Queen of Sorcery

making fun of me?"
    "Would I do that, Garion?" Silk asked mockingly. Then he laughed and they rode on together through the gloomy afternoon.
    The gray stone house of Count Reldegen was about a mile back in the forest from the highway, and it stood in the center of a clearing that extended beyond bowshot in every direction. Although it had no wall, it had somehow the look of a fort. The windows facing out were narrow and covered with iron gratings. Strong turrets surmounted by battlements stood at each corner, and the gate which opened into the central courtyard of the house was made of whole tree trunks, squared off and strapped together with iron bands. Garion stared at the brooding pile as they approached in the rapidly fading light. There was a kind of haughty ugliness about the house, a grim solidity that seemed to defy the world.
    "It's not a very pleasant-looking sort of place, is it?" he said to Silk.
    "Asturian architecture's a reflection of their society," Silk replied. "A strong house isn't a bad idea in a country where neighborhood disputes sometimes get out of hand."
    "Are they all so afraid of each other?"
    "Just cautious, Garion. Just cautious."
    Lelldorin dismounted before the heavy gate and spoke to someone on the other side through a small grill. There was finally a rattling of chains and the grinding sound of heavy, iron-shod bars sliding back.
    "I wouldn't make any quick moves once we're inside," Silk advised quietly. "There'll probably be archers watching us."
    Garion looked at him sharply.
    "A quaint custom of the region," Silk informed him.
    They rode into a cobblestoned courtyard and dismounted.
    Count Reldegen, when he appeared, was a tall, thin man with irongray hair and beard who walked with the aid of a stout cane. He wore a rich green doublet and black hose; despite the fact that he was in his own house, he carried a sword at his side. He limped heavily down a broad flight of stairs from the house to greet them.
    "Uncle," Lelldorin said, bowing respectfully.
    "Nephew," the count replied in polite acknowledgment.
    "My friends and I found ourselves in the vicinity," Lelldorin stated, "and we thought we might impose on you for the night."
    "You're always welcome, nephew," Reldegen answered with a kind of grave formality. "Have you dined yet?"
    "No, uncle."
    "Then you must all take supper with me. May I know your friends?"
    Mister Wolf pushed back his hood and stepped forward. "You and I are already acquainted, Reldegen," he said.
    The count's eyes widened. "Belgarath? Is it realy you?"
    Wolf grinned. "Oh, yes. I'm still wandering about the world, stirring up mischief."
    Reldegen laughed then and grasped Wolf's upper arm warmly. "Come inside, all of you. Let's not stand about in the cold." He turned and limped up the steps to the house.
    "What happened to your leg?" Wolf asked him.
    "An arrow in the knee." The count shrugged. "The result of an old disagreement - long since forgotten."
    "As I recall, you used to get involved in quite a few of those. I thought for a while that you intended to go through life with your sword half drawn."
    "I was an excitable youth," the count admitted, opening the broad door at the top of the steps. He led them down a long hallway to a room of imposing size with a large blazing fireplace at each end. Great curving stone arches supported the ceiling. The floor was of polished black stone, scattered with fur rugs, and the walls, arches, and ceiling were whitewashed in gleaming contrast. Heavy, carved chairs of dark brown wood sat here and there, and a great table with an iron candelabra in its center stood near the fireplace at one end. A dozen or so leather-bound books were scattered on its polished surface.
    "Books, Reldegen?" Mister Wolf said in amazement as he and the others removed their cloaks and gave them to the servants who immediately appeared. "You have mellowed, my friend."
    The count smiled at the old man's remark.
    "I'm forgetting my manners," Wolf apologized. "My daughter, Polgara. Pol, this is Count Reldegen, an old friend."
    "My Lady," the count acknowledged with an exquisite bow, "my house is honored."
    Aunt Pol was about to reply when two young men burst into the room, arguing heatedly.
    "You're an idiot, Berentain!" the first, a darkhaired youth in a scarlet doublet, snapped.
    "It may please thee to think so, Torasin," the second, a stout young man with pale, curly hair and wearing a green and yellow striped tunic, replied, "but whether it