Demon Lord of Karanda

forgetting that we don't have any Grolim robes with us," Silk pointed out.
    "It's very dark in that courtyard, Kheldar, and in shadows that deep, any dark color would appear black, wouldn't it?"
    "I suppose so," he admitted.
    "And we still have those green silk slavers' robes in our packs, don't we?"
    He squinted at her in the darkness, then looked at Belgarath. "It goes against all my instincts," he said, "but it might just work, at that."
    "One way or another, we've got to get into the house, We have to find out who's in there -and why- before we can decide anything."
    "Would Zandramas have Grolims with her?" Ce'Nedra asked. "If she's alone in that house and she sees a line of Grolims walking across the courtyard, wouldn't that frighten her into running away with my baby?"
    Belgarath shook his head. "Even if she does run, we're close enough to catch her -particularly since the Orb can follow her no matter how much she twists and dodges. Besides, if she's here, she's probably got some of her own Grolims with her. It's not really so far from here to Darshiva that she couldn't have summoned them."
    "What about him?" Durnik whispered the question and pointed at Feldegast. "He hasn't got a slavers' robe."
    "We'll improvise something," Velvet murmured. She smiled at the juggler. "I've got a nice dark blue dressing gown that should set off his eyes marvelously. We can add a kerchief to resemble a hood and we can slip him by -if he stays in the middle of the group."
    "'Twouldbe beneath me dignity," he objected.
    "'Would you prefer to stay behind and watch the horses?" she asked pleasantly.
    "'Tis a hard woman y' are, me lady." he complained.
    "Sometimes, yes."
    "Let's do it," Belgarath decided. "I've got to get inside that house." It took only a few moments to retrace their steps to the place where the horses were tied and to pull the neatly folded slavers' robes from their packs by the dim light of Feldegast's lantern.
    "Isn't this ridiculous, now?" the juggler grumbled indignantly, pointing down at the blue satin gown Velvet had draped about him.
    "I think it looks just darling," Ce'Nedra said.
    "If there are people in there, aren't they likely to be patrolling the corridors?" Durnik asked.
    "Only on the main floor, Goodman," Feldegast replied. "The upper stories of the house be almost totally uninhabitable -on account of all the broken windows an' the weather blowin' around in the corridors fer all the world like they was part of the great outdoors. There be a grand staircase just opposite the main door, an' with just a bit of luck we kin nip up the stairs an' be out of sight with no one the wiser. Once we're up there, we're not likely t' encounter a livin' soul -unless ye be countin' the bats an' mice an' an occasional adventuresome rat."
    "You absolutely had to say that, didn't you?" Ce'Nedra said caustically.
    "Ah, me poor little darlin'." He grinned at her. "But quiet yer fears. I'll be beside ye an' I've yet t' meet the bat or mouse or rat I couldn't best in a fair fight."
    "It makes sense, Belgarath," Silk said. "If we all go trooping through the lower halls, sooner or later someone's bound to notice us. Once we're upstairs and out of sight, though, I'll be able to reconnoiter and find out exactly what we're up against."
    "All right," the old man agreed, "but the first thing is to get inside."
    "Let's be off, then," Feldegast said, swirling his dressing gown about him with a flourish.
    "Hide that light," Belgarath told him.
    They filed out through the entrance to the sally port and marched into the shadowy courtyard, moving in the measured, swaying pace Grolim priests assumed on ceremonial occasions. The lighted window at the end of the house seemed somehow like a burning eye that followed their every move.
    The courtyard was really not all that large, but it seemed to Garion that crossing it took hours. Eventually, however, they reached the main door. It was large, black, and nail-studded, like the door of every Grolim temple Garion had ever seen. The steel mask mounted over it, however, was no longer polished. In the faint light coming from the window at the other end of the house, Garion could see that over the centuries it had rusted, making the coldly beautiful face look scabrous and diseased. What made it look perhaps even more hideous were the twin gobbets of lumpy, semi-liquid rust running from the eye sockets down the cheeks. Garion remembered with a shudder the fiery tears that had run down the stricken