“Please be patient, Prince Kheldar,” Sadi said. “If we break out of this cell, I’ll never be able to smooth this over.”
“I’ve got to find out what they’ve done with Eriond,”
Polgara told the eunuch firmly. “Go ahead and open it,
Silk,”
“Polgara?” a light, familiar voice came from the next cell. “Is that you?”
“Eriond!” she said with relief. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Polgara. They put chains on me, but they aren’t too uncomfortable.”
“Why did you do that—what you did in the Sanctum?”
“I didn’t like those fires.”
“I didn’t either, but—”
“I really didn’t like them, Polgara. That sort of thing has to be stopped, and we have to start somewhere.”
“How did you put them out?” Belgarath asked through the barred window in the door. “Garion was there when you did it and he says that he didn’t hear or feel anything.”
“I’m not sure, Belgarath. I don’t think I actually did anything special to make them go out. I just decided that I didn’t want them to burn any more, so I sort of let them know how I felt, and they just went out.”
“That’s all?”
“As closely as I can remember, yes.”
Belgarath turned from the door, his face baffled. “When we get out of here, that boy and I are going to have a very long talk about this. I’ve meant to do that about a half-dozen times, and every time I make up my mind, I get smoothly diverted.” He looked at Garion. “The next time you talk to your friend, tell him to stop that. It irritates me.”
“He already knows that, Grandfather. I think that’s why he does it.”
Somewhere down the corridor outside, a heavy iron door clanged open, and there came the sound of marching feet.
“Grolims,” Silk said quietly from the barred window.
“Who else?” Belgarath asked sourly.
The approaching group stopped outside, and a key grated in the lock of Eriond’s cell. The door creaked open. “You, boy,” a harsh voice barked. “Come with us.”
“Father,” Polgara whispered urgently.
The old man held up one hand. “Wait,” he muttered.
Then someone rattled a key in the lock of their cell door, and it also clanged open. “Agachak has returned,” the Grolim in the open doorway announced curtly. “You will come out of there now.”
“Splendid,” Sadi said with relief. “Whatever this is all about, I’m sure it can be cleared up in just a few minutes.”
“No talking!” The Grolim turned abruptly and started down the corridor while a dozen of his fellows fell in behind the prisoners with drawn weapons.
Agachak, the Hierarch of Rak Urga, was a cadaverous-looking man with a long beard. He sat upon a thronelike chair in a large room lighted by glaring torches and hung with dark maroon drapes. The Hierarch’s hooded robe was bloodred, and his sunken eyes burned beneath their shaggy gray brows.
Eriond, still in chains, sat calmly on a rough wooden stool before him, and the slim priestess, Chabat, her purple-lined hood pushed back and the red scars on her cheeks seeming to reflect the torchlight, stood at her master’s elbow with a look of cruel triumph on her face.
“Which one of you is Ussa of Sthiss Tor?” the Hierarch demanded in a hollow-sounding voice.
Sadi stepped forward with an oily bow. “I am Ussa, Holy One,” he said.
“You’re in a great deal of trouble, Ussa,” Chabat told him, her throaty voice almost purring. Her lips twisted into an ugly smirk.
“But I have done nothing.”
“Here in Cthol Murgos, the master is responsible for the misdeeds of the servant.”
Agachak’s eyes bored into Sadi, though his bony white face remained expressionless. “Let us proceed,” he commanded. “Who is to present the evidence in this matter?”
Chabat turned and gestured to a hooded Grolim standing near the wall. “Sorchak will serve as the priest-inquisitor, Master,” she replied in the tone of one who feels fully in charge of a situation. “I’m sure you’re aware of his zeal.”
“Ah, yes,” Agachak said in a noncommittal tone. “I might have guessed that it would be Sorchak.” The faintest hint of sardonic amusement touched his lips. “Very well, priest-inquisitor, you may present the charges.”
The black-robed Grolim stepped forward, pushing his green-lined hood back from his tangled hair. “The matter itself is simple, my Lord,” he declared in his strident voice. “There were dozens of witnesses present, so there can be no question of this young villain’s guilt. The implications of that guilt, however, must be pursued.”
“Pronounce your sentence, Great Hierarch,” Chabat urged the dead-looking man on the throne. “I will wring the whole truth from this greasy Nyissan and from his servants.”
“I have heard talk of guilt, Chabat,” he replied, “but I have still not heard the charges or the evidence.”
Chabat looked slightly taken aback by his words. “I but thought to spare you the tedium of a formal inquiry, Master. I am convinced of the truth of Sorchak’s words. You have always accepted my judgment in such matters before.”
“Perhaps,” Agachak said, “but I think that this time I might like to judge for myself.” He looked at the greasy- haired priest standing before him. “The charges, Sorchak,” he said. “Exactly what is it that the young man is accused of doing?” There was a faint note of dislike in the Hierarch’s voice.
Sorchak’s bulging eyes grew slightly less certain as he sensed Agachak’s unspoken animosity. Then he drew himself up. “Early this evening,” he began, “just as the holiest rite of our faith was about to be performed on the altar in the Sanctum, this young man entered and extinguished the altar Fires. That is what he did, and it is that of which I accuse him. I swear that he is guilty.”
“Absurd,” Sadi protested. “Are the fires at the altar not perpetually attended? How could this boy have gotten close enough to them to put them out?”
“How dare you question the sworn word of a priest of Torak?” Chabat said angrily, her scarred cheeks writhing. “Sorchak has sworn to his guilt, and therefore he is guilty. To question the word of a priest is death.”
Agachak’s sunken eyes were veiled as he looked at her. “I think that I might like to hear the evidence that has so persuaded you and the priest-inquisitor for myself, Chabat,” he said in a flat voice. “Accusation and guilt are not always the same thing, and the question raised by Ussa is quite relevant.”
A faint hope surged through Garion at the Hierarch’s words. Agachak knew. He was completely aware of Chabat’s involvement with Sorchak, and the very eagerness with which she defended the rancid-smelling Grolim’s every word affronted her master.
“Well, priest-inquisitor,” Agachak continued, “how did this boy manage to put out the altar fires? Has there been some laxity in guarding them?”
Sorchak’s eyes grew wary as he realized that he was on dangerous ground. “I have many witnesses, my Lord,” he declared. “There is universal agreement by all who were present that the Sanctum was desecrated by means of sorcery.”
“Ah, sorcery, is it? That would explain everything, of course.” Agachak paused, his dreadful eyes fixed on the now-sweating Sorchak. “I have noticed, however, that the cry ‘witch’ or ‘sorcerer’ is frequently raised when there is a lack of solid evidence. Is there no other explanation for what happened in the Sanctum? Is the priest-inquisitor’s case so weak that he must fall back on so tired and worn-out an accusation?”
Chabat’s expression was incredulous, and Sorchak began to tremble.
“Fortunately, the matter is easily resolved,” Agachak added. “The gift of sorcery has a slight drawback. Others with the same gift can clearly sense the use of the power.” He paused. “You didn’t know that, did you, Sorchak? A priest of the Green hoping for elevation to the Purple would have been more diligent in his studies and would have known that—but you have been otherwise occupied, haven’t you?” He turned to the priestess at his side. “I am surprised, however, that you did not instruct your protégé here more completely before you let him make this kind of charge, Chabat. You might have prevented his making a fool of himself— and of you.”
Her eyes blazed, and the flamelike scars on her face went livid; then suddenly they began to glow as if an inner fire were running beneath her skin.
“Well, Chabat,” he said in a calm, deadly voice, “has the moment come then? Will you finally try your will against mine?”
The awful question hung in the air, and Garion found that he was holding his breath. Chabat, however, averted her eyes and turned her face away from the Hierarch, the fires in her cheeks fading.
“A wise decision, Chabat.” Agachak turned to Sadi. “Well, Ussa of Sthiss Tor, how say you to the charge that your servant here is a sorcerer?”
“The priest of Torak is in error, my Lord,” Sadi replied diplomatically. “Believe me, this young dunce is no sorcerer. He spends ten minutes every morning trying to decide which of his shoes goes on which foot. Look at him. There’s not the faintest glimmer of intelligence in those eyes. He doesn’t even have sense enough to be afraid.”