"Make sure he doesn't fall off," she warned her husband.

"Yes, dear," Garion replied, settling his son on Chretienne's neck just in front of the saddle.

"And don't let him get sunburned."

Now that he had been rescued from Zandramas, Geran was a good-natured little boy. He spoke in half phrases, his small face very serious as he tried to explain things to his father. Very importantly, he pointed out deer and rabbits as they rode south, and he dozed from time to time, resting his blond, curly head against his father's chest in absolute contentment. He was restive one morning, however, and Garion, without really thinking about it, removed the Orb from the pommel of his sword and gave it to his son to play with. Geran was delighted, and with a kind of bemused wonder he held the glowing jewel between his hands to stare with fascination into its depths. Often he would hold it to his ear to listen by the hour to its song. The Orb, it appeared, was even more delighted than the little boy.

"That's really very disturbing, Garion," Beldin chided. "You’ve turned the most powerful object in the universe into a child's plaything."

"It's his, after all or it will be. They ought to get to know each other, wouldn't you say?"

"What if he loses it?"

"Beldin, do you really think the Orb can be lost?"

The game, however, came rather abruptly to an end when Poledra reined in her horse beside the Overlord of the West.

"He's too young to be doing this sort of thing, Garion," she said reprovingly. She reached out her arm and a curiously twisted and knotted stick appeared in her hand. "Put the Orb away, Garion," she said. "Give him this to play with instead."

"That's the stick with only one end, isn't it?" he said suspiciously, remembering the toy Belgarath had once shown him in the cluttered tower the toy that had occupied Aunt Pol's mind during her babyhood.

Poledra nodded. "It should keep him busy," she said.

Geran willingly gave up the Orb for the new toy. The Orb, however, muttered complaints in Garion's ear for the next several hours.

They reached the cottage a day or so later. Poledra looked rather critically down from the hilltop above it. "You've made some changes, I see," she said to her daughter.

"Do you mind, mother?" Aunt Pol asked.

"Of course not, Polgara. A house should reflect the character of its owner."

"I'm sure there are a million things to do," Durnik said. "Those fences really need attention. We'll have hundreds of Algar cows in the dooryard if I don't mend them."

"And I'm sure the cottage needs a thorough cleaning," his wife added.

They rode down the hill, dismounted, and went inside. "Impossible," Polgara exclaimed, looking about in dismay at the negligibly thin film of dust lying over everything. "We'll need some brooms, Durnik," she said.

"Of course, dear," he agreed.