“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 found 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.”