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 w
alls 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.
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
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