Four
"NO REGRETS?" Silk asked Garion that evening as they rode toward the sharply rising peaks outlined against the glittering stars ahead.
"Regrets about what?"
"Giving up command." Silk had been watching him curiously ever since the setting sun had signalled the resumption of their journey.
"No," Garion replied, not quite sure what the little man meant. "Why should there be?"
"It's a very important thing for a man to learn about himself, Garion," Silk told him seriously. "Power can be very sweet for some men, and you never know how a man's going to handle it until you give him the chance to try."
"I don't know why you went to all the trouble. It's not too likely that I'm going to be put in charge of things very often."
"You never know, Garion. You never know."
They rode on across the barren black sands of the wasteland toward the mountains looming ahead. The quarter moon rose behind them, and its light was cold and white. Near the edge of the wasteland there were a few scrubby thornbushes huddling low to the sand and silvered with frost. It was an hour or so before midnight when they finally reached rocky ground, and the hooves of their horses clattered sharply as they climbed up out of the sandy waste. When they topped the first ridge, they stopped to look back. The dark expanse of the wasteland behind them was dotted with the watch fires of the Murgos, and far back along their trail they saw moving torches.
"I was starting to worry about that," Silk said to Belgarath, "but it looks as if they found our trail after all."
"Let's hope they don't lose it again," the old man replied.
"Not too likely, really. I made it pretty obvious."
"Murgos can be a bit undependable sometimes."
Belgarath seemed to have recovered almost completely, but Garion noted a weary slump to his shoulders and was glad that they did not plan to ride all night.
The mountains into which they rode were as arid and rocky as the ones lying to the north had been. There were looming cliffs and patches of alkali on the ground and a bitingly cold wind that seemed to wail endlessly through the rocks and to tug at the coarse-woven Murgo robes that disguised them. They pushed on until they were well into the mountains; then, several hours before dawn, they stopped to rest and to wait for the sun to rise.
When the first faint light appeared on the eastern horizon, Silk rode out and located a rocky gap passing to the northwest between two ocherous cliff faces. As soon as he returned, they saddled their horses again and moved out at a trot.
"We can get rid of these now, I think," Belgarath said, pulling off his Murgo robe.
"I'll take them," Silk suggested as he reined in. "The gap's just ahead there." He pointed. "I'll catch up in a couple of hours."
"Where are you going?" Barak asked him.
"I'll leave a few miles more of false trail," Silk replied. "Then I'll double back and make sure that you haven't left any tracks. It won't take long."
"You want some company?" the big man offered.
Silk shook his head. "I can move faster alone."
"Be careful."
Silk grinned. "I'm always careful." He took the Murgo garments from them and rode off to the west.
The gap into which they rode appeared to be the bed of a stream that had dried up thousands of years before. The water had cut down through the rock, revealing layer upon layer of red, brown, and yellow stone lying in bands, one atop the other. The sound of their horses' hooves was very loud as they clattered along between the cliffs, and the wind whistled as it poured through the cut.
Taiba drew her horse in beside Garion's. She was shivering and she had the cloak he had given her pulled tightly ahout her shoulders. "Is it always this cold?" she asked, her large, violet eyes very wide.
"In the wintertime," he replied. "I imagine it's pretty hot here in the summer."
"The slave pens were always the same," she told him. "We never knew what season it was."
The twisting streambed made a sharp bend to
"NO REGRETS?" Silk asked Garion that evening as they rode toward the sharply rising peaks outlined against the glittering stars ahead.
"Regrets about what?"
"Giving up command." Silk had been watching him curiously ever since the setting sun had signalled the resumption of their journey.
"No," Garion replied, not quite sure what the little man meant. "Why should there be?"
"It's a very important thing for a man to learn about himself, Garion," Silk told him seriously. "Power can be very sweet for some men, and you never know how a man's going to handle it until you give him the chance to try."
"I don't know why you went to all the trouble. It's not too likely that I'm going to be put in charge of things very often."
"You never know, Garion. You never know."
They rode on across the barren black sands of the wasteland toward the mountains looming ahead. The quarter moon rose behind them, and its light was cold and white. Near the edge of the wasteland there were a few scrubby thornbushes huddling low to the sand and silvered with frost. It was an hour or so before midnight when they finally reached rocky ground, and the hooves of their horses clattered sharply as they climbed up out of the sandy waste. When they topped the first ridge, they stopped to look back. The dark expanse of the wasteland behind them was dotted with the watch fires of the Murgos, and far back along their trail they saw moving torches.
"I was starting to worry about that," Silk said to Belgarath, "but it looks as if they found our trail after all."
"Let's hope they don't lose it again," the old man replied.
"Not too likely, really. I made it pretty obvious."
"Murgos can be a bit undependable sometimes."
Belgarath seemed to have recovered almost completely, but Garion noted a weary slump to his shoulders and was glad that they did not plan to ride all night.
The mountains into which they rode were as arid and rocky as the ones lying to the north had been. There were looming cliffs and patches of alkali on the ground and a bitingly cold wind that seemed to wail endlessly through the rocks and to tug at the coarse-woven Murgo robes that disguised them. They pushed on until they were well into the mountains; then, several hours before dawn, they stopped to rest and to wait for the sun to rise.
When the first faint light appeared on the eastern horizon, Silk rode out and located a rocky gap passing to the northwest between two ocherous cliff faces. As soon as he returned, they saddled their horses again and moved out at a trot.
"We can get rid of these now, I think," Belgarath said, pulling off his Murgo robe.
"I'll take them," Silk suggested as he reined in. "The gap's just ahead there." He pointed. "I'll catch up in a couple of hours."
"Where are you going?" Barak asked him.
"I'll leave a few miles more of false trail," Silk replied. "Then I'll double back and make sure that you haven't left any tracks. It won't take long."
"You want some company?" the big man offered.
Silk shook his head. "I can move faster alone."
"Be careful."
Silk grinned. "I'm always careful." He took the Murgo garments from them and rode off to the west.
The gap into which they rode appeared to be the bed of a stream that had dried up thousands of years before. The water had cut down through the rock, revealing layer upon layer of red, brown, and yellow stone lying in bands, one atop the other. The sound of their horses' hooves was very loud as they clattered along between the cliffs, and the wind whistled as it poured through the cut.
Taiba drew her horse in beside Garion's. She was shivering and she had the cloak he had given her pulled tightly ahout her shoulders. "Is it always this cold?" she asked, her large, violet eyes very wide.
"In the wintertime," he replied. "I imagine it's pretty hot here in the summer."
"The slave pens were always the same," she told him. "We never knew what season it was."
The twisting streambed made a sharp bend to
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