David Eddings: Demon Lord of Karanda

“Policy, your Excellency.” Atesca replied curtly. “His Imperial Majesty seeks to alienate the Murgos from their king. He hopes to make them realize that Urgit is the cause of their misfortunes.”

Sadi shook his head dubiously. “I’d question the reasoning behind that particular policy,” he disagreed.

“Atrocities seldom endear one to the victims. I’ve always preferred bribery myself.”

“Murgos are accustomed to being treated atrociously.” Atesca shrugged. “It’s all they understand.”

“Why haven’t you taken them down and buried them?” Durnik demanded, his face pale and his voice thick with outrage.

Atesca gave him a long, steady look. “Economy, Goodman,” he replied. “An empty cross really doesn’t prove very much. If we took them down, we’d just have to replace them with fresh Murgos. That gets to be tedious after a while, and sooner or later one starts to run out of people to crucify. Leaving the skeletons there proves our point—and it saves time.”

Garion did his best to keep his body between Ce’Nedra and the gruesome object lesson at the side of the road, trying to shield her from that hideous sight. She rode on obliviously, however, her face strangely numb and her eyes blank and unseeing. He threw a quick, questioning glance at Polgara and saw a slight frown on her face. He dropped back and pulled his horse in beside hers. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked in a tense whisper.

“I’m not entirely sure, Garion,” she whispered back.

“Is it the melancholia again?” There was a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t think so,” Her eyes were narrowed in thought, and she absently pulled the hood of her blue robe forward to cover the white lock in the midnight of her hair. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay with her. Try to get her to talk. She might say something to give us some clues.”

Ce’Nedra, however, made few responses to Garion’s efforts to engage her in conversation, and her answers for the remainder of that snowy day quite frequently had little relevance to either his questions or his observations.

As evening began to settle over the war-ravaged countryside of Hagga, General Atesca called a halt, and his soldiers began to erect several scarlet pavilions in the lee of a fire-blackened stone wall, all that remained of a burned-out village. “We should reach Rak Hagga by late tomorrow afternoon,” he advised them. “That large pavilion in the center of the encampment will be yours for the night. My men will bring you your evening meal in a little while. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—” He inclined his head briefly, then turned his horse around to supervise his men.

When the soldiers had completed the erection of the pavilions, Garion and his friends dismounted in front of the one Atesca had indicated. Silk looked around at the guard detachment moving into position around the large red tent. “I wish he’d make up his mind,” he said irritably.

“I don’t quite follow you, Prince Kheldar,” Velvet said to him. “Just who should make up his mind?”

“Atesca. He’s the very soul of courtesy, but he surrounds us with armed guards.”

“The troops might just be there to protect us, Kheldar,” she pointed out. “This is a war zone, after all.”

“Of course,” he said dryly, “and cows might fly, too—if they had wings.”

“What a fascinating observation,” she marveled.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that all the time.”

“Do what?” Her brown eyes were wide and innocent.

“Forget it.”

The supper Atesca’s cooks prepared for them was plain, consisting of soldiers’ rations and served on tin plates, but it was hot and filling. The interior of the pavilion was heated by charcoal braziers and filled with the golden glow of hanging oil lamps. The furnishings were of a military nature, the kinds of tables and beds and chairs that could be assembled and disassembled rapidly, and the floors and walls were covered with Mallorean carpets’ dyed a solid red color.

Eriond looked around curiously after he had pushed his plate back. “They seem awfully partial to red, don’t they?” he noted.

“I think it reminds them of blood,” Durnik declared bleakly. “They like blood.” He turned to look coldly at the mute Toth. “If you’ve finished eating, I think we’d prefer it if you left the table,” he said in a flat tone.

“That’s hardly polite, Durnik,” Polgara said reprovingly.

“I wasn’t trying to be polite, Pol. I don’t see why he has to be with us in the first place. He’s a traitor. Why doesn’t he go stay with his friends?”

The giant mute rose from the table, his face melancholy. He lifted one hand as if he were about to make one of those obscure gestures with which he and the smith communicated, but Durnik deliberately turned his back on him. Toth sighed and went over to sit unobtrusively in one corner.

“Garion,” Ce’Nedra said suddenly, looking around with a worried little frown, “where’s my baby?”

He stared at her.

“Where’s Geran?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

“Ce’Nedra—” he started.

“I hear him crying. What have you done with him?” She suddenly sprang to her feet and began to dash about the tent, flinging back the curtains that partitioned off the sleeping quarters and yanking back the blankets on each bed. “Help me!” she cried to them. “Help me find my baby!”

Garion crossed the tent quickly to take her by the arm.

“Ce’Nedra—”

“No!” she shouted at him. “You’ve hidden him somewhere! Let me go!” She wrenched herself free of his grasp and began overturning the furniture in her desperate search, sobbing and moaning unintelligibly.

Again Garion tried to restrain her, but she suddenly hissed at him and extended her fingers like talons to claw at his eyes.

“Ce’Nedra! Stop that!”

But she darted around him and bolted out of the pavilion into the snowy night.

As Garion burst through the tent flap in pursuit, he found his way barred by a red-cloaked Mallorean soldier.

“You! Get back inside!” the man barked, blocking Garion with the shaft of his spear. Over the guard’s shoulder, Garion saw Ce’Nedra struggling with another soldier; without even thinking, he smashed his fist into the face in front of him. The guard reeled backward and fell.

Garion leaped over him, but found himself suddenly seized from behind by a half-dozen more men. “Leave her alone!” he shouted at the guard who was cruelly holding one of the little queen’s arms behind her.

“Get back inside the tent!” a rough voice barked, and Garion found himself being dragged backward step by step toward the tent flap. The soldier holding Ce’Nedra was half lifting, half pushing her back toward the same place. With a tremendous effort, Garion got control of himself and coldly began to draw in his will.

“That will be enough!” Polgara’s voice cracked from the doorway to the tent.

The soldiers stopped, looking uncertainly at each other and somewhat fearfully at the commanding presence in the doorway.

“Durnik!” she said then. “Help Garion bring Ce’Nedra back inside.”

Garion shook himself free of the restraining hands and he and Durnik took the violently struggling little Queen from the soldier and pulled her back toward the pavilion.

“Sadi,” Polgara said as Durnik and Garion entered the tent with Ce’Nedra between them, “do you have any oret in that case of yours?”

“Certainly, Lady Polgara,” the eunuch replied, “but are you sure that oret is appropriate here? I’d be more inclined toward naladium, personally.”

“I think we’ve got more than a case of simple hysteria on our hands, Sadi. I want something strong enough to insure that she doesn’t wake up the minute my back’s turned”