“You’re skilled with words, Silk,” Barak said. “I’m sure you ought to be the one to tell her.”
“Why don’t we throw dice for the privilege?” Silk suggested.
“I’ve seen you throw dice before, Silk.” Barak laughed.
“Of course we could simply stay here a while longer,” Silk said slyly. “I rather imagine that Garion’s new playmate would be quite happy to complete his education, and that way we wouldn’t have to bother Lady Polgara about it.”
Garion’s ears were flaming. “I’m not as stupid as all that,” he said hotly. “I know what you’re talking about, and you don’t have to say anything to Aunt Pol about it.” He stamped away angrily, kicking at the snow.
After Barak had talked for a while longer with his shipbuilder and the harbor had begun to darken with the approach of evening, they started back toward the palace. Garion sulked along behind, still offended by their laughter. The clouds which had hung overhead since their arrival in Val Alorn had begun to tatter, and patches of clear sky began to appear. Here and there single stars twinkled as evening slowly settled in the snowy streets. The soft light of candles began to glow in the windows of the houses, and the few people left in the streets hurried to get home before dark.
Garion, still loitering behind, saw two men entering a wide door beneath a crude sign depicting a cluster of grapes. One of them was the sandy-bearded man in the green cloak that he had seen in the palace the night before. The other man wore a dark hood, and Garion felt a familiar tingle of recognition. Even though he couldn’t see the hooded man’s face, there was no need of that. They had looked at each other too often for there to be any doubt. As always before, Garion felt that peculiar restraint, almost like a ghostly finger touching his lips. The hooded man was Asharak, and, though the Murgo’s presence here was very important, it was for some reason impossible for Garion to speak of it. He watched the two men only for a moment and then hurried to catch up with his friends. He struggled with the compulsion that froze his tongue, and then tried another approach.
“Barak,” he asked, “are there many Murgos in Val Alorn?”
“There aren’t any Murgos in Cherek,” Barak said. “Angaraks aren’t allowed in the kingdom on pain of death. It’s our oldest law. It was laid down by old Cherek Bear-shoulders himself. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering,” Garion said lamely. His mind shrieked with the need to tell them about Asharak, but his lips stayed frozen.
That evening, when they were all seated at the long table in King Anheg’s central hall with a great feast set before them, Barak entertained them with a broadly exaggerated account of Garion’s encounter with the young people on the hillside.
“A great blow it was,” he said in expansive tones, “worthy of the mightiest warrior and truly struck upon the nose of the foe. The bright blood flew, and the enemy was dismayed and overcome. Like a hero, Garion stood over the vanquished, and, like a true hero, did not boast nor taunt his fallen opponent, but offered instead advice for quelling that crimson flood. With simple dignity then, he quit the field, but the brighteyed maid would not let him depart unrewarded for his valor. Hastily, she pursued him and fondly clasped her snowy arms about his neck. And there she lovingly bestowed that single kiss that is the true hero’s greatest reward. Her eyes flamed with admiration, and her chaste bosom heaved with newly wakened passion. But modest Garion innocently departed and tarried not to claim those other sweet rewards the gentle maid’s fond demeanor so clearly offered. And thus the adventure ended with our hero tasting victory but tenderly declining victory’s true compensation.”
The warriors and kings at the long table roared with laughter and pounded the table and their knees and each others’ backs in their glee. Queen Islena and Queen Silar smiled tolerantly, and Queen Porenn laughed openly. Lady Merel, however, remained stony-faced, her expression faintly contemptuous as she looked at her husband.
Garion sat with his face aflame, his ears besieged with shouted suggestions and advice.
“Is that really the way it happened, nephew?” King Rhodar demanded of Silk, wiping tears from his eyes.
“More or less,” Silk replied. “Lord Barak’s telling was masterly, though a good deal embellished.”
“We should send for a minstrel,” the Earl of Seline said. “This exploit should be immortalized in song.”
“Don’t tease him,” Queen Porenn said, looking sympathetically at Garion.
Aunt Pol did not seem amused. Her eyes were cold as she looked at Barak.
“Isn’t it odd that three grown men can’t keep one boy out of trouble?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“It was only one blow, my Lady,” Silk protested, “and only one kiss, after all.”
“Really?” she said. “And what’s it going to be next time? A duel with swords, perhaps, and even greater foolishness afterward?”
“There was no real harm in it, Mistress Pol,” Durnik assured her. Aunt Pol shook her head. “I thought you at least had good sense, Durnik,” she said, “but now I see that I was wrong.”
Garion suddenly resented her remarks. It seemed that no matter what he did, she was ready to take it in the worst possible light. His resentment flared to the verge of open rebellion. What right had she to say anything about what he did? There was no tie between them, after all, and he could do anything he wanted without her permission if he felt like it. He glared at her in sullen anger.
She caught the look and returned it with a cool expression that seemed almost to challenge him. “Well?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said shortly.
Chapter Fifteen
THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and crisp. The sky was a deep blue, and the sunlight was dazzling on the white mountaintops that rose behind the city. After breakfast, Mister Wolf announced that he and Aunt Pol would again meet privately that day with Fulrach and the Alorn Kings.
“Good idea,” Barak said. “Gloomy ponderings are good for kings. Unless one has regal obligations, however, it’s much too fine a day to be wasted indoors.” He grinned mockingly at his cousin.
“There’s a streak of cruelty in you that I hadn’t suspected, Barak,” King Anheg said, glancing longingly out a nearby window.
“Do the wild boars still come down to the edges of the forest?” Barak asked.
“In droves,” Anheg replied even more disconsolately.
“I thought I might gather a few good men and go out and see if we can thin their numbers a bit,” Barak said, his grin even wider now.
“I was almost sure you had something like that in mind,” Anheg said moodily, scratching at his unkempt hair.
“I’m doing you a service, Anheg,” Barak said. “You don’t want your kingdom overrun with the beasts, do you?”
Rhodar, the fat King of Drasnia, laughed hugely. “I think he’s got you, Anheg,” he said.
“He usually does,” Anheg agreed sourly.
“I gladly leave such activities to younger and leaner men,” Rhodar said. He slapped his vast paunch with both hands. “I don’t mind a good supper, but I’d rather not have to fight with it first. I make too good a target. The blindest boar in the world wouldn’t have much trouble finding me.”
“Well, Silk,” Barak said, “what do you say?”
“You’re not serious,” Silk said.
“You must go along, Prince Kheldar,” Queen Porenn insisted. “Someone has to represent the honor of Drasnia in this venture.”
Silk’s face looked pained.
“You can be my champion,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“Have you been reading Arendish epics again, your Highness?” Silk asked acidly.
“Consider it a royal command,” she said. “Some fresh air and exercise won’t hurt you. You’re starting to look dyspeptic.”
Silk bowed ironically. “As you wish, your Highness,” he said. “I suppose that if things get out of hand I can always climb a tree.”
“How about you, Durnik?” Barak asked.
“I don’t know much about hunting, friend Barak,” Durnik said doubtfully, “but I’ll come along if you like.”
“My Lord?” Barak asked the Earl of Seline politely.
“Oh, no, Lord Barak.” Seline laughed. “I outgrew my enthusiasm for such sport years ago. Thanks for the invitation, however.”
“Hettar?” Barak asked the rangy Algar. Hettar glanced quickly at his father.
“Go along, Hettar,” Cho-Hag said in his soft voice. “I’m sure King Anheg will lend me a warrior to help me walk.”
“I’ll do it myself, Cho-Hag,” Anheg said. “I’ve carned heavier burdens.”
“I’ll go with you then, Lord Barak,” Hettar said. “And thanks for asking me.” His voice was deep and resonant, but very soft, much like that of his father.
“Well, lad?” Barak asked Garion.
“Have you lost your wits entirely, Barak?” Aunt Pol snapped. “Didn’t you get him into enough trouble yesterday?”