“I certainly wouldn’t want to pry into a private conversation,” she said tartly.
“It wasn’t private. We were talking about sorcery and how to keep accidents from happening. I don’t want to make any more mistakes.”
She turned that over in her mind, looking for something offensive in it. His mild answer seemed to irritate her all the more. “I don’t believe in sorcery,” she said flatly. In the light of all that had recently happened, her declaration was patently absurd, and she seemed to realize that as soon as she said it. Her eyes hardened even more.
Garion sighed. “All right,” he said with resignation, “was there anything in particular you wanted to fight about, or did you just want to start yowling and sort of make it up as we go along?”
“Yowling?” Her voice went up several octaves. “Yowling?”
“Screeching, maybe,” he suggested as insultingly as possible. As long as the fight was inevitable anyway, he determined to get in a few digs at her before her voice rose to the point where she could no longer hear him.
“SCREECHING?” she screeched.
The fight lasted for about a quarter of an hour before Barak and Aunt Pol moved forward to separate them. On the whole, it was not very satisfactory. Garion was a bit too preoccupied to put his heart into the insults he flung at the tiny girl, and Ce’Nedra’s irritation robbed her retorts of their usual fine edge. Toward the end, the whole thing had degenerated into a tedious repetition of “spoiled brat” and “stupid peasant” echoing endlessly back from the surrounding mountains.
Mister Wolf and Silk rode back to join them. “What was all the yelling?” Wolf asked.
“The children were playing,” Aunt Pol replied with a withering look at Garion.
“Where’s Hettar?” Silk asked.
“Right behind us,” Barak said. He turned to look back toward the packhorses, but the tall Algar was nowhere to be seen. Barak frowned. “He was just there. Maybe he stopped for a moment to rest his horse or something.”
“Without saying anything?” Silk objected. “That’s not like him. And it’s not like him to leave the packhorses unattended.”
“He must have some good reason,” Durnik said.
“I’ll go back and look for him,” Barak offered.
“No,” Mister Wolf told him. “Wait a few minutes. Let’s not get scattered all over these mountains. If anybody goes back, we’ll all go back.”
They waited. The wind stirred the branches of the pines around them, making a mournful, sighing sound.
After several moments, Aunt Pol let out her breath almost explosively. “He’s coming.” There was a steely note in her voice. “He’s been entertaining himself.”
From far back up the trail, Hettar appeared in his black leather clothing, riding easily at a loping canter with his long scalp lock flowing in the wind. He was leading two saddled but riderless horses. As he drew nearer, they could hear him whistling rather tunelessly to himself.
“What have you been doing?” Barak demanded.
“There were a couple of Murgos following us,” Hettar replied as if that explained everything.
“You might have asked me to go along,” Barak said, sounding a little injured.
Hettar shrugged. “There were only two. They were riding Algar horses, so I took it rather personally.”
“It seems that you always find some reason to take it personally where Murgos are concerned,” Aunt Pol said crisply.
“It does seem to work out that way, doesn’t it?”
“Didn’t it occur to you to let us know you were going?” she asked.
“There were only two,” Hettar said again. “I didn’t expect to be gone for very long.”
She drew in a deep breath, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“Let it go, Pol,” Mister Wolf told her.
“But ”
“You’re not going to change him, so why excite yourself about it? Besides, it’s just as well to discourage pursuit.” The old man turned to Hettar, ignoring the dangerous look Aunt Pol leveled at him. “Were the Murgos some of those who were with Brill?” he asked.
Hettar shook his head. “No. Brill’s Murgos were from the south and they were riding Murgo horses. These two were northern Murgos.”
“Is there a visible difference?” Mandorallen asked curiously.
“The armor is slightly different, and the southerners have flatter faces and they’re not quite so tall.”
“Where did they get Algar horses?” Garion asked.
“They’re herd raiders,” Hettar answered bleakly. “Algar horses are valuable in Cthol Murgos, and certain Murgos make a practice of creeping down into Algaria on horse-stealing expeditions. We try to discourage that as much as possible.”
“These horses aren’t in very good shape,” Durnik observed, looking at the two weary-looking animals Hettar was leading. “They’ve been ridden hard, and there are whip cuts on them.”
Hettar nodded grimly. “That’s another reason to hate Murgos.”
“Did you bury them?” Barak asked.
“No. I left them where any other Murgos who might be following could find them. I thought it might help to educate any who come along later.”
“There are some signs that others have been through here, too,” Silk said. “I found the tracks of a dozen or so up ahead.”
“It was to be expected, I suppose,” Mister Wolf commented, scratching at his beard. “Ctuchik’s got his Grolims out in force, and Taur Urgas is probably having the region patrolled. I’m sure they’d like to stop us if they could. I think we should move on down into the Vale as fast as possible. Once we’re there, we won’t be bothered any more.”
“Won’t they follow us into the Vale?” Durnik asked, looking around nervously.
“No. Murgos won’t go into the Vale – not for any reason. Aldur’s Spirit is there, and the Murgos are desperately afraid of him.”
“How many days to the Vale?” Silk asked.
“Four or five, if we ride hard,” Wolf replied.
“We’d better get started then.”
Chapter Ten
THE WEATHER, WHICH had seemed on the brink of winter in the higher mountains, softened back into autumn as they rode down from the peaks and ridges. The forests in the hills above Maragor had been thick with fir and spruce and heavy undergrowth. On this side, however, the dominant tree was the pine, and the undergrowth was sparse. The air seemed drier, and the hillsides were covered with high, yellow grass.
They passed through an area where the leaves on the scattered bushes were bright red; then, as they moved lower, the foliage turned first yellow, then green again. Garion found this reversal of the seasons strange. It seemed to violate all his perceptions of the natural order of things. By the time they reached the foothills above the Vale of Aldur, it was late summer again, golden and slightly dusty. Although they frequently saw evidences of the Murgo patrols which were crisscrossing the region, they had no further encounters. After they crossed a certain undefined line, there were no more tracks of Murgo horses.
They rode down beside a turbulent stream which plunged over smooth, round rocks, frothing and roaring. The stream was one of several forming the headwaters of the Aldur River, a broad flow running through the vast Algarian plain to empty into the Gulf of Cherek, eight hundred leagues to the northwest.
The Vale of Aldur was a valley lying in the embrace of the two mountain ranges which formed the central spine of the continent. It was lush and green, covered with high grass and dotted here and there with huge, solitary trees. Deer and wild horses grazed there, as tame as cattle. Skylarks wheeled and dove, filling the air with their song. As the party rode out into the valley, Garion noticed that the birds seemed to gather wherever Aunt Pol moved, and many of the braver ones even settled on her shoulders, warbling and trilling to her in welcome and adoration.
“I’d forgotten about that,” Mister Wolf said to Garion. “It’s going to be difficult to get her attention for the next few days.”
“Why?”
“Every bird in the Vale is going to stop by to visit her. It happens every time we come here. The birds go wild at the sight of her.”
Out of the welter of confused bird sound it seemed to Garion that faintly, almost like a murmuring whisper, he could hear a chorus of chirping voices repeating, “Polgara. Polgara. Polgara.”
“Is it my imagination, or are they actually talking?” he asked.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard them before,” Wolf replied. “Every bird we’ve passed for the last ten leagues has been babbling her name.”
“Look at me, Polgara, look at me,” a swallow seemed to say, hurling himself into a wild series of swooping dives around her head. She smiled gently at him, and he redoubled his efforts.
“I’ve never heard them talk before,” Garion marveled.
“They talk to her all the time,” Wolf said. “Sometimes they go on for hours. That’s why she seems a little abstracted sometimes. She’s listening to the birds. Your Aunt moves through a world filled with conversation.”