Sorceress of Darshiva

we'll have to give him a field marshal's baton instead—but only if this campaign of his is successful, you understand."
    "Perfectly, your Majesty," Brador murmured.
    The coronation of the Arch Duke Otrath as the Emperor of Mallorea went off quite smoothly. Otrath, of course, was an unmitigated ass and he had to be led by the hand through the ceremony. When it was over, Zandramas installed him on an ornate throne in the palace at Hemil and left instructions that he be flattered and fawned over. Then she quietly left.
    Prince Geran was in the simple room Zandramas had chosen for herself in the temple. A middle-aged Grolim priestess had been watching over him. "He's been very good this morning, Holy Zandramas," the priestess advised.
    "Good, bad—what difference does it make?" Zandramas shrugged. "You can go now."
    "Yes, Holy Priestess." The middle-aged woman genuflected and left the room. Prince Geran looked at Zandramas with a grave expression on his little face.
    "You're quiet this morning, your Highness," Zandramas said ironically.
    The child's expression did not change. Though they had been together for over a year, Geran had never shown the slightest sign of affection for her and, perhaps even more disturbing, he had never shown fear either. He held up one of his toys.
    "Ball," he said.
    "Yes," she replied, "I suppose so." Then, perhaps because his penetrating gaze disturbed her, she crossed the room to stand before her mirror. She pushed back her hood and gazed intently at her reflection. It had not touched her bee yet. That was something at least. She looked with distaste at the whirling, sparkling lights beneath the skin of her hands. Then, quite deliberately, she opened the front of her robe and gazed at her nude reflection. It was spreading, there could be no question about that. Her breasts and belly also underlaid with those selfsame whirling points of light.
    Geran had come silently up to stand beside her. "Stars," he said, pointing at the mirror.
    "Just go play, Geran," the Child of Dark told him, closing her robe.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    As they rode west that afternoon, they could see a heavy, dark purple cloudbank building up ahead of them, rising higher and higher and blotting out the blue of the sky. Finally Durnik rode forward. "Toth says that we'd better find shelter," he told Belgarath. "These spring storms in this part of the world are savage,''
    Belgarath shrugged. "I've been rained on before."
    "He says that the storm won't last long," Durnik said, "but it's going to be very intense. It should blow through by morning. I really think we should listen to him, Belgarath. It's not only the rain and wind. He says that there's usually hail as well, and the hailstones can be as big as apples."
    Belgarath peered toward the blue-black clouds towering up into the western sky with lightning bolts staggering down from their centers. "All right," he decided. "We wouldn't be able to go much farther today anyway. Does he know of any shelter nearby?"
    "There's a farm village a league or so ahead," Durnik told him. "If it's like the others we've passed, there won't be anybody there. We ought to be able to find a house with enough roof left to keep the hailstones off our heads."
    "Let's aim for there then. That storm's moving fast. I'll call in Beldin and have him take a look." He lifted his face, and Garion could feel his thought reaching out.
    They rode at a gallop into a mounting wind that whipped their cloaks about them and carried with it an unpleasant chill and vagrant spatters of cold rain.
    When they crested the hill above the deserted village, they could see the storm front advancing like a wall across die open plain.
    "It's going to be close," Belgarath shouted above the wind. "Let's make a run for it."
    They plunged down the hill through wildly tossing grass and then across a broad belt of plowed ground that encircled Ihe village. The place was walled, but the gate was off its binges, and many houses showed signs of recent fires. They clattered along a rubble-littered street with the wind screaming at them. Garion heard a loud pop. Then another. Then several more in a growing staccato. "Here comes the hail!" he shouted.
    Velvet suddenly cried out and clutched at her shoulder. Silk, almost without thinking, it seemed, pulled his horse in beside hers and flipped his cloak over her, tenting it protectively with his arm.
    Beldin stood in the dooryard of a relatively intact house. "In here!" he called