((Note: italics means thought-speech between sorcerers, :italitcs: means the Drasnian secret language))

The eighteen-year-old Crown Prince of Riva, a sandy-haired young man with serious blue eyes named Geran, was laughing like a child as he rolled about in the snow with his favorite companion, Wolf. Wolf was usually even more serious than Geran, to those who understood him, but he was being as puppyish as Geran was childish. The two tumbled in a mass of hair, flesh, and fur down a short hill, Wolf letting out a happy yip as he wiggled free and bounded a few steps away. "What has gotten into you lately, Wolf?" Geran asked, in what he called Wolfish. It was the only real way to communicate with his companion.

Wolf settled back onto his haunches and regarded Geran with serious golden eyes, all traces of playfulness gone. "One feels differently," he said. "As though something is about to happen that one will take part in. Something important."

"Like what?" Geran's serious eyes sparkled with curiousity, his wet and matted hair making him look younger. Which he would have scoffed at. The young man firmly believed that he looked older than he was no matter what he was doing. And no matter how many times anyone told him otherwise.

The large wolf shrugged, a human gesture he had picked up after spending so much time among them. "One is not sure," Wolf said truthfully, for lying was not something that any self-respecting wolf would even consider. That was a human thing, best left to humans and their devices. "But one knows that it is going to happen soon, and that it will change many things." Geran frowned, not liking the way Wolf had said that last part. he was about to say so when Wolf's ears shot up, his tongue lolling out in his version of a wolfy grin. "Your sire is coming."

Sure enough, the sound of footsteps reached Geran's ears not long after Wolf's statement and the tall, broad-shouldered figure of his father, King Belgarion of Riva and Overlord of the West, appeared. I'll look like that one day soon, Geran told himself, as he thought at least six times every day. Mother said not to worry, that he would fill in his height soon enough, but the young Rivan could not help but despair that he would remain forever tall and gangly as a sapling. He could hardly even manage to lift a broadsword or an axe! Instead, he made do with the longbow and sabre that had been given to him as a gift when he turned fourteen by King Hettar of the Algars. The last time that Hettar had visited, he had practiced with Geran and complimented the young man on his skill. King Anheg of the Chereks did not seem so impressed, voicing his opinion that a Crown Prince of Riva should learn how to use a real blade.

"Hello father," Geran called as soon as he climbed to his feet, brushing the majority of snow off of himself. "Please don't tell me that I have to come in the rest of the day and listen to reports again. It is so boring to listen to those puffed up men go on and on about nothing that matters. Like the Toldendran Ambassador. Father, I do not care if I am Tolnedran, that man looks and acts remarkably like a toad."

Garion grinned and shook his head. "Geran, you have been listening to me too much," he said, reaching out to clap his son on the shoulder. "Don't let your mother hear you talking like that. She may agree, but she'll never admit it to you."

"I know better than to start something up with mother," Geran said ruefully, remembering the last time he had made what the little Rivan Queen deemed an inappropriate comment. "Especially when she's pregnant."

"Smart lad."

"So what did you come out here for, father?" Geran asked, knowing that his father would not have come outside purely for the fresh air. Not at this time of day, there were far too many things for the King of Riva to do. One of the worst parts about being Crown Prince was having to learn all those things. Or perhaps it was taking over the day to day dealings when his father had to go somewhere to take care of something. He hadn't been allowed to do that until only two years ago, something he had not argued. It wasn't something known to many people, but Geran did not have any desire to become King.

"I'm being called away, Geran," Garion said, his blue eyes taking on the serious light that was so often in his son's. "Which means that you are going to have to sit through a lot of boring reports."

Geran's face fell. "What for this time?" he demanded, not even trying to hide the dissapointment and anger in his voice. "Not only will you miss Ildera's birthday, but you will be missing Beldaran's again! You are always called away just as it nears this time of year, I swear to Belar it is truth. The only king absent from any of our celebrations seems to be you." He was acting childish, he knew that, but he didn't care. True, Geran would have gotten over his father missing his birthday, but not over him missing those of his sister's. Beldaran was going to be turning sixteen! If the young woman had not raised such a fuss over the matter that it had made Ce'Nedra's tempers look calm, then she would already be betrothed.

"Geran, you know I have no choice in these matters," Garion said firmly, the regret in his voice so faint that Geran almost did not notice it. "And you should really start thinking more of Riva and the other kingdoms than of your birthday. You are eighteen years old, a man by anyone's standards. Someone has to look after your mother and sisters while I am away. Continue to act like this and I may have to ask someone else to fill the shoes you are supposed to when I leave the Isle. As Crown Prince, I expect better of you."

The young man lowered his eyes. "Yes father."

"And I will not miss their birthdays. She and Beldaran will be coming along with me."

"What! They get to go with you somewhere that is likely more interesting than this rock and I have -"

"Geran!" Garion said sharply, cutting his son off. "You are acting like a spoiled princeling, stop it right now or I will find a way to get your Aunt Polgara here."

Geran struggled to keep the bitterness out of his tone, his cheeks heating from the look Wolf was giving him. "Why are they going with you, if I may ask, your Majesty?"

"Aunt Pol requested that they come when she told me that I needed to come visit her," Garion said simply. "So they are coming with me, and you are staying here in my place. You know all that needs to be done, and your seal will be accepted as mine. Don't let anything that I wouldn't sign go through." With that said, the Rivan King turned and strode back off in the direction he had come from.

"One believes that your sire is right," Wolf remarked as he walked up beside Geran. "Acting like a foolish pup does no good for the pack when one is expected to be the leader someday. You need to learn how to lead in the absence of your sire."

"Hush," Geran said sullenly, not wanting to discuss it with the wolf, who seemed to have far too good a grasp on the matter.

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Ildera looked up from her packing, a mischeivous smile flitting across her freckled face. Unlike all of her four sisters, the only physical feature she had gotten from her mother were those freckles. Otherwise, she looked completely like an Algar. Her eyes were so dark a brown as to be nearly black and her hair, which she kept cropped to just above her ears, was blacker than a raven's wing. Her mother threw a temper each and every time that she got her hair cut back to this length, but Ildera had learned how to ignore those. "We get to see Asrana again," she said to the red-haired girl across from her. "Is that why you are so eager to go with father, despite the cold?"

Emerald green eyes flashed as the other girl looked up, her creamy face flushing. "Asrana is our cousin," Beldaran said primly. "Of course I wish to see her again. Along with Aunt Polgara and her other children..." The fire in her emerald eyes had faded to a more dreamy one that caused her sister to snicker and toss one of her tunics at her.

"She's not really our cousin, you know," Ildera remarked as she caught the tunic Beldaran whipped back at her. They could have left their packing to the servants like most royal children did, but their father insisted that they pack on their own when they were going to visit a relation who was not royalty. Which meant that Ildera could get away with wearing more tunics and breeches than normal. "There are about three thousand years or so in there thinning the bloodline out. We may have a drop," here the raven-haired girl held up two fingers that were not even a centimeter apart, "of blood in common with her. We're closer to the Dryads than her!"

"Let's not talk about this now, Ildera," Beldaran said quietly, folding another dress carefully. "Please? One of the servants might overhear and then word will be carried to mother. You remember how she was after Asrana's last visit, don't you? I don't want to have to listen to a speech before we leave, and you know that she'd get father to side with her again. So just... pack your things and let's leave. I cannot wait to be back amidst the trees and off of this Isle."

Despite the fact that she really didn't want to, Ildera let the matter lie. For now. But there were weeks of traveling ahead...