The most important holiday in Sendaria—and indeed in the rest of the kingdoms of the west—was Erastide. It commemorated that day, eons before, when the seven Gods joined hands to create the world with a single word. The festival of Erastide took place in midwinter, and, because there was little to do on a farm like Faldor’s at that season, it had by custom become a splendid two-week celebration with feasts and gifts and decorations in the dining hall and little pageants honoring the Gods. These last, of course, were a reflection of Faldor’s piety. Faldor, though he was a good, simple man, had no illusions about how widely his sentiments were shared by others on the farm. He thought, however, that some outward show of devotional activity was in keeping with the season; and, because he was such a good master, the people on his farm chose to humor him.
It was also at this season, unfortunately, that Faldor’s married daughter, Anhelda, and her husband, Eilbrig, made their customary annual visit to remain on speaking terms with her father. Anhelda had no intention of endangering her inheritance rights by seeming inattention. Her visits, however, were a trial to Faldor, who looked upon his daughter’s somewhat overdressed and supercilious husband, a minor functionary in a commercial house in the capital city of Sendar, with scarcely concealed contempt.
Their arrival, however, marked the beginning of the Erastide festival at Faldor’s farm; so, while no one cared for them personally, their appearance was always greeted with a certain enthusiasm.
The weather that year had been particularly foul, even for Sendaria. The rains had settled in early and were soon followed by a period of soggy snow—not the crisp, bright powder which came later in the winter, but a damp slush, always half melting. For Garion, whose duties in the kitchen now prevented him from joining with his former playmates in their traditional preholiday orgy of anticipatory excitement, the approaching holiday seemed somehow flat and stale. He yearned back to the good old days and often sighed with regret and moped about the kitchen like a sandy-haired cloud of doom.
Even the traditional decorations in the dining hall, where Erastide festivities always took place, seemed decidedly tacky to him that year. The fir boughs festooning the ceiling beams were somehow not as green, and the polished apples carefully tied to the boughs were smaller and not as red. He sighed some more and reveled in his sullen moping.
Aunt Pol, however, was not impressed, and her attitude was firmly unsympathetic. She routinely checked his brow with her hand for signs of fever and then dosed him with the foulest-tasting tonic she could concoct. Garion was careful after that to mope in private and to sigh less audibly. That dry, secret part of his mind informed him matter-of-factly that he was being ridiculous, but Garion chose not to listen. The voice in his mind was much older and wiser than he, but it seemed determined to take all the fun out of life.
On the morning of Erastide, a Murgo and five Thulls appeared with a wagon outside the gate and asked to see Faldor. Garion, who had long since learned that no one pays attention to a boy and that many interesting things may be learned by placing himself in a position to casually overhear conversations, busied himself with some small, unimportant chore near the gate.
The Murgo, his face scarred much like the face of the one in Upper Gralt, sat importantly on the wagon seat, his chain-mail shirt clinking each time he moved. He wore a black, hooded robe, and his sword was much in evidence. His eyes moved constantly, taking in everything. The Thulls, in muddy felt boots and heavy cloaks, lounged disinterestedly against the wagon, seemingly indifferent to the raw wind whipping across the snowy fields.
Faldor, in his finest doublet—it was after all Erastide—came across the yard, closely followed by Anhelda and Eilbrig.
"Good morrow, friend," Faldor said to the Murgo. "Joyous Erastide to you."
The Murgo grunted. "You are, I take it, the farmer Faldor?" he asked in his heavily accented voice.
"I am," Faldor replied.
"I understand you have a goodly number of hams on hand—well cured."
"The pigs did well this year," Faldor answered modestly.
"I will buy them," the Murgo announced, jingling his purse.
Faldor bowed. "First thing tomorrow morning," he said.
The Murgo stared.
"This is a pious household," Faldor explained. "We do not offend the Gods by breaking the sanctity of Erastide."
"Father," Anhelda snapped, "don’t be foolish. This noble merchant has come a long way to do business."
"Not on Erastide," Faldor said stubbornly, his long face firm.
"In the city of Sendar," Eilbrig said in his rather high-pitched, nasal voice, "we do not let such sentimentality interfere with business."
"This is not the city of Sendar," Faldor said flatly. "This is Faldor’s farm, and on Faldor’s farm we do no work and conduct no business on Erastide."
"Father," Anhelda protested, "the noble merchant has gold. Gold, father, gold!"
"I will hear no more of it," Faldor announced. He turned to the Murgo. "You and your servants are welcome to join us in our celebration, friend," he said. "We can provide quarters for you and the promise of the finest dinner in all of Sendaria and the opportunity to honor the Gods on this special day. No man is made poorer by attending to his religious obligations."
"We do not observe this holiday in Cthol Murgos," the scar-faced man said coldly. "As the noble lady says, I have come a long way to do business and have not much time to tarry. I’m sure there are other farmers in the district with the merchandise I require."
"Father!" Anhelda wailed.
"I know my neighbors," Faldor said quietly. "Your luck today will be small, I fear. The observance of this day is a firm tradition in this area."
The Murgo thought for a moment. "It may be as you say," he said finally. "I will accept your invitation, provided that we can do business as early as possible tomorrow."
Faldor bowed. "I’ll place myself at your service at first light tomorrow if you so desire."
"Done, then," the Murgo said, climbing down from his wagon.
That afternoon the feast was laid in the dining hall. The kitchen helpers and a half dozen others who had been pressed into service for the special day scurried from kitchen to hall bearing smoking roasts, steaming hams and sizzling geese all under the lash of Aunt Pol’s tongue. Garion observed sourly as he struggled with an enormous baron of beef that Faldor’s prohibition of work on Erastide stopped at the kitchen door.
In time, all was ready. The tables were loaded, the fires in the fireplaces burned brightly, dozens of candles filled the hall with golden light, and torches flared in their rings on the stone pillars. Faldor’s people, all in their best clothes, filed into the hall, their mouths watering in anticipation.
When all were seated, Faldor rose from his bench at the head of the center table. "Dear friends," he said, lifting his tankard, "I dedicate this feast to the Gods."
"The Gods," the people responded in unison, rising respectfully. Faldor drank briefly, and they all followed suit. "Hear me, O Gods," he prayed. "Most humbly we thank you for the bounty of this fair world which you made on this day, and we dedicate ourselves to your service for yet another year." He looked for a moment as if he were going to say more, but then sat down instead. Faldor always labored for many hours over special prayers for occasions such as this, but the agony of speaking in public invariably erased the words so carefully prepared from his mind. His prayers, therefore, were always very sincere and very short.
"Eat, dear friends," he instructed. "Do not let the food grow cold."
And so they ate. Anhelda and Eilbrig, who joined them all at this one meal only at Faldor’s insistence, devoted their conversational efforts to the Murgo, since he was the only one in the room who was worthy of their attention.
"I have long thought of visiting Cthol Murgos," Eilbrig stated rather pompously. "Don’t you agree, friend merchant, that greater contact between east and west is the way to overcome those mutual suspicions which have so marred our relationships in the past?"