Castle of Wizardry

introduce your friends to me, Belgarath?" the woman suggested, hanging her cloak on a peg. She smoothed the front of her plain brown dress.
    "As you wish, Vordai," the old man replied politely. "This is Prince Kheldar, your countryman. And this is King Belgarion of Riva."
    "Noble guests," the woman observed in that strangely neutral voice. "Welcome to the house of Vordai."
    "Forgive me, madame," Silk said in his most courtly manner, "but your reputation seems to be grossly inaccurate."
    "Vordai, the witch of the fens?" she asked, looking amused. "Do they still call me that?"
    He smiled in return. "Their descriptions are misleading, to say the least."
    "The hag of the swamps." She mimicked the speech of a credulous peasant. "Drowner of travellers and queen of the fenlings." There was a bitter twist to her lips.
    "That's more or less what they say," he told her. "I always believed you were a myth conjured up to frighten unruly children."
    "Vordai will get you and gobble you up!" She laughed, but there was no humor in her laughter. "I've been hearing that for generations. Take off your cloaks, gentlemen. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable. You'll be staying for a while."
    One of the fenlings - the one who had led them to the island, Garion thought - chattered at her in a piping little voice, glancing nervously at the pot hanging in the fire.
    "Yes," she answered quite calmly, "I know that it's boiling, Tupik. It has to boil or it won't cook." She turned back to her guests. "Breakfast will be ready in a bit," she told them. "Tupik tells me you haven't eaten yet."
    "You can communicate with them?" Silk sounded surprised.
    "Isn't that obvious, Prince Kheldar? Here, let me hang your cloaks by the fire to dry." She stopped and regarded Garion gravely. "So great a sword for one so young," she noted, looking at the great hilt rising above his shoulder. "Stand it in the corner, King Belgarion. There's no one to fight here."
    Garion inclined his head politely, unbuckled the sword belt and handed her his cloak.
    Another, somewhat smaller fenling darted out of a comer with a piece of cloth and began busily wiping up the water that had dripped from their cloaks, chattering disapprovingly all the while.
    "You'll have to forgive Poppi." Vordai smiled. "She's obsessed with tidiness. I sometimes think that, if I left her alone, she'd sweep holes in the floor."
    "They're changing, Vordai," Belgarath said gravely, seating himself at the table.
    "I know," she replied, going to the fireplace to stir the bubbling pot. "I've watched them over the years. They're not the same as they were when I came here."
    "It was a mistake to tamper with them," he told her.
    "So you've said before - you and Polgara both. How is she, by the way?"
    "Probably raging by now. We slipped out of the Citadel at Riva without telling her we were leaving, and that sort of thing irritates her."
    "Polgara was born irritable."
    "We agree on that point anyway."
    "Breakfast's ready." She lifted the pot with a curved iron hook and set it on the table. Poppi scampered over to a cupboard standing against the far wall and brought back a stack of wooden bowls, then returned for spoons. Her large eyes were very bright, and she chittered seriously at the three visitors.
    "She's telling you not to drop crumbs on her clean floor," Vordai advised them, removing a steaming loaf of bread from an oven built into the side of the fireplace. "Crumbs infuriate her."
    "We'll be careful," Belgarath promised.
    It was a peculiar sort of breakfast, Garion thought. The stew that came steaming from the pot was thick, with strange vegetables floating in it, and large chunks of fish. It was delicately seasoned, however, and he found it delicious. By the time he had finished eating, he rather reluctantly concluded that Vordai might even be as good a cook as Aunt Pol.
    "Excellent, Vordai," Belgarath complimented her, finally pushing his bowl away. "Now suppose we get down to business. Why did you have us brought here?"
    "To talk, Belgarath," she replied. "I don't get much company, and conversation's a good way to pass a rainy morning. Why have you come into the fens?"
    "The Prophecy moves on, Vordai - even if sometimes we don't. The Rivan King has returned, and Torak stirs in his sleep."
    "Ah," she said without much real interest.
    "The Orb of Aldur stands on the pommel of Belgarion's sword. The day is not far off when the Child of Light and the Child of Dark must meet. We go toward that