David Eddings – The Seeress of Kell

They crept around the corner and made their way carefully along the north face for several minutes. Then Silk stopped and leaned out over the edge to peer down into the fog. “This is it,” he whispered. “The amphitheater’s a rectangular indentation in the side of the peak. It runs from the beach up to that portal or whatever you want to call it. If you look over the edge, you’ll see that the terraces below us break oif back there a ways. The amphitheater is right below us. We’re within a hundred yards of Zandramas right now.”

Garion peered down into the fog, almost wishing that by a single act of will he could brush aside the obscuring mist so mat he could look at the face of his enemy.

“Steady,” Beldin whispered to him. “It’s going to come soon enough. Let’s not spoil the surprise for her.”

Disjointed voices came up out of the fog—harsh, guttural Grolim voices. The fog seemed to muffle them, so Garion could not pick out individual words, but he didn’t really have to.

They waited.

The sun by now had risen above the eastern horizon, and its pale disk was faintly visible through the fog and the roiling cloud

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that was the aftermath of the storm. The fog began to eddy and swirl. Gradually die mist overhead dissolved, and now Garion could see the sky. A thick blanket of dirty-looking scud lay over the reef but extended only a few leagues to the east. Thus it was that the sun, low on the eastern horizon, shone on the underside of the clouds and stained them an angry reddish orange with its light. It looked almost as if the sky had taken fire.

“Colorful,” Sadi murmured, nervously passing his poisoned dagger from one hand to the other. He set his red leather case down and opened it. Then he took up the earthenware bottle, worked the stopper out, and iaid it on its side. “There should be mice on this reef,” he said, “or the eggs of seabirds. Zith and her babies will be all right.” Then he straightened, carefully putting a small bag he had taken from the case in me pocket of his tunic. “A little precaution,” he whispered by way of explanation.

The fog now lay beneath them like a pearly gray ocean in the shadow of the pyramid. Garion heard a strange, melancholy cry and raised his eyes. The albatross hovered on motionless wings above the fog. Garion peered intently down into the obscuring mist, almost absently working the leather sleeve off me hilt of his sword. The Orb was glowing faintly, and its color was not blue, but an angry red, almost the color of the burning sky.

“That confirms it, Old Wolf,” Poledra said to her husband. “The Sardion’s in that cave.”

Belgarath, silvery hair and beard glowing red in the light reflected from the clouds overhead, grunted.

The fog below began to swirl, its surface looking almost like an angry sea. It thinned even more. Garion could now see shadowy forms beneath them, hazy, indistinct, and uniformly dark. The fog was now no more man a faintly obscuring haze. “Holy Sorceress!” a Grolim voice exclaimed in alarm. “Look!”

A hooded figure in a shiny black satin robe spun about, and Garion looked full into the face of the Child of Dark. He had heard the lights beneath her skin described several times, but no description had prepared him for what he now saw. The lights in Zandramas’ face were not stationary, but swirled restlessly beneath her skin. In the shadow of the ancient pyramid, her features were dark, nearly invisible, but the swirling lights made it appear, in die cryptic words of the Ashabine Oracles, as if “all the starry universe” were contained in her flesh. Behind him he heard the sharp hiss of Ce’Nedra’s indrawn

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breath. He turned his head and saw his little queen, dagger in hand and eyes ablaze with hatred, starting toward the stairs leading down into the amphitheater. Polgara and Velvet, obviously aware of her desperate plan, quickly restrained and disarmed

her.

Then Poledra stepped to the edge of the terrace. “And so it has come at last, Zandramas,” she said in a clear voice.

“I was but waiting for thee to join thy friends, Poledra,” the sorceress replied in a taunting tone. “I was concerned for thee, fearing that thou hadsi lost thy way. Now it is complete, and we may proceed in orderly fashion.”

“Thy concern with order is somewhat belated, Zandramas,” Poledra told her, “but no matter. We have all, as was foretold, arrived at the appointed place at the appointed time. Shall we put aside all this foolishness and go inside? The universe must be growing impatient with us.”

“Not just yet, Poledra,” Zandramas replied flatly. “How tiresome,” Belgarath’s wife said wearily. “That’s a failing in thee, Zandramas. Even after something obviously isn’t working, thou must continue to try. Thou hast twisted and turned and tried to evade this meeting, but all in vain. And all of diine evasion hath only brought thee more quickly to this place. Thinkest thou not that it is time to forgo thine entertainments and to go along gracefully?” “I do not think so, Poledra.”

Poledra sighed. “All right, Zandramas,” she said in a resigned tone, “asitpleaseththee.” She extended her arm, pointing at Garion. “Since thou art so bent on this, thus I summon the Godslayer,”

Slowly, deliberately, Garion reached back across his shoulder and wrapped his hand about the hilt of his sword. It made an angry hiss as it slid from its sheath and it was already flaming an incandescent blue as it emerged. Garion’s mind was icy calm now. All doubt and fear were gone, even as they had been at Cthol Mishrak, and the spirit of the Child of Light possessed him utterly. He took the sword hilt in both hands and slowly raised it until the flaming blade was pointed at the fiery clouds overhead. “This is thy fate, Zandramas!” he roared in an awful voice, the archaic words coming unbidden to his lips.

“That has yet to be determined, Belgarion.” Zandramas’ tone was defiant, as might be expected, but there was something else behind it. “Fate is not always so easily read.” She made an imperious gesture, and her Grolims formed up into a phalanx

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around her and began to intone a harsh chant in an ancient and hideous language.

“Get back!” Polgara warned sharply, and she, her parents, and Beldin stepped to the edge of the terrace.

Flickering faintly, an inky shadow began to appear at the very edge of Garion’s vision, and he began to feel an obscure sense of dread. “Watch yourselves,” he quietly warned his friends. “I think she’s starting one of those illusions we were talking about last night.” Then he felt a powerful surge and heard a roar of sound. A wave of sheer darkness rolled out from the extended hands of the Grolims massed around Zandramas, but the wave shattered into black fragments that sizzled and skittered around the amphitheater like frightened mice as the four sorcerers blew it apart almost contemptuously with a single word spoken in unison. Several of die Grolims collapsed writhing to the stone floor, and most of the rest of diem staggered back, their faces suddenly pasty white.

Beldin cackled evilly. “An1 would ye like t’ try it again, daiiin’?” he taunted Zandramas. “If that’s yer intent, ye should have brought more Grolims. Yer usin’ ’em up at a fearful rate, don’t y’ know.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do mat,” Belgarath said to him.

“So does she, I’ll wager. She takes herself very seriously, and a little ridicule always sets that sort off their pace.”

Without changing expression, Zandramas hurled a fireball at the dwarf, but he brushed it aside as if it were no more than an annoying insect.

Garion quite suddenly understood. The sudden sheet of darkness and the fireball were not intended seriously. They were no more than subterfuge, a way to distract attention from that shadow at the edge of vision.

The Sorceress of Darshiva smiled a chill little smile. “No matter.” She shrugged. “I was only testing you, my droll little hunchback. Keep laughing, Beldin. I like to see people die happy.”

“Truly,” he agreed. “Smile a bit yerself, me darlin’, an’ have a bit of a look around. Y’ might say good-bye t’ the sun while yer at it, fer I don’t think ye’ll be seein’ it fer much longer.”

“Are all these threats really necessary?” Belgarath asked wearily.

“It’s customary,” Beldin told him. “Insults and boasting are a common prelude to more serious business. Besides, she started

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it.” He looked down at Zandramas’ Grolims, who had started to move menacingly forward. “I guess it’s time, though. Shall we go downstairs then and prepare a big pot of Grolim stew? I like mine chopped rather fine.” He extended his hand, snapped his fingers, and wrapped the hand around the hilt of a hook-pointed Ulgo knife.

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