“Hearken unto the words of the Gods,” Faldor declaimed. “Welcome are the Gods in the house of Faldor.”
“The blessing of the Gods be upon the house of Faldor,” the seven responded, “and upon all this company.” And then they turned and, as slowly as they had come, they paced from the hall.
And then came the gifts. There was much excitement at this, for the gifts were all from Faldor, and the good farmer struggled long each year to provide the most suitable gift for each of his people. New tunics and hose and gowns and shoes were much in evidence, but Garion this year was nearly overwhelmed when he opened a smallish, cloth – wrapped bundle and found a neat, well-sheathed dagger.
“He’s nearly a man,” Faldor explained to Aunt Pol, “and a man always has need of a good knife.”
Garion, of course, immediately tested the edge of his gift and quite promptly managed to cut his finger.
“It was inevitable, I suppose,” Aunt Pol said, but whether she was speaking of the cut or the gift itself or the fact of Garion’s growing up was not entirely clear.
The Murgo bought his hams the next morning, and he and the five Thulls departed. A few days later Anhelda and Eilbrig packed up and left on their return journey to the city of Sendar, and Faldor’s farm returned to normal.
The winter plodded on. The snows came and went, and spring returned, as it always does. The only thing which made that spring any different from any other was the arrival of Brill, the new hand. One of the younger farmers had married and rented a small nearby croft and had left, laden down with practical gifts and good advice from Faldor to begin his life as a married man. Brill was hired to replace him.
Garion found Brill to be a definitely unattractive addition to the farm. The man’s tunic and hose were patched and stained, his black hair and scraggly beard were unkempt, and one of his eyes looked off in a different direction from its fellow. He was a sour, solitary man, and he was none too clean. He seemed to carry with him an acrid reek of stale sweat that hung in his vicinity like a miasma. After a few attempts at conversation, Garion gave up and avoided him.
The boy, however, had other things to occupy his mind during that spring and summer. Though he had until then considered her to be more an inconvenience than a genuine playmate, quite suddenly he began to notice Zubrette. He had always known that she was pretty, but until that particular season that fact had been unimportant, and he had much preferred the company of Rundorig and Doroon. Now matters had changed. He noticed that the two other boys had also begun to pay more attention to her as well, and for the first time he began to feel the stirrings of jealousy.
Zubrette, of course, flirted outrageously with all three of them, and positively glowed when they glared at each other in her presence. Rundorig’s duties in the fields kept him away most of the time, but Doroon was a serious worry to Garion. He became quite nervous and frequently found excuses to go about the compound to make certain that Doroon and Zubrette were not alone together.
His own campaign was charmingly simple – he resorted to bribery. Zubrette, like all little girls, was fond of sweets, and Garion had access to the entire kitchen. In a short period of time they had worked out an arrangement. Garion would steal sweets from the kitchen for his sunnyhaired playmate, and in return she would let him kiss her. Things might perhaps have gone further if Aunt Pol had not caught them in the midst of such an exchange one bright summer afternoon in the seclusion of the hay barn.
“That’s quite enough of that,” she announced firmly from the doorway.
Garion jumped guiltily away from Zubrette.
“I’ve got something in my eye,” Zubrette lied quickly. “Garion was trying to get it out for me.”
Garion stood blushing furiously.
“Really?” Aunt Pol said. “How interesting. Come with me, Garion.”
“I-” he started.
“Now, Garion.”
And that was the end of that. Garion’s time thereafter was totally occupied in the kitchen, and Aunt Pol’s eyes seemed to be on him every moment. He mooned about a great deal and worried desperately about Doroon, who now appeared hatefully smug, but Aunt Pol remained watchful, and Garion remained in the kitchen.
Chapter Five
IN MIDAUTUMN that year, when the leaves had turned and the wind had showered them down from the trees like red and gold snow, when evenings were chill and the smoke from the chimneys at Faldor’s farm rose straight and blue toward the first cold stars in a purpling sky, Wolf returned. He came up the road one gusty afternoon under a lowering autumn sky with the new-fallen leaves tumbling about him and his great, dark cloak whipping in the wind.
Garion, who had been dumping kitchen slops to the pigs, saw his approach and ran to meet him. The old man seemed travel-stained and tired, and his face under his gray hood was grim. His usual demeanor of happy-go-lucky cheerfulness had been replaced by a somber mood Garion had never seen in him before.
“Garion,” Wolf said by way of greeting. “You’ve grown, I see.”
“It’s been five years,” Garion said.
“Has it been so long?”
Garion nodded, falling into step beside his friend.
“Is everyone well?” Wolf asked.
“Oh yes,” Garion said. “Everything’s the same here-except that Breldo got married and moved away, and the old brown cow died last summer.”
“I remember the cow,” Wolf said. Then he said, “I must speak with your Aunt Pol.”
“She’s not in a very good mood today,” Garion warned. “It might be better if you rested in one of the barns. I can sneak some food and drink to you in a bit.”
“We’ll have to chance her mood,” Wolf said. “What I have to say to her can’t wait.”
They entered the gate and crossed the courtyard to the kitchen door. Aunt Pol was waiting. “You again?” she said tartly, her hands on her hips. “My kitchen still hasn’t recovered from your last visit.”
“Mistress Pol,” Wolf said, bowing. Then he did a strange thing. His fingers traced an intricate little design in the air in front of his chest. Garion was quite sure that he was not intended to see those gestures.
Aunt Pol’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and her face became grim.
“How do you-” she started, then caught herself. “Garion,” she said sharply, “I need some carrots. There are still some in the ground at the far end of the kitchen garden. Take a spade and a pail and fetch me some.”
“But ” he protested, and then, warned by her expression, he left quickly. He got a spade and pail from a nearby shed and then loitered near the kitchen door. Eavesdropping, of course, was not a nice habit and was considered the worst sort of bad manners in Sendaria, but Garion had long ago concluded that whenever he was sent away, the conversation was bound to be very interesting and would probably concern him rather intimately. He had wrestled briefly with his conscience about it; but, since he really saw no harm in the practice – as long as he didn’t repeat anything he heard – conscience had lost to curiosity.
Garion’s ears were very sharp, but it took him a moment or two to separate the two familiar voices from the other sounds in the kitchen.
“He will not leave you a trail,” Aunt Pol was saying.
“He doesn’t have to,” Wolf replied. “The thing itself will make its trail known to me. I can follow it as easily as a fox can scent out the track of a rabbit.”
“Where will he take it?” he asked.
“Who can say? His mind is closed to me. My guess is that he’ll go north to Boktor. That’s the shortest route to Gar og Nadrak. He’ll know that I’ll be after him, and he’ll want to cross into the lands of the Angaraks as soon as possible. His theft won’t be complete so long as he stays in the west.”
“When did it happen?”
“Four weeks ago.”
“He could already be in the Angarak kingdoms.”
“That’s not likely. The distances are great; but if he is, I’ll have to follow him. I’ll need your help.”
“But how can I leave here?” Aunt Pol asked. “I have to watch over the boy.”
Garion’s curiosity was becoming almost unbearable. He edged closer to the kitchen door.
“The boy’ll be safe enough here,” Wolf said. “This is an urgent matter.”
“No,” Aunt Pol contradicted. “Even this place isn’t safe. Last Erastide a Murgo and five Thulls came here. He posed as a merchant, but he asked a few too many questions – about an old man and a boy named Rundorig who had been seen in Upper Gralt some years ago. He may also have recognized me.”