"It's possible, yes."
"And would she know that it can't follow her over water?"
"I couldn't say for sure."
"But if she does, isn't it possible that she went to the lake in order to hide her trail from us? She could have sailed out a ways, doubled back, and come ashore just about anyplace. Then she could have struck out in a new direction, and we'd never pick up her trail again."
Belgarath scratched at his beard, squinting in the sunlight. "Pol," he said. "Are there any Grolims about?"
She concentrated a bit. "Not in the immediate vicinity, father," she replied.
"Good. When Zandramas was trying to tamper with Ce'Nedra back at Rak Hagga, weren't you able to lock your thought with hers for a while?"
"Yes, briefly."
"She was at Ashaba then, right?"
She nodded.
"Did you get any kind of notion about which direction she was planning to go when she left?"
She frowned. "Nothing very specific, father ‑just a vague hint about wanting to go home.
"Darshiva," Silk said, snapping his fingers. "We know that Zandramas is a Darshivan name, and Zakath told Garion that it was in Darshiva that she started stirring up trouble."
Belgarath grunted. "It's a little thin," he said. "I'd feel a great deal more comfortable with some confirmation." He looked at Polgara. "Do you think you could reestablish contact with her ‑even for just a moment? All I need is a direction."
"I don't think so, father. I'll try, but . . ." she shrugged. Then her face grew very calm, and Garion could feel her mind reaching out with a subtle probing. After a few minutes, she relaxed her will. "She's shielding, father," she told the old man. "I can't pick up anything at all."
He muttered a curse under his breath. "We'll just have to go on down to the lake and ask a few questions. Maybe somebody saw her."
"I'm sure they did," Silk said, "but Zandramas likes to drown sailors, remember? Anyone who saw where she landed is probably sleeping under thirty feet of water."
"Can you think of an alternative plan?"
"Not offhand, no."
"Then we go on to the lake."
As the sun began to sink slowly behind them, they passed a fair‑sized town set perhaps a quarter of a mile back from the road. The inhabitants were gathered outside the palisade surrounding it. They had a huge bonfire going, and just in front of the fire stood a crude, skull-surmounted altar of logs. A skinny man wearing several feathers in his hair and with lurid designs painted on his face and body was before the altar, intoning an incantation at the top of his lungs. His arms were stretched imploringly at the sky, and there was a note of desperation in his voice.
"What's he doing?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"He's trying to raise a demon so that the townspeople can worship it," Eriond told her calmly.
"Garion!" she said in alarm. "Shouldn't we run?"
"He won't succeed," Eriond assured her. "The demon won't come to him anymore. Nahaz has told them all not to.
The wizard broke off his incantation. Even from this distance, Garion could see that there was a look of panic on his face.
An angry mutter came from the townspeople.
"That crowd is starting to turn ugly," Silk observed.
"The wizard had better raise his demon on the next try, or he might be in trouble."
The gaudily painted man with feathers in his hair began the incantation again, virtually shrieking and ranting at the sky. He completed it and stood waiting expectantly.
Nothing happened.
After a moment, the crowd gave an angry roar and surged forward. They seized the cringing wizard and tore his log altar apart. Then, laughing raucously, they nailed his hands and feet to one of the logs with long spikes and, with a great shout, they hurled the log up onto the bonfire.
"Let's get out of here," Belgarath said. "Mobs tend to go wild once they've tasted blood." He led them away at a gallop.
They made camp that night in a willow thicket on the banks of a small stream, concealing their fire as best they could.
It was foggy the following morning, and they rode warily with their hands close to their weapons.
"How much farther to the lake?" Belgarath asked as the sun began to burn off the fog.
Silk looked around into the thinning mist. "It's kind of hard to say. I'd guess a couple more leagues at least."
"Let's pick up the pace, then. We're going to have to find a boat when we get there, and that might take a while."
They urged their horses into a canter and continued on. The road had taken on a noticeable downhill grade.
"It's a bit closer than I thought," Silk called to them. "I remember this stretch of road. We should reach the lake in an hour or so."
They passed occasional Karands, clad in brown fur for the most part and heavily armed. The eyes of these local people were suspicious, even hostile, but Garion's mail shirt, helmet, and sword were sufficient to gain the party passage without incident.
By midmorning the gray fog had completely burned off. As they crested a knoll, Garion reined in. Before him there lay an enormous body of water, blue and sparkling in the midmorning sun. It looked for all the world like a vast inland sea, with no hint of a far shore, but it did not have that salt tang of the sea.
"Big, isn't it?" Silk said, pulling his horse in beside Chretienne. He pointed toward a thatch‑and‑log village standing a mile or so up the lake-shore. A number of fair‑sized boats were moored to a floating dock jutting out into the water. "That's where I've usually hired boats when I wanted to cross the lake."
"You've done business around here, then?"
"Oh, yes. There are gold mines in the mountains of Zamad, and deposits of gem stones up in the forest."
"How big are those boats?"
"Big enough. We'll be a little crowded, but the weather's calm enough for a safe crossing, even if the boat might be a bit overloaded." Then he frowned. "What are they doing?"
Garion looked at the slope leading down to the village and saw a crowd of people moving slowly down toward the lake-shore. There seemed to be a great deal of fur involved in their clothing in varying shades of red and brown, though many of them wore cloaks all dyed in hues of rust and faded blue. More and more of them came over the hilltop, and other people came out of the village to meet them.
"Belgarath," the little Drasnian called. "I think we've got a problem."
Belgarath came jolting up to the crest of the knoll at a trot. He looked at the large crowd gathering in front of the village.
"We need to get into that village to hire a boat," Silk told him. "We're well enough armed to intimidate a few dozen villagers, but there are two or three hundred people down there now. That could require some fairly serious intimidation."
"A country fair, perhaps?" the old man asked.
Silk shook his head. "I wouldn't think so. It's the wrong time of year for it, and those people don't have any carts with them." He swung down from his saddle and went back to the packhorses. A moment or so later, he came back with a poorly tanned red fur vest and a baggy fur hat. He pulled them on, bent over and wrapped a pair of sackcloth leggings about his calves, tying them in place with lengths of cord. "How do I look?" he asked.
"Shabby," Garion told him.
"That's the idea. Shab's in fashion here in Karanda." He remounted.
"Where did you get the clothes?" Belgarath asked curiously.
"I pillaged one of the bodies back at the temple." The little man shrugged. "I like to keep a few disguises handy. I'll go find out what's happening down there." He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and galloped down toward the throng gathering near the lakeside village.
"Let's pull back out of sight," Belgarath suggested. "I'd rather not attract too much attention."
They walked their horses down the back side of the knoll and then some distance away from the road to a shallow gully that offered concealment and dismounted there. Garion climbed back up out of the gully on foot a
nd lay down in the tall grass to keep watch.
About a half‑hour later, Silk came loping back over the top of the knoll. Garion rose from the grass and signaled to him.
When the little man reached the gully and dismounted, his expression was disgusted. "Religion," he snorted. "I wonder what the world would be like without it. That gathering down there is for the purpose of witnessing the performance of a powerful wizard, who absolutely guarantees that he can raise a demon ‑despite the notable lack of success of others lately. He's even hinting that he might be able to persuade the Demon Lord Nahaz himself to put in an appearance. That crowd's likely to be there all day."
"Now what?" Sadi asked.
Belgarath walked down the gully a ways, looking thoughtfully up at the sky. When he came back, his look was determined. "We're going to need a couple more of those," he said, pointing at Silk's disguise.
"Nothing simpler," Silk replied. "There are still enough latecomers going down that hill for me to be able to waylay a few. What's the plan?"
"You, Garion, and I are going down there."
"Interesting notion, but I don't get the point."
"The wizard, whoever he is, is promising to raise Nahaz, but Nahaz is with Urvon and isn't very likely to show up. After what we saw happen at that village yesterday, it's fairly obvious that failing to produce a demon is a serious mistake for a wizard to make. If our friend down there is so confident, it probably means that he's going to create an illusion ‑since nobody's been able to produce the real thing lately. I'm good at illusions myself, so I'll just go down and challenge him."
"Won't they just fall down and worship your illusion?" Velvet asked him.
His smile was chilling. "I don't really think so, Liselle," he replied. "You see, there are demons, and then there are demons. If I do it right, there won't be a Karand within five leagues of this place by sunset ‑depending on how fast they can run, of course." He looked at Silk. "Haven't you left yet?" he asked pointedly.
While Silk went off in search of more disguises, the old sorcerer made a few other preparations. He found a long, slightly crooked branch to use as a staff and a couple of feathers to stick in his hair. Then he sat down and laid his head back against one of their packs. "All right, Pol," he instructed his daughter, "make me hideous."
She smiled faintly and started to raise one hand. "Not that way. Just take some ink and draw some designs on my face. They don't have to be too authentic-looking. The Karands have corrupted their religion so badly that they wouldn't recognize authenticity if they stepped in it."
She laughed and went to one of the packs, returning a moment later with an inkpot and a quill pen.
"Why on earth are you carrying ink, Lady Polgara?" Ce'Nedra asked.
"I like to be prepared for eventualities as they arise. I went on a long journey once and had to leave a note for someone along the way. I didn't have ink with me, so I ended up opening a vein to get something to write with. I seldom make the same mistake twice. Close your eyes, father. I always like to start with the eyelids and work my way out."
Belgarath closed his eyes. "Durnik," he said as Polgara started drawing designs on his face with her quill, "you and the others will stay back here. See if you can find someplace a little better hidden than this gully."
"All right, Belgarath," the smith agreed. "How will we know when it's safe to come down to the lake-shore?"
"When the screaming dies out."
"Don't move your lips, father," Polgara told him, frowning in concentration as she continued her drawing. "Did you want me to blacken your beard too?"
"Leave it the way it is. Superstitious people are always impressed by venerability, and I look older than just about anybody."
She nodded her agreement. "Actually, father, you look older than dirt."
"Very funny, Pol," he said acidly. "Are you just about done?"
"Did you want the death symbol on your forehead?" she asked.
"Might as well," he grunted. "Those cretins down there won't recognize it, but it looks impressive."
By the time Polgara had finished with her artwork, Silk returned with assorted garments.
"Any problems?" Durnik asked him.
"Simplicity itself." Silk shrugged. "A man whose eyes are fixed on heaven is fairly easy to approach from behind, and a quick rap across the back of the head will usually put him to sleep."
"Leave your mail shirt and helmet, Garion," Belgarath said. "Karands don't wear them. Bring your sword, though."
"I'd planned to." Garion began to struggle out of his mail shirt. After a moment, Ce'Nedra came over to help him.
"You're getting rusty," she told him after they had hauled off the heavy thing. She pointed at a number of reddish‑brown stains on the padded linen tunic he wore under the shirt.
"It's one of the drawbacks to wearing armor," he replied.
"That and the smell," she added, wrinkling her nose. "You definitely need a bath, Garion."
"I'll see if I can get around to it one of these days," he said. He pulled on one of the fur vests Silk had stolen.
Then he tied on the crude leggings and crammed on a rancid‑smelling fur cap. "How do I look?" he asked her.
"Like a barbarian," she replied.
"That was sort of the whole idea."
"I didn't steal you a hat," Silk was saying to Belgarath. "I thought you might prefer to wear feathers."
Belgarath nodded. "All of us mighty wizards wear feathers," he agreed. "It's a passing fad, I'm sure, but I always like to dress fashionably." He looked over at the horses. "I think we'll walk," he decided. "When the noise starts, the horses might get a bit skittish." He looked at Polgara and the others who were staying behind. "This shouldn't take us too long," he told them confidently and strode off down the gully with Garion and Silk close behind him.
They emerged from the mouth of the gully at the south end of the knoll and walked down the hill toward the crowd gathering on the lake-shore.
"I don't see any sign of their wizard yet," Garion said, peering ahead.
"They always like to keep their audiences waiting for a bit," Belgarath said. "It's supposed to heighten the anticipation or something."
The day was quite warm as they walked down the hill, and the rancid smell coming from their clothing grew stronger. Although they did not really look that much like Karands, the people in the crowd they quietly joined paid them scant attention. Every eye seemed to be fixed on a platform and one of those log altars backed by a line of skulls on stakes.
"Where do they get all the skulls?" Garion whispered to Silk.
"They used to be headhunters," Silk replied. "The Angaraks discouraged that practice, so now they creep around at night robbing graves. I doubt if you could find a whole skeleton in any graveyard in all of Karanda."
"Let's get closer to the altar," Belgarath muttered. "I don't want to have to shove my way through this mob when things start happening."
They pushed through the crowd. A few of the greasy‑haired fanatics started to object to being thrust aside, but one look at Belgarath's face with the hideous designs Polgara had drawn on it convinced them that here was a wizard of awesome power and that it perhaps might be wiser not to interfere with him.
Just as they reached the front near the altar, a man in a black Grolim robe strode out through the gate of the lakeside village, coming directly toward the altar.
"I think that's our wizard," Belgarath said quietly.
"A Grolim?" Silk sounded slightly surprised.
"Let's see what he's up to."
The black‑robed man reached the platform and stepped up to stand in front of the altar. He raised both hands and spoke harshly in a language Garion did not understand. His words could have been either a benediction or a curse. The crowd fell immediately silent. Slowly the Grolim pushed back his hood and let his robe fall to the platform. He wore only a loincloth, and his head had been shaved. His body was covered from crown to toe with elaborate tattoos.
S
ilk winced. "That must have really hurt," he muttered.
"Prepare ye all to look upon the face of your God," the Grolim announced in a large voice, then bent to inscribe the designs on the platform before the altar.
"That's what I thought," Belgarath whispered. "That circle he drew isn't complete. If he were really going to raise a demon, he wouldn't have made that mistake." The Grolim straightened and began declaiming the words of the incantation in a rolling, oratorical style.
"He's being very cautious," Belgarath told them. "He's leaving out certain key phrases. He doesn't want to raise a real demon accidentally. Wait." The old man smiled bleakly. "Here he goes."
Garion also felt the surge as the Grolim's will focused and then he heard the familiar rushing sound.
"Behold the Demon Lord Nahaz," the tattooed Grolim shouted, and a shadow‑encased form appeared before the altar with a flash of fire, a peal of thunder, and a cloud of sulfur‑stinking smoke. Although the figure was no larger than an ordinary man, it looked very substantial for some reason.
"Not too bad, really," Belgarath admitted grudgingly.
"It looks awfully solid to me, Belgarath," Silk said nervously.
"It's only an illusion, Silk," the old man quietly reassured him. "A good one, but still only an illusion."
The shadowy form on the platform before the altar rose to its full height and then pulled back its hood of darkness to reveal the hideous face Garion had seen in Torak's throne room at Ashaba.
As the crowd fell to its knees with a great moan, Belgarath drew in his breath sharply. "When this crowd starts to disperse, don't let the Grolim escape," he instructed. "He's actually seen the real Nahaz, and that means that he was one of Harakan's cohorts. I want some answers out of him." Then the old man drew himself up. "Well, I guess I might as well get started with this," he said. He stepped up in front of the platform. "Fraud!" he shouted in a great voice. " Fraud and fakery!"
The Grolim stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he saw the designs drawn on his face. "On your knees before the Demon Lord," he blustered.
"Fraud!" Belgarath denounced him again. He stepped up onto the platform and faced the stunned crowd. "This is no wizard, but only a Grolim trickster," he declared.
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