Castle of Wizardry

Garion's favorite hiding place. "I used to come here when I knew that Aunt Pol had work for me to do," he confessed with a rueful little laugh.
    "Didn't you want to work?" Ce'Nedra asked him. "Everybody here seems to be busy every single moment."
    "I don't mind working," Garion told her. "It's just that some of the things she wanted me to do were pretty distasteful."
    "Like scrubbing pots?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.
    "That's not one of my favorites - no."
    They sat together on the soft, fragrant hay in the loft. Ce'Nedra, her fingers now locked firmly in Garion's, absently traced designs on the back of his hand with her other forefinger. "You were very brave this afternoon, Garion," she told him seriously.
    "Brave?"
    "You gave up something that's always been very special and very important to you."
    "Oh," he said. "You mean Zubrette. I think it was for the best, really. Rundorig loves her, and he can take care of her in ways that I probably won't be able to."
    "I'm not sure I understand."
    "Zubrette needs a lot of special attention. She's clever and pretty, but she's not really very brave. She used to run away from trouble a lot. She needs someone to watch over her and keep her warm and safe - somebody who can devote his entire life to her. I don't think I'll be able to do that."
    "If you'd stayed here at the farm, though, you'd have married her, wouldn't you?"
    "Probably," he admitted, "but I didn't stay at the farm."
    "Didn't it hurt - giving her up like that?"
    Garion sighed. "Yes," he said, "it did, sort of, but it was best for all of us, I think. I get a feeling that I'm going to spend a lot of my life travelling about, and Zubrette's really not the sort of person you can ask to sleep on the ground."
    "You people never hesitated to ask me to sleep on the ground," Ce'Nedra pointed out a trifle indignantly.
    Garion looked at her. "We didn't, did we? I guess I never thought about that before. Maybe it's because you're braver."
    The following morning after extended farewells and many promises to return, the four of them set out for Sendar.
    "Well, Garion?" Aunt Pol said as they rode across the hill that put Faldor's farm irrevocably behind them.
    "Well what?"
    She gave him a long, silent look.
    He sighed. There was really not much point in trying to hide things from her. "I won't be able to go back there, will I?"
    "No, dear."
    "I guess I always thought that when this was all finished, maybe we could go back to the farm - but we won't, will we?"
    "No, Garion, we won't. You had to see it again to realize it, though. It was the only way to get rid of the little bits and pieces of it you've been trailing behind you all these months. I'm not saying that Faldor's is a bad place, you understand. It's just that it's not right for certain people."
    "We make the trip all the way up there just so I could find that out?"
    "It is fairly important, Garion - of course I enjoyed visiting with Faldor, too - and there were a few special things I left in the kitchen - things I've had for a very long time and that I'd rather not lose."
    A sudden thought had occurred to Garion, however. "What about Ce'Nedra? Why did you insist that she come along?"
    Aunt Pol glanced back once at the little princess, who was riding some yards behind them with her eyes lost in thought. "It didn't hurt her, and she saw some things there that were important for her to see."
    "I'm fairly sure that I'll never understand that."
    "No, dear," she agreed, "probably not."
    It snowed fitfully for the next day and a half as they rode along the road that crossed the white central plain toward the capital at Sendar. Though it was not particularly cold, the sky remained overcast and periodic flurries swept in on them as they rode west. Near the coastline, the wind picked up noticeably, and the occasional glimpses of the sea were disquieting. Great waves ran before the wind, their tops ripped to frothy tatters.
    At King Fulrach's palace, they found Belgarath in a foul humor. It was little more than a week until Erastide, and the old man stood glaring out a window at the stormy sea as if it were all some kind of vast, personal insult. "So nice you could join us," he said sarcastically to Aunt Pol when she and Garion entered the room where he brooded.
    "Be civil, father," she replied calmly, removing her blue cloak and laying it across a chair.
    "Do you see what it's doing out there, Pol?" He jabbed an angry finger toward the window.
    "Yes, father," she said, not