King of The Murgos

sailed closer, with the gleaming albatross hovering just ahead, and Garion saw that the low hills behind the gravel strand were thickly covered with dark evergreens wreathed in fog. Some distance back up from the beach, a few scattered lights gleamed golden in the windows of a village, and a line of torches wound down from that village toward the shore. Faintly, Garion could hear the sound of singing. The words were indistinct, but the overall tone of the song conveyed a great sadness and an endless longing.
    Their ship moved silently across a shallow bay, then coasted gently up beside a rude stone quay that looked more like a natural rock formation than any man-made structure.
    A tall man in a white linen robe stood on the quay. Although his face was unlined and his eyebrows were black as ravens' wings, his flowing hair was as silver as Belgarath's. "Welcome," he greeted them. His voice was deep and peculiarly gentle. "I am Vard. We have long awaited your coming, which the Book of the Heavens revealed to us ages past."
    "Now you see why I don't like these people," Belgarath muttered. "I hate it when someone pretends to know everything."
    "Forgive us, Holy Belgarath," the man on the quay said with a slight smile. "If it will make you more comfortable, we will conceal what we have read in the stars."
    "You've got sharp ears, Vard," the old man noted.
    "If you wish to believe so." Vard shrugged. "A place has been made ready for you—and food prepared. Your journey has been long and difficult, and I'm sure you are all very tired. If you will come with me, I will show you the way. My people will bring your mounts and your belongings."
    "You are very kind, Vard," Polgara said across the rail of the ship as the mute sailors ran their ramp out to the stones of the quay.
    Vard bowed. "We are honored by your presence, Lady Polgara," he replied. "We have stood in awe of you since the beginning of the Third Age."
    The path leading up from the bay was narrow and it wound about with no seeming purpose. "I fear that you will find our village rude by comparison with the mighty cities of the west," the white-robed man apologized. "We have ever been indifferent to our surroundings."
    "One place is much the same as another," Belgarath agreed, peering ahead toward the cluster of lighted windows glowing in the mist.
    The village consisted of a score or so buildings constructed of rough field stone and thatched with straw. They seemed scattered at random with nothing resembling an organized street anywhere in sight. The place was tidy, however, with none of the clutter that inevitably seemed to spring up in such places, and the doorstep of each house showed signs of frequent scrubbing.
    Vard led them to a fair-sized house in the center of the village and opened the door for them. "This will be yours for as long as you remain," he said. "The table is prepared, and some of my people will attend you. Should you require anything else, please send for me." Then he bowed, turned, and walked away into the foggy twilight.
    The inside of the house was by no means palatial, but it belied the crude-appearing exterior. Each room contained a low, cheery fireplace, exuding warmth and light. The doorways were arched and the walls all whitewashed. The furniture was plain, but stoutly made, and the beds were covered with thick, down-filled comforters.
    A table and benches stood in the central room, and a number of covered earthenware pots stood on that table. The smells coming from those pots reminded Garion that he had not eaten a hot meal in several days.
    "They're a strange sort of people," Velvet observed, removing her cloak, "but you certainly can't fault their hospitality."
    Silk had been eyeing the table. "We wouldn't want to offend them by letting supper get cold, would we? I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm famished."
    The supper that had been laid for them was delicious. None of the dishes were anything out of the ordinary, but each was delicately seasoned. The main course was a well-browned haunch of some animal Garion did not recognize, but he found it rich and full-flavored.
    "What is this delicious roast?" Ce'Nedra asked, helping herself to another piece.
    "Goat, I think," Polgara replied.
    "Goat?"
    "It seems to be."
    "But I hate goat."
    "That's your third slice, dear," Polgara pointed out.
    After they had eaten, they sat around the fireplace. Garion felt a vast weariness and knew that he should go to bed, but he was simply too