Lelldorin looked baffled.

"They're serfs, Garion," he said as if that explained.

"They're men. They're not animals. Men deserve to be treated better."

"I can't do anything about it. They aren't my serfs." And with that Lelldorin's attention turned inward again as he continued to struggle with the dilemma Garion had placed upon him.

By late afternoon they had covered ten leagues and the cloudy sky was gradually darkening as evening approached.

"I think we're going to have to spend the night in the forest, Belgarath," Silk said, looking around. "There's no chance of reaching the next Tolnedran hostel."

Mister Wolf had been half-dozing in his saddle. He looked up, blinking a bit.

"All right," he replied, "but let's get back from the road a bit. Our fire could attract attention, and too many people know we're in Arendia already."

"There's a woodcutter's track right there." Durnik pointed at a break in the trees just ahead. "It should lead us back into the trees."

"All right," Wolf agreed.

The sound of their horses' hooves was muffled by the sodden leaves on the forest floor as they turned in among the trees to follow the narrow track. They rode silently for the better part of a mile until a clearing opened ahead of them.

"How about here?" Durnik asked. He indicated a brook trickling softly over mossy stones on one side of the clearing.

"It will do," Wolf agreed.

"We're going to need shelter," the smith observed.

"I bought tents in Camaar," Silk told him. "They're in the packs."

"That was foresighted of you," Aunt Pol complimented him.

"I've been in Arendia before, my Lady. I'm familiar with the weather."

"Garion and I'll go get wood for a fire then," Durnik said, climbing down from his horse and untying his axe from his saddle.

"I'll help you," Lelldorin offered, his face still troubled.

Durnik nodded and led the way off into the trees. The woods were soaked, but the smith seemed to know almost instinctively where to find dry fuel. They worked quickly in the lowering twilight and soon had three large bundles of limbs and fagots. They returned to the clearing where Silk and the others were erecting several dun-colored tents. Durnik dropped his wood and cleared a space for the fire with his foot. Then he knelt and began striking sparks with his knife from a piece of flint into a wad of dry tinder he always carried. In a short time he had a small fire going, and Aunt Pol set out her pots beside it, humming softly to herself.

Hettar came back from tending the horses, and they all stood back watching Aunt Pol prepare a supper from the stores Count Reldegen had pressed on them before they had left his house that morning.

After they had eaten, they sat around the fire talking quietly.

"How far have we come today?" Durnik asked.

"Twelve leagues," Hettar estimated.