David Eddings: Queen of Sorcery

“All right, that’s enough of that!” It was Mister Wolf. The old man was striding toward them with Barak and Silk close on his heels. “Just exactly what do you two think you’re doing?”

Garion’s opponent, after one startled glance, lowered his sword. “Belgarath—” he began.

“Lelldorin,” Wolf’s tone was scathing, “have you lost what little sense you had to begin with?”

Several things clicked into place in Garion’s mind simultaneously as Wolf turned on him coldly. “Well, Garion, would you like to explain this?”

Garion instantly decided to try guile. “Grandfather,” he said, stressing the word and giving the younger stranger a quick warning look, “you didn’t think we were really fighting, did you? Lelldorin here was just showing me how you block somebody’s sword when he attacks, that’s all.”

“Really?” Wolf replied skeptically.

“Of course,” Garion said, all innocence now. “What possible reason could there be for us to be trying to hurt each other?”

Lelldorin opened his mouth to speak, but Garion deliberately stepped on his foot.

“Lelldorin’s really very good,” he rushed on, putting his hand in a friendly fashion on the young man’s shoulder. “He taught me a lot in just a few minutes.”

—Let it stand-Silk’s fingers flickered at him in the minute gestures of the Drasnian secret language. Always keep a lie simple.

“The lad is an apt pupil, Belgarath,” Lelldorin said lamely, finally understanding.

“He’s agile, if nothing else,” Mister Wolf replied dryly. “What’s the idea behind all the frippery?” He indicated Lelldorin’s gaudy clothes. “You look like a maypole.”

“The Mimbrates had started detaining honest Asturians for questioning,” the young Arend explained, “and I had to pass several of their strongholds. I thought that if I dressed like one of their toadies I wouldn’t be bothered.”

“Maybe you’ve got better sense than I thought,” Wolf conceded grudgingly. He turned to Silk and Barak. “This is Lelldorin, son of the Baron of Wildantor. He’ll be joining us.”

“I wanted to talk to you about that, Belgarath,” Lelldorin put in quickly. “My father commanded me to come here and I can’t disobey him, but I’m pledged in a matter of extremest urgency.”

“Every young nobleman in Asturias pledged in at least two or three such matters of urgency,” Wolf replied. “I’m sorry, Lelldorin, but the matter we’re involved in is much too important to be postponed while you go out to ambush a couple of Mimbrate tax collectors.”

Aunt Pol approached them out of the fog then, with Durnik striding protectively at her side. “What are they doing with the swords, father?” she demanded, her eyes flashing.

“Playing,” Mister Wolf replied shortly. “Or so they say. This is Lelldorin. I think I’ve mentioned him to you.”

Aunt Pol looked Lelldorin up and down with one raised eyebrow. “A very colorful young man.”

“The clothes are a disguise,” Wolf explained. “He’s not as frivolous as all that—not quite, anyway. He’s the best bowman in Asturia, and we might need his skill before we’re done with all this.”

“I see,” she said, somewhat unconvinced.

“There’s another reason, of course,” Wolf continued, “but I don’t think we need to get into that just now, do we?”

“Are you still worried about that passage, father?” she asked with exasperation. “The Mrin Codex is very obscure, and none of the other versions say anything at all about the people it mentions. It could be pure allegory, you know.”

“I’ve seen a few too many allegories turn out to be plain fact to start gambling at this point. Why don’t we all go back to the tower?” he suggested. “It’s a bit cold and wet out here for lengthy debates on textual variations.”

Garion glanced at Silk, baffled by this exchange, but the little man returned his look with blank incomprehension.

“Will you help me catch my horse, Garion?” Lelldorin asked politely, sheathing his sword.

“Of course,” Garion replied, also putting away his weapon. “I think he went that way.”

Lelldorin picked up his bow, and the two of them followed the horse’s tracks off into the ruins.

“I’m sorry I pulled you off your horse,” Garion apologized when they were out of sight of the others.

“No matter.” Lelldorin laughed easily. “I should have been paying more attention.” He looked quizzically at Garion. “Why did you lie to Belgarath?”

“It wasn’t exactly a lie,” Garion replied. “We weren’t really trying to hurt each other, and sometimes it takes hours trying to explain something like that.”

Lelldorin laughed again, an infectious sort of laugh. In spite of himself, Garion could not help joining in.

Both laughing, they continued together down an overgrown street between the low mounds of slush-covered rubble.

Lelldorin of Wildantor was eighteen years old, although his ingenuous nature made him seem more boyish. No emotion touched him that did not instantly register in his expression, and sincerity shone in his face like a beacon. He was impulsive, extravagant in his declarations, and probably, Garion reluctantly concluded, not overly bright. It was impossible not to like him, however.

The following morning when Garion pulled on his cloak to go out and continue his watch for Hettar, Lelldorin immediately joined him. The young Arend had changed out of his garish clothing and now wore brown hose, a green tunic, and a dark brown wool cape. He carried his bow and wore a quiver of arrows at his belt; as they walked through the snow toward the broken west wall he amused himself by loosing arrows at targets only half visible ahead of him.

“You’re awfully good,” Garion said admiringly after one particularly fine shot.

“I’m an Asturian,” Lelldorin replied modestly. “We’ve been bowmen for thousands of years. My father had the limbs of this bow cut on the day I was born, and I could draw it by the time I was eight.”

“I imagine you hunt a great deal,” Garion said, thinking of the dense forest all around them and the tracks of game he had seen in the snow.

“It’s our most common pastime.” Lelldorin stopped to pull the arrow he had just shot from a tree trunk. “My father prides himself on the fact that beef or mutton are never served at his table.”

“I went hunting once, in Cherek.”

“Deer?” Lelldorin asked.

“No. Wild boars. We didn’t use bows though. The Chereks hunt with spears.”

“Spears? How can you get close enough to kill anything with a spear?”

Garion laughed a bit ruefully, remembering his bruised ribs and aching head. “Getting close isn’t the problem. It’s getting away after you’ve speared him that’s the difficult part.”

Lelldorin didn’t seem to grasp that.

“The huntsmen form a line,” Garion explained, “and they crash through the woods, making as much noise as they can. You take your spear and wait where the boars are likely to pass when they try to get away from the noise. Being chased makes them bad-tempered, and when they see you, they charge. That’s when you spear them.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Lelldorin’s eyes were wide.

Garion nodded. “I almost got all my ribs broken.” He was not exactly boasting, but he admitted to himself that he was pleased by Lelldorin’s reaction to his story.

“We don’t have many dangerous animals in Asturia,” Lelldorin said almost wistfully. “A few bears and once in a while a pack of wolves.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, looking closely at Garion. “Some men, though, find more interesting things to shoot at than wild stags.” He said it with a kind of secretive sidelong glance.