“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, goldl ”
“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?”
“We Murgos prefer to keep to ourselves,” the scar-faced man said shortly.
“But you are here, friend,” Eilbrig pointed out. “Doesn’t that suggest that greater contact might prove beneficial?”
“I am here as a duty,” the Murgo said. “I don’t visit here out of preference.” He looked around the room. “Are these then all of your people?” he asked Faldor.
“Every soul is here,” Faldor told him.
“I was led to believe there was an old man here – with white hair and beard.”
“Not here, friend,” Faldor said. “I myself am the eldest here, and as you can see, my hair is far from white.”
“One of my countrymen met such a one some years ago,” the Murgo said. “He was accompanied by an Arendish boy – Rundorig, I believe his name was.”
Garion, seated at the next table, kept his face to his plate and listened so hard that he thought his ears must be growing.
“We have a boy named Rundorig here,” Faldor said. “That tall lad at the end of the far table over there.” He pointed.
“No,” the Murgo said, looking hard at Rundorig. “That isn’t the boy who was described to me.”
“It’s not an uncommon name among the Arends,” Faldor said. “Quite probably your friend met a pair from another farm.”
“That must be it,” the Murgo said, seeming to dismiss the affair. “This ham is excellent,” he said, pointing at his plate with the point of the dagger with which he ate. “Are the ones in your smokehouse of similar quality?”
“Oh, no, friend merchant!” Faldor laughed. “You won’t so easily trick me into talking business on this day.”
The Murgo smiled briefly, the expression appearing strange on his scarred face. “One can always try,” he said. “I would, however, compliment your cook.”
“A compliment for you, Mistress Pol,” Faldor said, raising his voice slightly. “Our friend from Cthol Murgos finds your cooking much to his liking.”
“I thank him for his compliment,” Aunt Pol said, somewhat coldly.
The Murgo looked at her, and his eyes widened slightly as if in recognition.
“A noble meal, great lady,” he said, bowing slightly in her direction. “Your kitchen is a place of magic.”
“No,” she said, her face suddenly very haughty, “not magic. Cooking is an art which anyone with patience may learn. Magic is quite something else.”
“But magic is also an art, great lady,” the Murgo said.
“There are many who think so,” Aunt Pol said, “but true magic comes from within and is not the result of nimble fingers which trick the eye.”
The Murgo stared at her, his face hard, and she returned his gaze with steely eyes. To Garion, sitting nearby, it seemed as if something had passed between them that had nothing to do with the words they spoke – a kind of challenge seemed to hang in the air. And then the Murgo looked away almost as if he feared to take up that challenge.
When the meal was over, it was time for the rather simple pageant which traditionally marked Erastide. Seven of the older farmhands who had slipped away earlier appeared in the doorway wearing the long, hooded robes and carefully carved and painted masks which represented the faces of the Gods. The costumes were old and showed the wrinkles which were the result of having been packed away in Faldor’s attic for the past year. With a slow step, the robed and masked figures paced into the hall and lined up at the foot of the table where Faldor sat. Then each in turn spoke a short piece which identified the God he represented.
“I am Aldur,” Cralto’s voice came from behind the first mask, “the God who dwells alone, and I command this world to be.”
“I am Belar,” came another familiar voice from behind the second mask, “Bear-God of the Alorns, and I command this world to be.” And so it went down the line, Chaldan, Issa, Nedra, Mara and then finally the last figure, which, unlike the others, was robed in black and whose mask was made of steel instead of painted wood.
“I am Torak,” Durnik’s voice came hollowly from behind the mask, “Dragon-God of the Angaraks, and I command this world to be.”
A movement caught Garion’s eye, and he looked quickly. The Murgo had covered his face with his hands in a strange, almost ceremonial gesture. Beyond him, at the far table, the five Thulls were ashen-faced and trembling.
The seven figures at the foot of Faldor’s table joined their hands. “We are the Gods,” they said in unison, “and we command this world to be.”