Demon Lord of Karanda

1

The first snow of the season settled white and quiet through the breathless air onto the decks of their ship. It was a wet snow with large, heavy flakes that piled up on the lines and rigging, turning the tarred ropes into thick, white cables. The sea was black, and the swells rose and fell without sound. From the stem came the slow, measured beat of a muffled drum that set the stroke for the Mallorean oarsmen. The sifting flakes settled on the shoulders of the sailors and in the folds of their scarlet cloaks as they pulled steadily through the snowy morning. Their breath steamed in the chill dampness as they bent and straightened in unison to the beat of the drum.

Garion and Silk stood at the rail with their cloaks pulled tightly around them, staring somberly out through the filmy snowfall.

“Miserable morning,” the rat-faced little Drasnian noted, distastefully brushing snow from his shoulders.

Garion grunted sourly.

“You’re in a cheerful humor today.”

“I don’t really have all that much to smile about, Silk.” Garion went back to glowering out at the gloomy black—and-white morning.

Belgarath the Sorcerer came out of the aft cabin, squinted up into the thickly settling snow, and raised the hood of his stout old cloak. Then he came forward along the slippery deck to join them at the rail.

Silk glanced at the red-cloaked Mallorean soldier who had unobtrusively come up on deck behind the old man and who now stood leaning with some show of idleness on the rail several yards aft. “I see that General Atesca is still concerned about your well-being,” he said, pointing at the man who had dogged Belgarath’s steps since they had sailed out of the harbor at Rak Verkat.

Belgarath threw a quick disgusted glance in the soldier’s direction. “Stupidity,” he said shortly. “Where does he think I’m going?”

A sudden thought came to Garion. He leaned forward and spoke very quietly. “You know,” he said, “we could go someplace, at that. We’ve got a ship here, and a ship goes wherever you point it—Mallorea just as easily as the coast of Hagga.”

“It’s an interesting notion, Belgarath,” Silk agreed.

“There are four of us, Grandfather,” Garion pointed out. “You, me, Aunt Pol, and Durnik. I’m sure we wouldn’t have much difficulty in taking over this ship. Then we could change course and be halfway to Mallorea before Kal Zakath realized that we weren’t coming to Rak Hagga after all.” The more he thought about it, the more the idea excited him. “Then we could sail north along the Mallorean coast and anchor in a cove or inlet someplace on the shore of Camat. We’d only be a week or so from Ashaba. We might even be able to get there before Zandramas does.” A bleak smile touched his lips. “I’d sort of like to be waiting for her when she gets there.”

“It’s got some definite possibilities, Belgarath,” Silk said. “Could you do it?”

Belgarath scratched thoughtfully at his beard, squinting out into the sifting snow. “It’s possible,” he admitted. He looked at Garion. “But what do you think we ought to do with all these Mallorean soldiers and the ship’s crew, once we get to the coast of Camat? You weren’t planning to sink the ship and drown them all, were you, the way Zandramas does when she’s finished using people?”

“Of course not!”

“I’m glad to hear that—but then how did you plan to keep them from running to the nearest garrison just as soon as we leave them behind? I don’t know about you, but the idea of having a regiment or so of Mallorean troops hot on our heels doesn’t excite me all that much.”

Garion frowned. “I guess I hadn’t thought about that,” he admitted.

“I didn’t think you had. It’s usually best to work your way completely through an idea before you put it into action. It avoids a great deal of spur-of—the-moment patching later on.”

” All right,” Garion said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

“I know you’re impatient, Garion, but impatience is a poor substitute for a well-considered plan.”

“Do you mind, Grandfather?” Garion said acidly.

“Besides, it might just be that we’re supposed to go to Rak Hagga and meet with Kal Zakath. Why would Cyradis turn us over to the Malloreans, after she went to all the trouble of putting The Book of Ages into my hands? There’s something else going on here, and I’m not sure we want to disrupt things until we find out a little more about them.”

The cabin door opened, and General Atesca, the commander of the Mallorean forces occupying the Isle of Verkat, emerged. From the moment they had been turned over to him, Atesca had been polite and strictly correct in all his dealings with them. He had also been very firm about his intention to deliver them personally to Kal Zakath in Rak Hagga. He was a tall, lean man, and his uniform was bright scarlet, adorned with numerous medals and decorations. He carried himself with erect dignity, though the fact that his nose had been broken at some time in the past made him look more like a street brawler than a general in an imperial army. He came up the slush-covered deck, heedless of his highly polished boots.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them with a stiff, military bow. “I trust you slept well?”

“Tolerably,” Silk replied.

“It seems to be snowing,” the general said, looking about and speaking in the tone of one making small talk for the sake of courtesy.

“I noticed that,” Silk said. “How long is it likely to take us to reach Rak Hagga?”

” A few more hours to reach the coast, your Highness, and then a two-day ride to the city.”

Silk nodded. “Have you any idea why your Emperor wants to see us?” he asked.

“He didn’t say,” Atesca answered shortly, “and I didn’t think it appropriate to ask. He merely told me to apprehend you and to bring you to him at Rak Hagga. You are all to be treated with utmost courtesy as long as you don’t try to escape. If you do that, his Imperial Majesty instructed me to be more firm.” His tone as he spoke was neutral, and his face remained expressionless. “I hope you gentlemen will excuse me now,” he, said. “I have some matters that need my attention.” He bowed curtly, turned, and left them.

“He’s a gold mine of information, isn’t he?” Silk noted dryly. “Most Melcenes love to gossip, but you’ve got to pry every word out of this one.”

“Melcene?” Garion said. “I didn’t know that.”

Silk nodded. “Atesca’s a Melcene name. Kal Zakath has some peculiar ideas about the aristocracy of talent. Angarak officers don’t like the idea, but there’s not too much they can do about it—if they want to keep their heads.”

Garion was not really that curious about the intricacies of Mallorean politics, so he let the matter drop, to return to the subject they had been discussing previously. “I’m not quite clear about what you were saying, Grandfather,” he said, “about our going to Rak Hagga, I mean.”

“Cyradis believes that she has a choice to make,” the old man replied,” and there are certain conditions that have to be met before she can make it. I’ve got a suspicion that your meeting with ’Zakath might be one of those conditions.”

“You don’t actually believe her, do you?”

“I’ve seen stranger things happen and I always walk very softly around the Seers of Kell.”

“I haven’t seen anything about a meeting of that kind in the Mrin Codex.”

” Neither have I, but there are more things in the world than the Mrin Codex. You’ve got to keep in mind the fact that Cyradis is drawing on the prophecies of both sides, and if the prophecies are equal, they have equal truth. Not only that, Cyradis is probably drawing on some prophecies that only the Seers know about. Wherever this list of preconditions came from, though, I’m fairly certain that she won’t let us get to this ‘place which is no more’ until every item’s been crossed off her list.”

“Won’t let us?” Silk said.

“Don’t underestimate Cyradis, Silk,” Belgarath cautioned. “She’s the receptacle of all the power the Dals possess. That means that she can probably do things that the rest of us couldn’t even begin to dream of. Let’s look at things from a practical point of view, though. When we started out, we were a half a year behind Zandramas and we were planning a very tedious and time-consuming trek across Cthol Murgos—but we kept getting interrupted."

“Tell me about it,” Silk said sardonically.

“Isn’t it curious that after all these interruptions, we’ve reached the eastern side of the continent ahead of schedule and cut Zandramas’ lead down to a few weeks?”

Silk blinked, and then his eyes narrowed.

“Gives you something to think about, doesn’t it?” The old man pulled his cloak more tightly about him and looked around at the settling snow. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested. “It’s really unpleasant out here.”

The coast of Hagga was backed by low hills, filmy-looking and white in the thick snowfall. There were extensive salt marshes at the water’s edge, and, the brown reeds bent under their burden of wet, clinging snow. A black-looking wooden pier extended out across the marshes to deeper water, and they disembarked from the Mallorean ship without incident. At the landward end of the pier a wagon track ran up into the hills, its twin ruts buried in snow.

Sadi the eunuch looked upward with a slightly bemused expression as they rode off the pier and onto the road. He lightly brushed one long-fingered hand across his shaved scalp. “They feel like fairy wings,” he smiled.

“What’s that?” Silk asked him.

“The snowflakes. I’ve almost never seen snow before-only when I was visiting a northern kingdom—and I actually believe that this is the first time I’ve ever been out of doors when it was snowing. It’s not too bad, is it?”

Silk gave him a sour look. “The first chance I get, I’ll buy you a sled,” he said.

Sadi looked puzzled. “Excuse me, Kheldar, but what’s a sled?” he asked.

Silk sighed. “Never mind, Sadi. I was only trying to be funny.”

At the top of the first hill a dozen or so crosses leaned at various angles beside the road. Hanging from each cross was a skeleton with a few tattered rags clinging to its bleached bones and a clump of snow crowning its vacant-eyed skull.

“One is curious to know the reason for that, General Atesca,” Sadi said mildly, pointing at the grim display at the roadside.

“Policy, your Excellency.” Atesca replied curtly. “His Imperial Majesty seeks to alienate the Murgos from their king. He hopes to make them realize that Urgit is the cause of their misfortunes.”

Sadi shook his head dubiously. “I’d question the reasoning behind that particular policy,” he disagreed.

“Atrocities seldom endear one to the victims. I’ve always preferred bribery myself.”

“Murgos are accustomed to being treated atrociously.” Atesca shrugged. “It’s all they understand.”

“Why haven’t you taken them down and buried them?” Durnik demanded, his face pale and his voice thick with outrage.

Atesca gave him a long, steady look. “Economy, Goodman,” he replied. “An empty cross really doesn’t prove very much. If we took them down, we’d just have to replace them with fresh Murgos. That gets to be tedious after a while, and sooner or later one starts to run out of people to crucify. Leaving the skeletons there proves our point—and it saves time.”

Garion did his best to keep his body between Ce’Nedra and the gruesome object lesson at the side of the road, trying to shield her from that hideous sight. She rode on obliviously, however, her face strangely numb and her eyes blank and unseeing. He threw a quick, questioning glance at Polgara and saw a slight frown on her face. He dropped back and pulled his horse in beside hers. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked in a tense whisper.

“I’m not entirely sure, Garion,” she whispered back.

“Is it the melancholia again?” There was a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t think so,” Her eyes were narrowed in thought, and she absently pulled the hood of her blue robe forward to cover the white lock in the midnight of her hair. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay with her. Try to get her to talk. She might say something to give us some clues.”

Ce’Nedra, however, made few responses to Garion’s efforts to engage her in conversation, and her answers for the remainder of that snowy day quite frequently had little relevance to either his questions or his observations.

As evening began to settle over the war-ravaged countryside of Hagga, General Atesca called a halt, and his soldiers began to erect several scarlet pavilions in the lee of a fire-blackened stone wall, all that remained of a burned-out village. “We should reach Rak Hagga by late tomorrow afternoon,” he advised them. “That large pavilion in the center of the encampment will be yours for the night. My men will bring you your evening meal in a little while. Now, if you’ll all excuse me—” He inclined his head briefly, then turned his horse around to supervise his men.

When the soldiers had completed the erection of the pavilions, Garion and his friends dismounted in front of the one Atesca had indicated. Silk looked around at the guard detachment moving into position around the large red tent. “I wish he’d make up his mind,” he said irritably.

“I don’t quite follow you, Prince Kheldar,” Velvet said to him. “Just who should make up his mind?”

“Atesca. He’s the very soul of courtesy, but he surrounds us with armed guards.”

“The troops might just be there to protect us, Kheldar,” she pointed out. “This is a war zone, after all.”

“Of course,” he said dryly, “and cows might fly, too—if they had wings.”

“What a fascinating observation,” she marveled.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that all the time.”

“Do what?” Her brown eyes were wide and innocent.

“Forget it.”

The supper Atesca’s cooks prepared for them was plain, consisting of soldiers’ rations and served on tin plates, but it was hot and filling. The interior of the pavilion was heated by charcoal braziers and filled with the golden glow of hanging oil lamps. The furnishings were of a military nature, the kinds of tables and beds and chairs that could be assembled and disassembled rapidly, and the floors and walls were covered with Mallorean carpets’ dyed a solid red color.

Eriond looked around curiously after he had pushed his plate back. “They seem awfully partial to red, don’t they?” he noted.

“I think it reminds them of blood,” Durnik declared bleakly. “They like blood.” He turned to look coldly at the mute Toth. “If you’ve finished eating, I think we’d prefer it if you left the table,” he said in a flat tone.

“That’s hardly polite, Durnik,” Polgara said reprovingly.

“I wasn’t trying to be polite, Pol. I don’t see why he has to be with us in the first place. He’s a traitor. Why doesn’t he go stay with his friends?”

The giant mute rose from the table, his face melancholy. He lifted one hand as if he were about to make one of those obscure gestures with which he and the smith communicated, but Durnik deliberately turned his back on him. Toth sighed and went over to sit unobtrusively in one corner.

“Garion,” Ce’Nedra said suddenly, looking around with a worried little frown, “where’s my baby?”

He stared at her.

“Where’s Geran?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

“Ce’Nedra—” he started.

“I hear him crying. What have you done with him?” She suddenly sprang to her feet and began to dash about the tent, flinging back the curtains that partitioned off the sleeping quarters and yanking back the blankets on each bed. “Help me!” she cried to them. “Help me find my baby!”

Garion crossed the tent quickly to take her by the arm.

“Ce’Nedra—”

“No!” she shouted at him. “You’ve hidden him somewhere! Let me go!” She wrenched herself free of his grasp and began overturning the furniture in her desperate search, sobbing and moaning unintelligibly.

Again Garion tried to restrain her, but she suddenly hissed at him and extended her fingers like talons to claw at his eyes.

“Ce’Nedra! Stop that!”

But she darted around him and bolted out of the pavilion into the snowy night.

As Garion burst through the tent flap in pursuit, he found his way barred by a red-cloaked Mallorean soldier.

“You! Get back inside!” the man barked, blocking Garion with the shaft of his spear. Over the guard’s shoulder, Garion saw Ce’Nedra struggling with another soldier; without even thinking, he smashed his fist into the face in front of him. The guard reeled backward and fell.

Garion leaped over him, but found himself suddenly seized from behind by a half-dozen more men. “Leave her alone!” he shouted at the guard who was cruelly holding one of the little queen’s arms behind her.

“Get back inside the tent!” a rough voice barked, and Garion found himself being dragged backward step by step toward the tent flap. The soldier holding Ce’Nedra was half lifting, half pushing her back toward the same place. With a tremendous effort, Garion got control of himself and coldly began to draw in his will.

“That will be enough!” Polgara’s voice cracked from the doorway to the tent.

The soldiers stopped, looking uncertainly at each other and somewhat fearfully at the commanding presence in the doorway.

“Durnik!” she said then. “Help Garion bring Ce’Nedra back inside.”

Garion shook himself free of the restraining hands and he and Durnik took the violently struggling little Queen from the soldier and pulled her back toward the pavilion.

“Sadi,” Polgara said as Durnik and Garion entered the tent with Ce’Nedra between them, “do you have any oret in that case of yours?”

“Certainly, Lady Polgara,” the eunuch replied, “but are you sure that oret is appropriate here? I’d be more inclined toward naladium, personally.”

“I think we’ve got more than a case of simple hysteria on our hands, Sadi. I want something strong enough to insure that she doesn’t wake up the minute my back’s turned”

“Whatever you think best, Lady Polgara.” He crossed the carpeted floor, opened his red leather case, and took out a vial of dark blue liquid. Then he went to the table and picked up a cup of water. He looked at her inquiringly.

She frowned. “Make it three drops,” she decided.

He gave her a slightly startled look, then gravely measured out the dosage. It took several moments of combined effort to get Ce’Nedra to drink the contents of the cup. She continued to sob and struggle for several moments, but then her struggles grew gradually weaker, and her sobbing lessened. Finally she closed her eyes with a deep sigh, and her breathing became regular.

“Let’s get her to bed,” Polgara said, leading the way, to one of the curtained-off sleeping chambers.

Garion picked up the tiny form of his sleeping wife and followed. “What’s wrong with her, Aunt Pol?” he demanded as he laid her gently on the bed.

“I’m not positive,” Polgara replied, covering Ce’Nedra with a rough soldier’s blanket. “I’ll need more time to pin it down.”

“What can we do?”

“Not very much while we’re on the road,” she admitted candidly, “We’ll keep her asleep until we get to Rak Hagga. Once I get her into a more stable situation, I’ll be able to work on it. Stay with her. I want to talk with Sadi for a few moments.”

Garion sat worriedly by the bed, gently holding his wife’s limp little hand while Polgara went back out to consult with the eunuch concerning the various drugs in his case. Then she returned, drawing the drape shut behind her. “He has most of what I need,” she reported quietly. “I’ll be able to improvise the rest.” She touched Garion’s shoulder and bent forward. “General Atesca just came in,” she whispered to him. “He wants to see you. I wouldn’t be too specific about the cause of Ce’Nedra’s attack. We can’t be sure just how much ’Zakath knows about our reasons for being here, and Atesca’s certain to report everything that happens, so watch what you say.”

He started to protest.

“You can’t do anything here, Garion, and they need you out there. I’ll watch her.”

“Is she subject to these seizures often?” Atesca was asking as Garion came through the draped doorway.

“She’s very high-strung,” Silk replied. “Sometimes circumstances get the best of her. Polgara knows what to do.”

Atesca turned to face Garion. “Your Majesty,” he said in a chilly tone, “I don’t appreciate your attacking my soldiers.”

“He got in my way, General,” Garion replied. “I don’t think I hurt him all that much.”

“There’s a principle involved, your Majesty.”

“Yes,” Garion agreed, “there is. Give the man my apologies, but advise him not to interfere with me again—particularly when it concerns my wife. I don’t really like hurting people, but I can make exceptions when I have to.”

Atesca’s look grew steely, and the gaze Garion returned was just as bleak. They stared at each other for a long moment. “With all due respect, your Majesty,” Atesca said finally, “don’t abuse my hospitality again.”

” Only if the situation requires it, General.”

“I’ll instruct my men to prepare a litter for your wife,” Atesca said then, “and let’s plan to get an early start tomorrow. If the Queen is ill, we want to get her to Rak Hagga as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, General,” Garion replied.

Atesca bowed coldly, then turned and left.

“Wouldn’t you say that was a trifle blunt, Belgarion?” Sadi murmured. “We are in Atesca’s power at the moment.”

Garion grunted. “I didn’t like his attitude.” He looked at Belgarath, whose expression was faintly disapproving.

“Well?” he asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I could hear you thinking all the way over here.”

“Then I don’t have to say it, do I?”

The next day dawned cold and raw, but the snow had stopped. Garion rode at the side of Ce’Nedra’s horse-borne litter with his face mirroring his concern. The road they followed ran northwesterly past more burned-out villages and shattered towns. The ruins were covered with a thick coating of the clinging wet snow that had fallen the previous day, and each of them was encircled by a ring of those grim, occupied crosses and stakes.

It was about midafternoon when they crested a hill and saw the lead-gray expanse of Lake Hagga stretching far in the north and east; on the near shore was a large, walled city.

“Rak Hagga,” Atesca said with a certain relief.

They rode on down the hill toward the city. A brisk wind was blowing in off the lake, whipping their cloaks about them and tossing the manes of their horses.

“All right, gentlemen,” Atesca said over his shoulder to his troops, “let’s form up and try to look like soldiers.” The red-cloaked Malloreans pulled their horses into a double file and straightened in their saddles.

The walls of Rak Hagga had been breached in several places, and the tops of the battlements were chipped and pitted from the storms of steel-tipped arrows that had swept over them. The heavy gates had been burst asunder during the final assault on the city and hung in splinters from their rusty iron hinges.

The guards at the gate drew themselves up and saluted smartly as Atesca led the way into the city. The battered condition of the stone houses within the walls attested to the savagery of the fighting which had ensued when Rak Hagga had fallen. Many of them stood unroofed to the sky, their gaping, soot-blackened windows staring out at the rubble-choked streets. A work gang of sullen Murgos, dragging clanking chains behind them, labored to clear the fallen building stones out of the slushy streets under the watchful eyes of a detachment of Mallorean soldiers.

“You know,” Silk said, “that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a Murgo actually work. I didn’t think they even knew how.”

The headquarters of the Mallorean army in Cthol Murgos was in a large, imposing yellow-brick house near the center of the city. It faced a broad, snowy square, and a marble staircase led up to the main door with a file of red-cloaked Mallorean soldiers lining each side.

“The former residence of the Murgo Military Governor of Hagga,” Sadi noted as they drew near the house.

“You’ve been here before, then?” Silk asked.

“In my youth,” Sadi replied. “Rak Hagga has always been the center of the slave trade.”

Atesca dismounted and turned to one of his officers.

“Captain,” he said, “have your men bring the Queen’s litter. Tell them to be very careful.”

As the rest of them swung down from their mounts, the captain’s men unfastened the litter from the saddles of the two horses that had carried it and started up the marble stairs in General Atesca’s wake.

Just inside the broad doors stood a polished table, and seated behind it was an arrogant-looking man with angular eyes and an expensive-looking scarlet uniform.

Against the far wall stood a row of chairs occupied by bored-looking officials.

“State your business,” the officer behind the table said brusquely.

Atesca’s face did not change expression as he silently stared at the officer.

“I said to state your business.”

“Have the rules changed, Colonel?” Atesca asked in a deceptively mild voice. “Do we no longer rise in the presence of a superior?”

“I’m too busy to jump to my feet for every petty Melcene official from the outlying districts,” the colonel declared.

“Captain,” Atesca said flatly to his officer, “if the colonel is not on his feet in the space of two heartbeats, would you be so good as to cut his head off for me?”

“Yes, sir,” the captain replied, drawing his sword even as the startled colonel jumped to his feet.

“Much better,” Atesca told him. “Now, let’s begin over again. Do you by chance remember how to salute?”

The colonel saluted smartly, though his face was pale.

“Splendid. We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Now, one of the people I was escorting—a lady of high station—fell ill during our journey. I want a warm, comfortable room prepared for her immediately.”

“Sir,” the colonel protested, “I’m not authorized to do that.”

“Don’t put your sword away just yet, Captain.”

“But, General, the members of his Majesty’s household staff make all those decisions. They’ll be infuriated if I overstep my bounds.”

“I’ll explain it to his Majesty, Colonel,” Atesca told him. “The circumstances are a trifle unusual, but I’m sure he’ll approve.”

The colonel faltered, his eyes filled with indecision.

“Do it, Colonel! Now!”

“I’ll see to it at once, General,” the colonel replied, snapping to attention. “You men,” he said to the soldiers holding Ce’Nedra’s litter, “follow me.”

Garion automatically started to follow the litter, but Polgara took his arm firmly. “No, Garion. I’ll go with her. There’s nothing you can do right now, and I think ’Zakath’s going to want to talk to you. Just be careful of what you say.” And she went off down the hallway behind the litter.

“I see that Mallorean society still has its little frictions,” Silk said blandly to General Atesca.

“Angaraks,” Atesca grunted. “Sometimes they have a little difficulty coping with the modern world. Excuse me, Prince Kheldar. I want to let his Majesty know that we’re here.” He went to a polished door at the other end of the room and spoke briefly with one of the guards. Then he came back. “The Emperor is being advised of our arrival,” he said to them. “I expect that he’ll see us in a few moments.”

A rather chubby, bald-headed man in a plain, though obviously costly, brown robe and with a heavy gold chain about his neck approached them. “Atesca, my dear fellow,” he greeted the general, “they told me that you were stationed at Rak Verkat.”

“I have some business with the Emperor, Brador. What are you doing in Cthol Murgos?”

“Cooling my heels,” the chubby man replied. “I’ve been waiting for two days to see Kal Zakath.”

“Who’s minding the shop at home?”

“I’ve arranged it so that it more or less runs itself,” Brador replied. “The report I have for his Majesty is so vital that I decided to carry it myself.”

“What could be so earthshaking that it would drag the Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs away from the comforts of Mal Zeth?”

“I believe that it’s time for his Imperial Exaltedness to tear himself away from his amusements here in Cthol Murgos and come back to the capital.”

“Careful, Brador,” Atesca said with a brief smile. “Your fine-tuned Melcene prejudices are showing.”

“Things are getting grim at home, Atesca,” Brador said seriously. “I’ve got to talk with the Emperor. Can you help me to get in to see him?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Brador said, clasping the general’s arm. “The whole fate of the empire may depend on my persuading Kal Zakath to come back to Mal Zeth.”

“General Atesca,” one of the spear-armed guards at the polished door said in a loud voice, “his Imperial Majesty will see you and your prisoners now.”

“Very good,” Atesca replied, ignoring the ominous word “prisoners.” He looked at Garion. “The Emperor must be very eager to see you, your Majesty,” he noted.

“It often takes weeks to gain an audience with him. Shall we go inside?”

2

Kal Zakath, the Emperor of boundless Mallorea, lounged in a red-cushioned chair at the far end of a large plain room. The Emperor wore a simple white linen robe, severe and unadorned. Though Garion knew that he was at least in his forties, his hair was untouched by gray and his face was unlined. His eyes, however, betrayed a kind of dead weariness, devoid of any joy or even any interest in life. Curled in his lap lay a common mackerel-striped alley cat, her eyes closed and her forepaws alternately kneading his thigh. Although the Emperor himself wore the simplest of clothes, the guards lining the walls all wore steel breastplates deeply inlaid with gold.

“My Emperor,” General Atesca said with a deep bow,

“I have the honor to present his Royal Majesty, King Belgarion of Riva.”

Garion nodded briefly, and ’Zakath inclined his head in response. “Our meeting is long overdue, Belgarion,” he said in a voice as dead as his eyes. “Your exploits have shaken the world.”

“Yours have also made a certain impression, ’Zakath.” Garion had decided even before he had left Rak Verkat—that he would not perpetuate the absurdity of the Mallorean’s self-bestowed “Kal.”

A faint smile touched ’Zakath’s lips. “Ah,” he said in a tone which indicated that he saw through Garion’s attempt to be subtle. He nodded briefly to the others, and his attention finally fixed itself upon the rumpled untidy form of Garion’s grandfather.

“And of course you, sir, would be Belgarath,” he noted. “I’m a bit surprised to find you so ordinary looking. The Grolims of Mallorea all agree that you’re a hundred feet tall—possible two hundred—and that you have horns and a forked tail.”

“I’m in disguise,” Belgarath replied with aplomb.

’Zakath chuckled, though there was little amusement in that almost mechanical sound. Then he looked around with a faint frown. “I seem to note some absences,” he said.

“Queen Ce’Nedra fell ill during our journey, your Majesty.” Atesca advised him. “Lady Polgara is attending her.”

“Ill? Is it serious?”

“It’s difficult to say at this point, your Imperial Majesty,” Sadi replied unctuously, “but we have given her certain medications, and I have every confidence in Lady Polgara’s skill.”

’Zakath looked at Garion. “You should have sent word on ahead, Belgarion. I have a healer on my personal staff—a Dalasian woman with remarkable gifts. I’ll send her to the Queen’s chambers at once. Our first concern must be your wife’s health.”

“Thank you,” Garion replied with genuine gratitude.

’Zakath touched a bellpull and spoke briefly with the servant who responded immediately to his summons.

“Please,” the Emperor said then, “seat yourselves. I have no particular interest in ceremony.”

As the guards hastily brought chairs for them, the cat sleeping in ’Zakath’s lap half opened her golden eyes and looked around at them. She rose to her paws, arched her back, and yawned. Then she jumped heavily to the floor with an audible grunt and waddled over to sniff at Eriond’s fingers. With a faintly amused look, ’Zakath watched his obviously pregnant cat make her matronly way across the carpet. “You’ll note that my cat has been unfaithful to me—again.” He sighed in mock resignation. “It happens fairly frequently, I’m afraid, and she never seems to feel the slightest guilt about it.”

The cat jumped up into Eriond’s lap, nestled down, and began to purr contentedly.

“You’ve grown, boy,” ’Zakath said to the young man.

“Have they taught you how to talk as yet?"

“I’ve picked up a few words, ’Zakath,” Eriond said in his clear voice.

“I know the rest of you—by reputation at least,” ’Zakath said then. “Goodman Durnik and I met on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull, and of course I’ve heard of the Margravine Liselle of Drasnian Intelligence and of Prince Kheldar, who strives to become the richest man in the world.”

Velvet’s graceful curtsy of acknowledgment was not quite so florid as Silk’s grandiose bow.

“And here, of course,” the Emperor continued, “is Sadi, Chief Eunuch in the palace of Queen Salmissra.”

Sadi bowed with fluid grace. “I must say that your Majesty is remarkably well informed,” he said in his contralto voice. “You have read us all like an open book.”

“My chief of intelligence tries to keep me informed, Sadi. He may not be as gifted as the inestimable Javelin of Boktor, but he knows about most of what’s going on in this part of the world. He’s mentioned that huge fellow over in the corner, but so far he hasn’t been able to discover his name.”

“He’s called Toth,” Eriond supplied. “He’s a mute, so we have to do his talking for him.”

“And a Dalasian besides,” ’Zakath noted. “A very curious circumstance.”

Garion had been closely watching this man. Beneath the polished, urbane exterior, he sensed a kind of subtle probing. The idle greetings, which seemed to be no more than a polite means of putting them at their ease, had a deeper motive behind them. In some obscure way he sensed that ’Zakath was somehow testing each of them.

The emperor straightened then. “You have an oddly assorted company with you, Belgarion,” he said, “and you’re a long way from home. I’m curious about your reasons for being here in Cthol Murgos.”

“I’m afraid that’s a private matter, ’Zakath.”

One of the Emperor’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Under the circumstances, that’s hardly a satisfactory answer, Belgarion. I can’t really take the chance that you’re allied with Urgit.”

“Would you accept my word that I’m not?”

“Not until I know a bit more about your visit to Rak Urga. Urgit left there quite suddenly—apparently in your company—and reappeared just as suddenly on the plains of Morcth, where he and a young woman led his troops out of an ambush I’d gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange. You’ll have to admit that’s a peculiar set of circumstances.”

“Not when you look at it from a practical standpoint,” Belgarath said. “The decision to take Urgit with us was mine. He’d found out who we are, and I didn’t want an army of Murgos on our heels. Murgos aren’t too bright, but they can be an inconvenience at times.

’Zakath looked surprised. “He was your prisoner?”

Belgarath shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

The Emperor laughed rather wryly. “You could have wrung almost any concession from me if you had just delivered him into my hands, you know. Why did you let him go?”

“We didn’t need him anymore,” Garion replied. “We’d reached the shores of Lake Cthaka, so he really wasn’t any kind of threat to us.”

’Zakath’s expression narrowed slightly. “A few other things happened as well, I think,” he observed. “Urgit has always been a notorious coward, wholly under the domination of the Grolim Agachak and of his father’s generals. But he didn’t seem very timid while he was extricating his troops from the trap I’d laid for them, and all the reports filtering out of Rak Urga seem to suggest that he’s actually behaving like a king. Did you by any chance have anything to do with that?”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Garion answered. “Urgit and I talked a few times, and I told him what he was doing wrong.”

’Zakath tapped one forefinger against his chin, and his eyes were shrewd. “You may not have made a lion of him, Belgarion,” he said, “but at least he’s no longer a rabbit.” A chill smile touched the Mallorean’s lips. “In a way, I’m rather glad about that. I’ve never taken much satisfaction in hunting rabbits.” He shaded his eyes with one hand, although the light in the room was not particularly bright. “But what I can’t understand is how you managed to spirit him out of the Drojim Palace and away from the city. He has whole regiments of bodyguards.”

“You’re overlooking something, ’Zakath,” Belgarath said to him. “We have certain advantages that aren’t available to others.”

“Sorcery, you mean? Is it really all that reliable?”

“I’ve had some luck with it from time to time.”

’Zakath’s eyes had become suddenly intent. “They tell me that you’re five thousand years old, Belgarath. Is that true?”

“Seven, actually—or a little more. Why do you ask?”

“In all those years, hasn’t it ever occurred to you simply to seize power? You could have made yourself king of the world, you know.”

Belgarath looked amused. “Why would I want to?” he asked.

“All men want power. It’s human nature.”

“Has all your power really made you happy?”

“It has certain satisfactions.”

“Enough to make up for all the petty distractions that go with it?”

“I can endure those. At least I’m in a position where no one tells me what to do.”

“No one tells me what to do either, and I’m not saddled with all those tedious responsibilities.” Belgarath straightened. “All right, ’Zakath, shall we get to the point? What are your intentions concerning us?”

“I haven’t really decided that yet.” The Emperor looked around at them. “I presume that we can all be civilized about the present situation?”

“How do you mean, civilized?” Garion asked him.

“I’ll accept your word that none of you will try to escape or do anything rash. I’m aware that you and a number of your friends have certain specialized talents. I don’t want to be forced to take steps to counteract them.”

“We have some rather pressing business,” Garion replied carefully, “so we can only delay for just so long.

For the time being, however, I think we can agree to be reasonable about things.”

“Good. We’ll have to talk later, you and I, and come to know one another. I’ve had comfortable quarters prepared for you and your friends, and I know that you’re anxious about your wife. Now, I hope you’ll excuse me, but I have some of those tedious responsibilities Belgarath mentioned to attend to.”

Although the house was very large, it was not, strictly speaking, a palace. It appeared that the Murgo governors-general of Hagga who had ordered it built had not shared the grandiose delusions which afflicted the rulers of Urga, and so the building was more functional than ornate.

“I hope you’ll excuse me,” General Atesca said to them when they had emerged from the audience chamber. “I’m obliged to deliver a full report to his Majesty—about various matters—and then I must return immediately to Rak Verkat.” He looked at Garion. “The circumstances under which we met were not the happiest, your Majesty.” he said, “but I hope you won’t think too unkindly of me.” He bowed rather stiffly and then left them in the care of a member of the Emperor’s staff The man who led them down a long, dark-paneled hallway toward the center of the house was obviously not an Angarak. He had not the angular eyes nor the stiff, bleak-faced arrogance that marked the men of that race.

His cheerful, round face seemed to hint at a Melcene heritage, and Garion remembered that the bureaucracy which controlled most aspects of Mallorean life was made up almost exclusively of Melcenes. “His Majesty asked me to assure you that your quarters are not intended to be a prison,” the official told them as they approached a heavily barred iron door blocking off one portion of the hallway. “This was a Murgo house before we took the city, and it has certain structural peculiarities. Your rooms are in what once were the women’s quarters, and Murgos are fanatically protective of their women. It has to do with their concept of racial purity, I think.”

At the moment, Garion had little interest in sleeping arrangements. All his concern was for Ce’Nedra. “Do you happen to know where I might find my wife?” he asked the moon-faced bureaucrat.

“There at the end of this corridor, your Majesty,” the Melcene replied, pointing toward a blue-painted door at the far end of the hall.

“Thank you.” Garion glanced at the others. “I’ll be back in a little while,” he told them and strode on ahead.

The room he entered was warm and the lighting subdued. Deep, ornately woven Mallorean carpets covered the floor and soft green velvet drapes covered the tall, narrow windows. Ce’Nedra lay in a high-posted bed, against the wall opposite the door, and Polgara was seated at the bedside, her expression grave.

“Has there been any change?” Garion asked her, softly closing the door behind him.

“Nothing as yet,” she replied.

Ce’Nedra’s face was pale as she slept with her crimson curls tumbled on her pillow.

“She is going to be all right, isn’t she?” Garion asked.

“I’m sure of it, Garion.”

Another woman sat near the bed. She wore a light green, cowled robe; despite the fact that she was indoors, she had the hood pulled up, partially concealing her face.

Ce’Nedra muttered something in a strangely harsh tone and tossed her head restlessly on her pillow. The cowled woman frowned. “Is this her customary voice, Lady Polgara?” she asked.

Polgara looked at her sharply. “No,” she replied.” As a matter of fact, it’s not.”

“Would the drug you gave her in some way affect the sound of her speech?”

“No, it wouldn’t. Actually, she shouldn’t be making any sounds at all.”

” Ah,” the woman said. “I think perhaps I understand now.” She leaned forward and very gently laid the fingertips of one hand on Ce’Nedra’s lips. She nodded then and withdrew her hand. “As I suspected,” she murmured.

Polgara also reached out to touch Ce’Nedra’s face.

Garion heard the faint whisper of her will, and the candle at the bedside flared up slightly, then sank back until its flame was scarcely more than a pinpoint. “I should have guessed,” Polgara accused herself.

“What is it?” Garion asked in alarm.

“Another mind is seeking to dominate your wife and to subdue her will, your Majesty,” the cowled woman told him. “It’s an art sometimes practiced by the Grolims. They discovered it quite by accident during the third age.”

“This is Andel, Garion,” Polgara told him. “’Zakath sent her here to help care for Ce’Nedra.”

Garion nodded briefly to the hooded woman.” Exactly what do we mean by the word ‘dominate’?” he asked.

“You should be more familiar with that than most people, Garion,” Polgara said. “I’m sure you remember Asharak the Murgo.” Garion felt a sudden chill, remembering the force of the mind that had from his earliest childhood sought that same control over his awareness. “Drive it out,” he pleaded. “Get whomever it is out of her mind.”

“Perhaps not quite yet, Garion,” Polgara said coldly. “We have an opportunity here. Let’s not waste it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, dear,” she told him. Then she rose, sat on the edge of the bed and lightly laid one hand on each of Ce’Nedra’s temples. The faint whisper came again, stronger this time, and once again the candles all flared and then sank back as if suffocating. “I know you’re in there,” she said then. “You might as well speak.”

Ce’Nedra’s expression grew contorted, and she tossed her head back and forth as if trying to escape the hands touching her temples. Polgara’s face grew stern, and she implacably kept her hands in place. The pale lock in her hair began to glow, and a strange chill came into the room, seeming to emanate from the bed itself.

Ce’Nedra suddenly screamed.

“Speak!” Polgara commanded. “You cannot flee until I release you, and I will not release you until you speak.”

Ce’Nedra’s eyes suddenly opened. They were filled with hate. “I do not fear thee, Polgara,” she said in a harsh, rasping voice delivered in a peculiar accent.

“And I fear you even less. Now, who are you?”

“Thou knowest me, Polgara.”

“Perhaps, but I will have your name from you.”

There was a long pause, and the surge of Polgara’s will grew stronger.

Ce’Nedra screamed again—a scream filled with an agony that made Garion flinch. “Stop!” the harsh voice cried. “I will speak!”

“Say your name,” Polgara insisted implacably.

“I am Zandramas.”

“So. What do you hope to gain by this?”

An evil chuckle escaped Ce’Nedra’s pale lips. “I have already stolen her heart, Polgara—her child. Now I will steal her mind as well. I could easily kill her if I chose, but a dead Queen may be buried and her grave left behind. A mad one, on the other hand, will give thee much to distract thee from thy search for the Sardion.”

“I can banish you with a snap of my fingers, Zandramas.”

“And I can return just as quickly.”

A frosty smile touched Polgara’s lips. “You’re not nearly as clever as I thought,” she said. “Did you actually believe that I twisted your name out of you for my own amusement? Were you ignorant of the power over you that you gave me when you spoke your own name. The power of the name is the most elementary of all. I can keep you out of Ce’Nedra’s mind now. There’s much more, though. For example, I know now that you’re at Ashaba, haunting the bat-infested ruins of the House of Torak like a poor ragged ghost.”

A startled gasp echoed through the room.

“I could tell you more, Zandramas, but this is all beginning to bore me.” She straightened, her hands still locked to the sides of Ce’Nedra’s head. The white lock at her brow flared into incandescence, and the faint whisper became a deafening roar. “Now, begone!” she commanded.

Ce’Nedra moaned, and her face suddenly contorted into an expression of agony. An icy, stinking wind seemed to howl through the room, and the candles and glowing braziers sank even lower until the room was scarcely lit “Begone!” Polgara repeated.

An agonized wail escaped Ce’Nedra’s lips, and then that wail became disembodied, coming it seemed from the empty air above the bed. The candles went out, and all light ceased to glow out of the braziers. The wailing voice began to fade, moving swiftly until it came to them as no more than a murmur echoing from an unimaginable distance.

“Is Zandramas gone?” Garion asked in a shaking voice.

“Yes,” Polgara replied calmly out of the sudden darkness.

“What are we going to say to Ce’Nedra? When she wakes up, I mean.”

“She won’t remember any of this. Just tell her something vague. Make some light, dear.”

Garion fumbled for one of the candles, brushed his sleeve against it, and then deftly caught it before it hit the floor. He was sort of proud of that.

“Don’t play with it, Garion. Just light it.” Her tone was so familiar and so commonplace that he began to laugh, and the little surge of his will that he directed at the candle was a stuttering sort of thing. The flame that appeared bobbled and hiccuped at the end of the wick in a soundless golden chortle.

Polgara looked steadily at the giggling candle, then closed her eyes. “Oh, Garion,” she sighed in resignation.

He moved about the room relighting the other candles and fanning the braziers back into life. The flames were all quite sedate—except for the original one, which continued to dance and laugh in blithe glee.

Polgara turned to the hooded Dalasian healer. “You’re most perceptive, Andel,” she said. “That sort of thing is difficult to recognize unless you know precisely what you’re looking for.”

“The perception was not mine, Lady Polgara,” Andel replied. “I was advised by another of the cause of her Majesty’s illness.”

“Cyradis?”

Andel nodded. “The minds of all our race are joined with hers, for we are but the instruments of the task which lies upon her. Her concern for the Queen’s well-being prompted her to intervene.” The hooded woman hesitated. “The Holy Seeress also asked me to beg you to intercede with your husband in the matter of Toth. The Goodman’s anger is causing that gentle guide extreme anguish, and his pain is also hers. What happened at Verkat had to happen—otherwise the meeting between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark could not come to pass for ages hence.”

Polgara nodded gravely. “I thought it might have been something like that. Tell her that I’ll speak with Durnik in Toth’s behalf.”

Andel inclined her head gratefully.

“Garion,” Ce’Nedra murmured drowsily, “where are we?”

He turned to her quickly. “Are you all right?” he asked, taking her hand in his.

“Mmmm,” she said. “I’m just so very sleepy. What happened—and where are we?”

“We’re at Rak Hagga.” He threw a quick glance at Polgara, then turned back to the bed. “You just had a little fainting spell is all,” he said with a slightly exaggerated casualness. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, dear, but I think I’d like to sleep now.” And her eyes went closed. Then she opened them again with a sleepy little frown. “Garion,” she murmured, “why is that candle acting like that?”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, dear,” he told her, but she had already fallen fast asleep.

It was well past midnight when Garion was awakened by a light tapping on the door of the room in which he slept. “Who is it?” he asked, half rising in his bed.

“A messenger from the Emperor, your Majesty,” A voice replied from the other side of the door. “He instructed me to ask if you would be so good as to join him in his private study.”

“Now? In the middle of the night?”

“Such was the Emperor’s instruction, your Majesty.”

“All right,” Garion said, throwing off his blankets, and swinging around to put his feet on the cold floor.

“Give me a minute or so to get dressed.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

Muttering to himself, Garion began to pull on his clothes by the faint light coming from the brazier in the corner. When he was dressed, he splashed cold water on his face and raked his fingers through his sandy hair, trying to push it into some semblance of order. Almost as an afterthought he ducked his head and arm through the strap attached to the sheath of Iron-grip’s sword and shrugged it into place across his back. Then he opened the door. “All right,” he said to the messenger, “let’s go.”

Kal Zakath’s study was a book-lined room with several leather-upholstered chairs, a large polished table and a crackling fire on the hearth. The Emperor, still clad in plain white linen, sat in a chair at the table, shuffling through a stack of parchment sheets by the light of a single oil lamp.

“You wanted to see me, ’Zakath?” Garion asked as he entered the room.

“Ah, yes, Belgarion,” ’Zakath said, pushing aside the parchments. “So good of you to come. I understand that your wife is recovering.”

Garion nodded. “Thank you again for sending Andel. Her aid was very helpful.”

“My pleasure, Belgarion.” ’Zakath reached out and lowered the wick in the lamp until the corners of the room filled with shadows. “I thought we might talk a little,” he said.

“Isn’t it sort of late?”

“I don’t sleep very much, Belgarion. A man can lose a third of his life in sleep. The day is filled with bright lights and distractions; the night is dim and quiet and allows much greater concentration. Please, sit down.”

Garion unbuckled his sword and leaned it against a bookcase.

“I’m not really all that dangerous, you know,” the Emperor said, looking pointedly at the great weapon.

Garion smiled slightly, settling into a chair by the fire. “I didn’t bring it because of you, ’Zakath. It’s just a habit. It’s not the kind of sword you want to leave lying around.”

“I don’t think anyone would steal it, Belgarion.”

“It can’t be stolen. I just don’t want anybody getting hurt by accidentally touching it.”

“Do you mean to say that it’s that sword?”

Garion nodded. “I’m sort of obliged to take care of it.

It’s a nuisance most of the time, but there’ve been a few occasions when I was glad I had it with me.”

“What really happened at Cthol Mishrak?” ’Zakath asked suddenly. “I’ve heard all sorts of stories.”

Garion nodded wryly. “So have I. Most of them get the names right, but not very much else. Neither Torak nor I had very much control over what happened. We fought, and I stuck that sword into his chest.”

“And he died?” ’Zakath’s face was intent.

“Eventually, yes.”

“Eventually?”

“He vomited fire first and wept flames. Then he cried out.”

“What did he say?”

“ ‘Mother,’” Garion replied shortly. He didn’t really want to talk about it.

“What an extraordinary thing for him to do. Whatever happened to his body? I had the entire ruin of Cthol Mishrak searched for him.”

“The other Gods came and took it. Do you suppose we could talk about something else? Those particular memories are painful.”

“He was your enemy.”

Garion sighed. “He was also a God, ’Zakath—and killing a God is a terrible thing to have to do.”

“You’re a strangely gentle man, Belgarion. I think I respect you more for that than I do for your invincible courage.”

“I’d hardly say invincible. I was terrified the whole time—and so was Torak, I think. Was there something you really wanted to talk about?”

’Zakath leaned back in his chair, tapping thoughtfully at his pursed lips. “You know that eventually you and I will have to confront each other, don’t you?”

“No,” Garion disagreed. “That’s not absolutely certain.”

“There can only be one King of the World.”

Garion’s look grew pained. “I’ve got enough trouble trying to rule one small island. I’ve never wanted to be King of the World.”

“But I have—and do.”

Garion sighed. “Then we probably will fight at that sooner or later. I don’t think the world was intended to be ruled by one man. If you try to do that, I’ll have to stop you.”

“I am unstoppable, Belgarion.”

“So was Torak—or at least he thought so.”

“That’s blunt enough.”

“It helps to avoid a lot of misunderstandings later on. I’d say that you’ve got enough trouble at home without trying to invade my kingdom—or those of my friends. That’s not to mention the stalemate here in Cthol Murgos.”

“You’re well informed.”

“Queen Porenn is a close personal friend. She keeps information me advised, and Silk picks up a great deal of information during the course of his business dealings.”

“Silk?”

“Excuse me. Prince Kheldar, I mean. Silk’s a nickname of sorts.”

’Zakath looked at him steadily. “In some ways we’re very much alike, Belgarion, and in other ways very different, but we still do what necessity compels us to do. Frequently, we’re at the mercy of events over which we have no control.”

“I suppose you’re talking about the two Prophecies?”

’Zakath laughed shortly. “I don’t believe in prophecy. I only believe in power. It’s curious, though, that we’ve both been faced with similar problems of late. You recently had to put down an uprising in Aloria—a group of religious fanatics, I believe. I have something of much the same nature going on in Darshiva. Religion is a constant thorn in the side of any ruler, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ve been able to work around it-most of the time.”

“You’ve been very lucky then. Torak was neither a good nor kindly God, and his Grolim priesthood is vile.

If I weren’t busy here in Cthol Murgos, I think I might endear myself to the next thousand or so generations by obliterating every Grolim on the face of the earth.”

Garion grinned at him. “What would you say to an alliance with that in mind?” he suggested.

’Zakath laughed briefly, and then his face grew somber again. “Does the name Zandramas mean anything to you?” he asked.

Garion edged around that cautiously, not knowing how much information ’Zakath had about their real reason for being in Cthol Murgos. “I’ve heard some rumors,” he said.

“How about Cthrag Sardius?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“You’re being evasive, Belgarion.” ’Zakath gave him a steady look, then passed his hand wearily across his eyes.

“I think you need some sleep,” Garion told him.

“Time for that soon enough—when my work is done.”

“That’s up to you, I guess.”

“How much do you know about Mallorea, Belgarion?”

“I get reports—a little disjointed sometimes, but fairly current.”

“No. I mean our past.”

“Not too much, I’m afraid. Western historians tried very hard to ignore the fact that Mallorea was even there.”

’Zakath smiled wryly. “The University of Melcene has the same shortsightedness regarding the West,” he noted. “Anyway, over the past several centuries—since the disaster at Vo Mimbre—Mallorean society has become almost completely secular. Torak was bound in sleep, Ctuchik was practicing his perversions here in Cthol Murgos, and Zedar was wandering around the world like a rootless vagabond—what ever happened to him, by the way? I thought he was at Cthol Mishrak.”

“He was.”

“We didn’t find his body.”

“He isn’t dead.”

“He’s not?” ’Zakath looked stunned. “Where is he, then?”

“Beneath the city. Belgarath opened the earth and sealed him up in solid rock under the ruin.”

“Alive?” ’Zakath’s exclamation came out in a choked gasp.

“There was a certain amount of justification for it.

Go on with your story.” ’Zakath shuddered and then recovered. “With the rest of them out of the way, the only religious figure left in Mallorea was Urvon, and he devoted himself almost exclusively to trying to make his palace at Mal Yaska more opulent than the imperial one at Mal Zeth. Every so often he’d preach a sermon filled with mumbo jumbo and nonsense, but most of the time he seemed to have forgotten Torak entirely. With the Dragon God and his disciples no longer around, the real power of the Grolim Church was gone—oh, the priests babbled about the return of Torak and they all paid lip service to the notion that one day the sleeping God would awaken, but the memory of him grew dimmer and dimmer. The power of the Church grew less and less, while that of the army—which is to say the imperial throne—grew more and more.”

“Mallorean politics seem to be very murky,” Garion observed.

’Zakath nodded. “It’s part of our nature, I suppose. At any rate, our society was functioning and moving out of the dark ages—slowly, perhaps, but moving. Then you appeared out of nowhere and awakened Torak—and just as suddenly put him permanently back to sleep again. That’s when all our problems started.”

“Shouldn’t it have ended them? That’s sort of what I had in mind.”

“I don’t think you grasp the nature of the religious mind, Belgarion. So long as Torak was there—even though he slept—the Grolims and the other hysterics in the empire were fairly placid, secure and comfortable in the belief that one day he would awaken, punish all their enemies, and reassert the absolute authority of the unwashed and stinking priesthood. But when you killed Torak, you destroyed their comfortable. sense of security. They were forced to face the fact that without Torak they were nothing. Some of them were so chagrined that they went mad. Others fell into absolute despair. A few, how ever, began to hammer together a new mythology—something to replace what you had destroyed with a single stroke of that sword over there.”

“It wasn’t entirely my idea,” Garion told him.

“It’s results that matter, Belgarion, not intentions. Anyway, Urvon was forced to tear himself away from his quest for opulence and his wallowing in the adoration of the sycophants who surrounded him and get back to business. For a time he was in an absolute frenzy of activity. He resurrected all the moth-eaten old prophecies and twisted and wrenched at them until they seemed to say what he wanted them to say.”

“And what was that?”

“He’s trying to convince people that a new God will come to rule over Angarak—either a resurrection of Torak himself or some new deity infused with Torak’s spirit. He’s even got a candidate in mind for this new God of Angarak.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

’Zakath’s expression became amused. “He sees his new God every time he looks in a mirror.”

“You’re not serious!”

“Oh, yes. Urvon’s been trying to convince himself that he’s at least a demigod for several centuries now. He’d probably have himself paraded all over Mallorea in a golden chariot—except that he’s afraid to leave Mal Yaska. As I understand it, there’s a very nasty hunchback who’s been hungering to kill him for eons—one of Aldur’s disciples, I believe.”

Garion nodded. “Beldin,” he said. “I’ve met him.”

“Is he really as bad as the stories make him out to be?”

“Probably even worse. I don’t think you’d want to be around to watch what he does, if he ever catches up with Urvon.”

“I wish him good hunting, but Urvon’s not my only problem, I’m afraid. Not long after the death of Torak, certain rumors started coming out of Darshiva. A Grolim priestess—Zandramas by name—also began to predict the coming of a new God.”

“I didn’t know that she was a Grolim,” Garion said with some surprise.

’Zakath nodded gravely. “She formerly had a very unsavory reputation in Darshiva. Then the so-called ecstasy of prophecy fell on her, and she was suddenly transformed by it. Now when she speaks, no one can resist her words. She preaches to multitudes and fires them with invincible zeal. Her message of the coming of a new God ran through Darshiva like wildfire and spread into Regel, Voresebo, and Zamad as well. Virtually the entire northeast coast of Mallorea is hers.”

“What’s the Sardion got to do with all this?” Garion asked.

“I think it’s the key to the whole business,” ’Zakath replied. “Both Zandramas and Urvon seem to believe that whoever finds and possesses it is going to win out.”

“Agachak—the Hierarch of Rak Urga—believes the same thing,” Garion told him.

’Zakath nodded moodily. “I suppose I should have realized that. A Grolim is a Grolim—whether he comes from Mallorea or Cthol Murgos.”

“It seems to me that maybe you should go back to Mallorea and put things in order.”

“No, Belgarion, I won’t abandon my campaign here in Cthol Murgos.”

“Is personal revenge worth it?”

’Zakath looked startled.

“I know why you hated Taur Urgas, but he’s dead, and Urgit’s not at all like him. I can’t really believe that you’d sacrifice your whole empire just for the sake of revenging yourself on a man who can’t feel it.”

“You know?” ’Zakath’s face looked stricken. “Who told you?”

“Urgit did. He told me the whole story.”

“With pride, I expect.” ’Zakath’s teeth were clenched, and his face pale.

“No, not really. It was with regret—and with contempt for Taur Urgas. He hated him even more than you do.”

“That’s hardly possible, Belgarion. To answer your question, yes, I will sacrifice my empire—the whole world if need be—to spill out the last drop of the blood of Taur Urgas. I will neither sleep nor rest nor be turned aside from my vengeance, and I will crush whomever stands in my path.”

“Tell him, ” the dry voice in Garion’s mind said suddenly.

“What?”

“Tell him the truth about Urgit. ”

“But—”

“Do it, Garion. He needs to know. There are things he has to do, and he won’t do them until he puts this obsession behind him. ”

’Zakath was looking at him curiously.

“Sorry, just receiving instructions,” Garion explained lamely.

“Instructions? From whom?”

“You wouldn’t believe it. I was told to give you some information.” He drew in a deep breath. “Urgit isn’t a Murgo,” he said flatly.

“What are you talking about?”

“I said that Urgit isn’t a Murgo—at least not entirely.

His mother was, of course, but his father was not Taur Urgas.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, I’m not. We found out about it while we were at the Drojim Palace in Rak Urga. Urgit didn’t know about it either.”

“I don’t believe you, Belgarion!” ’Zakath’s face was livid, and he was nearly shouting.

“Taur Urgas is dead,” Garion said wearily. “Urgit made sure of that by cutting his throat and burying him head down in his grave. He also claims that he had every one of his brothers—thereal sons of Taur Urgas—killed to make himself secure on the throne. I don’t think there’s one drop of Urga blood left in the world.”

’Zakath’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a trick. You’ve allied yourself with Urgit and brought me this absurd lie to save his life.”

“Use the Orb, Garion,” the voice instructed.

“How?”

“Take it off the pommel of the sword and hold it in your right hand. It’ll show ’Zakath the truths that he needs to know.”

Garion rose to his feet. “If I can show you the truth, will you look?” he asked the agitated Mallorean Emperor.

“Look? Look at what?”

Garion walked over to his sword and peeled off the soft leather sleeve covering the hilt. He put his hand on the Orb, and it came free with an audible click. Then he turned back to the man at the table. “I’m not exactly sure how this works,” he said. “I’m told that Aldur was able to do it, but I’ve never tried it for myself. I think you’re supposed to look into this.” He extended his right arm until the Orb was in front of ’Zakath’s face.

“What is that?”

“You people call it Cthrag Yaska,” Garion replied.

’Zakath recoiled, his face blanching.

“It won’t hurt you—as long as you don’t touch it.”

The Orb, which for the past months had rather sullenly obeyed Garion’s continued instruction to restrain itself, slowly began to pulsate and glow in his hand, bathing ’Zakath’s face in its blue radiance. The Emperor half lifted his hand as if to push the glowing stone aside.

“Don’t touch it,” Garion warned again. “Just look.”

But ’Zakath’s eyes were already locked on the stone as its blue light grew stronger and stronger. His hands gripped the edge of the table in front of him so tightly that his knuckles grew white. For a long moment he stared into that blue incandescence. Then, slowly, his fingers lost their grip on the table edge and fell back onto the arms of his chair. An expression of agony crossed his face. “They have escaped me,” he groaned with tears welling out of his closed eyes, “and I have slaughtered tens of thousands for nothing.” The tears began to stream down his contorted face.

“I’m sorry, ’Zakath,” Garion said quietly, lowering his hand. “I can’t change what’s already happened, but you had to know the truth.”

“I cannot thank you for this truth,” ’Zakath said, his shoulders shaking in the storm of his weeping. “Leave me, Belgarion. Take that accursed stone from my sight.” Garion nodded with a great feeling of compassion and shared sorrow. Then he replaced the Orb on the pommel of his sword, re-covered the hilt, and picked up the great weapon. “I’m very sorry, ’Zakath,” he said again, and then he quietly went out of the room, leaving the Emperor of boundless Mallorea alone with his grief.

3

“Really, Garion, I’m perfectly fine,” Ce’Nedra objected again.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Then you’ll let me get out of bed?”

“No.”

“That’s not fair,” she pouted.

“Would you like a little more tea?” he asked, going to the fireplace, taking up a poker, and swinging out the iron arm from which a kettle was suspended.

“No, I don’t,” she replied in a sulky little voice. “It smells, and it tastes awful.”

“Aunt Pol says that it’s very good for you. Maybe if you drink some more of it, she’ll let you get out of bed and sit in a chair for a while.” He spooned some of the dried, aromatic leaves from an earthenware pot into a cup, tipped the kettle carefully with the poker, and filled the cup with steaming water.

Ce’Nedra’s eyes had momentarily come alight, but narrowed again almost immediately. “Oh, very clever, Garion,” she said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Of course not,” he agreed blandly, setting the cup on the stand beside the bed. “You probably ought to let that steep for a while,” he suggested.

“It can steep all year if it wants to. I’m not going to drink it.”

He sighed with resignation. “I’m sorry, Ce’Nedra,” he said with genuine regret, “but you’re wrong. Aunt Pol says that you’re supposed to drink a cup of this every other hour. Until she tells me otherwise, that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

“What if I refuse?” Her tone was belligerent.

“I’m bigger than you are,” he reminded her.

Her eyes went wide with shock. “You wouldn’t actually force me to drink it, would you?”

His expression grew mournful. “I’d really hate to do something like that,” he told her.

“But you’d do it, wouldn’t you?” she accused.

He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “Probably,” he admitted, “if Aunt Pol told me to.”

She glared at him. “All right,” she said finally. “Give me the stinking tea.”

“It doesn’t smell all that bad, Ce’Nedra.”

“Why don’t you drink it, then?”

“I’m not the one who’s been sick.”

She proceeded then to tell him—at some length—exactly what she thought of the tea and him and her bed and the room and of the whole world in general. Many of the terms she used were very colorful—even lurid—and some of them were in languages that he didn’t recognize.

“What on earth is all the shouting about?” Polgara asked, coming into the room.

“I absolutely hate this stuff!” Ce’Nedra declared at the top of her lungs, waving the cup about and spilling most of the contents.

“I wouldn’t drink it then.” Aunt Pol advised calmly.

“Garion says that if I don’t drink it, he’ll pour it down my throat.”

“Oh. Those were yesterday’s instructions.” Polgara looked at Garion. “Didn’t I tell you that they change today?”

“No,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, you didn’t.” He said it in a very level tone. He was fairly proud of that.

“I’m sorry, dear. I must have forgotten.”

“When can I get out of bed?” Ce’Nedra demanded.

Polgara gave her a surprised look. “Any time you want, dear.” she said. “As a matter of fact, I just came by to ask if you planned to join us for breakfast.”

Ce’Nedra sat up in bed, her eyes like hard little stones.

She slowly turned an icy gaze upon Garion and then quite deliberately stuck her tongue out at him.

Garion turned to Polgara. “Thanks awfully,” he said to her.

“Don’t be snide, dear,” she murmured. She looked at the fuming little Queen. “Ce’Nedra, weren’t you told as a child that sticking out one’s tongue is the worst possible form of bad manners?”

Ce’Nedra smiled sweetly. “Why, yes, Lady Polgara, as a matter of fact I was. That’s why I only do it on special occasions.”

“I think I’ll take a walk,” Garion said to no one in particular. He went to the door, opened it, and left.

Some days later he lounged in one of the sitting rooms that had been built in the former women’s quarters where he and the others were lodged. The room was peculiarly feminine. The furniture was softly cushioned in mauve, and the broad windows had filmy curtains of pale lavender. Beyond the windows lay a snowy garden, totally embraced by the tall wings of this bleak Murgo house. A cheery fire crackled in the half-moon arch of a broad fireplace, and at the far corner of the room an artfully contrived grotto, thick with green fern and moss, flourished about a trickling fountain. Garion sat brooding out at a sunless noon—at an ash-colored sky spitting white pellets that were neither snow nor hail, but something in between—and realized all of a sudden that he was homesick for Riva. It was a peculiar thing to come to grips with here on the opposite end of the world. Always before, the word “homesick” had been associated with Faldor’s farm—the kitchen, the broad central courtyard, Durnik’s smithy, and all the other dear, treasured memories. Now, suddenly, he missed that storm-lashed coast, the security of that grim fortress hovering above the bleak city lying below, and the mountains, heavy with snow, rising stark white against a black and stormy sky.

There was a faint knock at the door.

“Yes?” Garion said absently, not looking around.

The door opened almost timidly. “Your Majesty?” a vaguely familiar voice said.

Garion turned, looking back over his shoulder. The man was chubby and bald and he wore brown, a plain serviceable color, though his robe was obviously costly, and the heavy gold chain about his neck loudly proclaimed that this was no minor official. Garion frowned slightly. “Haven’t we met before?” he asked. “Aren’t you General Atesca’s friend-uh—”

“Brador, your Majesty,” the brown-robed man supplied. “Chief of the Bureau of Internal Affairs.”

“Oh, yes. Now I remember. Come in, your Excellency, come in.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Brador came into the room and moved toward the fireplace, extending his hands to its warmth. “Miserable climate.” He shuddered.

“You should try a winter in Riva,” Garion said, “although it’s summer there right now.”

Brador looked out the window at the snowy garden. “Strange place, Cthol Murgos,” he said. “One’s tempted to believe that all of Murgodom is deliberately ugly, and then one comes across a room like this.”

“I suspect that the ugliness was to satisfy Ctuchik—and Taur Urgas,” Garion replied. “Underneath, Murgos probably aren’t much different from the rest of us.”

Brador laughed. “That sort of thinking is considered heresy in Mal Zeth,” he said.

“The people in Val Alorn feel much the same way.” Garion looked at the bureaucrat. “I expect that this isn’t just a social call, Brador,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Your Majesty,” Brador said soberly, “I absolutely have to speak with the Emperor. Atesca tried to arrange it before he went back to Rak Verkat, but—” He spread his hands helplessly. “Could you possibly speak to him about it? The matter is of the utmost urgency.”

“I really don’t think there’s very much I can do for you, Brador,” Garion told him. “Right now I’m probably the last person he’d want to talk to.”

“Oh?”

“I told him something that he didn’t want to hear.”

Brador’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “You were my last hope, your Majesty.” he said.

“What’s the problem?”

Brador hesitated, looking around nervously as if to assure himself that they were alone. “Belgarion,” he said then in a very quiet voice, “have you ever seen a demon?”

“A couple of times, yes. It’s not the sort of experience I’d care to repeat.”

“How much do you know about the Karands?”

“Not a great deal. I’ve heard that they’re related to the Morindim in northern Gar og Nadrak.”

“You know more about them than most people, then. Do you know very much about the religious practices of the Morindim?”

Garion nodded. “They’re demon worshippers. It’s not a particularly safe form of religion, I’ve noticed.”

Brador’s face was bleak. “The Karands share the beliefs and practices of their cousins on the arctic plains of the West,” he said. “After they were converted to the worship of Torak, the Grolims tried to stamp out those practices, but they persisted in the mountains and forests.” He stopped and looked fearfully around again.

“Belgarion,” he said, almost in a whisper, “does the name Mengha mean anything to you?”

“No. I don’t think so. Who’s Mengha?”

“We don’t know—at least not for certain. He seems to have come out of the forest to the north of Lake Karanda about six months ago.”

“And?”

“He marched—alone—to the gates of Calida in Jenno and called for the surrender of the city. They laughed at him, of course, but then he marked some symbols on the ground. They didn’t laugh any more after that.” The Melcene bureaucrat’s face was gray. “Belgarion, he unloosed a horror on Calida such as man has never seen before. Those symbols he drew on the ground summoned up a host of demons—not one, or a dozen, but a whole army of them. I’ve talked with survivors of that attack. They’re mostly mad—mercifully so, I think—and what happened at Calida was utterly unspeakable.”

“An army of them?” Garion exclaimed.

Brador nodded. “That’s what makes Mengha so dreadfully dangerous. As I’m sure you know, usually when someone summons a demon, sooner or later it gets away from him and kills him, but Mengha appears to have absolute control of all the fiends he raises and he can call them up by the hundreds. Urvon is terrified and he’s even begun to experiment with magic himself, hoping to defend Mal Yaska against Mengha. We don’t know where Zandramas is, but her apostate Grolim cohorts are desperately striving also to summon up these fiends. Great Gods, Belgarion, help me! This unholy infection will spread out of Mallorea and sweep the world. We’ll all be engulfed by howling fiends, and no place, no matter how remote, will provide a haven for the pitiful remnants of mankind. Help me to persuade Kal Zakath that his petty little war here in Cthol Murgos has no real meaning in the face of the horror that’s emerging in Mallorea.”

Garion gave him a long, steady look, then rose to his feet. “You’d better come with me, Brador,” he said quietly. “I think we need to talk with Belgarath.”

They found the old sorcerer in the book-lined library of the house, poring over an ancient volume bound in green leather. He set his book aside and listened as Brador repeated what he had told Garion. “Urvon and Zandramas are also engaging in this insanity?” he asked when the Melcene had finished.

Brador nodded. “According to our best information, Ancient One,” he replied.

Belgarath slammed his fist down and began to swear. “What are they thinking of?” he burst out, pacing up and down. “Don’t they know that UL himself had forbidden this?”

“They’re afraid of Mengha,” Brador said helplessly. “They feel that they must have some way to protect themselves from his horde of fiends.”

“You don’t protect yourself from demons by raising more demons,” the old man fumed. “If even one of them breaks free, they’ll all get loose. Urvon or Zandramas might be able to handle them, but sooner or later some underling is going to make a mistake. Let’s go see ’Zakath.”

“I don’t think we can get in to see him just now, Grandfather,” Garion said dubiously. “He didn’t like what I told him about Urgit.”

“That’s too bad. This is something that won’t wait for him to regain his composure. Let’s go.”

The three of them went quickly through the corridors of the house to the large antechamber they had entered with General Atesca upon their arrival from Rak Verkat.

“Absolutely impossible,” the colonel at the desk beside the main door declared when Belgarath demanded to see the Emperor immediately.

“As you grow older, Colonel,” the old man said ominously, “you’ll discover just how meaningless the word ‘impossible’ really is.” He raised one hand, gestured somewhat theatrically, and Garion heard and felt the surge of his will.

A number of battle flags mounted on stout poles projected out from the opposite wall perhaps fifteen feet from the floor. The officious colonel vanished from his chair and reappeared precariously astride one of those poles with his eyes bulging and his hands desperately clinging to his slippery perch.

“Where would you like to go next, Colonel?” Belgarath asked him. “As I recall, there’s a very tall flagpole out front. I could set you on top of it if you wish.”

The colonel stared at him in horror.

“Now, as soon as I bring you down from there, you’re going to persuade your Emperor to see us at once. You’re going to be very convincing, Colonel—that’s unless you want to be a permanent flagpole ornament, of course.”

The colonel’s face was still pasty white when he emerged from the guarded door leading to the audience chamber, and he flinched violently every time Belgarath moved his hand. “His Majesty consents to see you,” he stammered.

Belgarath grunted. “I was almost sure that he would.”

Kal Zakath had undergone a noticeable transformation since Garion had last seen him. His white linen robe was wrinkled and stained, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His face was deathly pale, his hair was unkempt, and he was unshaven. Spasm-like tremors ran through his body, and he looked almost too weak to stand. “What do you want?” he demanded in a barely audible voice.

“Are you sick?” Belgarath asked him.

“A touch of fever, I think.” ’Zakath shrugged. “What’s so important that you felt you had to force your way in here to tell me about it?”

“Your empire’s collapsing, ’Zakath,” Belgarath told him flatly. “It’s time you went home to mend your fences.”

’Zakath smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t that be so very convenient for you?” he said.

“What’s going on in Mallorea isn’t convenient for anybody. Tell him, Brador.”

Nervously, the Melcene bureaucrat delivered his report.

“Demons?” ’Zakath retorted skeptically. “Oh, come now, Belgarath. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that, do you? Do you honestly think that I’ll run back to Mallorea to chase shadows and leave you behind to raise an army here in the West to confront me when I return?”

The palsy-like shaking Garion had noted when they had entered the room seemed to be growing more severe. ’Zakath’s head bobbed and jerked on his neck, and a stream of spittle ran unnoticed from one corner of his mouth.

“You won’t be leaving us behind, ’Zakath,” Belgarath replied. “We’re going with you. If even a tenth of what Brador says is true, I’m going to have to go to Karanda and stop this Mengha. If he’s raising demons, we’re all going to have to put everything else aside to stop him.”

“Absurd!” ’Zakath declared agitatedly. His eyes were unfocused now, and his weaving and trembling had become so severe that he was unable to control his limbs.

“I’m not going to be tricked by a clever old man into—” He suddenly started up from his chair with an animal-like cry, clutching at the sides of his head. Then he toppled forward to the floor, twitching and jerking.

Belgarath jumped forward and took hold of the convulsing man’s arms. “Quick!” he snapped. “Get something between his teeth before he bites off his tongue!”

Brador grabbed up a sheaf of reports from a nearby table, wadded them up, and jammed them into the frothing Emperor’s mouth.

“Garion!” Belgarath barked. “Get Pol—fast!”

Garion started toward the door at a run.

“Wait!” Belgarath said, sniffing suspiciously at the air above the face of the man he was holding down. “Bring Sadi, too. There’s a peculiar smell here. Hurry!”

Garion bolted. He ran through the hallways past startled officials and servants and finally burst into the room where Polgara was quietly talking with Ce’Nedra and Velvet. “Aunt Pol!” he shouted, “Come quickly! ’Zakath just collapsed!” Then he spun, ran a few more steps down the hall, and shouldered open the door to Sadi’s room. “We need you,” he barked at the startled eunuch. “Come with me.”

It took only a few moments for the three of them to return to the polished door in the anteroom.

“What’s going on?” the Angarak colonel demanded in a frightened voice, barring their way.

“Your Emperor is sick,” Garion told him. “Get out of the way.” Roughly he pushed the protesting officer to one side and yanked the door open.

’Zakath’s convulsions had at least partially subsided, but Belgarath still held him down.

“What is it, father” Polgara asked, kneeling beside the stricken man.

“He threw a fit.”

“The falling sickness?”

“I don’t think so. It wasn’t quite the same. Sadi, come over here and smell his breath. I’m getting a peculiar odor from him.”

Sadi approached cautiously, leaned forward, and sniffed several times. Then he straightened, his face pale.

“Thalot,” he announced.

“A poison?” Polgara asked him.

Sadi nodded. “It’s quite rare.”

“Do you have an antidote?”

“No, my lady,” he replied. “There isn’t an antidote for thalot. It’s always been universally fatal. It’s seldom used because it acts very slowly, but no one ever recovers from it.”

“Then he’s dying?” Garion asked with a sick feeling.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. The convulsions will subside, but they’ll recur with increasing frequency. Finally . . .” Sadi shrugged. . .

“There’s no hope at all?” Polgara asked.

“None whatsoever, my lady. About all we can do is make his last few days more comfortable.”

Belgarath started to swear. “Quiet him down, Pol,” he said. “We need to get him into bed and we can’t move him while he’s jerking around that way.”

She nodded and put one hand on ’Zakath’s forehead.

Garion felt the faint surge, and the struggling Emperor grew quiet.

Brador, his face very pale, looked at them. “I don’t think we should announce this just yet,” he cautioned. “Let’s just call it a slight illness for the moment until we can decide what to do. I’ll send for a litter.”

The room to which the unconscious ’Zakath was taken was plain to the point of severity. The Emperor’s bed was a narrow cot. The only other furniture was a single plain chair and a low chest. The walls were white and unadorned, and a charcoal brazier glowed in one corner.

Sadi went back to their chambers and returned with his red case and the canvas sack in which Polgara kept her collection of herbs and remedies: The two of them consulted in low tones while Garion and Brador pushed the litter bearers and curious soldiers from the room. Then they mixed a steaming cup of a pungent-smelling liquid.

Sadi raised ’Zakath’s head and held it while Polgara spooned the medicine into his slack-lipped mouth.

The door opened quietly, and the green-robed Dalasian healer, Andel, entered. “I came as soon as I heard,” she said. “Is the Emperor’s illness serious?”

Polgara looked at her gravely. “Close the door, Andel,” she said quietly.

The healer gave her a strange look, then pushed the door shut. “Is it that grave, my lady?”

Polgara nodded. “He’s been poisoned,” she said. “We don’t want word of it to get out just yet.”

Andel gasped. “What can I do to help?” she asked, coming quickly to the bed.

“Not very much, I’m afraid,” Sadi told her.

“Have you given him the antidote yet?”

“There is no antidote.”

“There must be. Lady Polgara—”

Polgara sadly shook her head.

“I have failed, then,” the hooded woman said in a voice filled with tears. She turned from the bed, her head bowed, and Garion heard a faint murmur that somehow seemed to come from the air above her—a murmur that curiously was not that of a single voice. There was a long silence; and then a shimmering appeared at the foot of the bed. When it cleared, the blindfolded form of Cyradis stood there, one hand slightly extended. “This must not be,” she said in her clear, ringing voice. “Use thine art, Lady Polgara. Restore him. Should he die, all our tasks will fail. Bring thy power to bear.”

“It won’t work, Cyradis,” Polgara replied, setting the cup down. “If a poison affects only the blood, I can usually manage to purge it, and Sadi has a whole case full of antidotes. This poison, however, sinks into every particle of the body. It’s killing his bones and organs as well as his blood, and there’s no way to leech it out.”

The shimmering form at the foot of the bed wrung its hands in anguish. “It cannot be so,” Cyradis wailed. “Hast thou even applied the sovereign specific?”

Polgara looked up quickly. “Sovereign specific? A universal remedy? I know of no such agent.”

“But it doth exist, Lady Polgara. I know not its origins nor its composition, but I have felt its gentle power abroad in the world for some years now.”

Polgara looked at Andel, but the healer shook her head helplessly. “I do not know of such a potion, my lady.”

“Think, Cyradis,” Polgara said urgently. “Anything you can tell us might give us a clue.”

The blindfolded Seeress touched the fingertips of one hand lightly to her temple. “Its origins are recent,” she said, half to herself. “It came into being less than a score of years ago—some obscure flower, or so it seemeth to me.”

“It’s hopeless, then,” Sadi said. “There are millions of kinds of flowers.” He rose and crossed the room to Belgarath. “I think we might want to leave here—almost immediately,” he murmured. “At the first suggestion of the word ‘poison,’ people start looking for the nearest Nyissan—and those associated with him. I think we’re in a great deal of danger right now.”

“Can you think of anything else, Cyradis?” Polgara passed. “No matter how remote?”

The Seeress struggled with it, her face strained as she reached deeper into her strange vision. Her shoulders finally sagged in defeat. “Nothing,” she said. “Only a woman’s face.”

“Describe it.”

“She is tall,” the Seeress replied. “Her hair is very dark, but her skin is like marble. Her husband is much involved with horses.”

“Adara!” Garion exclaimed, the beautiful face of his cousin suddenly coming before his eyes.

Polgara snapped her fingers. “And Adara’s rose!” Then she frowned. “I examined that flower very closely some years back, Cyradis,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure? There are some unusual substances in it, but I didn’t find any particular medicinal qualities in any of them—either in any distillation or powder.”

Cyradis concentrated. “Can healing be accomplished by means of a fragrance, Lady Polgara?”

Polgara’s eyes narrowed in thought. “There are some minor remedies that are inhaled,” she said doubtfully, “but—”

“There are poisons that can be administered in that fashion, Lady Polgara,” Sadi supplied. “The fumes are drawn into the lungs and from there into the heart. Then the blood carries them to every part of the body. It could very well be the only way to neutralize the effects of thalot.”

Belgarath’s expression had grown intent. “Well, Pol?” he asked.

“It’s worth a try, father,” she replied. “I’ve got a few of the flowers. They’re dried, but they might work.”

“Any seeds?”

“A few, yes.”

“Seeds?” Andel exclaimed. “Kal Zakath would be months in his grave before any bush could grow and bloom.”

The old man chuckled slyly. “Not quite,” he said, winking at Polgara. “I have quite a way with plants sometimes. I’m going to need some dirt—and some boxes or tubs to put it in.”

Sadi went to the door and spoke briefly with the guards outside. They looked baffled, but a short command from Andel sent them scurrying.

“What is the origin of this strange flower, Lady Polgara?” Cyradis asked curiously, “How is it that thou art so well acquainted with it?”

“Garion made it.” Polgara shrugged, looking thoughtfully at ’Zakath’s narrow cot. “I think we’ll want the bed out from the wall, father,” she said. “I want it surrounded by flowers.”

“Made?” the Seeress exclaimed.

Polgara nodded. “Created, actually,” she said absently. “Do you think it’s warm enough in here, father? We’re going to want big, healthy blooms, and even at best the flower’s a bit puny.”

“I did my best,” Garion protested.

“Created?” Cyradis’ voice was awed. Then she bowed to Garion with profound respect.

When the tubs of half-frozen dirt had been placed about the stricken Emperor’s bed, smoothed, and dampened with water, Polgara took a small leather pouch from her canvas sack, removed a pinch of minuscule seeds, and carefully sowed them in the soil.

“All right,” Belgarath said, rolling up his sleeves in a workmanlike fashion, “stand back.” He bent and touched the dirt in one of the tubs. “You were right, Pol,” he muttered. “Just a little too cold.” He frowned slightly, and Garion saw his lips move. The surge was not a large one, and the sound of it was little more than a whisper. The damp earth in the tubs began to steam. “That’s better,” he said. Then he extended his hands out over the narrow cot and the steaming tubs. Again Garion felt the surge and the whisper.

At first nothing seemed to happen, but then tiny specks of green appeared on the top of the dampened dirt. Even as Garion watched those little leaves grow and expand, he remembered where he had seen Belgarath perform this same feat before. As clearly as if he were there, he saw the courtyard before King Korodullin’s palace at Vo Mimbre and he saw the apple twig the old man had thrust down between two flagstones expand and reach up toward the old sorcerer’s hand as proof to the skeptical Sir Andorig that he was indeed who he said he was.

The pale green leaves had grown darker, and the spindly twigs and tendrils that had at first appeared had already expanded into low bushes.

“Make them vine up across the bed, father,” Polgara said critically. “Vines produce more blossoms, and I want a lot of blossoms.”

He let out his breath explosively and gave her a look that spoke volumes. “All right,” he said finally. “You want vines? Vines it is.”

“Is it too much for you, father?” she asked solicitously.

He set his jaw, but did not answer. He did, however, start to sweat. Longer tendrils began to writhe upward like green snakes winding up around the legs of the Emperor’s cot and reaching upward to catch the bedframe. Once they had gained that foothold, they seemed to pause while Belgarath caught his breath. “This is harder than it looks,” he puffed. Then he concentrated again, and the vines quickly overspread the cot and Kal Zakath’s inert body until only his ashen face remained uncovered by them.

“All right,” Belgarath said to the plants, “that’s far enough. You can bloom now.”

There was another surge and a peculiar ringing sound.

The tips of all the myriad twiglets swelled, and then those buds began to split, revealing their pale lavender interiors. Almost shyly the lopsided little flowers opened, filling the room with a gentle-seeming fragrance. Garion straightened as he breathed in that delicate odor. For some reason, he suddenly felt very good, and the cares and worries which had beset him for the past several months seemed to fall away.

The slack-faced ’Zakath stirred slightly, took a breath, and sighed deeply. Polgara laid her fingertips to the side of his neck. “I think it’s working, father,” she said. “His heart’s not laboring so hard now, and his breathing’s easier.”

“Good,” Belgarath replied. “I hate to go through something like that for nothing.”

Then the Emperor opened his eyes. The shimmering form of Cyradis hovered anxiously at the foot of his bed.

Strangely, he smiled when he saw her, and her shy, answering smile lighted her pale face. Then ’Zakath sighed once more and closed his eyes again. Garion leaned forward to make sure that the sick man was still breathing.

When he looked back toward the foot of the bed, the Seeress of Kell was gone.

4

A warm wind came in off the lake that night, and the wet snow that had blanketed Rak Hagga and the surrounding countryside turned to a dreary slush that sagged and fell from the limbs of the trees in the little garden at the center of the house and slid in sodden clumps from the gray slate roof. Garion and Silk sat near the fire in the mauve-cushioned room, looking out at the garden and talking quietly.

“We’d know a great deal more, if I could get in touch with Yarblek,” Silk was saying. The little man was dressed again in the pearl-gray doublet and black hose which he had favored during those years before they had begun this search, although he wore only a few of the costly rings and ornaments which had made him appear so ostentatiously wealthy at that time.

“Isn’t he in Gar og Nadrak?” Garion asked. Garion had also discarded his serviceable travel clothing and reverted to his customary silver-trimmed blue.

“It’s hard to say exactly where Yarblek is at any given time, Garion. He moves around a great deal; but no matter where he goes, the reports from our people in Mal Zeth, Melcene, and Maga Renn are all forwarded to him. Whatever this Mengha is up to is almost certain to have disrupted trade. I’m sure that our agents have gathered everything they could find out about him and sent it along to Yarblek. Right now my scruffy-looking partner probably knows more about Mengha than Brador’s secret police do.”

“I don’t want to get sidetracked, Silk. Our business is with Zandramas, not Mengha.”

“Demons are everybody’s business,” Silk replied soberly, “but no matter what we decide to do, we have to get to Mallorea first—and that means persuading ’Zakath that this is serious. Was he listening at all when you told him about Mengha?”

Garion shook his head. “I’m not sure if he even understood what we were telling him. He wasn’t altogether rational.”

Silk grunted. “When he wakes up, we’ll have to try again.” A sly grin crossed the little man’s face. “I’ve had a certain amount of luck negotiating with sick people,” he said.

“Isn’t that sort of contemptible?”

“Of course it is—but it gets results.”

Later that morning, Garion and his rat-faced friend stopped by the Emperor’s room, ostensibly to inquire about his health. Polgara and Sadi were seated on either side of the bed, and Andel sat quietly in the corner. The vines that had enveloped the narrow cot had been pulled aside, but the air in the room was still heavy with the fragrance of the small, lavender flowers. The sick man was propped into a half-sitting position by pillows, but his eyes were closed as Silk and Garion entered. His cat lay contentedly purring at the foot of the bed.

“How is he?” Garion asked quietly.

“He’s been awake a few times,” Sadi replied. “There are still some traces of thalot in his extremities, but they seem to be dissipating.” The eunuch was picking curiously at one of the small flowers. “I wonder if these would work if they were distilled down to an essence,” he mused, “or perhaps an attar. It might be very interesting to wear a perfume that would ward off any poison.” He frowned slightly. “And I wonder if they’d be effective against snake venom.”

“Have Zith bite someone,” Silk suggested. “Then you can test it.”

“Would you like to volunteer, Prince Kheldar?”

“Ah, no, Sadi,” Silk declined. “Thanks all the same.” He looked at the red case lying open on the floor in the comer. “Is she confined, by the way?” he asked nervously.

“She’s sleeping,” Sadi replied. “She always takes a little nap after breakfast.”

Garion looked at the dozing Emperor. “Is he coherent at all—when he’s awake, I mean?”

“His mind seems to be clearing,” Polgara told him.

“Hysteria and delirium are some of the symptoms brought on by thalot,” Sadi said. “Growing rationality is an almost certain sign of recovery.”

“Is that you, Belgarion?” ’Zakath asked almost in a whisper and without opening his eyes.

“Yes,” Garion replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Weak. Light-headed—and every muscle in my body screams like an abscessed tooth. Aside from that, I’m fine.” He opened his eyes with a wry smile. “What happened? I seem to have lost track of things.”

Garion glanced briefly at Polgara, and she nodded.

“You were poisoned,” he told the sick man.

’Zakath looked a bit surprised. “It must not have been a very good one then,” he said.

“Actually, it’s one of the very best, your Imperial Majesty,” Sadi disagreed mildly. “It’s always been universally lethal.”

“I’m dying then?” ’Zakath said it with a peculiar kind of satisfaction, almost as if he welcomed the idea. “Ah, well,” he sighed. “That should solve many problems.”

“I’m very sorry, your Majesty,” Silk said with mock regret, “but I think you’ll live. Belgarath tampers with the normal course of events from time to time. It’s a bad habit he picked up in his youth, but a man needs some vices, I suppose.”

’Zakath smiled weakly. “You’re a droll little fellow, Prince Kheldar.”

“If you’re really keen on dying, though,” Silk added outrageously, “we could always wake Zith. One nip from her almost guarantees perpetual slumber.”

“Zith?”

“Sadi’s pet—a little green snake. She could even curl up at your ear after she bites you and purr you into eternity.”

’Zakath sighed, and his eyes drooped shut again.

“I think we should let him sleep,” Polgara said quietly.

“Not just yet, Lady Polgara,” the Emperor said. “I’ve shunned sleep and the dreams which infest it for so long that it comes unnaturally now.”

“You must sleep, Kal Zakath,” Andel told him.

“There are ways to banish evil dreams, and sleep is the greatest healer.”

’Zakath sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to banish these dreams, Andel.” Then he frowned slightly. “Sadi, is hallucination one of the symptoms of the poison I was given?”

“It’s possible,” the eunuch admitted. “What horrors have you seen?”

“Not a horror,” ’Zakath replied. “I seem to see the face of a young woman. Her eyes are bound with a strip of cloth. A peculiar peace comes over me when I see her face.”

“Then it was not an hallucination, Kal Zakath,” Andel told him.

“Who is this strange blind child, then?”

“My mistress,” Andel said proudly. “The face which came to you in your direst hour was the face of Cyradis, the Seeress of Kell, upon whose decision rests the fate of all the world—and of all other worlds as well.”

“So great a responsibility to lie upon such slender shoulders,” ’Zakath said.

“It is her task,” Andel said simply.

The sick man seemed to fall again into a doze, his lips lightly touched with a peculiar smile. Then his eyes opened again, seemingly more alert now. “Am I healed, Sadi?” he asked the shaved-headed eunuch. “Has your excellent Nyissan poison quite run its course?”

“Oh,” Sadi replied speculatively, “I wouldn’t say that you’re entirety well yet, your Majesty, but I’d guess that you’re out of any immediate danger.”

“Good,” ’Zakath said crisply, trying to shoulder his way up into a sitting position. Garion reached out to help him. “And has the knave who poisoned me been apprehended yet?”

Sadi shook his head. “Not as far as I know,” he answered.

“I think that might be the first order of business, then.

I’m starting to feel a little hungry and I’d rather not go through this again. Is the poison common in Cthol Murgos?”

Sadi frowned. “Murgo law forbids poisons and drugs, your Majesty,” he replied. “They’re a backward sort of people. The Dagashi assassins probably have access to thalot, though.”

“You think my poisoner might have been a Dagashi, then?”

Sadi shrugged. “Most assassinations in Cthol Murgos are carried out by the Dagashi. They’re efficient and discreet.”

’Zakath’s eyes narrowed in thought. “That would seem to point a finger directly at Urgit, then. The Dagashi are expensive, and Urgit has access to the royal treasury.” Silk grimaced. “No,” he declared. “Urgit wouldn’t do that. A knife between your shoulder blades maybe, but not poison.”

“How can you be so sure, Kheldar?”

“I know him,” Silk replied a bit lamely. “He’s weak and a little timid, but he wouldn’t be a party to a poisoning. It’s a contemptible way to resolve political differences.”

“Prince Kheldar!” Sadi protested.

“Except in Nyissa, of-course,” Silk conceded. “One always needs to take quaint local customs into account.” He pulled at his long, pointed nose. “I’ll admit that Urgit wouldn’t grieve too much if you woke up dead some morning,” he said to the Mallorean Emperor, “but it’s all just a little too pat. If your generals believed that it was Urgit who arranged to have you killed, they’d stay here for the next ten generations trying to obliterate all of Murgodom, wouldn’t they?”

“I’d assume so,” ’Zakath said.

“Who would benefit the most by disposing of you and rather effectively making sure that the bulk of your army doesn’t return to Mallorea in the foreseeable future? Not Urgit, certainly. More likely it would be somebody in Mallorea who wants a free hand there.” Silk squared his shoulders. “Why don’t you let Liselle and me do a little snooping around before you lock your mind in stone on this? Obvious things always make me suspicious.”

“That’s all very well, Kheldar,” ’Zakath said rather testily, “but how can I be sure that my next meal won’t have another dose of exotic spices in it?”

“You have at your bedside the finest cook in the world,” the rat-faced man said, pointing grandly at Polgara, “and I can absolutely guarantee that she won’t poison you. She might turn you into a radish if you offend her, but she’d never poison you.”

“All right, Silk, that will do,” Polgara told him,

“I’m only paying tribute to your extraordinary gifts, Polgara.”

Her eyes grew hard.

“I think that perhaps it might be time for me to be on my way,” Silk said to Garion.

“Wise decision,” Garion murmured.

The little man turned and quickly left the room.

“Is he really as good as he pretends to be?” ’Zakath asked curiously.

Polgara nodded. “Between them, Kheldar and Liselle can probably ferret out any secret in the world. Silk doesn’t always like it, but they’re almost a perfect team.

And now, your Majesty, what would you like for breakfast?”

A curious exchange was taking place in the corner.

Throughout the previous conversation, Garion had heard a faint, drowsy purr coming from Zith’s earthenware bottle. Either the little snake was expressing a general sense of contentment, or it may have been one of the peculiarities of her species to purr while sleeping. ’Zakath’s pregnant, mackerel-striped cat, attracted by that sound, jumped down from the bed and curiously waddled toward Zith’s little home. Absently, probably without even thinking about it, she responded to the purr coming from the bottle with one of her own. She sniffed at the bottle, then tentatively touched it with one soft paw. The peculiar duet of purring continued.

Then, perhaps because Sadi had not stoppered the bottle tightly enough or because she had long since devised this simple means of opening her front door, the little snake nudged the cork out of the bottle with her blunt nose. Both creatures continued to purr, although the cat was now obviously afire with curiosity. For a time Zith did not reveal herself, but lurked shyly in her bottle, still purring. Then, cautiously, she poked out her head, her forked tongue flickering as she tested the air.

The cat jumped straight up to a height of about three feet, giving vent to a startled yowl. Zith retreated immediately back into the safety of her house, though she continued to purr.

Warily, but still burning with curiosity, the cat approached the bottle again, moving one foot at a time.

“Sadi,” ’Zakath said, his voice filled with concern.

“There’s no immediate danger, your Majesty,” the eunuch assured him. “Zith never bites while she’s purring.”

Again the little green snake slid her head out of the bottle. This time the cat recoiled only slightly. Then, curiosity overcoming her natural aversion to reptiles, she continued her slow advance, her nose reaching out toward this remarkable creature. Zith, still purring, also extended her blunt nose. Their noses touched, and both flinched back slightly. Then they cautiously sniffed at each other, the cat with her nose, the snake with her tongue. Both were purring loudly now.

“Astonishing,” Sadi murmured. “I think they actually like each other.”

“Sadi, please,” ’Zakath said plaintively. “I don’t know how you feel about your snake, but I’m rather fond of my cat, and she is about to become a mother.”

“I’ll speak with them, your Majesty,” Sadi assured him. “I’m not sure that they’ll listen, but I’ll definitely speak with them.”

Belgarath had once again retired to the library, and Garion found him later that day poring over a large map of northern Mallorea. “Ah,” he said, looking up as Garion entered, “there you are. I was just about to send for you. Come over here and look at this.” Garion went to the table.

“The appearance of this Mengha fellow might just work to our advantage, you know.”

“I don’t quite follow that, Grandfather.”

“Zandramas is here at Ashaba, right?” Belgarath stabbed his finger at a spot in the representation of the Karandese mountains.

“Yes,” Garion said.

“And Mengha’s moving west and south out of Calida, over here.” The old man poked at the map again.

“That’s what Brador says.”

“He’s got her blocked off from most of the continent, Garion. She’s been very careful here in Cthol Murgos to avoid populated areas. There’s no reason to believe that she’s going to change once she gets to Mallorea. Urvon’s going to be to the south of her at Mal Yaska, and the wastes to the north are virtually impassable—even though it’s nearly summer.”

“Summer?”

“In the northern half of the world it is.”

“Oh. I keep forgetting.” Garion peered at the map.

“Grandfather, we don’t have any idea of where ‘the place which is no more’ might be. When Zandramas leaves Ashaba, she could go in any direction.”

Belgarath squinted at the map. “I don’t think so, Garion. In the light of all that’s happened in Mallorea—coupled with the fact that by now she knows that we’re on her trail—I think she almost has to be trying to get back to her power base in Darshiva. Everybody in the world is after her, and she needs help.”

“We certainly aren’t threatening her all that much,” Garion said moodily. “We can’t even get out of Cthol Murgos.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You’ve got to persuade ’Zakath that it’s vital for us to leave here and get to Mallorea as quickly as possible.”

“Persuade?”

“Just do whatever you have to, Garion. There’s a great deal at stake.”

“Why me?” Garion said it without thinking.

Belgarath gave him a long, steady look.

“Sorry,” Garion muttered. “Forget that I said it.”

“All right. I’ll do that.”

Late that evening, ’Zakath’s cat gave birth to seven healthy kittens while Zith hovered in anxious attendance, warning off all other observers with ominous hisses. Peculiarly, the only person the protective little reptile would allow near the newborn kittens was Velvet.

Garion had little success during the next couple of days in his efforts to steer his conversations with the convalescing ’Zakath around to the subject of the necessity for returning to Mallorea. The Emperor usually pleaded a lingering weakness as a result of his poisoning, though Garion privately suspected subterfuge on that score, since the man appeared to have more than enough energy for his usual activities and only protested exhaustion when Garion wanted to talk about a voyage.

On the evening of the fourth day, however, he decided to try negotiation one last time before turning to more direct alternatives. He found ’Zakath seated in the chair near his bed with a book in his hands. The dark circles beneath his eyes had vanished, the trembling had disappeared entirely, and he seemed totally alert. “Ah, Belgarion,” he said almost cheerfully, “so good of you to stop by.”

“I thought I’d come in and put you to sleep again,” Garion replied with slightly exaggerated sarcasm.

“Have I been that obvious?” ’Zakath asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact you have. Every time I mention the words ‘ship’ and ‘Mallorea’ in the same sentence, your eyes snap shut. ’Zakath, we’ve got to talk about this, and time is starting to run out.”

’Zakath passed one hand across his eyes with some show of weariness.

“Let me put it this way,” Garion pressed on. “Belgarath’s starting to get impatient. I’m trying to keep our discussions civil, but if he steps in, I can almost guarantee that they’re going to turn unpleasant—very quickly.”

’Zakath lowered his hand, and his eyes narrowed. “That sounds vaguely like a threat, Belgarion.”

“No,” Garion disagreed. “As a matter of fact, it’s in the nature of friendly advice. If you want to stay here in Cthol Murgos, that’s up to you, but we have to get to Mallorea—and soon.”

“And if I choose not to permit you to go?”

“Permit?” Garion laughed. “’Zakath, did you grow up in the same world with the rest of us? Have you got even the remotest idea of what you’re talking about?”

“I think that concludes this interview, Belgarion,” the Emperor said coldly. He rose stiffly to his feet and turned to his bed. As usual, his cat had deposited her mewling little brood in the center of his coverlet and then gone off to nap alone in her wool-lined box in the corner. The irritated Emperor looked with some exasperation at the furry little puddle on his bed. “You have my permission to withdraw, Belgarion,” he said over his shoulder. Then he reached down with both hands to scoop up the cluster of kittens.

Zith reared up out of the very center of the furry heap, fixed him with a cold eye, and hissed warningly.

“Torak’s teeth!” ’Zakath swore, jerking his hands away."This is going too far! Go tell Sadi that I want his accursed snake out of my room immediately!”

“He’s taken her out four times already, ’Zakath,” Garion said mildly. “She just keeps crawling back.” He suppressed a grin. “Maybe she likes you.”

“Are you trying to be funny.?”

“Me?”

“Get the snake out of here.”

Garion put his hands behind his back. “Not me, ’Zakath. I’ll go get Sadi.”

In the hallway outside, however, he encountered Velvet, who was coming toward the Emperor’s room with a mysterious smile on her face.

“Do you think you could move Zith?” Garion asked her. “She’s in the middle of ’Zakath’s bed with those kittens.”

“You can move her, Belgarion,” the blond girl said, smiling the dimples into her cheeks. “She trusts you.”

“I think I’d rather not try that.”

The two of them went back into the Emperor’s bedchamber.

“Margravine,” ’Zakath greeted her courteously, inclining his head.

She curtsied. “Your Majesty.”

“Can you deal with this?” he asked, pointing at the furry pile on his bed with the snake still half-reared out of the center, her eyes alert.

“Of course, your Majesty.” She approached the bed, and the snake flickered her tongue nervously. “Oh, do stop that, Zith,” the blond girl chided. Then she lifted the front of her skirt to form a kind of pouch and began picking up kittens and depositing them in her improvised basket. Last of all she lifted Zith and laid her in the middle. She crossed the room and casually put them all into the box with the mother cat, who opened one golden eye, made room for her kittens and their bright green nursemaid, and promptly went back to sleep.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Velvet murmured softly. Then she turned back to ’Zakath. “Oh, by the way, your Majesty, Kheldar and I managed to find out who it was who poisoned you.”

“What?”

She nodded, frowning slightly. “It came as something of a surprise, actually.”

The Emperor’s eyes had become intent. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as one can be in these cases. You seldom find an eyewitness to a poisoning; but he was in the kitchen at the right time, he left right after you fell ill, and we know him by reputation.” She smiled at Garion. “Have you noticed how people always tend to remember a man with white eyes?”

“Naradas?” Garion exclaimed.

“Surprising, isn’t it?”

“Who’s Naradas?” ’Zakath demanded.

“He works for Zandramas,” Garion replied. He frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense, Velvet. Why would Zandramas want to kill him? Wouldn’t she want to keep him alive?”

She spread her hands. “I don’t know, Belgarion—not yet, anyway.”

“Velvet?” ’Zakath asked in puzzlement.

She smiled the dimples into her cheeks again. “Isn’t it silly?” She laughed. “I suppose these little nicknames are a form of affection, though. Belgarion’s question is to the point, however. Can you think of any reason why Zandramas might want to kill you?”

“Not immediately, but we can wring that answer out of her when I catch her—and I’ll make a point of doing that, even if I have to take Cthol Murgos apart stone by stone.”

“She isn’t here,” Garion said absently, still struggling with the whole idea. “She’s at Ashaba—in the House of Torak.”

’Zakath’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Isn’t this convenient, Belgarion?” he said. “I happen to get poisoned right after your arrival. Belgarath happens to cure me. Kheldar and Liselle happen to discover the identity of the poisoner, who happens to work for Zandramas, who happens to be at Ashaba, which happens to be in Mallorea—a place which just happens to be where you so desperately want to go. The coincidence staggers the imagination, wouldn’t you say?”

“’Zakath, you’re starting to make me tired,” Garion said irritably. “If I decide that I need a boat to get to Mallorea, I’ll take one. All that’s kept me from doing that so far are the manners Lady Polgara drilled into me when I was a boy.”

“And how do you propose to leave this house?” ’Zakath snapped, his temper also starting to rise.

That did it. The rage that came over Garion was totally irrational. It was the result of a hundred delays and stumbling blocks and petty interruptions that had dogged him for almost a year now. He reached over his shoulder, ripped Iron-grip’s sword from its sheath, and peeled the concealing leather sleeve from its hilt. He held the great blade before him and literally threw his will at the Orb. The sword exploded into blue flame. “How do I propose to leave this house?” he half shouted at the stunned Emperor. “I’ll use this for a key. It works sort of like this.” He straightened his arm, leveling the blazing sword at the door. “Burst!” he commanded.

Garion’s anger was not only irrational, it was also somewhat excessive. He had intended no more than the door—and possibly a part of the doorframe—simply to illustrate to ’Zakath the intensity of his feeling about the matter. The Orb, however, startled into wakefulness by the sudden jolt of his angry will, had overreacted. The door, certainly, disappeared, dissolving into splinters that blasted out into the hallway. The doorframe also vanished. What Garion had not intended, however, was what happened to the wall.

White-faced and shaking, ’Zakath stumbled back, staring at the hallway outside that had suddenly been revealed and at the rubble that filled it—rubble that had a moment before been the solid, two-foot-thick stone wall of his bedroom.

“My goodness,” Velvet murmured mildly.

Knowing that it was silly and melodramatic, but still caught up in that towering, irrational anger, Garion caught the stunned ’Zakath by the arm with his left hand and gestured with the sword he held in his right. “Now, we’re going to go talk with Belgarath,” he announced.

“We’ll go through the hallways if you’ll give me your word not to call soldiers every time we go around a corner. Otherwise, we’ll just cut straight through the house. The library’s sort of in that direction, isn’t it?” he pointed at one of the still-standing walls with his sword.

“Belgarion,” Velvet chided him gently, “now really, that’s no way to behave. Kal Zakath has been a very courteous host. I’m sure that now that he understands the situation, he’ll be more than happy to cooperate, won’t you, your Imperial Majesty?” She smiled winsomely at the Emperor. “We wouldn’t want the Rivan King to get really angry, now would we? There are so many breakable things about—windows, walls, houses, the city of Rak Hagga—that sort of thing.”

They found Belgarath in the library again. He was reading a small scroll, and there was a large tankard at his elbow.

“Something’s come up,” Garion said shortly as he entered.

“Oh?”

“Velvet tells us that she and Silk found out that it was Naradas who poisoned ’Zakath.”

“Naradas?” the old man blinked. “That’s a surprise, isn’t it?”

“What’s she up to, Grandfather? Zandramas, I mean.”

“I’m not sure.” Belgarath looked at ’Zakath. “Who’s likely to succeed you if somebody manages to put you to sleep?”

’Zakath shrugged. “There are a few distant cousins scattered about—mostly in the Melcene Islands and Celanta. The line of the succession is a little murky.”

“Perhaps that’s what she has in mind, Belgarath,” Velvet said seriously. “If there’s any truth in that Grolim Prophecy you found in Rak Hagga, she’s got to have an Angarak king with her at the time of the final meeting.

A tame king would suit her purposes much better than someone like his Majesty here—some third or fourth cousin she could crown and anoint and proclaim king.Then she could have her Grolims keep an eye on him and deliver him to her at the proper time.”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” he agreed. “I think there may be a bit more to it than that, though. Zandramas has never been that straightforward about anything before.”

“I hope you all realize that I haven’t the faintest notion of what you’re talking about,” ’Zakath said irritably.

“Just how much does he know?” Belgarath asked Garion.

“Not very much, Grandfather.”

“All right. Maybe if he does know what’s going on, he won’t be quite so difficult.” He turned to the Mallorean Emperor. “Have you ever heard of the Mrin Codex?” he asked.

“I’ve heard that it was written by a madman—like most of the other so-called prophecies.”

“How about the Child of Light and the Child of Dark?”

“That’s part of the standard gibberish used by religious hysterics.”

“’Zakath, you’re going to have to believe in something. This is going to be very difficult for you to grasp if you don’t.”

“Would you settle for a temporary suspension of skepticism?” the Emperor countered.

“Fair enough, I suppose. All right, now, this gets complicated, so you’re going to have to pay attention, listen carefully, and stop me if there’s anything you don’t understand.”

The old man then proceeded to sketch in the ancient story of the “accident” that had occurred before the world had begun and the divergence of the two possible courses of the future and of the two consciousnesses which had somehow infused those courses.

“All right,” ’Zakath said. “That’s fairly standard theology so far. I’ve had Grolims preaching to the same nonsense since I was a boy.”

Belgarath nodded. “I just wanted to start us off from common ground.” He went on then, telling ’Zakath of the events spanning the eons between the cracking of the world and the Battle of Vo Mimbre.

“Our point of view is somewhat different,” ’Zakath murmured.

“It would be,” Belgarath agreed. “All right, there were five hundred years between Vo Mimbre and the theft of the Orb by Zedar the Apostate.”

“Recovery.” ’Zakath corrected. “The Orb was stolen from Cthol Mishrak by Iron-grip the thief and by—” he stopped, and his eyes suddenly widened as he stared at the seedy-looking old man.

“Yes,” Belgarath said, “I really was there, ’Zakath—and I was there two thousand years before, when Torak originally stole the Orb from my Master.”

“I’ve been sick, Belgarath,” the Emperor said weakly, sinking into a chair. “My nerves aren’t really up for too many of these shocks.”

Belgarath looked at him, puzzled.

“Their Majesties were having a little discussion,” Velvet explained brightly.” King Belgarion gave the Emperor a little demonstration of some of the more flamboyant capabilities of the Sword of the Rivan King. The Emperor was quite impressed. So was most everybody else who happened to be in that part of the house.”

Belgarath gave Garion a chill look. “Playing again?” he asked.

Garion tried to reply, but there was nothing he could really say.

“All right, let’s get on with this,” Belgarath continued briskly. “What happened after the emergence of Garion here is all recent history, so I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

“Garion?” ’Zakath asked.

“A more common—and familiar—form. ‘Belgarion’ is a bit ostentatious, wouldn’t you say?”

“No more so than ‘Belgarath.’”

“I’ve worn ‘Belgarath’ for almost seven thousand years, ’Zakath, and I’ve sort of rubbed off the rough edges and corners. Garion’s only been wearing his ‘Bel’ for a dozen years, and it still squeaks when he turns around too quickly ”

Garion felt slightly offended by that.

“Anyway,” the old man continued, “after Torak was dead, Garion and Ce’Nedra got married. About a year or so ago, she gave birth to a son. Garion’s attention at that time was on the Bear-cult. Someone had tried to kill Ce’Nedra and had succeeded in killing the Rivan Warder.”

“I’d heard about that,” ’Zakath said.

“Anyway, he was in the process of stamping out the cult—he stamps quite well once he puts his mind to it—when someone crept into the Citadel at Riva and abducted his infant son—my great-grandson.”

“No!” ’Zakath exclaimed.

“Oh, yes,” Belgarath continued grimly. “We thought it was the cult and marched to Rheon in Drasnia, their headquarters, but it was all a clever ruse. Zandramas had abducted prince Geran and misdirected us to Rheon. The leader of the cult turned out to be Harakan, one of the henchmen of Urvon—is this coming too fast for you?”

’Zakath’s face was startled, and his eyes had gone wide again. “No,” he said, swallowing hard. “I think I can keep up.”

“There isn’t too much more. After we discovered our mistakes, we took up the abductor’s trail. We know that she’s going to Mallorea—to a ‘place which is no more.’ That’s where the Sardion is. We have to stop her, or at least arrive there at the same time. Cyradis believes that when we all arrive at this ‘place which is no more,’ there’s going to be one of those confrontations between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark which have been happening since before the beginning of time—except that this is going to be the last one. She’ll choose between them, and that’s supposed to be the end of it.”

“I’m afraid that it’s at that point that my skepticism reasserts itself, Belgarath,” ’Zakath said. “You don’t actually expect me to believe that these two shadowy figures that predate the world are going to arrive at this mysterious place to grapple once more, do you?”

“What makes you think they’re shadowy? The spirits that are at the core of the two possible destinies infuse real people to act as their instruments during these meetings. Right now, for example, Zandramas is the Child of Dark. It used to be Torak—until Garion killed him.”

“And who’s the Child of Light?”

“I thought that would be obvious.”

’Zakath turned to stare incredulously into Garion’s blue eyes. “You?” he gasped.

“That’s what they tell me,” Garion replied.

5

Kal Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, looked first at Belgarath, then again at Garion, and finally at Velvet. “Why do I feel that I’m losing control of things here?” he asked. “When you people came here, you were more or less my prisoners. Now somehow I’m yours.”

“We told you some things you didn’t know before, that’s all,” Belgarath told him.

“Or some things that you’ve cleverly made up.”

“Why would we do that?”

“I can think of any number of reasons. For the sake of argument I’ll accept your story about the abduction of Belgarion’s son, but don’t you see how that makes all your motives completely obvious? You need my aid in your search. All this mystical nonsense, and your wild story about Urgit’s parentage, could have been designed to divert me from my campaign here in Cthol Murgos and to trick me into returning with you to Mallorea. Everything you’ve done or said since you’ve come here could have been directed toward that end.”

“Do you really think we’d do that?” Garion asked him.

“Belgarion, if I had a son and someone had abducted him, I’d do anything to get him back. I sympathize with your situation, but I have my own concerns, and they’re here, not in Mallorea. I’m sorry, but the more I think about this, the less of it I believe. I could not have misjudged the world so much. Demons? Prophecies? Magic? Immortal old men? It’s all been very entertaining, but I don’t believe one word of it.”

“Not even what the Orb showed you about Urgit?” Garion asked.

“Please, Belgarion, don’t treat me like a child.” ’Zakath’s lips were twisted into an ironic smile. “Isn’t it altogether possible that the poison had already crept into my mind? And isn’t it also possible that you, like any other of the charlatans who infest village fairs, used a show of mysterious lights and suggestions to make me see what you wanted me to see?”

“What do you believe, Kal Zakath?” Velvet asked him.

“What I can see and touch—and precious little else.”

“So great a skepticism,” she murmured. “Then you do not accept one single out-of—the-ordinary thing?”

“Not that I can think of, no.”

“Not even the peculiar gift of the Seers at Kell? It’s been fairly well documented, you know.”

He frowned slightly. “Yes,” he admitted, “as a matter of fact, it has.”

“How can you document a vision?” Garion asked curiously.

“The Grolims were seeking to discredit the Seers,” ’Zakath replied. “They felt that the easiest way to do that Was to have these pronouncements about the future written down and then wait to see what happened. The bureaucracy was instructed to keep records. So far, not one of the predictions of the Seers has proven false.”

“Then you do believe that the Seers have the ability to know things about the past and the present and the future in ways that the rest of us might not completely understand?” Velvet pressed.

’Zakath pursed his lips. “All right, Margravine,” he said reluctantly, “I’ll concede that the Seers have certain abilities that haven’t been explained as yet.”

“Do you believe that a Seer could lie to you?”

“Good girl,” Belgarath murmured approvingly.

“No,” ’Zakath replied after a moment’s thought. “A Seer is incapable of lying. Their truthfulness is proverbial.”

“Well, then,” she said with a dimpled smile, “all you need to do to find out if what we’ve told you is the truth is to send for a Seer, isn’t it?”

“Liselle,” Garion protested, “that could take weeks. We don’t have that much time.”

“Oh,” she said, “I don’t think it would take all that long. If I remember correctly, Lady Polgara said that Andel summoned Cyradis when his Majesty here lay dying. I’m fairly sure we could persuade her to do it for us again.”

“Well, ’Zakath,” Belgarath said. “Will you agree to accept what Cyradis tells you as the truth?”

The Emperor squinted at him suspiciously, searching for some kind of subterfuge. “You’ve manipulated me into a corner,” he accused. He thought about it. “All right, Belgarath,” he said finally. “I’ll accept whatever Cyradis says as the truth—if you’ll agree to do the same.""Done then,” Belgarath said. “Let’s send for Andel and get on with this.”

As Velvet stepped out into the hall to speak with one of the guards who trailed along behind the Emperor wherever he went, ’Zakath leaned back in his chair. “I can’t believe that I’m even considering all the wild impossibilities you’ve been telling me,” he said.

Garion exchanged a quick look with his grandfather, and then they both laughed.

“Something funny, gentlemen?”

“Just a family joke, ’Zakath,” Belgarath told him. “Garion and I have been discussing the possible and the impossible since he was about nine years old. He was even more stubborn about it than you are.”

“It gets easier to accept after the first shock wears off,” Garion added. “It’s sort of like swimming in very cold water. Once you get numb, it doesn’t hurt quite so much.”

It was not long until Velvet reentered the room with the hooded Andel at her side.

“I believe you said that the Seeress of Kell is your mistress, Andel,” ’Zakath said to her.

“Yes, she is, your Majesty.”

“Can you summon her?”

“Her semblance, your Majesty, if there is need and if she will consent to come.”

“I believe there’s a need, Andel. Belgarath has told me certain things that I have to have confirmed. I know that Cyradis speaks only the truth. Belgarath, on the other hand, has a more dubious reputation."He threw a rather sly, sidelong glance at the old man.

Belgarath grinned at him and winked.

“I will speak with my mistress, your Majesty,” Andel said, “and entreat her to send her semblance here. Should she consent, I beg of you to ask your questions quickly. The effort of reaching half around the world exhausts her, and she is not robust.” Then the Dalasian woman knelt reverently and lowered her head, and Garion once again heard that peculiar murmur as of many voices, followed by a long moment of silence. Again there was that same shimmer in the air; when it had cleared, the hooded and blindfolded form of Cyradis stood there.

“We thank you for coming, Holy Seeress,” ’Zakath said to her in an oddly respectful tone of voice.” My guests here have told me certain things that I am loath to believe, but I have agreed to accept whatever you can confirm.”

“I will tell thee what I can, ’Zakath,” she replied. “Some things are hidden from me, and some others may not yet be revealed.”

“I understand the limitations, Cyradis. Belgarion tells me that Urgit, the King of the Murgos, is not of the blood of Taur Urgas. Is this true?”

“It is,” she replied simply. “King Urgit’s father was an Alorn.”

“Are any of the sons of Taur Urgas still alive?”

“Nay, ’Zakath. The line of Taur Urgas became extinct some twelve years ago when his last son was strangled in a cellar in Rak Goska upon the command of Oskatat, King Urgit’s Seneschal.”

’Zakath sighed and shook his head sadly. “And so it has ended,” he said. “My enemy’s line passed unnoticed from this world in a dark cellar—passed so quietly that I could not even rejoice that they were gone, nor curse the ones who stole them from my grasp.”

“Revenge is a hollow thing, ’Zakath.”

“It’s the only thing I’ve had for almost thirty years now.” He sighed again, then straightened his shoulders. “Did Zandramas really steal Belgarion’s son?”

“She did, and now she carries him to the Place Which Is No More.”

“And where’s that?”

Her face grew very still. “I may not reveal that,” she replied finally, “but the Sardion is there.”

“Can you tell me what the Sardion is?”

“It is one half of the stone which was divided.”

“Is it really all that important?”

“In all of Angarak there is no thing of greater worth. The Grolims all know this. Urvon would give all his wealth for it. Zandramas would abandon the adoration of multitudes for it. Mengha would give his soul for it—indeed, he hath done so already in his enlistment of demons to aid him. Even Agachak, Hierarch of Rak Urga, would abandon his ascendancy in Cthol Murgos to possess it.”

“How is it that a thing of such value has escaped my notice?”

“Thine eyes are on worldly matters, ’Zakath. The Sardion is not of this world—no more than the other half of the divided stone is of this world.”

“The other half?”

” That which the Angaraks call Cthrag Yaska and the men of the West call the Orb of Aldur. Cthrag Sardius and Cthrag Yaska were sundered in the moment which saw the birth of the opposing necessities.”

’Zakath’s face had grown quite pale, and he clasped his hands tightly in front of him to control their trembling.

“It’s all true, then?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“All, Kal Zakath. All.”

“Even that Belgarion and Zandramas are the Child of Light and the Child of Dark?”

“Yes, they are.”

He started to ask her another question, but she raised her hand. “My time is short, ’Zakath, and I must now reveal something of greater import unto thee, Know that thy life doth approach a momentous crossroads. Put aside thy lust for power and thy hunger for revenge, as they are but childish toys. Return thou even to Mal Zeth to prepare thyself for thy part in the meeting which is to come.”

“My part?” He sounded startled.

“Thy name and thy task are written in the stars.”

“And what is this task?”

“I will instruct thee when thou art ready to understand what it is that thou must do. First thou must cleanse thy heart of that grief and remorse which hath haunted thee.”

His face grew still, and he sighed. “I’m afraid not, Cyradis,” he said. “What you ask is quite impossible.”

“Then thou wilt surely die before the seasons turn again. Consider what I have told thee, and consider it well, Emperor of Mallorea. I will speak with thee anon.” And then she shimmered and vanished.

’Zakath stared at the empty spot where she had stood.

His face was pale, and his jaws were set.

“Well, ’Zakath?” Belgarath said. “Are you convinced?”

The Emperor rose from his chair and began to pace up and down. “This is an absolute absurdity!” he burst out suddenly in an agitated voice.

“I know,” Belgarath replied calmly, “but a willingness to believe the absurd is an indication of faith. It might just be that faith is the first step in the preparation Cyradis mentioned.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to believe, Belgarath,” ’Zakath said, in a strangely humble tone. “It’s just—”

“Nobody said that it was going to be easy,” the old man told him. “But you’ve done things before that weren’t easy, haven’t you?”

’Zakath dropped into his chair again, his eyes lost in thought. “Why me?” he said plaintively. “Why do I have to get involved in this?”

Garion suddenly laughed.

’Zakath gave him a cold stare.

“Sorry,” Garion apologized, “but I’ve been saying ‘why me?’ since I was about fourteen. Nobody’s ever given me a satisfactory answer, but you get used to the injustice of it after a while.”

“It’s not that I’m trying to avoid any kind of responsibility, Belgarion. It’s just that I can’t see what possible help I could be. You people are going to track down Zandramas, retrieve your son, and destroy the Sardion. Isn’t that about it?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Belgarath told him. “Destroying the Sardion is going to involve something rather cataclysmic.”

“I don’t quite follow that. Can’t you just wave your hand and make it cease to exist? You are a sorcerer, after all—or so they say.”

“That’s forbidden,” Garion said automatically. “You can’t unmake things. That’s what Ctuchik tried to do, and he destroyed himself.”

’Zakath frowned and looked at Belgarath. “I thought you killed him.”

“Most people do.” The old man shrugged. “It adds to my reputation, so I don’t argue with them.” He tugged at one earlobe. “No,” he said, “I think we’re going to have to see this all the way through to the end. I’m fairly sure that the only way the Sardion can be destroyed is as a result of the final confrontation between the Child of Light and the Child of Dark.” He paused, then sat up suddenly, his face intent. “I think Cyradis slipped and gave us something she hadn’t intended, though. She said that the Grolim priesthood all desperately wanted the Sardion, and she included Mengha in her list. Wouldn’t that seem to indicate that Mengha’s also a Grolim?” He looked at Andel. “Is your young mistress subject to these little lapses?”

“Cyradis cannot misspeak herself, Holy Belgarath,” the healer replied.” A Seeress does not speak in her own voice, but in the voice of her vision.”

“Then she wanted us to know that Mengha is—or was—a Grolim, and that the reason he’s raising demons is to help him in his search for the Sardion.” He thought about it. “There’s another rather bleak possibility, too,” he added. “It might just be that his demons are using him to get the Sardion for themselves. Maybe that’s why they’re so docile where he’s concerned. Demons by themselves are bad enough, but if the Sardion has the same power as the Orb, we definitely don’t want it to fall into their hands.” He turned to ’Zakath. “Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Are you with us or against us?”

“Isn’t that a little blunt?”

“Yes, it is—but it saves time, and time’s starting to be a factor.”

’Zakath sank lower in his chair, his expression unreadable. “I find very little benefit for me in this proposed arrangement,” he said.

“You get to keep living,” Garion reminded him. “Cyradis said that you’ll die before spring if you don’t take up the task she’s going to lay in front of you.”

’Zakath’s faint smile was melancholy, and the dead indifference returned to his eyes. “My life hasn’t really been so enjoyable that I’d consider going out of my way to prolong it, Belgarion,” he replied.

“Don’t you think you’re being just a little childish, ’Zakath?” Garion snapped, his temper starting to heat up again. “You’re not accomplishing a single thing here in Cthol Murgos. There’s not one solitary drop of Urga blood left for you to spill, and you’ve got a situation at home that verges on disaster. Are you a King—or an Emperor, or whatever you want to call it—or are you a spoiled child? You refuse to go back to Mal Zeth just because somebody told you that you ought to. You even dig in your heels when someone assures you that you’ll die if you don’t go back. That’s not only childish, it’s irrational, and I don’t have the time to try to reason with somebody whose wits have deserted him. Well, you can huddle here in Rak Hagga and nurse all your tired old griefs and disappointments until Cyradis’ predictions catch up with you, for all I care, but Geran is my son, and I’m going to Mallorea. I’ve got work to do, and I don’t have time to coddle you.” He had saved something up for last. “Besides,” he added in an insulting, offhand tone, “I don’t need you anyway.”

’Zakath came to his feet, his eyes ablaze. “You go too far!” he roared, slamming his fist down on the table.

“Amazing,” Garion said sarcastically. “You are alive after all. I thought I might have to step on your foot to get any kind of response of you. All right, now that you’re awake, let’s fight.”

“What do you mean, fight?” ’Zakath demanded, his face still flushed with anger. “Fight about what?”

“About whether or not you’re going with us to Mallorea.”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m going with you. What we are going to fight about is your incredible lack of common courtesy.”

Garion stared at him for a moment and then suddenly doubled over in a gale of helpless laughter.

’Zakath’s face was still red, and his fists were clenching and unclenching. Then a slightly sheepish expression came over his face, and he, too, began to laugh.

Belgarath let out an explosive breath. “Garion,” he said irritably, “let me know when you’re going to do something like that. My veins aren’t what they used to be.”

’Zakath wiped at his eyes, though he was still laughing. “How long do you think it might take for you and your friends to get packed?” he asked them.

“Not too long,” Garion replied. “Why?”

“I’m suddenly homesick for Mal Zeth. It’s spring there now, and the cherry trees are in bloom. You and Ce’Nedra will love Mal Zeth, Garion.”

Garion was not entirely sure if the omission of the “Bel” was inadvertent or an overture of friendship. He was, however, quite sure that the Emperor of Mallorea was a man of even greater complexity than he had imagined.

“I hope you’ll all excuse me now,” ’Zakath said, “but I want to talk with Brador and get a few more details about what’s been going on in Karanda. This Mengha he told me about seems to be mounting an open insurrection against the crown, and I’ve always had a violent prejudice against that sort of thing.”

“I can relate to that,” Garion agreed blandly.

For the next few days the road between Rak Hagga and the port city of Rak Cthan was thick with imperial messengers. Finally, on a frosty morning when the sun was bright and the sky dark blue and when misty steam rose from the dark waters of Lake Hagga, they set out, riding across a winter-browned plain toward the coast. Garion, his gray Rivan cloak drawn about him, rode at the head of the column with ’Zakath, who seemed for some reason to be in better spirits than he had been at any time since the two had met. The column which followed them stretched back for miles.

“Vulgar, isn’t it?” the Mallorean said wryly, looking back over his shoulder. “I’m absolutely surrounded by parasites and toadies, and they proliferate like maggots in rotten meat.”

“If they bother you so much, then why not dismiss them?” Garion suggested.

“I can’t. They all have powerful relatives. I have to balance them very carefully—one from this tribe to match the one from that clan. As long as no one family has too many high offices, they spend all their time plotting against each other. That way they don’t have the time to plot against me.”

“I suppose that’s one way to keep things under control.”

As the sun moved up through the bright blue winter sky at this nether end of the world, the frost gently dissolved from the long stems of dead grass or fell lightly from the fern and bracken to leave ghostly white imprints of those drooping brown fronds on the short green moss spread beneath.

They paused for a noon meal that was every bit as sumptuous as one that might have been prepared back in Rak Hagga and was served on snowy damask beneath a wide-spread canvas roof. “Adequate, I suppose,” ’Zakath said critically after they had eaten.

“You’re overpampered, my lord,” Polgara told him. “A hard ride in wet weather and a day or so on short rations would probably do wonders for your appetite.”

’Zakath gave Garion an amused look. “I thought it was just you,” he said, “but this blunt outspokenness seems to be a characteristic of your whole family ".

Garion shrugged. “It saves time.”

“Forgive my saying this, Belgarion,” Sadi interjected, “but what possible interest can an immortal have in time?” He sighed rather mournfully. “Immortality must give one a great deal of satisfaction—watching all one’s enemies grow old and die.”

“It’s much overrated,” Belgarath said, leaning back in his chair with a brimming silver tankard. “Sometimes whole centuries go by when one doesn’t have any enemies and there’s nothing to do but watch the years roll by.”

’Zakath suddenly smiled broadly. “Do you know something?” he said to them all. “I feel better right now than I’ve felt in over twenty-five years. It’s as if a great weight has been lifted from me.”

“Probably an aftereffect of the poison,” Velvet suggested archly. “Get plenty of rest, and it should pass in a month or so.”

“Is the Margravine always like this?” ’Zakath asked.

“Sometimes she’s even worse,” Silk replied morosely.

As they emerged from beneath the wide-spread canvas, Garion looked around for his horse, a serviceable roan with a long, hooked nose, but he could not seem to see the animal. Then he suddenly noticed that his saddle and packs were on a different horse, a very large dark gray stallion. Puzzled, he looked at ’Zakath, who was watching him intently. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Just a little token of my unbounded respect, Garion,” ’Zakath said, his eyes alight. “Your roan was an adequate mount, I suppose, but he was hardly a regal animal. A King needs a kingly horse, and I think you’ll find that Chretienne can lend himself to any occasion that requires ceremony.”

“Chretienne?”

“That’s his name. He’s been the pride of my stable here in Cthol Murgos. Don’t you have a stable at Riva?”

Garion laughed. “My kingdom’s an island, ’Zakath. We’re more interested in boats than in horses.” He looked at the proud gray standing with his neck arched and with one hoof lightly pawing the earth and was suddenly overcome with gratitude. He clasped the Mallorean Emperor’s hand warmly. “This is a magnificent gift, ’Zakath,” he said.

“Of course it is. I’m a magnificent fellow—or hadn’t you noticed? Ride him, Garion. Feel the wind in your face and let the thunder of his hooves fill your blood.”

“Well,” Garion said, trying to control his eagerness, “maybe he and I really ought to get to know each other.”

’Zakath laughed with delight. “Of course,” he said.

Garion approached the big gray horse, who watched him quite calmly. “I guess we’ll be sharing a saddle for a while,” he said to the animal. Chretienne nickered and nudged at Garion with his nose.

“He wants to run,” Eriond said. “I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind. Horse wants to run, too.”

“All right,” Garion agreed. “Let’s go then.” He gathered the reins, set his foot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. The gray was running almost before Garion was in place.

It was a new experience. Garion had spent many hours riding—sometimes for weeks on end. He had always taken care of his mounts, as any good Sendar would, but there had never really been any personal attachment before. For him, a horse had simply been a means of conveyance, a way to get from one place to another, and riding had never been a particular source of pleasure.

With this great stallion, Chretienne, however, it was altogether different. There was a kind of electric thrill to the feel of the big horse’s muscles bunching and flowing beneath him as they ran out across the winter-blown grass toward a rounded hill a mile or so distant, with Eriond and his chestnut stallion racing alongside.

When they reached the hilltop, Garion was breathless and laughing with sheer delight. He reined in, and Chretienne reared, pawing at the air with his hooves, wanting to be off again.

“Now you know, don’t you?” Eriond asked with a broad smile.

“Yes,” Garion admitted, still laughing, “I guess I do.

“I wonder how I missed it all these years.”

“You have to have the right horse,” Eriond told him wisely. He gave Garion a sidelong glance. “You know that you’ll never be the same again, don’t you?”

“That’s all right,” Garion replied. “I was getting tired of the old way anyhow.” He pointed at a low string of hills outlined against the crisp blue sky a league or so on ahead. “Why don’t we go over there and see what’s on the other side?” he suggested.

“Why not?” Eriond laughed.

And so they did.

The Emperor’s household staff was well organized, and a goodly number of them rode on ahead to prepare their night’s encampment at a spot almost precisely halfway to the coast. The column started early the following morning, riding again along a frosty track beneath a deep blue sky. It was late afternoon when they crested a hill to look out over the expanse of the Sea of the East, rolling a dark blue under the winter sun and with smoky-looking cloud banks the color of rust blurring the far horizon. Two dozen ships with their red sails furled stood at anchor in the indented curve of a shallow bay far below, and Garion looked with some puzzlement at ’Zakath.

“Another symptom of the vulgar ostentation I mentioned.” The Emperor shrugged. “I ordered this fleet down here from the port at Cthan. A dozen or so of those ships are here to transport all my hangers-on and toadies—as well as the humbler people who actually do the work. The other dozen are here to escort our royal personages with suitable pomp. You have to have pomp, Garion. Otherwise people might mistake a King or an Emperor for an honest man.”

“You’re in a whimsical humor this afternoon.”

“Maybe it’s another of those lingering symptoms Liselle mentioned. We’ll sleep on board ship tonight and sail at first light tomorrow.”

Garion nodded, touching Chretienne’s bowed neck with an odd kind of regret as he handed his reins to a waiting groom.

The vessel to which they were ferried from the sandy beach was opulent. Unlike the cramped cabins on most of the other ships Garion had sailed aboard, the chambers on this one were nearly as large as the rooms in a fair-sized house. It took him a little while to pin down the reason for the difference. The other ships had devoted so little room to cabins because the bulk of the space on board had been devoted to cargo. The only cargo this ship customarily carried, however, was the Emperor of Mallorea.

They dined that evening on lobster, served in the low-beamed dining room aboard ’Zakath’s floating palace. So much of Garion’s attention for the past week or more had been fixed on the unpredictable Emperor that he had not had much opportunity to talk with his friends. Thus, when they took their places at the table, he rather deliberately sat at the opposite end from the Mallorean. It was with a great deal of relief that he took his seat between Polgara and Durnik, while Ce’Nedra and Velvet diverted the Emperor with sparkling feminine chatter.

“You look tired, Garion,” Polgara noted.

“I’ve been under a certain strain,” he replied. “I wish that man wouldn’t keep changing every other minute. Every time I think I’ve got him figured out, he turns into somebody else.”

“It’s not a good idea to categorize people, dear,” she advised placidly, touching his arm. “That’s the first sign of fuzzy thinking.”

“Are we actually supposed to eat these things?” Durnik asked in a disgusted sort of voice, pointing his knife at the bright red lobster staring up at him from his plate with its claws seemingly at the ready.

“That’s what the pliers are for, Durnik,” Polgara explained in a peculiarly mild tone. “You have to crack it out of its shell.”

He pushed his plate away. “I’m not going to eat something that looks like a big red bug,” he declared with uncharacteristic heat. “I draw the line at some things.”

“Lobster is a delicacy, Durnik,” she said.

He grunted. “Some people eat snails, too.”

Her eyes flashed, but then she gained control of her anger and continued to speak to him in that same mild tone. “I’m sure we can have them take it away and bring you something else,” she said.

He glared at her.

Garion looked back and forth between the two of them, Then he decided that they had all known each other for far too long to step delicately around any problems.

“What’s the matter, Durnik?” he asked bluntly. “You’re as cross as a badger with a sore nose.”

“Nothing,” Durnik almost snapped at him.

Garion began to put a few things together. He remembered the plea Andel had made to Aunt Pol concerning Toth. He looked down the table to where the big mute, his eyes lowered to his plate, seemed almost to be trying to make himself invisible. Then he looked back at Durnik, who kept his face stiffly turned away from his former friend. “Oh,” he said, “now I think I understand. Aunt Pol told you something you didn’t want to hear. Someone you liked very much did something that made you angry. You said some things to him that you wish now you hadn’t said. Then you found out that he didn’t really have any choice in the matter and that what he did was really right after all. Now you’d like to make friends with him again, but you don’t know how. Is that sort of why you’re behaving this way—and being so impolite to Aunt Pol?”

Durnik’s look was at first stricken. Then his face grew red—then pale. “I don’t have to listen to this,” he burst out, coming to his feet.

“Oh, sit down, Durnik,” Garion told him. “We all love each other too much to behave this way. Instead of being embarrassed and bad-tempered about it, why don’t we see what we can do to fix it?”

Durnik tried to meet Garion’s eyes, but finally lowered his head, his face flaming. “I treated him badly, Garion,” he mumbled, sinking back into his chair again.

“Yes,” Garion agreed, “you did. But it was because you didn’t understand what he was doing—and why. I didn’t understand myself until the day before yesterday—when ’Zakath finally changed his mind and decided to take us all to Mal Zeth. Cyradis knew that he was going to do that, and that’s why she made Toth turn us over to Atesca’s men. She wants us to get to the Sardion and meet Zandramas, and so she’s going to arrange it. Toth will be the one who does what she thinks has to be done to accomplish that. Under the present circumstances, we couldn’t find a better friend.”

“How can I possibly—I mean, after the way I treated him?”

“Be honest. Admit that you were wrong and apologize.”

Durnik’s face grew stiff.

“It doesn’t have to be in words, Durnik,” Garion told his friend patiently. “You and Toth have been talking together without words for months.” He looked speculatively up at the low-beamed ceiling. “This is a ship,” he noted, “and we’re going out onto an ocean. Do you imagine that there might be a few fish out there in all that water?”

Durnik’s smile was immediate.

Polgara’s sigh, however, was pensive.

The smith looked almost shyly across the table. “How did you say that I’m supposed to get this bug out of its shell, Pol?” he asked, pointing at the angry-looking lobster on his plate.

They sailed northeasterly from the coast of Hagga and soon left winter behind. At some point during the voyage they crossed that imaginary line equidistant from the poles and once again entered the northern half of the world. Durnik and Toth, shyly at first, but then with growing confidence, resumed their friendship and spent their days at the ship’s stern, probing the sea with lines, bright-colored lures, and various baits gleaned from the galley.

’Zakath’s humor continued to remain uncharacteristically sunny, though his discussions with Belgarath and Polgara centered on the nature of demons, a subject about which there was very little to smile. Finally, one day when they had been at sea for about a week, a servant came up to Garion, who stood at the portside rail watching the dance of the wind atop the sparkling waves, and advised him that the Emperor would like to see him.

Garion nodded and made his way aft to the cabin where ’Zakath customarily held audience. Like most of the cabins aboard the floating palace, this one was quite large and ostentatiously decorated. Owing to the broad windows stretching across the ship’s stern, the room was bright and airy. The drapes at the sides of the windows were of crimson velvet, and the fine Mallorean carpet was a deep blue. ’Zakath, dressed as always in plain white linen, sat on a low, leather-upholstered divan at the far end of the cabin, looking out at the whitecaps and the flock of snowy gulls trailing the ship. His cat lay purring in his lap as he absently stroked her ears.

“You wanted to see me, ’Zakath?” Garion asked as he entered.

“Yes. Come in, Garion,” the Mallorean replied. “I haven’t seen much of you for the past few days. Are you cross with me?”

“No,” Garion said. “You’ve been busy learning about demons. I don’t know that much about them, so I couldn’t have added all that much to the discussions.” He crossed the cabin, pausing at one point to stoop and unwrap a ferociously playful kitten from around his left ankle.

“They love to pounce.” ’Zakath smiled.

A thought came to Garion, and he looked around warily. “Zith isn’t in here, is she?”

’Zakath laughed. “No. Sadi’s devised a means of keeping her at home.” He looked whimsically at Garion. “Is she really as deadly as he says?”

Garion nodded. “She bit a Grolim at Rak Urga,” he said. “He was dead in about a half a minute.”

’Zakath shuddered. “You don’t have to tell Sadi about this,” he said, “but snakes make my flesh creep.”

“Talk to Silk. He could give you a whole dissertation about how much he dislikes them.”

“He’s a complicated little fellow, isn’t he?”

Garion smiled. “Oh, yes. His life is filled with danger and excitement, and so his nerves are as tightly wound as lute strings. He’s erratic sometimes, but you get used to that after a while.” He looked at the other man critically. “You’re looking particularly fit,” he noted, sitting down on the other end of the leather couch. “Sea air must agree with you.”

“I don’t think it’s really the air, Garion. I think it has to do with the fact that I’ve been sleeping eight to ten hours a night.”

“Sleep? You?”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?” ’Zakath’s face went suddenly quite somber. “I’d rather that this didn’t go any further, Garion,” he said.

“Of course.”

“Urgit told you what happened when I was young?”

Garion nodded. “Yes.”

“My habit of not sleeping very much dates from then.

A face that had been particularly dear to me haunted my dreams, and sleep became an agony to me.”

“That didn’t diminish? Not even after some thirty years?”

“Not one bit. I lived in continual grief and guilt and remorse. I lived only to revenge myself on Taur Urgas.

Cho-Hag’s saber robbed me of that. I had planned a dozen different deaths for the madman—each more horrible than the one before—but he cheated me by dying cleanly in battle.”

“No,” Garion disagreed. “His death was worse than anything you could possibly have devised. I’ve talked with Cho-Hag about it. Taur Urgas went totally mad before Cho-Hag killed him, but he lived long enough to realize that he had finally been beaten. He died biting and clawing at the earth in frustration. Being beaten was more than he could bear.”

’Zakath thought about it. “Yes,” he said finally. “That would have been quite dreadful for him, wouldn’t it? I think that maybe I’m less disappointed now.”

“And was it your discovery that the Urga line is now extinct that finally laid the ghost that’s haunted your sleep all these years?”

“No, Garion. I don’t think that had anything to do with it. It’s just that instead of the face that had always been there before, now I see a different face.”

“Oh?”

“A blindfolded face.”

“Cyradis? I don’t know that I’d recommend thinking about her in that fashion.”

“You misunderstand, Garion. She’s hardly more than a child, but somehow she’s touched my life with more peace and comfort than I’ve ever known. I sleep like a baby and I walk around all day with this silly euphoria bubbling up in me.” He shook his head. “Frankly, I can’t stand myself like this, but I can’t help it for some reason.”

Garion stared out the window, not even seeing the play of sunlight on the waves nor the hovering gulls. Then it came to him so clearly that he knew that it was undeniably true. “It’s because you’ve come to that crossroads in your life that Cyradis mentioned,” he said. “You’re being rewarded because you’ve chosen the right fork.”

“Rewarded? By whom?”

Garion looked at him and suddenly laughed. “I don’t think you’re quite ready to accept that information yet,” he said. “Could you bring yourself to believe that it’s Cyradis who’s making you feel good right now?”

“In some vague way, yes.”

“It goes a little deeper, but that’s a start.” Garion looked at the slightly perplexed man before him. “You and I are caught up together in something over which we have absolutely no control,” he said seriously. “I’ve been through it before, so I’ll try to cushion the shocks that are in store for you as much as I can. Just try to keep an open mind about a peculiar way of looking at the world.” He thought about it some more. “I think that we’re going to be working together—at least up to a point—so we might as well be friends.” He held out his right hand.

’Zakath laughed. “Why not?” he said, taking Garion’s hold in a firm grip. “I think we’re both as crazy as Taur Urgas, but why not? We’re the two most powerful men in the world. We should be deadly enemies, and you propose friendship. Well, why not?” He laughed again delightedly.

“We have much more deadly enemies, ’Zakath,” Garion said gravely, “and all of your armies—and all of mine—won’t mean a thing when we get to where we’re going.”

“And where’s that, my young friend?”

“I think it’s called ‘the place which is no more.’ ”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. The whole phrase, is a contradiction in terms. How can you go someplace which doesn’t exist any more?”

“I don’t really know,” Garion told him. “I’ll tell you when we get there.”

Two days later, they arrived at Mal Gemila, a port in southern Mallorea Antiqua, and took to horse. They rode eastward at a canter on a well-maintained highway that crossed a pleasant plain, green with spring. A regiment of red-tunicked cavalrymen cleared the road ahead of them, and their pace left the entourage which usually accompanied the Emperor far behind. There were way-stations along the highway—not unlike the Tolnedran hostels dotting the roads in the west—and the imperial guard rather brusquely ejected other guests at these roadside stops to make way for the Emperor and his party.

As they pressed onward, day after day, Garion began slowly to comprehend the true significance of the word “boundless” as it was applied to Mallorea. The plains of Algaria, which had always before seemed incredibly vast, shrank into insignificance. The snowy peaks of the Dalasian mountains, lying to the south of the road they traveled, raked their white talons at the sky. Garion drew in on himself, feeling smaller and smaller the deeper they rode into this vast domain.

Peculiarly, Ce’Nedra seemed to be suffering a similar shrinkage, and she quite obviously did not like it very much. Her comments became increasingly waspish; her observations more acid. She found the loose-fitting garments of the peasantry uncouth. She found fault with the construction of the gangplows that opened whole acres at a time behind patiently plodding herds of oxen. She didn’t like the food. Even the water—as clear as crystal, and as cold and sweet as might have sprung from any crevice in the Tolnedran mountains—offended her taste.

Silk, his eyes alight with mischief, rode at her side on the sunny midmorning of the last day of their journey from Mal Gemila. “Beware, your Majesty,” he warned her slyly as they neared the crest of a hillside sheathed in pale spring grass so verdant that it almost looked like a filmy green mist. “The first sight of Mal Zeth has sometimes struck the unwary traveler blind. To be safe, why don’t you cover one eye with your hand? That way you can preserve at least partial sight.”

Her face grew frosty, and she drew herself to her full height in her saddle—a move that might have come off better had she been only slightly taller—and said to him in her most imperious tone, "We are not amused, Prince Kheldar, and we do not expect to find a barbarian city at the far end of the world a rival to the splendors of Tol Honeth, the only truly imperial city in the—”

And then she stopped—as they all did.

The valley beyond the crest stretched not for miles, but for leagues, and it was filled to overflowing with the city of Mal Zeth. The streets were as straight as tautly stretched strings, and the buildings gleamed—not with marble, for there was not marble enough in all the world to sheath the buildings of this enormous city—but rather with an intensely gleaming, thick white mortar that seemed somehow to shoot light at the eye. It was stupendous.

“It’s not much,” ’Zakath said in an exaggeratedly deprecating tone. “Just a friendly little place we like to call home.” He looked at Ce’Nedra’s stiff, pale little face with an artful expression. “We really should press on, your Majesty,” he told her. “It’s a half-day’s ride to the imperial palace from here.”