Queen of Sorcery

Pol," Wolf approved.
    "It will give him something to think about." She smiled. "Don't stare, Durnik."
    Durnik was gaping at her, his mouth open. "How did you do that?"
    "Do you really want to know?" she asked.
    Durnik shuddered and looked away quickly.
    "I think that just about settles it," Wolf said. "Disguises are probably useless now. I'm not sure what Chamdar's up to, but he's going to be watching us every step of the way. We might as well arm ourselves and ride straight on to Vo Mimbre."
    "Aren't we going to follow the trail anymore?" Barak asked.
    "The trail goes south," Wolf replied. "I can pick it up again once we cross over into Tolnedra. But first I want to stop by and have a word with King Korodullin. There are some things he needs to know."
    "Korodullin?" Durnik looked puzzled. "Wasn't that the name of the first Arendish king? It seems to me somebody told me that once."
    "All Arendish kings are named Korodullin," Silk told him. "And the queens are all named Mayaserana. It's part of the fiction the royal family here maintains to keep the kingdom from flying apart. They have to marry as closely within the bloodline as possible to maintain the illusion of the unification of the houses of Mimbre and Asturia. It makes them all a bit sickly, but there's no help for it - considering the peculiar nature of Arendish politics."
    "All right, Silk," Aunt Pol said reprovingly.
    Mandorallen looked thoughtful. "Could it be that this Chamdar who so dogs our steps is one of great substance in the dark society of the Grolims?" he asked.
    "He'd like to be," Wolf answered. "Zedar and Ctuchik are Torak's disciples, and Chamdar wants to be one as well. He's always been Ctuchik's agent, but he may believe that this is his chance to move up in the Grolim hierarchy. Ctuchik's very old, and he spends all his time in the temple of Torak at Rak Cthol. Maybe Chamdar thinks it's time that someone else became High Priest."
    "Is Torak's body at Rak Cthol?" Silk asked quickly.
    Mister Wolf shrugged. "Nobody knows for sure, but I doubt it. After Zedar carried him away from the battlefield at Vo Mimbre, I don't think he'd have just handed him over to Ctuchik. He could be in Mallorea or somewhere in the southern reaches of Cthol Murgos. It's hard to say."
    "But at the moment, Chamdar's the one we have to worry about," Silk concluded.
    "Not if we keep moving," Wolf told him.
    "We'd better get moving then," Barak said, standing up.
    By midmorning the heavy clouds had begun to break up, and patches of blue sky showed here and there. Enormous pillars of sunlight stalked ponderously across the rolling fields that waited, damp and expectant, for the first touches of spring. With Mandorallen in the lead they had ridden hard and had covered a good six leagues. Finally they slowed to a walk to allow their steaming horses to rest.
    "How much farther is it to Vo Mimbre, grandfather?" Garion asked, pulling his horse in beside Mister Wolf.
    "Sixty leagues at least," Wolf answered. "Probably closer to eighty."
    "That's a long way." Garion winced as he shifted in his saddle.
    "Yes."
    "I'm sorry I ran away like that back there," Garion apologized.
    "It wasn't your fault. Chamdar was playing games."
    "Why did he pick me? Couldn't he have done the same thing to Durnik - or Barak?"
    Mister Wolf looked at him. "You're younger, more susceptible."
    "That's not really it, is it?" Garion accused.
    "No," Wolf admitted, "not really, but it's an answer, of sorts."
    "This is another one of those things you aren't going to tell me, isn't it?"
    "I suppose you could say that," Wolf answered blandly.
    Garion sulked about that for a while, but Mister Wolf rode on, seemingly unconcerned by the boy's reproachful silence.
    They stopped that night at a Tolnedran hostel, which, like all of them, was plain, adequate, and expensive. The next morning the sky had cleared except for billowy patches of white cloud scampering before the brisk wind. The sight of the sun made them all feel better, and there was even some bantering between Silk and Barak as they rode along - something Garion hadn't heard in all the weeks they'd spent traveling under the gloomy skies of northern Arendia.
    Mandorallen, however, scarcely spoke that morning, and his face grew more somber with each passing mile. He was not wearing his armor, but instead a mail suit and a deep blue surcoat. His head was bare, and the wind tugged at his curly hair.
    On a nearby hilltop a bleak-looking castle brooded down at