Queen of Sorcery

him."
    Mandorallen's face darkened slightly. "Indeed. Rumor, which sometimes loth run before us like a barking dog, hath suggested that Lelldorin of Wildantor hath raised on occasion foul rebellion against the crown."
    "That's of no matter now," Wolf stressed. "The business which has brought us together is much more serious than all that. You'll have to put it aside."
    "It shall be as you say, noble Belgarath," Mandorallen declared immediately, though his eyes still lingered on the unconscious Lelldorin.
    "Grandfather!" Garion called, pointing at a mounted figure that had suddenly appeared on the side of the stony hilltop. The figure was robed in black and sat a black horse. He pushed back his hood to reveal a polished steel mask cast in the form of a face that was at once beautiful and strangely repelling. A voice deep in Garion's mind told him that there was something important about the strange rider - something he should remember - but whatever it was eluded him.
    "Abandon this quest, Belgarath." The voice was hollow behind the mask.
    "You know me better than that, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said calmly, quite obviously recognizing the rider. "Was this childishness with the Algroths your idea?"
    "And you should know me better than that," the figure retorted derisively. "When I come against you, you can expect things to be a bit more serious. For now, there are enough underlings about to delay you. That's all we really need. Once Zedar has carried Cthrag Yaska to my Master, you can try your power against the might and will of Torak, if you'd like."
    "Are you running errands for Zedar, then?" Wolf asked.
    "I run no man's errands," the figure replied with heavy contempt. The rider seemed solid, as real as any of them standing on the hilltop, but Garion could see the filmy drizzle striking the rocks directly beneath horse and man. Whatever the figure was, the rain was falling right through it.
    "Why are you here then, Chamdar?" Wolf demanded.
    "Let's call it curiosity, Belgarath. I wanted to see for myself how you'd managed to translate the Prophecy into everyday terms." The figure looked around at the others on the hilltop. "Clever," it said with a certain grudging admiration. "Where did you find them all?"
    "I didn't have to find them, Chamdar," Wolf answered. "They've been there all along. If any part of the Prophecy is valid, then it all has to be valid, doesn't it? There's no contrivance involved at all, Each one has come down to me through more generations than you can imagine."
    The figure seemed to hiss with a sharp intake of its breath. "It isn't complete yet, old man."
    "It will be, Chamdar," Wolf replied confidently. "I've already seen to that."
    "Which is the one who will live twice?" the figure asked suddenly. Wolf smiled coldly, but did not answer.
    "Hail, my Queen," the figure said mockingly then to Aunt Pol.
    "Grolim courtesy always leaves me quite cold," she returned with a frosty look. "I'm not your queen, Chamdar."
    "You will be, Polgara. My Master said that you are to become his wife when he comes into his kingdom. You'll be queen of all the world."
    "That puts you at a bit of a disadvantage, doesn't it, Chamdar? If I'm to become your queen, you can't really cross me, can you?"
    "I can work around you, Polgara, and once you've become the bride of Torak, his will becomes your will. I'm sure you won't hold any old grudges at that point."
    "I think we've had about enough of this, Chamdar," Mister Wolf said. "Your conversation's beginning to bore me. You can have your shadow back now." He waved his hand negligently as if brushing away a troublesome fly. "Go," he commanded.
    Once again Garion felt that strange surge and that hollow roaring in his mind. The horseman vanished.
    "You didn't destroy him, did you?" Silk gasped in a shocked voice.
    "No," Mister Wolf told him. "It was all just an illusion. It's a childish trick the Grolims find impressive. A shadow can be projected over quite some distance if you want to take the trouble. All I did was send his shadow back to him." He grinned suddenly with a sly twist to his lips. "Of course I selected a somewhat indirect route. It may take a few days to make the trip. It won't actually hurt him, but it's going to make him a bit uncomfortable - and extremely conspicuous."
    "A most unseemly specter," Mandorallen observed. "Who was this rude shade?"
    "It was Chamdar," Aunt Pol said, returning her attention to the injured Lelldorin, "one of the chief priests of the