At Sulturn, Aunt Pol, who had been looking thoughtfully at each village through which they passed, apparently reached a decision. “Father,” she said to Belgarath as they rode into town, “you and Cho-Hag and the rest go straight on to Sendar. Durnik, Garion, and I need to make a little side trip.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Faldor’s farm.”
“Faldor’s? What for?”
“We all left things behind, father. You hustled us out of there so fast that we barely had time to pack.” Her tone and expression were so matter-of fact that Garion immediately suspected subterfuge, and Belgarath’s briefly raised eyebrow indicated that he also was fairly certain that she was not telling him everything.
“We’re starting to trim this a bit close, Pol,” the old man pointed out.
“There’s still plenty of time, father,” she replied. “It’s not really all that far out of our way. We’ll only be a few days behind you.”
“Is it really that important, Pol?”
“Yes, father. I think it is. Keep an eye on Errand for me, won’t you? I don’t think he really needs to go with us.”
“All right, Pol.”
A silvery peal of laughter burst from the lips of the Princess Ce’Nedra, who was watching the stumbling efforts of a group of militiamen to execute a right turn without tripping over their own weapons. Aunt Pol’s expression did not change as she turned her gaze on the giggling jewel of the Empire. “I think we’ll take that one with us, however,” she added.
Ce’Nedra protested bitterly when she was advised that she would not be travelling directly to the comforts of King Fulrach’s palace at Sendar, but her objections had no impact on Aunt Pol.
“Doesn’t she ever listen to anybody?” the little princess grumbled to Garion as they rode along behind Aunt Pol and Durnik on the road to Medalia.
“She always listens,” Garion replied.
“But she never changes her mind, does she?”
“Not very often – but she does listen.”
Aunt Pol glanced over her shoulder at them. “Pull up your hood, Ce’Nedra,” she instructed. “It’s starting to snow again, and I don’t want you riding with a wet head.”
The princess drew in a quick breath as if preparing to retort.
“I wouldn’t,” Garion advised her softly.
“But ”
“She’s not in the mood for discussion just now.”
Ce’Nedra glared at him, but pulled up her hood in silence.
It was still snowing lightly when they reached Medalia that evening. Ce’Nedra’s reaction to the lodgings offered at the inn was predictable. There was, Garion had noted, a certain natural rhythm to her outbursts. She never began at the top of her voice, but rather worked her way up to it with an impressively swelling crescendo. She had just reached the point of launching herself into full voice when she was suddenly brought up short.
“What an absolutely charming display of good breeding,” Aunt Pol observed calmly to Durnik. “All of Garion’s old friends will be terribly impressed by this sort of thing, don’t you think?”
Durnik looked away, hiding a smile. “I’m sure of it, Mistress Pol.”
Ce’Nedra’s mouth was still open, but her tirade had been cut off instantly. Garion was amazed at her sudden silence. “I was being a bit silly, wasn’t I?” she said after a moment. Her tone was reasonable almost sweet-natured.
“Yes, dear just a bit,” Aunt Pol agreed.
“Please forgive me – all of you.” Ce’Nedra’s voice dripped honey.
“Don’t overdo it, Ce’Nedra,” Aunt Pol told her.
It was perhaps noon of the following day when they turned off the main road leading to Erat into the country lane that led to Faldor’s farm. Since that morning, Garion’s excitement had risen to almost intolerable heights. Every milepost, every bush and tree was familiar to him now. And over there – wasn’t that old Cralto riding an unsaddled horse on some errand for Faldor? Finally, at the sight of a tall, familiar figure clearing brush and twigs from a drainage ditch, he was no longer able to restrain himself. He drove his heels into his horse’s flanks, smoothly jumped a fence and galloped across the snowy field toward the solitary worker.
“Rundorig!” he shouted, hauling his horse to a stop and flinging himself from his saddle.
“Your Honor?” Rundorig replied, blinking with astonishment.
“Rundorig, it’s me – Garion. Don’t you recognize me?”
“Garion?” Rundorig blinked several more times, peering intently into Garion’s face. The light dawned slowly in his eyes like a sunrise on a murky day. “Why, I believe you’re right,” he marvelled. “You are Garion, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am, Rundorig,” Garion exclaimed, reaching out to take his friend’s hand.
But Rundorig shoved both hands behind him and stepped back. “Your clothing, Garionl Have a care. I’m all over mud.”
“I don’t care about my clothes, Rundorig. You’re my friend.”
The tall lad shook his head stubbornly. “You mustn’t get mud on them. They’re too splendid. Plenty of time to shake hands after I clean up.” He stared curiously at Garion. “Where did you get such fine things? And a sword? You’d better not let Faldor see you wearing a sword. You know he doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.”
Somehow things were not going the way they were supposed to be going. “How’s Doroon?” Garion asked, “and Zubrette?”
“Doroon moved away last summer,” Rundorig replied after a moment’s struggle to remember. “I think his mother remarried – anyway, they’re on a farm down on the other side of Winold. And Zubrette well, Zubrette and I started walking out together not too long after you left.” The tall young man suddenly blushed and looked down in embarrassed confusion. “There’s a sort of an understanding between us, Garion,” he blurted.
“How splendid, Rundorig!” Garion explained quickly to cover the little dagger cut of disappointment.
Rundorig, however, had already taken the next step. “I know that you and she were always fond of each other,” he said, his long face miserably unhappy. “I’ll have a talk with her.” He looked up, tears standing in his eyes. “It wouldn’t have gone so far, Garion, except that none of us thought that you were ever coming back.”
“I haven’t really, Rundorig,” Garion quickly assured his friend. “We only came by to visit and to pick up some things we left behind. Then we’ll be off again.”
“Have you come for Zubrette, too?” Rundorig asked in a numb, stricken sort of voice that tore at Garion’s heart.
“Rundorig,” he said it very calmly, “I don’t even have a home any more. One night I sleep in a palace; the next night in the mud beside the road. Would either one of us want that kind of life for Zubrette?”
“I think she’d go with you if you asked her to, though,” Rundorig said. “I think she’d endure anything to be with you.”
“But we won’t let her, will we? So far as we’re concerned, the understanding between the two of you is official.”
“I could never lie to her, Garion,” the tall boy objected.
“I could,” Garion said bluntly. “Particularly if it will keep her from living out her life as a homeless vagabond. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.” He grinned suddenly. “Just as in the old days.”
A slow smile crept shyly across Rundorig’s face.
The gate of the farm stood open, and good, honest Faldor, beaming and rubbing his hands with delight, was bustling around Aunt Pol, Durnik, and Ce’Nedra. The tall, thin farmer seemed as lean as always, and his long jaw appeared to have grown even longer in the year and more since they had left. There was a bit more gray at his temples, but his heart had not changed.
Princess Ce’Nedra stood demurely to one side of the little group, and Garion carefully scanned her face for danger signs. If anyone could disrupt the plan he had in mind, it would most likely be Ce’Nedra; but, try though he might, he could not read her face.
Then Zubrette descended the stairs from the gallery that encircled the interior of the courtyard. Her dress was a country dress, but her hair was still golden, and she was even more beautiful than before. A thousand memories flooded over Garion all at once, together with an actual pain at what he had to do. They had grown up together, and the ties between them were so deep that no outsider could ever fully understand what passed between them in a single glance. And it was with a glance that Garion lied to her. Zubrette’s eyes were filled with love, and her soft lips were slightly parted as if almost ready to answer the question she was sure he would ask, even before he gave it voice. Garion’s look, however, feigned friendship, affection even, but no love. Incredulity flickered across her face and then a slow flush. The pain Garion felt as he watched the hope die in her blue eyes was as sharp as a knife. Even worse, he was forced to retain his pose of indifference while she wistfully absorbed every feature of his face as if storing up those memories which would have to last her a lifetime. Then she turned and, pleading some errand, she walked away from them. Garion knew that she would avoid him thereafter and that he had seen her for the last time in his life.