“Oh, very well,” the tawny-haired girl agreed, with obvious disappointment. “But don’t forget that I found this one. When the time comes, I get to kill it.”
Garion felt the hair beginning to rise on the back of his neck.
The red-haired one whistled, and a half dozen other armed Dryads drifted out of the trees. They were all quite small, and their hair was various shades of reds and golds, not unlike the color of autumn leaves.
They gathered about Garion, giggling and chattering as they examined him.
“That one is mine,” the tawny-haired Dryad said, climbing down from the tree. “I found it, and Xera says that I get to kill it.”
“It looks healthy,” one of the others observed, “and quite tame. Maybe we should keep it. Is it a male?”
Another one giggled. “Let’s check and find out.”
“I’m a male,” Garion said quickly, blushing in spite of himself.
“It seems a shame to waste it,” one remarked. “Maybe we could keep it for a while and then kill it.”
“It’s mine,” the tawny-haired Dryad stated stubbornly, “and if I want to kill it. I will.” She took hold of Garion’s arm possessively.
“Let’s go look at the others,” the one called Xera suggested. “They’re building fires, and we’ll want to stop that.”
“Fires?” several of the others gasped, and they all glared at Garion accusingly.
“Only a small one,” Garion said quickly.
“Bring it along,” Xera ordered and started off through the Wood toward the tents. Far overhead the trees murmured to each other. Aunt Pol was waiting calmly when they reached the clearing where the tents were. She looked at the Dryads clustered around Garion without changing expression. “Welcome, ladies,” she said.
The Dryads began whispering to each other.
“Ce’Nedra!” the one called Xera exclaimed.
“Cousin Xera,” Ce’Nedra replied, and the two ran to embrace each other. The other Dryads came out a little farther into the clearing, looking nervously at the fire.
Ce’Nedra spoke quickly with Xera, explaining to her cousin who they were, and Xera motioned for the others to come closer. “It seems that these are friends,” she said. “We’ll take them to my mother, Queen Xantha.”
“Does that mean that I won’t get to kill this one?” The tawny-haired Dryad demanded petulantly, pointing a small finger at Garion.
“I’m afraid not,” Xera answered.
The tawny one stamped away, pouting. Garion breathed a sigh of relief.
Then Mister Wolf came out of one of the tents and looked at the cluster of Dryads with a broad smile.
“It’s Belgarath!” one of the Dryads squealed and ran to him happily. She threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him soundly. “Did you bring us any sweets?” she demanded.
The old man put on a sober expression and began rummaging through his many pockets. Bits of sweetmeats began to appear just as quickly disappeared as the Dryads gathered about him, snatching them as fast as he took them from his pockets.
“Have you got any new stories for us?” one of the Dryads asked.
“Many stories,” Wolf told her, touching one finger to the side of his nose slyly. “But we ought to wait so your sisters can hear them too, shouldn’t we?”
“We want one just for ourselves,” the Dryad said.
“And what would you give me for this special story?”
“Kisses,” the Dryad offered promptly. “Five kisses from each of us.”
“I’ve got a very good story,” Wolf bargained. “It’s worth more than five. Let’s say ten.”
“Eight,” the Tittle Dryad countered.
“All right,” Wolf agreed. “Eight sounds about right.”
“I see you’ve been here before, Old Wolf,” Aunt Pol remarked dryly.
“I visit from time to time,” he admitted with a bland expression.
“Those sweets aren’t good for them, you know,” she chided.
“A little bit won’t hurt them, Pol,” he said, “and they like them very much. A Dryad will do almost anything for sweets.”
“You’re disgusting,” she told him.
The Dryads were all clustered around Mister Wolf, looking almost like a garden of spring flowers—all, that is, except for the tawny one who’d captured Garion. She stood a bit apart, sulking and fingering the point of her arrow. She finally came over to Garion. “You’re not thinking about running away, are you?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” Garion denied emphatically.
She sighed with disappointment. “I don’t suppose you’d consider it, would you—as a special favor to me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She sighed again, bitterly this time. “I never get to have any fun,” she complained and went to join the others.
Silk emerged from a tent, moving slowly and carefully; and after the Dryads had become accustomed to him, Durnik appeared.
“They’re just children, aren’t they?” Garion commented to Aunt Pol.
“They seem to be,” she said, “but they’re much older than they look. A Dryad lives as long as her tree does, and oak trees live for a long time.”
“Where are the boy Dryads?” he asked. “All I see are girls.”
“There aren’t any boy Dryads, dear,” she explained, returning to her cooking.
“Then how—? I mean—” He faltered and felt his ears growing hot.
“They catch human males for that,” she said. “Travelers and the like.”
“Oh.” He delicately let the subject drop.
After they had eaten breakfast and carefully quenched their fire with water from the stream, they saddled their horses and started off through the Wood. Mister Wolf walked ahead with the tiny Dryads still gathered around him, laughing and chattering like happy children. The murmuring of the trees about them was no longer unfriendly, and they moved through a kind of welcoming rustle from a million leaves.
It was late afternoon by the time they reached a large clearing in the center of the Wood. Standing alone in the middle of the clearing was an oak so large that Garion could hardly accept the idea that anything so enormous could be alive. Here and there in its mossy trunk were openings almost like caverns, and its lower limbs were as broad as highways and they spread out to shade nearly the entire clearing. There was about the tree a sense of vast age and a patient wisdom. Tentatively Garion felt a faint touch on his mind, almost like the soft brush of a leaf against his face. The touch was unlike anything he had ever felt before, but it also seemed to welcome him.
The tree was literally alive with Dryads, clustering randomly on the limbs like blossoms. Their laughter and girlish chatter filled the air like birdsongs.
“I’ll tell my mother you’ve arrived,” the one called Xera said and went toward the tree.
Garion and the others dismounted and stood uncertainly near their horses. From overhead Dryads peered curiously down at them, whispering among themselves and giggling often.
For some reason the frank, mirthful stares of the Dryads made Garion feel very self conscious. He moved closer to Aunt Pol and noticed that the others were also clustering around her as if unconsciously seeking her protection.
“Where’s the princess?” she asked.
“She’s just over there, Mistress Pol,” Durnik answered, “visiting with that group of Dryads.”
“Keep your eye on her,” Aunt Pol said. “And where’s my vagrant father?”
“Near the tree,” Garion replied. “The Dryads seem very fond of him.”
“The old fool,” Aunt Pol said darkly.
Then, from a hollow in the tree some distance above the first broad limbs, another Dryad appeared. Instead of the short tunic the others wore, this one was garbed in a flowing green gown, and her golden hair was caught in with a circlet of what appeared to be mistletoe. Gracefully she descended to the ground.
Aunt Pol went forward to meet her, and the others trailed behind at a respectful distance.
“Dear Polgara,” the Dryad said warmly, “it’s been so long.”