Pawn of Prophecy

hams and sizzling geese all under the lash of Aunt Pol's tongue. Garion observed sourly as he struggled with an enormous baron of beef that Faldor's prohibition of work on Erastide stopped at the kitchen door.
    In time, all was ready. The tables were loaded, the fires in the fireplaces burned brightly, dozens of candles filled the hall with golden light, and torches flared in their rings on the stone pillars. Faldor's people, all in their best clothes, filed into the hall, their mouths watering in anticipation.
    When all were seated, Faldor rose from his bench at the head of the center table. "Dear friends," he said, lifting his tankard, "I dedicate this feast to the Gods."
    "The Gods," the people responded in unison, rising respectfully. Faldor drank briefly, and they all followed suit. "Hear me, O Gods," he prayed. "Most humbly we thank you for the bounty of this fair world which you made on this day, and we dedicate ourselves to your service for yet another year." He looked for a moment as if he were going to say more, but then sat down instead. Faldor always labored for many hours over special prayers for occasions such as this, but the agony of speaking in public invariably erased the words so carefully prepared from his mind. His prayers, therefore, were always very sincere and very short.
    "Eat, dear friends," he instructed. "Do not let the food grow cold."
    And so they ate. Anhelda and Eilbrig, who joined them all at this one meal only at Faldor's insistence, devoted their conversational efforts to the Murgo, since he was the only one in the room who was worthy of their attention.
    "I have long thought of visiting Cthol Murgos," Eilbrig stated rather pompously. "Don't you agree, friend merchant, that greater contact between east and west is the way to overcome those mutual suspicions which have so marred our relationships in the past?"
    "We Murgos prefer to keep to ourselves," the scar-faced man said shortly.
    "But you are here, friend," Eilbrig pointed out. "Doesn't that suggest that greater contact might prove beneficial?"
    "I am here as a duty," the Murgo said. "I don't visit here out of preference." He looked around the room. "Are these then all of your people?" he asked Faldor.
    "Every soul is here," Faldor told him.
    "I was led to believe there was an old man here - with white hair and beard."
    "Not here, friend," Faldor said. "I myself am the eldest here, and as you can see, my hair is far from white."
    "One of my countrymen met such a one some years ago," the Murgo said. "He was accompanied by an Arendish boy - Rundorig, I believe his name was."
    Garion, seated at the next table, kept his face to his plate and listened so hard that he thought his ears must be growing.
    "We have a boy named Rundorig here," Faldor said. "That tall lad at the end of the far table over there." He pointed.
    "No," the Murgo said, looking hard at Rundorig. "That isn't the boy who was described to me."
    "It's not an uncommon name among the Arends," Faldor said. "Quite probably your friend met a pair from another farm."
    "That must be it," the Murgo said, seeming to dismiss the affair. "This ham is excellent," he said, pointing at his plate with the point of the dagger with which he ate. "Are the ones in your smokehouse of similar quality?"
    "Oh, no, friend merchant!" Faldor laughed. "You won't so easily trick me into talking business on this day."
    The Murgo smiled briefly, the expression appearing strange on his scarred face. "One can always try," he said. "I would, however, compliment your cook."
    "A compliment for you, Mistress Pol," Faldor said, raising his voice slightly. "Our friend from Cthol Murgos finds your cooking much to his liking."
    "I thank him for his compliment," Aunt Pol said, somewhat coldly.
    The Murgo looked at her, and his eyes widened slightly as if in recognition.
    "A noble meal, great lady," he said, bowing slightly in her direction. "Your kitchen is a place of magic."
    "No," she said, her face suddenly very haughty, "not magic. Cooking is an art which anyone with patience may learn. Magic is quite something else."
    "But magic is also an art, great lady," the Murgo said.
    "There are many who think so," Aunt Pol said, "but true magic comes from within and is not the result of nimble fingers which trick the eye."
    The Murgo stared at her, his face hard, and she returned his gaze with steely eyes. To Garion, sitting nearby, it seemed as if something had passed between them that had nothing to do with the