“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 direction 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.”