Demon Lord of Karanda

to let that steep for a while," he suggested.
    "It can steep all year if it wants to. I'm not going to drink it."
    He sighed with resignation. "I'm sorry, Ce'Nedra," he said with genuine regret, "but you're wrong. Aunt Pol says that you're supposed to drink a cup of this every other hour. Until she tells me otherwise, that's exactly what you're going to do."
    "What if I refuse?" Her tone was belligerent.
    "I'm bigger than you are," he reminded her.
    Her eyes went wide with shock. "You wouldn't actually force me to drink it, would you?"
    His expression grew mournful. "I'd really hate to do something like that," he told her.
    "But you'd do it, wouldn't you?" she accused.
    He thought about it a moment, then nodded. "Probably," he admitted, "if Aunt Pol told me to."
    She glared at him. " All right," she said finally. "Give me the stinking tea."
    "It doesn't smell all that bad, Ce'Nedra."
    "Why don't you drink it, then?"
    "I'm not the one who's been sick."
    She proceeded then to tell him -at some length- exactly what she thought of the tea and him and her bed and the room and of the whole world in general. Many of the terms she used were very colorful -even lurid- and some of them were in languages that he didn't recognize.
    "What on earth is all the shouting about?" Polgara asked, coming into the room.
    "I absolutely hate this stuff!" Ce'Nedra declared at the top of her lungs, waving the cup about and spilling most of the contents.
    "I wouldn't drink it then." Aunt Pol advised calmly.
    "Garion says that if I don't drink it, he'll pour it down my throat."
    "Oh. Those were yesterday' s instructions." Polgara looked at Garion. "Didn't I tell you that they change today?"
    "No," he replied. "As a matter of fact, you didn't." He said it in a very level tone. He was fairly proud of that.
    "I'm sorry, dear. I must have forgotten."
    "When can I get out of bed?" Ce'Nedra demanded.
    Polgara gave her a surprised look. "Any time you want, dear " she said. "As a matter of fact, I just came by to ask if you planned to join us for breakfast."
    Ce'Nedra sat up in bed, her eyes like hard little stones.
    She slowly turned an icy gaze upon Garion and then quite deliberately stuck her tongue out at him.
    Garion turned to Polgara. "Thanks awfully," he said to her.
    "Don't be snide, dear," she murmured. She looked at the fuming little Queen. "Ce'Nedra, weren't you told as a child that sticking out one's tongue is the worst possible form of bad manners?"
    Ce'Nedra smiled sweetly. "Why, yes, Lady Polgara, as a matter of fact I was. That's why I only do it on special occasions."
    "I think I'll take a walk," Garion said to no one in particular. He went to the door, opened it, and left.

    Some days later he lounged in one of the sitting rooms that had been built in the former women's quarters where he and the others were lodged. The room was peculiarly feminine. The furniture was softly cushioned in mauve, and the broad windows had filmy curtains of pale lavender. Beyond the windows lay a snowy garden, totally embraced by the tall wings of this bleak Murgo house. A cheery fire crackled in the half-moon arch of a broad fireplace, and at the far corner of the room an artfully contrived grotto, thick with green fern and moss, flourished about a trickling fountain. Garion sat brooding out at a sunless noon -at an ash-colored sky spitting white pellets that were neither snow nor hail, but something in between- and realized all of a sudden that he was homesick for Riva. It was a peculiar thing to come to grips with here on the opposite end of the world. Always before, the word "homesick" had been associated with Faldor's farm -the kitchen, the broad central courtyard, Durnik's smithy, and all the other dear, treasured memories. Now, suddenly, he missed that storm-lashed coast, the security of that grim fortress hovering above the bleak city lying below, and the mountains, heavy with snow, rising stark white against a black and stormy sky.
    There was a faint knock at the door.
    "Yes?" Garion said absently, not looking around.
    The door opened almost timidly. "Your Majesty?" a vaguely familiar voice said.
    Garion turned, looking back over his shoulder. The man was chubby and bald and he wore brown, a plain serviceable color, though his robe was obviously costly, and the heavy gold chain about his neck loudly proclaimed that this was no minor official. Garion frowned slightly. "Haven't we met before?" he asked. "Aren't you General Atesca's