Queen of Sorcery

think there's anything you can do right now," Garion told him. "Maybe later, after we've had time to think about it, we'll come up with something. If we can't, we can always tell my grandfather about it. He'll think of a way to stop it."
    "We can't tell anybody," Lelldorin reminded him. "We're pledged to silence."
    "We might have to break that pledge," Garion said somewhat reluctantly. "I don't see that either of us owes that Murgo anything, but it's going to have to be up to you. I won't say anything to anybody without your permission."
    "You decide," Lelldorin pleaded then. "I can't do it, Garion."
    "You're going to have to," Garion told him. "I'm sure that if you think about it, you'll see why."
    They reached the Great West Road then, and Barak led them south at a brisk trot, cutting off the possibility of further discussion.
    A league or so down the road they passed a muddy village, a dozen or so turf roofed huts with walls made of wattles plastered over with mud. The fields around the village were dotted with tree stumps, and a few scrawny cows grazed near the edge of the forest. Garion could not control his indignation as he looked at the misery implicit in the crude collection of hovels.
    "Lelldorin," he said sharply, "look!"
    "What? Where?" The blond young man came out of his troubled preoccupation quickly as if expecting some danger.
    "The village," Garion told him. "Look at it."
    "It's only a serfs' village," Lelldorin said indifferently. "I've seen hundreds like it." He seemed ready to return to his own inner turmoil.
    "In Sendaria we wouldn't keep pigs in places like that." Garion's voice rang with fervor. If he could only make his friend see!
    Two ragged serfs were dispiritedly hacking chunks of firewood from one of the stumps near the road. As the party approached, they dropped their axes and bolted in terror for the forest.
    "Does it make you proud, Lelldorin?" Garion demanded. "Does it make you feel good to know that your own countrymen are so afraid of you that they run from the very sight of you?"
    Lelldorin looked baffled.
    "They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained.
    "They're men. They're not animals. Men deserve to be treated better."
    "I can't do anything about it. They aren't my serfs." And with that Lelldorin's attention turned inward again as he continued to struggle with the dilemma Garion had placed upon him.
    By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues and the cloudy sky was gradually darkening as evening approached.
    "I think we're going to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath," Silk said, looking around. "There's no chance of reaching the next Tolnedran hostel."
    Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit.
    "All right," he replied, "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire could attract attention, and too many people know we're in Arendia already."
    "There's a woodcutter's track right there." Durnik pointed at a break in the trees just ahead. "It should lead us back into the trees."
    "All right," Wolf agreed.
    The sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them.
    "How about here?" Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy stones on one side of the clearing.
    "It will do," Wolf agreed.
    "We're going to need shelter," the smith observed.
    "I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs."
    "That was foresighted of you," Aunt Pol complimented him.
    "I've been in Arendia before, my Lady. I'm familiar with the weather."
    "Garion and I'll go get wood for a fire then," Durnik said, climbing down from his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.
    "I'll help you," Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled.
    Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots