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 their 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 practising 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 Zandra-mas. 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 ro
be 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."
"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 torch-lit 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 Garion'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."<
br />
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 meiak 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!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
There was no longer any need for stealth. Alarm bells rang in every quarter of the Temple, and frightened Grolims scurried this way and that, shouting contradictory orders to each other. Garion ran among them, desperately looking for Belgarath and Silk.
As he rounded a corner, a wild-faced Grolim caught him by the arm. "Were you there in the Sanctum when it happened?" he demanded.
"No," Garion lied, trying to free his arm.
"They say that he was ten feet tall, and that he blasted a dozen priests into nothingness before he extinguished the fires."
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