Sadi slid down from his saddle, went up to the nail-studded doors, and clanged the rusty iron knocker, sending hollow echoes reverberating back into the Temple.
“Who comes to the House of Torak?” a muffled voice demanded from inside.
“I bear a message from Jaharb, Chief Elder at Mount Kahsha, for the ears of Agachak, Hierarch of Rak Urga.”
There was a momentary pause inside, and then one of the doors creaked open and a pock-marked Grolim looked cautiously out at them. “You are not of the Dagashi,” he said accusingly to Sadi.
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. There’s an arrangement between Jaharb and Agachak, and I’m part of it.”
“I have not heard of such an arrangement.”
Sadi looked pointedly at the unadorned hood of the Grolim’s robe, an obvious indication that the priest was of low rank. “Forgive me, servant of Torak,” he said coolly, “but is your Hierarch in the habit of confiding in his doorman?”
The Grolim’s face darkened as he glared at the eunuch. “Cover your head, Nyissan,” he said after a long moment. “This is a holy place.”
“Of course.” Sadi pulled the hood of his green robe up over his shaven scalp. “Will you have someone see to our horses?”
“They will be taken care of. Are these your servants?” The Grolim looked past Sadi’s shoulder at the others, who still sat their horses in the cobbled street.
“They are, noble priest.”
“Tell them to come with us. I will take you all to Chabat.”
“Excuse me, priest of the Dragon God. My message is for Agachak.”
“No one sees Agachak without first seeing Chabat. Bring your servants and follow me.”
The rest of them dismounted and passed through the grim doors into the torchlit corridor beyond. The sickening odor of burning flesh which had pervaded the city was even stronger here in the Temple. A sense of dread came over Garion as he followed the Grolim and Sadi along the smoky hallway into the Temple. The place reeked of an ancient evil, and the hollow-faced priests they passed in the corridor all looked at them with heavy suspicion and undisguised malice.
And then there came from somewhere in the building an agonized shriek, followed by a great iron clang. Garion shuddered, fully aware of the meaning of those sounds.
“Is the ancient rite of sacrifice still performed?” Sadi asked the Grolim in some surprise. “I would have thought that the practice might have fallen into disuse—all things considered.”
“Nothing has happened to make us discontinue the performance of our holiest duty, Nyissan,” the Grolim replied coldly. “Each hour we offer up a human heart to the God Torak.”
“But Torak is no more.”
The Grolim stopped, his face angry. “Never speak those words again!” he snapped. “It is not the place of a foreigner to utter such blasphemy within the walls of the Temple. The spirit of Torak lives on, and one day he will be reborn to rule the world. He himself will wield the knife when his enemy, Belgarion of Riva, lies screaming on the altar.”
“Now there’s a cheery thought,” Silk murmured to Belgarath. “We get to do it all over again.”
“Just shut up, Silk,” Belgarath muttered.
The chamber to which the Grolim underpriest led them was large and dimly lighted by several oil lamps. The walls were lined with black drapes, and the air was thick with incense. A slim, hooded figure sat behind a large table with a guttering black candle at its elbow and a heavy, black-bound book before it. A kind of warning tingle prickled Garion’s scalp as he sensed the power emanating from that figure. He glanced quickly at Polgara, and she nodded gravely.
“Forgive me, Holy Chabat,” the pock-marked Grolim said in a slightly trembling voice as he genuflected before the table, “but I bring a messenger from Jaharb the assassin.”
The figure at the table looked up, and Garion suppressed a start of surprise. It was a woman. There was about her face a kind of luminous beauty, but it was not that which struck his eye. Cruelly inscribed into each of her pale cheeks were deep red scars that ran down from her temples to her chin in an ornate design, a design which appeared to represent flames. Her eyes were dark and smoldering, and her full-lipped mouth was drawn into a contemptuous sneer. A deep purple piping marked the edge of her black hood. “So?” she said in a harshly rasping voice. “And how is it that the Dagashi now entrust their messages to foreigners?”
“I—I thought not to ask, Holy Chabat,” the Grolim faltered. “This one claims to be a friend of Jaharb.”
“And you chose not to question him further?” Her harsh voice sank into a menacing whisper, and her eyes bored into the suddenly trembling underpriest. Then her gaze slowly shifted to Sadi. “Say your name,” she commanded.
“I am Ussa of Sthiss Tor, Holy Priestess,” he replied. “Jaharb instructed me to present myself to your Hierarch and to give him a message.”
“And what is that message?”
“Ah—forgive me, Holy Priestess, but I was told that it was for Agachak’s ears alone.”
“I am Agachak’s ears,” she told him, her voice dreadfully quiet. “Nothing reaches his ears that I have not heard first.” It was the tone of her voice that made Garion suddenly understand. Although this cruelly scarred woman had somehow risen to a position of power here in the temple, she was still uncertain about that power. She bore her uncertainty like an open wound, and the slightest questioning of her authority roused in her an abiding hatred for whomever doubted her. Fervently he hoped that Sadi realized how extremely dangerous she was.
“Ah,” Sadi said with polished aplomb. “I was not fully aware of the situation here. I was told that Jaharb, Agachak, and King Urgit have reason to want one Kabach transported safely to Rak Hagga. I am the one who is to provide that transportation.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That is certainly not the entire message,” she accused.
“I’m afraid it is, Noble Priestess, I presume that Agachak will understand its meaning.”
“Jaharb said nothing else to you?”
“Only that this Kabach is here in the Temple under Agachak’s protection.”
“Impossible,” she snapped. “I would have known about it if he were. Agachak conceals nothing from me.”
Sadi spread his hands in a mollifying gesture. “I can only repeat what Jaharb told me, Holy Priestess.”
She gnawed at one knuckle, her eyes suddenly filled with doubt. “If you’re lying to me, Ussa—or trying to conceal something—I will have your heart ripped out,” she threatened.
“That is the entire message, Holy Priestess. May I now deliver it to your Hierarch?”
“The Hierarch is at the Drojim Palace, consulting with the High King. He is not likely to return until midnight.”
“Is there someplace where my servants and I could await his return, then?”
“I have not yet finished with you, Ussa of Sthiss Tor. What is it that this Kabach is to do in Rak Hagga?”
“Jaharb did not think I needed to know that.”
“I think you’re lying to me, Ussa,” she said, her fingernails rapping a nervous staccato on the table top.
“I have no reason to lie to you, Holy Chabat,” he protested.
“Agachak would have told me of this matter. He conceals nothing from me—nothing.”
“Perhaps he overlooked it. It may not be anything of much importance.”
She looked at each of the others in turn then, her eyes hooded beneath her dark brows. She turned a cold gaze on the still-trembling Grolim. “Tell me,” she said in a voice scarcely more than a whisper, “how is it that the one over there was permitted to come into my presence bearing a sword?” She pointed at Garion.
The Priest’s face grew stricken. “Forgive me, Chabat,” he stammered, “I—I failed to notice the sword.”
“Failed? How can one fail to see so large a weapon? Can you possibly explain that to me?” The Grolim began to tremble even more violently. “Is the sword perhaps invisible? Or is it, perhaps, that my safety is of no concern to you?” Her scarred face grew even more cruel. “Or might it be that you bear me some malice and hoped that this foreigner might decide to slay me?”
The Grolim’s face grew ashen.
“I think perhaps that I should bring this matter to the attention of Agachak upon his return. He will doubtless wish to speak with you about this invisible sword—at some length.”
The door to the chamber opened and an emaciated Grolim, black-robed, but with his green-lined hood pushed back, entered the chamber. His black hair was greasy and hung in lank tangles about his shoulders. He had the bulging eyes of a fanatic and there was the acrid odor of a long-unwashed body about him. “It’s nearly time, Chabat,” he announced in a strident voice.
Chabat’s smoldering eyes softened as she looked at him. “Thank you, Sorchak,” she replied, lowering her eyelashes in an oddly coquettish fashion. She rose, opened a drawer in the table, and took out a black leather case. She opened the case and lovingly lifted out a long, gleaming knife. Then she looked coldly at the Grolim priest she had just chastised. “I go now to the Sanctum to perform the rite of sacrifice,” she told him, absently testing the edge of her heavy-bladed knife. “If one single word of anything that has happened here escapes your lips, you yourself will die at the next sounding of the bell. Now take these slavers to suitable quarters where they can await the return of the Hierarch.” She turned back to the greasy-haired Sorchak, her eyes alight with a sudden, dreadful eagerness. “Will you escort me to the Sanctum so that you can witness my performance of the rite?”
“I would be honored, Chabat,” he replied with a jerky bow; but as the priestess turned from him, his lip curled into a sneer of contempt.
“I will leave you in the care of this bungler,” she told Sadi as she passed him. “You and I have not yet finished our discussion, but I must go prepare myself for the sacrifice.” With Sorchak at her side, she left the room.
When the door closed, the pock-marked underpriest spat on the floor where she had just stood.
“I had not known that a priestess could rise to the Purple in one of the Temples of Torak,” Sadi said to him.
“She is the favorite of Agachak,” the Grolim muttered darkly. “Her ability at sorcery is very limited, so her elevation came at his insistence. The Hierarch has a peculiar preference for ugly things. It is only his power that keeps her from getting her throat cut.”
“Politics.” Sadi sighed. “It’s the same the world over. She seems most zealous about the performance of her religious duties, however.”
“Her eagerness to perform the rite of sacrifice has little to do with religion. She delights in blood. I myself have seen her drink it as it gushes from the chest of the sacrifice and bathe her face and arms in it.” The priest glanced around quickly as if afraid of being overheard. “One day, however, Agachak will discover that she practices witchcraft in the House of Torak and that she and Sorchak celebrate their black sabbaths with obscene rites when all the others in the Temple have gone to their beds. When our Hierarch discovers their corruption, she herself will go screaming under the knife, and every Grolim in the Temple will volunteer to slit her open as she lies on the altar.” He straightened. “Come with me,” he ordered them.
The rooms to which he led them were little more than a series of narrow, dim cells. In each cell stood a low cot, and, hanging on a peg protruding from the wall in each, was a black Grolim robe. The priest nodded briefly, then silently left. Silk looked around the somewhat larger central room with its single lamp and the rough table and benches in its center. “Hardly what I’d call luxurious,” he sniffed.
“We can lodge a complaint, if you’d like,” Velvet suggested.
“What happened to her face?” Ce’Nedra asked in a horrified voice. “She’s hideous.”
“It was a custom in certain Grolim temples in parts of Hagga,” Polgara replied. “Priestesses with some ability at sorcery carved their faces in that fashion to seal themselves to Torak forever. The practice has largely been abandoned.”
“But she could have been so beautiful. Why did she disfigure herself that way?”
“People sometimes do strange things in the grip of religious hysteria.”
“How did that Grolim miss seeing Garion’s sword?” Silk asked Belgarath.
“The Orb is taking steps to make itself inconspicuous.”
“Did you tell it to do that?”
“No. Sometimes it gets certain ideas on its own.”
“Well, things seem to be going rather well, don’t you think?” Sadi said, rubbing his hands together in a self-congratulatory manner. “I told you I could be very useful down here.”
“Very useful, Sadi,” Silk replied sardonically. “So far you’ve led us into the middle of a battle, directly into the headquarters of the Dagashi, and now to the very center of Grolim power in Cthol Murgos. What did you have planned for us next—assuming that the lady with the interesting face doesn’t gut you before morning?”
“We are going to get the ship, Kheldar,” Sadi assured him. “Not even Chabat would dare to counter the wishes of Agachak—no matter how injured her pride may be. And the ship will save us months.”
“There’s something else Garion and I need to attend to,” Belgarath said. “Durnik, take a look out in that hallway and see if they posted any guards to watch us.”
“Where are you going?” Silk asked him. “I need to find the library. I want to see if Jaharb was right about that book being here.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until tonight—after everybody’s gone to bed?”
The old man shook his head. “It might take us a while to find what we need. Agachak’s going to be at the palace until midnight, so this is probably the best time to paw through his library.” He gave the little Drasnian a brief smile. “Be- sides,” he added, “although it might upset your notion of order, sometimes you can move around in the daytime more easily than you can by sneaking around corners after midnight.”
“That’s a terribly unnatural thing to suggest, Belgarath.”
“The hallway looks clear,” Durnik reported from the doorway.
“Good.” Belgarath stepped back into the cells and emerged with a couple of the Grolim robes. “Here,” he said, extending one of them to Garion, “put this on.” As the two of them pulled off their green robes and replaced them with the black ones, Durnik kept watch at the door. “It’s still clear, Belgarath,” he said, “but you’d better hurry. I can hear people moving around down at the far end.”
The old man nodded, pulling up the hood of his robe. “Let’s go,” he said to Garion.
The corridors were dim, lighted only by smoky torches set in iron rings protruding from the stone walls. They encountered but few of the black-robed Grolim priests in the hallways. The Grolims walked with an odd, swaying gait, their arms folded in their sleeves, their heads down, and the cowls of their robes covering their faces. Garion guessed that there was some obscure significance to that stiff-legged walk and tried to emulate it as he followed his grandfather along the half-lit halls.
Belgarath moved with feigned confidence, as if he knew precisely where they were going. They reached a broader corridor, and the old man glanced once toward its far end where a pair of heavy doors stood open. Beyond those doors lay a room filled with the flickering light of seething flames. “Not that way,” he whispered to Garion.
“What is it?”
“The Sanctum. That’s where the altar is.” He quickly led the way across the corridor and entered an intersecting hallway.
“This could take hours, Grandfather,” Garion said in a low voice.
Belgarath shook his head. “Grolim architecture is fairly predictable,” he disagreed. “We’re in the right part of the Temple. You check the doors on that side, and I’ll take these over here.”
They moved along the hall, cautiously opening each door as they came to it.
“Garion,” the old man whispered, “it’s over here.”
The room they entered was quite large and smelled of old parchment and moldy leather bindings. It was filled with row upon row of tall, cluttered bookshelves. Solitary tables, each with a pair of wooden benches and with a single dimly glowing oil lamp hanging over it on a long chain, stood in little alcoves along the walls.
“Take a book—any book,” Belgarath said. “Sit at that table over there and try to look as if you’re studying. Keep your hood up and your eye on the door. I’m going to have a look around. Cough if anybody comes in.”
Garion nodded, took a heavy volume from one of the shelves, and seated himself at the table. The minutes dragged by as he looked unseeing at the pages of his book with his ears straining for the slightest sound. Then, shockingly, there came the now-familiar shriek, a long drawn-out cry of despairing agony, followed by the sullen iron clang of the huge gong in the Sanctum where the Grolims conducted then- unspeakable rites. Unbidden, an image rose in his mind—the image of the scar-faced Chabat gleefully butchering a victim. He clenched his teeth together, forcing himself not to leap to his feet to stop that abomination.
Then Belgarath whistled softly to him from a narrow aisle leading back between two of the high-standing bookshelves. “I’ve got it,” he said, “Keep watch on the door. I’ll be back here.”
Garion sat nervously at the table, his eyes and ears alert. He was not good at this sort of thing. His nerves seemed to wind tighter and tighter as he waited, listening and watching for someone to open that door. What would he do if some black-robed priest entered? Should he speak or just remain silent with his head down over his book? What was customary here? He formulated a half-dozen different strategies, but when the latch of the door clicked loudly, he followed one that he had not even considered—he bolted. He swung his legs over the bench upon which he sat and noiselessly dodged back among the high, dark shelves looking for
Belgarath.
“Is it safe to talk in here?” he heard someone say.
Another man grunted. “Nobody comes in here any more. What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Have you endured enough of her yet? Are you ready to do something about her?”
“Keep your voice down, you fool. If someone hears you and carries your words back to her, your heart will fry in the coals at the next sounding of the bell.”
“I loathe that scar-faced wench,” the first Grolim spat.
“We all do, but our lives depend on not letting her know that. As long as she’s Agachak’s favorite, her power is absolute.”
“She won’t be his favorite if he finds out that she’s practicing magic here in the Temple.”
“How will he find out? Will you denounce her? She would deny it, and then Agachak would let her have you to do with as she chose.”
There was a long, fearful silence.
“Besides,” the second Grolim continued, “I don’t think Agachak would even care about her petty amusements. The only thing that concerns him at the moment is his search for Cthrag Sardius. He and the other Hierarchs are bending all their thought to locating it. If she wants to dally with Sorchak and try to raise demons in the middle of the night, that’s her affair and no business of ours.”
“It’s an abomination!” The first priest’s voice was choked with outrage. “She defiles our Temple.”
“I won’t listen to such talk. I want to keep my heart inside my chest.”
“Very well.” The first Grolim’s tone grew sly. “It may be as you say. You and I are both of the Green, however, and our elevation to the Purple will be more genuine than hers was. If we came upon her when no one else was around, you could use your power to lock her muscles, and I could sink my knife into her heart. Then she could stand before Torak and listen to his judgment upon her for violating his commandment forbidding magic.”
“I refuse to listen to this any more.” There was the sound of rapid footsteps, and the door slammed.
“Coward,” the first priest muttered; then he too went out and closed the door behind him.
“Grandfather,” Garion whispered hoarsely, “where are you?”
“Back here. Did they leave?”
“They’re gone.”
“Interesting conversation, wasn’t it?”
Garion joined the old man at the back of the library. “Do you think Chabat could really be trying to raise demons— the way the Morindim do?”
“A fair number of Grolims here seem to think so. If she is, she’s walking on very dangerous ground. Torak absolutely forbade the practice of magic. Favorite or no, Agachak would have to condemn her if he found out about it.”
“Did you find anything?” Garion looked at the book the old man had on the table in front of him.
“I think this might help. Listen: ‘The path that has been lost will be found again on the Southern Isle.’”
“Verkat?”
“It almost has to be. Verkat is the only island of any size in southern Cthol Murgos. It confirms what Sadi told us, and I always like to get confirmation whenever I can.”
“But it still means that we’re only trailing after Zandramas. Did you find anything that tells us how to get ahead of her?”
“Not yet,” Belgarath admitted. He turned a page. “What’s this?” he said in a startled voice. “What is it?”
“Listen.” The old man lifted the book so that the lamp light fell upon the page. “ ‘Behold:’” he read, “ ‘In the days which shall follow the ascension of the Dark God into the heavens shall the King of the East and the King of the South do war upon each other, and this shall be a sign unto ye that the day of the meeting is at hand. Hasten therefore unto the Place which is No More when battles do rage upon the plains of the south. Take with thee the chosen sacrifice and a King of Angarak to bear witness to what shall come to pass. For lo, whichever of ye cometh into the presence of Cthrag Sardius with the sacrifice and an Angarak King shall be exalted above all the rest and shall have dominion over them. And know further that in the moment of the sacrifice shall the Dark God be reborn, and he shall triumph over the Child of
Light in the instant of his rebirth.’” Garion stared at him, feeling the blood drain from his face.
“Sacrifice?” he exclaimed. “Is that what Zandramas plans to do with my son?”
“So it would seem,” Belgarath grunted. He thought about it for a moment. “This explains a few things, but I still don’t quite follow this business about needing an Angarak King present at the meeting. Cyradis didn’t say anything about that, and neither did the Prophecy.”
“That’s a Grolim book you’ve got there, Grandfather,” Garion pointed out. “Maybe it’s wrong.”
“That’s possible, too, but it does help to explain why Zandramas is moving around so stealthily. If Urvon knows about this the way Agachak obviously does, they’ll both be doing everything in their power to get your son away from her. Whichever one of them gets to. the Sardion with Geran and one of the Kings of Angarak is going to gain absolute control of the Grolim Church.”
“Why my son?” Garion demanded. “Why would he be the one chosen for sacrifice?”
“I’m not sure, Garion. We haven’t found an explanation for that yet.”
“I don’t think we’d better tell Ce’Nedra about this,” Gar-ion said. “She has problems enough as it is.”
The door opened again, and Garion spun, his hand going over his shoulder to the hilt of his sword.
“Belgarath? Are you in here?” It was Silk’s voice.
“Back here,” Belgarath answered. “Keep your voice down.”
“We’ve got trouble,” the little man said, coming to the back of the library to join them. “Eriond is missing.”
“What?” Garion exclaimed.
“He slipped out when none of us was watching.”
Belgarath slammed his fist down on the table and swore. “What’s the matter with that boy?” he burst out.
Silk pushed back the hood of the Grolim robe he wore. “Polgara was going to go looking for him, but Durnik and I talked her out of it. I said I’d come and find you instead.” V “We’d better find him,” the old man said, rising to his • feet. “Pol will only wait for so long before she starts acting on her own. We’d better split up. We can cover more ground that way.” He led them to the door of the library, glanced out quickly, and then went out into the hall. “Don’t do anything unusual,” he cautioned Garion in a whisper. “There are Grolims in this place with enough talent to hear you if you start making any noise.” Garion nodded.
“And check back with the others from time to time. We won’t accomplish much if one of us finds Eriond and then has to go looking for the other two. Let’s go.” He moved quickly off down the dimly lighted hallway.
“How did he manage to slip past Aunt Pol?” Garion whispered to Silk as the two of them went side by side back the way they had come.
“Ce’Nedra had a bout of hysterics,” Silk replied. “The sacrifices upset her. Polgara had her in one of the cells trying to calm her down. That’s when Eriond slipped out.”
“Is she all right?” Garion demanded, the sinking fear that had been with him since Prolgu returning with sudden force.
“I think so. Polgara gave her something, and she’s sleeping.” Silk carefully looked around a corner. “I’ll go this way,” he whispered. “Be careful.” He moved off on silent feet.
Garion stood waiting for his friend to get well out of sight, then cautiously stepped out into the next corridor, folding his hands on his chest and lowering his cowled head in an imitation of Grolim piety. What could Eriond possibly be thinking of? The sheer irresponsibility of the boy’s act made Garion want to pound his fist against the wall. He moved down the corridor, trying his best not to do anything that might look suspicious and carefully cracking open each door he came to.
“What is it?” a harshly accented voice demanded from inside a dark room when he opened the door.
“Sorry, brother,” Garion muttered, trying to imitate the thickly accented Angarak speech, “wrong door.” He quickly closed it again and went on down the corridor, moving as fast as he dared.
The door behind him was suddenly yanked open, and a half-dressed Grolim stepped out, his face angry. “You there,” he shouted after Garion, “stop!”
Garion threw a quick look over his shoulder and was around the corner into the broad central corridor of the Temple in two steps.
“Come back here!” the Grolim shouted, and Garion heard his bare feet slapping on the flagstone floor as he ran in pursuit. Garion swore and then took a gamble. He yanked open the first door that presented itself and darted inside. A quick glance told him that the room was empty, and he closed the door and set his ear against its panel to listen.
“What’s the trouble?” he heard someone demand from the corridor outside.
“Someone just tried to come into my cell.” Garion recognized the outraged voice of the Grolim upon whom he had just intruded.
There was a sly chuckle.’ ‘Perhaps you should have waited to see what she wanted.”
“It was a man.”
There was a pause. “Well,” the first voice said. “Well, well, well.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. You’d better go put on some clothes. If Chabat catches you in the hall in your undergarments, she might get some peculiar ideas.”
“I’m going to look for this intruder. There’s something very strange going on here. Will you help me?”
“Why not? I haven’t got anything better to do.”
From far up the corridor Garion heard a slow, groaning chant and the sound of many shuffling feet.
“Quick,” one of the voices outside the door warned, “back down this side passage. If they see us, they’ll insist that we join them.”
Garion heard their scurrying feet as they dodged back out of sight. Carefully, he opened the door a crack and peered out. The slow shuffling march and the deep-toned chanting came nearer. A line of Grolims, the cowls of their hoods raised and with their hands clasped in front of them, came into view, moving at a ceremonial pace along the torchlit corridor toward the very heart of the Temple. He waited in the dark room for them to pass, and then, on a sudden impulse so strong that he moved without even thinking, he boldly opened the door, stepped out into the corridor, and fell in at the end of the column.
The slow, rhythmic march continued on down the broad hallway, and the reek of burning flesh grew stronger in Gar-ion’s nostrils as the file which he had joined approached the Sanctum. Then, chanting even louder, they passed through the arched doorway into the vaulted Sanctum itself.
The ceiling was very high, lost in smoky shadows. On the wail facing the door hung that polished steel mask—the calm, beautiful replica of the unblemished face of the God Torak. Under that uncaring mask stood the black altar with bright rivulets of fresh blood streaking its sides. There stood the glowing brazier, awaiting the next quivering heart to be offered up to the long-dead God; and there the fire pit yawned for the body of the next butchered victim.
Shaking himself, Garion dodged quickly out of sight behind a column standing to one side of the doorway and stood sweating and trembling for several moments, struggling to control his emotions. Better perhaps than any man alive, he knew the full meaning of this awful place. Torak was dead. He himself had felt the faltering beat of the stricken God’s heart thrilling down the blazing length of Iron-grip’s sword, sunk deep in his enemy’s chest. The slaughter that had drenched this foul place with blood in the years since that awful night was senseless, empty—homage paid to a maimed and demented God who had died weeping fire and crying piteously to the indifferent stars. A slow burning rage began to build up in his chest, filling his mouth with a fiery taste as bitter as gall. Unbidden, his will began to clench itself as he envisioned the shattering of the mask and the altar and the sudden destruction of this filthy place.
“That’s not why you’re Here, Belgarion!” the voice in his mind cracked.
Slowly, as if, were he to release it all at once, it might destroy the entire city, Garion relaxed his will. Time enough to crush this horror later. Right now, he had to find Eriond. Cautiously, he poked his head around the column which concealed him. A priest with the purple-lined hood of his robe pushed back had just entered from the far side of the Sanctum. In his hands he carried a dark red cushion, and gleaming on that cushion lay a long, cruel knife. He faced the image of his dead God and reverently lifted the cushion and the knife in supplication. “Behold the instrument of thy will, Dragon God of Angarak,” he intoned, “and behold him whose heart is to be offered unto thee.”
Four Grolims dragged a naked, screaming slave into the Sanctum, ignoring his helpless struggles and panic-stricken pleas for mercy. Without thinking, Garion reached over his shoulder for his sword. “Stop that!” the voice commanded. “No! I’m not going to let it happen!”
“It won’t happen. Now get your hand off your sword!”
“No chance!” Garion said aloud, drawing his blade and lunging around the pillar. And then as if he had suddenly been turned to stone, he found that he could not move so much as an eyelash. “Let go of me!” he grated.
“No.’ You’re here to watch this time, not to act. Now stand there and keep your eyes open,”
Garion stared in sudden disbelief as Eriond, his pale blond curls gleaming in the cruel light of the Temple, entered by way of the same door through which the slave had just been dragged. The young man’s face bore an expression of almost regretful determination as he entered and walked directly toward the astonished priest. “I’m sorry,” he said quite firmly, “but you can’t do this any more.”
“Seize this desecrator,” the priest at the altar shouted. “It shall be his heart which shall sizzle in the coals!”
A dozen Grolims leaped to their feet, but suddenly froze, caught in that same stasis which locked Garion’s muscles.
“This can’t continue,” Eriond said in that same determined voice. “I know how much it means to all of you, but it just can’t go on. Someday—very soon, I think—you’ll all understand.”
There was no sound, no rushing surge such as Garion had come to expect, but the yawning fire pit before the altar suddenly roared to a furnace note, sending leaping flames and glowing sparks shooting upward to lick at the very vaults of the ceiling. The suffocatingly hot Sanctum suddenly cooled as if a cleansing breeze had just swept through it. Then the seething fire guttered briefly like a dying candle— and went out. The glowing brazier at the side of the altar also flared into blinding incandescence, and its steel body grew suddenly soft, drooping and sagging as it began to collapse under its own weight. With a flicker, it also went out.
The priest dropped his knife in horror and leaped to the still-glowing brazier. Irrationally, he put forth his hands as if he would force the softened mask back into its original shape, but he howled in pain as the red-hot steel seared deeply into his flesh.
Eriond regarded the dead fires with a look of satisfaction, then turned to the stunned Grolims still holding the naked slave. “Let that man go,” he told them.
They stared at him.
“You might as well,” Eriond said almost conversationally. “You can’t sacrifice him without the fires, and the fires won’t burn any more. No matter what you do, you won’t ever be able to start them again.”
“Done!” the voice in Garion’s mind said in a tone of such exultation that it buckled his knees.
The burned priest, still moaning and cradling his charred hands at his chest, raised his ashen face. “Seize him!” he shrieked, pointing at Eriond with a blackened hand. “Seize him and take him to Chabat!”