“I see.”
“Nothing improper, you understand,” Lelldorin said quickly. “But our friendship was such that—well—we didn’t want to be separated.” The young Asturian’s face appealed to his friend for understanding. “Actually,” he went on, “it was a bit more than ‘didn’t want to.’ Ariana told me that she’d die if I left her behind.”
“Possibly she was exaggerating,” Garion suggested.
“How could I risk it, though?” Lelldorin protested. “Women are much more delicate than we are—besides, Ariana’s a physician. She’d know if she’d die, wouldn’t she?”
“I’m sure she would.” Garion sighed. “Why don’t you just plunge on with the story, Lelldorin? I think I’m ready for the worst now.”
“It’s not that I really meant any harm,” Lelldorin said plaintively.
“Of course not.”
“Anyway, Ariana and I left the castle very late one evening. I knew the knight on guard at the drawbridge, so I hit him over the head because I didn’t want to hurt him.”
Garion blinked.
“I knew that he’d be honor-bound to try to stop us,” Lelldorin explained. “I didn’t want to have to kill him, so I hit him over the head.”
“I suppose that makes sense,” Garion said dubiously.
“Ariana’s almost positive that he won’t die.”
“Die?”
“I hit him just a little too hard, I think.”
The others had all disembarked and were preparing to follow Brand and King Anheg up the steep, snow-covered stairs toward the upper levels of the city.
“So that’s why you think Aunt Pol might be cross with you,” Garion said as he and Lelldorin fell in at the rear of the group.
“Well, that’s not exactly the whole story, Garion,” Lelldorin admitted. “A few other things happened, too.”
“Such as what?”
“Well—they chased us—a little—and I had to kill a few of their horses.”
“I see.”
“I specifically aimed my arrows at the horses and not at the men. It wasn’t my fault that Baron Oltorain couldn’t get his foot clear of the stirrup, was it?”
“How badly was he hurt?” Garion was almost resigned by now.
“Nothing serious at all—at least I don’t think so. A broken leg perhaps—the one he broke before when Sir Mandorallen unhorsed him.”
“Go on,” Garion told him.
“The priest did have it coming, though,” Lelldorin declared hotly.
“What priest?”
“The priest of Chaldan at that little chapel who wouldn’t marry us because Ariana couldn’t give him a document proving that she had her family’s consent. He was very insulting.”
“Did you break anything?”
“A few of his teeth is about all—and I stopped hitting him as soon as he agreed to perform the ceremony.”
“And so you’re married? Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll both be very happy just as soon as they let you out of prison.”
Lelldorin drew himself up. “It’s a marriage in name only, Garion. I would never take advantage of it—you know me better than that. We reasoned that Ariana’s reputation might suffer if it became known that we were travelling alone like that. The marriage was just for the sake of appearances.”
As Lelldorin described his disastrous journey through Arendia, Garion glanced curiously at the city of Riva. There was a kind of unrelieved bleakness about its snow-covered streets. The buildings were all very tall and were of a uniform gray color. The few evergreen boughs, wreaths, and brightly-hued buntings hung in celebration of the Erastide season seemed somehow to accentuate the stiff grimness of the city. There were, however, some very interesting smells coming from kitchens where Erastide feasts simmered and roasted under the watchful eyes of the women of Riva.
“That was all of it, then?” Garion asked his friend. “You stole Baron Oltorain’s sister, married her without his consent, broke his leg and assaulted several of his people—and a priest. That was everything that happened?”
“Well—not exactly.” Lelldorin’s face was a bit pained.
“There’s more?”
“I didn’t really mean to hurt Torasin.”
“Your cousin?”
Lelldorin nodded moodily. “Ariana and I took refuge at my Uncle Reldegin’s house, and Torasin made some remarks about Ariana—she is a Mimbrate after all, and Torasin’s very prejudiced. My remonstrances were quite temperate, I thought—all things considered—but after I knocked him down the stairs, nothing would satisfy him but a duel.”
“You killed him?” Garion asked in a shocked voice.
“Of course I didn’t kill him. All I did was run him through the leg—just a little bit.”
“How can you run somebody through just a little bit, Lelldorin?” Garion demanded of his friend in exasperation.
“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you, Garion?” The young Asturian seemed almost on the verge of tears.
Garion rolled his eyes skyward and gave up. “No, Lelldorin, I’m not disappointed—a little startled perhaps—but not really disappointed. Was there anything else you can remember?—Anything you might have left out?”
“Well, I hear that I’ve sort of been declared an outlaw in Arendia.”
“Sort of?”
“The crown’s put a price on my head,” Lelldorin admitted, “or so I understand.”
Garion began to laugh helplessly.
“A true friend wouldn’t laugh at my misfortunes,” the young man complained, looking injured.
“You managed to get into that much trouble in just a week?”
“None of it was really my fault, Garion. Things just got out of hand, that’s all. Do you think Lady Polgara’s going to be angry?”
“I’ll talk to her,” Garion assured his impulsive young friend. “Maybe if she and Mandorallen appeal to King Korodullin, they can get him to take the price off your head.”
“Is it true that you and Sir Mandorallen destroyed the Murgo Nachak and all his henchmen in the throne room at Vo Mimbre?” Lelldorin asked suddenly.
“I think the story might have gotten a bit garbled,” Garion replied. “I denounced Nachak, and Mandorallen offered to fight him to prove that what I said was true. Nachak’s men attacked Mandorallen then, and Barak and Hettar joined in. Hettar’s the one who actually killed Nachak. We did manage to keep your name—and Torasin’s—out of it.”
“You’re a true friend, Garion.”
“Here?” Barak was saying. “What’s she doing here?”
“She came with Islena and me,” King Anheg replied.
“Did she—?”
Anheg nodded. “Your son’s with her—and your daughters. His birth seems to have mellowed her a bit.”
“What does he look like?” Barak asked eagerly.
“He’s a great, red-haired brute of a boy.” Anheg laughed. “And when he gets hungry, you can hear him yell for a mile.”
Barak grinned rather foolishly.
When they reached the top of the stairs and came out in the shallow square before the great hall, two rosy-cheeked little girls in green cloaks were waiting impatiently for them. They both had long, reddish-blond braids and seemed to be only slightly older than Errand. “Poppa,” the youngest of the two squealed, running to Barak. The huge man caught her up in his arms and kissed her soundly. The second girl, a year or so older than her sister, joined them with a show of dignity but was also swept up in her father’s embrace.
“My daughters,” Barak introduced the girls to the rest of the party. “This is Gundred.” He poked his great red beard into the face of the eldest girl, and she giggled as his whiskers tickled her face. “And this is little Terzie.” He smiled fondly at the youngest.
“We have a little brother, Poppa,” the elder girl informed him gravely.
“What an amazing thing,” Barak replied, feigning a great show of astonishment.
“You knew about it already!” Gundred accused him. “We wanted to be the ones to tell you.” She pouted.
“His name’s Unrak, and he’s got red hair just the same as you have,” Terzie announced, “but he doesn’t have a beard yet.”