Aunt Pol glanced over her shoulder at them. "Pull up your hood, Ce'Nedra," she instructed. "It's starting to snow again, and I don't want you riding with a wet head."

The princess drew in a quick breath as if preparing to retort.

"I wouldn't," Garion advised her softly.

"But "

"She's not in the mood for discussion just now."

Ce'Nedra glared at him, but pulled up her hood in silence.

It was still snowing lightly when they reached Medalia that evening. Ce'Nedra's reaction to the lodgings offered at the inn was predictable. There was, Garion had noted, a certain natural rhythm to her outbursts. She never began at the top of her voice, but rather worked her way up to it with an impressively swelling crescendo. She had just reached the point of launching herself into full voice when she was suddenly brought up short.

"What an absolutely charming display of good breeding," Aunt Pol observed calmly to Durnik. "All of Garion's old friends will be terribly impressed by this sort of thing, don't you think?"

Durnik looked away, hiding a smile. "I'm sure of it, Mistress Pol."

Ce'Nedra's mouth was still open, but her tirade had been cut off instantly. Garion was amazed at her sudden silence. "I was being a bit silly, wasn't I?" she said after a moment. Her tone was reasonable almost sweet-natured.

"Yes, dear just a bit," Aunt Pol agreed.

"Please forgive me - all of you." Ce'Nedra's voice dripped honey.

"Don't overdo it, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol told her.

It was perhaps noon of the following day when they turned off the main road leading to Erat into the country lane that led to Faldor's farm. Since that morning, Garion's excitement had risen to almost intolerable heights. Every milepost, every bush and tree was familiar to him now. And over there - wasn't that old Cralto riding an unsaddled horse on some errand for Faldor? Finally, at the sight of a tall, familiar figure clearing brush and twigs from a drainage ditch, he was no longer able to restrain himself. He drove his heels into his horse's flanks, smoothly jumped a fence and galloped across the snowy field toward the solitary worker.

"Rundorig!" he shouted, hauling his horse to a stop and flinging himself from his saddle.

"Your Honor?" Rundorig replied, blinking with astonishment.

"Rundorig, it's me - Garion. Don't you recognize me?"

"Garion?" Rundorig blinked several more times, peering intently into Garion's face. The light dawned slowly in his eyes like a sunrise on a murky day. "Why, I believe you're right," he marvelled. "You are Garion, aren't you?"

"Of course I am, Rundorig," Garion exclaimed, reaching out to take his friend's hand.

But Rundorig shoved both hands behind him and stepped back. "Your clothing, Garionl Have a care. I'm all over mud."

"I don't care about my clothes, Rundorig. You're my friend."