“I think that’s enough rain, Pol,” Wolf said, mopping at his face. Aunt Pol waved her hand almost negligently, and the rain stopped as if a bucket had emptied itself.
“We have to find Durnik,” Barak reminded them.
“He was behind us.” Garion pointed back up the now-overflowing stream. His chest felt constricted with a cold fear at what they might find, but he steeled himself and led the way back into the trees.
“The smith is a good companion,” Mandorallen said. “I should not care to lose him.” There was a strange, subdued quality in the knight’s voice, and his face seemed abnormally pale in the dim light. The hand holding his great broadsword, however, was rock-steady. Only his eyes betrayed a kind of doubt Garion had never seen there before.
Water dripped around them as they walked through the sodden woods. “It was about here,” Garion said, looking around. “I don’t see any sign of him.”
“I’m up here.” Durnik’s voice came from above them. He was a goodly distance up a large oak tree and was peering down. “Are they gone?” He carefully began climbing down the slippery tree trunk. “The rain came just in time,” he said, jumping down the last few feet. “I was starting to have a little trouble keeping them out of the tree.”
Quickly, without a word, Aunt Pol embraced the good man, and then, as if embarrassed by that sudden gesture, she began to scold him. Durnik endured her words patiently, and there was a strange expression on his face.
Chapter Twenty-one
GARION’S SLEEP THAT NIGHT WAS TROUBLED. He awoke frequently, shuddering at the remembered touch of the mud-men. But in time the night, as all nights must, came to an end, and the morning dawned clear and bright. He drowsed for a while, rolled in his blankets, until Ce’Nedra came to get him up.
“Garion,” she said softly, touching his shoulder, “are you awake?” He opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Good morning.”
“Lady Polgara says that you’re supposed to get up,” she told him.
Garion yawned, stretched and sat up. He glanced out the tent flap and saw that the sun was shining.
“She’s teaching me how to cook,” Ce’Nedra said rather proudly.
“That’s nice,” Garion told her, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
She looked at him for a long moment, her small face serious and her green eyes intent. “Garion.”
“Yes?”
“You were very brave yesterday.”
He shrugged slightly. “I’ll probably get a scolding for it today.”
“What for?”
“Aunt Pol and my grandfather don’t like it when I try to be brave,” he explained. “They think I’m still a child, and they don’t want me to get hurt.”
“Garion!” Aunt Pol called from the small fire where she was cooking. “I need more firewood.”
Garion sighed and rolled out of his blankets. He pulled on his half boots, belted on his sword and went off into the woods.
It was still damp under the huge oaks from the downpour Aunt Pol had called down the day before, and dry wood was hard to find. He wandered about, pulling limbs out from under fallen trees and from beneath overhanging rocks. The silent trees watched him, but they seemed somehow less unfriendly this morning.
“What are you doing?” a light voice came from above him. He looked up quickly, his hand going to his sword.
A girl was standing on a broad limb just over his head. She wore a belted tunic and sandals. Her hair was a tawny color, her gray eyes were curious, and her pale skin had that faint greenish hue to it that identified her as a Dryad. In her left hand she held a bow, and her right held an arrow against the taut string. The arrow was pointed directly at Garion.
He carefully took his hand away from his sword. “I’m gathering wood,” he said.
“What for?”
“My aunt needs it for the fire,” he explained.
“Fire?” The girl’s face hardened, and she half drew her bow. “A small one,” he said quickly, “for cooking.”
“Fire isn’t permitted here,” the girl said sternly.
“You’ll have to explain that to Aunt Pol,” Garion told her. “I just do what I’m told.”
The girl whistled, and another girl came from behind a nearby tree. She also carried a bow. Her hair was almost as red as Ce’Nedra’s, and her skin was also touched with the color of leaves.
“It says it’s gathering wood,” the first girl reported, “for a fire. Do you think I should kill it?”
“Xantha says we’re supposed to find out who they are,” the redhaired one said thoughtfully. “If it turns out that they don’t have any business here, then you can kill it.”
“Oh, very well,” the tawny-haired girl agreed, with obvious disappointment. “But don’t forget that I found this one. When the time comes, I get to kill it.”
Garion felt the hair beginning to rise on the back of his neck.
The red-haired one whistled, and a half dozen other armed Dryads drifted out of the trees. They were all quite small, and their hair was various shades of reds and golds, not unlike the color of autumn leaves.
They gathered about Garion, giggling and chattering as they examined him.
“That one is mine,” the tawny-haired Dryad said, climbing down from the tree. “I found it, and Xera says that I get to kill it.”
“It looks healthy,” one of the others observed, “and quite tame. Maybe we should keep it. Is it a male?”
Another one giggled. “Let’s check and find out.”
“I’m a male,” Garion said quickly, blushing in spite of himself.
“It seems a shame to waste it,” one remarked. “Maybe we could keep it for a while and then kill it.”
“It’s mine,” the tawny-haired Dryad stated stubbornly, “and if I want to kill it. I will.” She took hold of Garion’s arm possessively.
“Let’s go look at the others,” the one called Xera suggested. “They’re building fires, and we’ll want to stop that.”
“Fires?” several of the others gasped, and they all glared at Garion accusingly.
“Only a small one,” Garion said quickly.
“Bring it along,” Xera ordered and started off through the Wood toward the tents. Far overhead the trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting calmly when they reached the clearing where the tents were. She looked at the Dryads clustered around Garion without changing expression. “Welcome, ladies,” she said.
The Dryads began whispering to each other.
“Ce’Nedra!” the one called Xera exclaimed.
“Cousin Xera,” Ce’Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously at the fire.
Ce’Nedra spoke quickly with Xera, explaining to her cousin who they were, and Xera motioned for the others to come closer. “It seems that these are friends,” she said. “We’ll take them to my mother, Queen Xantha.”
“Does that mean that I won’t get to kill this one?” The tawny-haired Dryad demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion.
“I’m afraid not,” Xera answered.
The tawny one stamped away, pouting. Garion breathed a sigh of relief.
Then Mister Wolf came out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of Dryads with a broad smile.
“It’s Belgarath!” one of the Dryads squealed and ran to him happily. She threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him soundly. “Did you bring us any sweets?” she demanded.
The old man put on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many pockets. Bits of sweetmeats began to appear just as quickly disappeared as the Dryads gathered about him, snatching them as fast as he took them from his pockets.
“Have you got any new stories for us?” one of the Dryads asked.
“Many stories,” Wolf told her, touching one finger to the side of his nose slyly. “But we ought to wait so your sisters can hear them too, shouldn’t we?”
“We want one just for ourselves,” the Dryad said.
“And what would you give me for this special story?”
“Kisses,” the Dryad offered promptly. “Five kisses from each of us.”
“I’ve got a very good story,” Wolf bargained. “It’s worth more than five. Let’s say ten.”
“Eight,” the Tittle Dryad countered.
“All right,” Wolf agreed. “Eight sounds about right.”
“I see you’ve been here before, Old Wolf,” Aunt Pol remarked dryly.
“I visit from time to time,” he admitted with a bland expression.
“Those sweets aren’t good for them, you know,” she chided.
“A little bit won’t hurt them, Pol,” he said, “and they like them very much. A Dryad will do almost anything for sweets.”
“You’re disgusting,” she told him.
The Dryads were all clustered around Mister Wolf, looking almost like a garden of spring flowers – all, that is, except for the tawny one who’d captured Garion. She stood a bit apart, sulking and fingering the point of her arrow. She finally came over to Garion. “You’re not thinking about running away, are you?” she asked hopefully.