David Eddings: Queen of Sorcery

Mister Wolf scratched thoughtfully at his beard as he squinted at the shadows hovering in the trees around them.

“I have an uncle who lives not far from here,” Lelldorin offered, “Count Reldegen. I’m sure he’ll be glad to give us shelter.”

“Thin?” Mister Wolf asked. “Dark hair?”

“It’s gray now,” Lelldorin replied. “Do you know him?”

“I haven’t seen him for twenty years,” Wolf told him. “As I recall, he used to be quite a hothead.”

“Uncle Reldegen? You must have him confused with somebody else, Belgarath.”

“Maybe,” Wolf said. “How far is it to his house?”

“No more than a league and a half away.”

“Let’s go see him,” Wolf decided.

Lelldorin shook his reins and moved into the lead to show them the way.

“How are you and your friend getting along?” Silk asked, falling in beside Garion.

“Fine, I suppose,” Garion replied, not quite sure how the rat-faced little man intended the question. “It seems to be a little hard to explain things to him though.”

“That’s only natural,” Silk observed. “He’s an Arend, after all.”

Garion quickly came to Lelldorin’s defense. “He’s honest and very brave.”

“They all are. That’s part of the problem.”

“I like him,” Garion asserted.

“So do I, Garion, but that doesn’t keep me from realizing the truth about him.”

“If you’re trying to say something, why don’t you just go ahead and say it?”

“All right, I will. Don’t let friendship get the better of your good sense. Arendia’s a very dangerous place, and Arends tend to blunder into disasters quite regularly. Don’t let your exuberant young companion drag you into something that’s none of your business.” Silk’s look was direct, and Garion realized that the little man was quite serious.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised.

“I knew I could count on you,” Silk said gravely.

“Are you 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 really 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 dark-haired 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 please thee or not, Asturias future is in Mimbrate hands. Thy rancorous denouncements and sulfurous rhetoric shall not alter that fact.”

“Don’t thee me or thou me, Berentain,” the dark-haired one sneered. “Your imitation Mimbrate courtesy turns my stomach.”

“Gentlemen, that’s enough!” Count Reldegen said sharply, rapping his cane on the stone floor. “If you two are going to insist on discussing politics, I’ll have you separated—forcibly, if necessary.”

The two young men scowled at each other and then stalked off to opposite sides of the room. “My son, Torasin,” the count admitted apologetically, indicating the dark-haired youth, “and his cousin Berentain, the son of my late wife’s brother. They’ve been wrangling like this for two weeks now. I had to take their swords away from them the day after Berentain arrived.”

“Political discussion is good for the blood, my Lord,” Silk observed, “especially in the winter. The heat keeps the veins from clogging up.”

The count chuckled at the little man’s remark.

“Prince Kheldar of the royal house of Drasnia,” Mister Wolf introduced Silk.