," Torasin replied. "My mother's brother has very little land to leave him. The fat idiot's all calf eyed over the daughter of one of the barons in his district, and since the baron won't even consider a landless suitor, Berentain's trying to wheedle an estate from the Mimbrate governor. He'd swear fealty to the ghost of Kal Torak himself, if he thought it would get him land."
Queen of Sorcery Page 4