the belgariad pawn of prophecy 15

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."

"Hearken unto the words of the Gods," Faldor declaimed. "Welcome are the Gods in the house of Faldor."

"The blessing of the Gods be upon the house of Faldor," the seven

responded, "and upon all this company." And then they turned and, as

slowly as they had come, they paced from the hall.

And then came the gifts. There was much excitement at this, for the

gifts were all from Faldor, and the good farmer struggled long each year

to provide the most suitable gift for each of his people. New tunics

and hose and gowns and shoes were much in evidence, but Garion this year

was nearly overwhelmed when he opened a smallish, cloth - wrapped

bundle and found a neat, well-sheathed dagger.

"He's nearly a man," Faldor explained to Aunt Pol, "and a man always has need of a good knife."

Garion, of course, immediately tested the edge of his gift and quite promptly managed to cut his finger.

"It was inevitable, I suppose," Aunt Pol said, but whether she was

speaking of the cut or the gift itself or the fact of Garion's growing

up was not entirely clear.

The Murgo bought his hams the next morning, and he and the five

Thulls departed. A few days later Anhelda and Eilbrig packed up and left

on their return journey to the city of Sendar, and Faldor's farm

returned to normal.

The winter plodded on. The snows came and went, and spring returned,

as it always does. The only thing which made that spring any different

from any other was the arrival of Brill, the new hand. One of the

younger farmers had married and rented a small nearby croft and had

left, laden down with practical gifts and good advice from Faldor to

begin his life as a married man. Brill was hired to replace him.

Garion found Brill to be a definitely unattractive addition to the

farm. The man's tunic and hose were patched and stained, his black hair

and scraggly beard were unkempt, and one of his eyes looked off in a

different direction from its fellow. He was a sour, solitary man, and he

was none too clean. He seemed to carry with him an acrid reek of stale

sweat that hung in his vicinity like a miasma. After a few attempts at

conversation, Garion gave up and avoided him.

The boy, however, had other things to occupy his mind during that

spring and summer. Though he had until then considered her to be more an

inconvenience than a genuine playmate, quite suddenly he began to

notice Zubrette. He had always known that she was pretty, but until that

particular season that fact had been unimportant, and he had much

preferred the company of Rundorig and Doroon. Now matters had changed.

He noticed that the two other boys had also begun to pay more attention

to her as well, and for the first time he began to feel the stirrings of

jealousy.