“Your Highness,” the armored knight said respectfully as she pulled her horse in beside his huge charger, “dost think it prudent to place thyself in the vanguard thus?”
“Who would be so foolish as to attack the bravest knight in the world?” she asked with artful innocence.
The baron’s expression grew melancholy, and he sighed.
“And why so great a sigh, Sir Knight?” she bantered.
“It is of no moment, your Highness,” he replied.
They rode along in silence through the dappled shade where insects hummed and darted and small, scurrying things skittered and rustled in the bushes at the side of the trail.
“Tell me,” the princess said finally, “have you known Belgarath for long?”
“All my life, your Highness.”
“Is he highly regarded in Arendia?”
“Highly regarded? Holy Belgarath is the paramount man in the world! Surely thou knowest that, Princess.”
“I’m Tolnedran, Baron Mandorallen,” she pointed out. “Our familiarity with sorcerers is limited. Would an Arend describe Belgarath as a man of noble birth?”
Mandorallen laughed. “Your Highness, holy Belgarath’s birth is so far lost in the dim reaches of antiquity that thy question has no meaning.”
Ce’Nedra frowned. She did not particularly like being laughed at. “Is he or is he not a nobleman?” she pressed.
“He is Belgarath,” Mandorallen replied, as if that explained everything. “There are hundreds of barons, earls by the score, and lords without number, but there is only one Belgarath. All men give way to him.”
She beamed at him. “And what about Lady Polgara?”
Mandorallen blinked, and Ce’Nedra saw that she was going too fast for him. “The Lady Polgara is revered above all women,” he said in puzzled response. “Highness, could I but know the direction of throe inquiry, I might provide thee with more satisfactory response.”
She laughed. “My dear Baron, it’s nothing important or serious just curiosity, and a way to pass the time as we ride.”
Durnik the smith came forward at a trot just then, his sorrel horse’s hoofbeats thudding on the packed earth of the trail. “Mistress Pol wants you to wait for a bit,” he told them.
“Is anything wrong?” Ce’Nedra asked.
“No. It’s just that there’s a bush not far from the trail that she recognized. She wants to harvest the leaves—I think they have certain medicinal uses. She says it’s very rare and only found in this part of Nyissa.” The smith’s plain, honest face was respectful as it always was when he spoke of Polgara. Ce’Nedra had certain private suspicions about Durnik’s feelings, but she kept them to herself. “Oh,” he went on, “she said to warn you about the bush. There might be others around. It’s about a foot tall and has very shiny green leaves and a little purple flower. It’s deadly poisonous—even to touch.”
“We will not stray from the trail, Goodman,” Mandorallen assured him, “but will abide here against the lady’s permission to proceed.” Durnik nodded and rode on back down the trail.
Ce’Nedra and Mandorallen pulled their horses into the shade of a broad tree and sat waiting. “How do the Arends regard Garion?” Ce’Nedra asked suddenly.
“Garion is a good lad,” Mandorallen replied, somewhat confused.
“But hardly noble,” she prompted him.
“Highness,” Mandorallen told her delicately, “throe education, I fear, hath led thee astray. Garion is of the line of Belgarath and Polgara. Though he hath no rank such as thou and I both have, his blood is the noblest in the world. I would give precedence to him without question should he ask it of me—which he would not, being a modest lad. During our sojourn at the court of King Korodullin at Vo Mimbre, a young countess pursued him most fervently, thinking to gain status and prestige by marriage to him.”
“Really?” Ce’Nedra asked with a hard little edge coming into her voice.
“She sought betrothal and trapped him often with blatant invitation to dalliance and sweet conversation.”
“A beautiful countess?”
“One of the great beauties of the kingdom.”
“I see.” Ce’Nedra’s voice was like ice.
“Have I given offense, Highness?”
“It’s not important.”
Mandorallen sighed again.
“What is it now?” she snapped.
“I perceive that my faults are many.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the perfect man.” She regretted that instantly.
“Nay, Highness. I am marred beyond thy conception.”
“A bit undiplomatic, perhaps, but that’s no great flaw—in an Arend.”
“Cowardice is, your Highness.”
She laughed at the notion. “Cowardice? You?”
“I have found that fault in myself,” he admitted.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “If anything, your fault lies in the other direction.”
“It is difficult to believe, I know,” he replied. “But I assure thee with great shame that I have felt the grip of fear upon my heart.”
Ce’Nedra was baffled by the knight’s mournful confession. She was struggling to find some proper reply when a great crashing rush burst out of the undergrowth a few yards away. With a sudden start of panic, her horse wheeled and bolted. She caught only the briefest glimpse of something large and tawny leaping out of the bushes at her—large, tawny, and with a great gaping mouth. She tried desperately to cling to her saddle with one hand and to control her terrified horse with the other, but its frantic flight took him under a low branch, and she was swept off its back to land unceremoniously in the middle of the trail. She rolled to her hands and knees and then froze as she faced the beast that had so clumsily burst forth from concealment.
She saw at once that the lion was not very old. She noted that, though his body was fully developed, he had only a half grown mane. Clearly, he was an adolescent, unskilled at hunting. He roared with frustration as he watched the fleeing horse disappear back down the trail, and his tail lashed. The princess felt a momentary touch of amusement—he was so young, so awkward. Then her amusement was replaced by irritation with this clumsy young beast who had caused her humiliating unhorsing. She rose to her feet, brushed off her knees, and looked at him sternly. “Shoo!” she said with an insistent flip of her hand. She was, after all, a princess, and he was only a lion—a very young and foolish lion.
The yellow eyes fell on her then and narrowed slightly. The lashing tail grew suddenly quite still. The young lion’s eyes widened with a sort of dreadful intensity, and he crouched, his belly going low to the ground. His upper lip lifted to reveal his very long, white teeth. He took one slow step toward her, his great paw touching down softly.
“Don’t you dare,” she told him indignantly.
“Remain quite still, Highness,” Mandorallen warned her in a deathly quiet voice. From the corner of her eye she saw him slide out of his saddle. The lion’s eyes flickered toward him with annoyance.
Carefully, one step at a time, Mandorallen crossed the intervening space until he had placed his armored body between the lion and the princess. The Lion watched him warily, not seeming to realize what he was doing until it was too late. Then, cheated of another meal, the cat’s eyes went flat with rage. Mandorallen drew his sword very carefully; then, to Ce’Nedra’s amazement, he passed it back hilt—first to her. “So that thou shall have means of defending thyself, should I fail to withstand him,” the knight explained.