Even the traditional decorations in the dining hall, where Erastide
festivities always took place, seemed decidedly tacky to him that year.
The fir boughs festooning the ceiling beams were somehow not as green,
and the polished apples carefully tied to the boughs were smaller and
not as red. He sighed some more and reveled in his sullen moping.
Aunt Pol, however, was not impressed, and her attitude was firmly
unsympathetic. She routinely checked his brow with her hand for signs of
fever and then dosed him with the foulest-tasting tonic she could
concoct. Garion was careful after that to mope in private and to sigh
less audibly. That dry, secret part of his mind informed him matter-of
factly that he was being ridiculous, but Garion chose not to listen. The
voice in his mind was much older and wiser than he, but it seemed
determined to take all the fun out of life.
On the morning of Erastide, a Murgo and five Thulls appeared with a
wagon outside the gate and asked to see Faldor. Garion, who had long
since learned that no one pays attention to a boy and that many
interesting things may be learned by placing himself in a position to
casually overhear conversations, busied himself with some small,
unimportant chore near the gate.
The Murgo, his face scarred much like the face of the one in Upper
Gralt, sat importantly on the wagon seat, his chain-mail shirt clinking
each time he moved. He wore a black, hooded robe, and his sword was much
in evidence. His eyes moved constantly, taking in everything. The
Thulls, in muddy felt boots and heavy cloaks, lounged disinterestedly
against the wagon, seemingly indifferent to the raw wind whipping across
the snowy fields.
Faldor, in his finest doublet - it was after all Erastide - came across the yard, closely followed by Anhelda and Eilbrig.
"Good morrow, friend," Faldor said to the Murgo. "Joyous Erastide to you."
The Murgo grunted. "You are, I take it, the farmer Faldor?" he asked in his heavily accented voice.
"I am," Faldor replied.
"I understand you have a goodly number of hams on hand-well cured."
"The pigs did well this year," Faldor answered modestly.
"I will buy them," the Murgo announced, jingling his purse.
Faldor bowed. "First thing tomorrow morning," he said.
The Murgo stared.
"This is a pious household," Faldor explained. "We do not offend the Gods by breaking the sanctity of Erastide."
"Father," Anhelda snapped, "don't be foolish. This noble merchant has come a long way to do business."
"Not on Erastide," Faldor said stubbornly, his long face firm.
"In the city of Sendar," Eilbrig said in his rather high-pitched,
nasal voice, "we do not let such sentimentality interfere with
business."
"This is not the city of Sendar," Faldor said flatly. "This is
Faldor's farm, and on Faldor's farm we do no work and conduct no
business on Erastide."
"Father," Anhelda protested, "the noble merchant has gold. Gold, father, goldl "
"I will hear no more of it," Faldor announced. He turned to the
Murgo. "You and your servants are welcome to join us in our celebration,
friend," he said. "We can provide quarters for you and the promise of
the finest dinner in all of Sendaria and the opportunity to honor the
Gods on this special day. No man is made poorer by attending to his
religious obligations."
"We do not observe this holiday in Cthol Murgos," the scar-faced man
said coldly. "As the noble lady says, I have come a long way to do
business and have not much time to tarry. I'm sure there are other
farmers in the district with the merchandise I require."
"Father!" Anhelda wailed.
"I know my neighbors," Faldor said quietly. "Your luck today will be
small, I fear. The observance of this day is a firm tradition in this
area."
The Murgo thought for a moment. "It may be as you say," he said
finally. "I will accept your invitation, provided that we can do
business as early as possible tomorrow."
Faldor bowed. "I'll place myself at your service at first light tomorrow if you so desire."
"Done, then," the Murgo said, climbing down from his wagon.
That afternoon the feast was laid in the dining hall. The kitchen
helpers and a half dozen others who had been pressed into service for
the special day scurried from kitchen to hall bearing smoking roasts,
steaming 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.