"That decision is not mine to make, your Majesty. My part in this was decided for me long before I was born."
He looked amused. "The Prophecy, you mean? We Angaraks have one also, Princess, and I don't imagine yours is any more reliable than ours. Prophecy is no more than a trick of the priesthood to maintain its grip on the gullible."
"Then you believe in nothing, my Lord?"
"I believe in my own power. Nothing else makes any sense."
The Grolims who escorted them in easy stages northward across the summer-browned plains of Mishrak ac Thull toward Thull Zelik were coldly proper. Ce'Nedra could not be sure if their behavior was the result of warnings from the Emperor of Mallorea or their fear of Polgara. The stifling heat was past now, and the air smelled faintly of the dusty end of summer. The Thullish plain was dotted with villages, random collections of thatch-roofed cottages and dirt streets. The villagers watched, sullen and afraid, as the priests of Torak rode through the little towns, their faces cold and aloof.
The plain to the west of Thull Zelik was covered with the red tents of the vast staging area that had been erected for the Mallorean army. With the exception of caretaker detachments, however, the huge camp was empty. The troops already in Mishrak ac Thull were with 'Zakath near Thull Mardu, and the steady stream of new arrivals had been quite suddenly cut off.
Thull Zelik itself was like any port town in the world, smelling of salt water, fish, tar, and rotting seaweed. The gray stone buildings were low and squat, almost like the Thulls themselves, and the cobblestoned streets all sloped down to the harbor, which lay in the curve of a broad estuary and faced a somewhat similar harbor on the other side.
"What city is that?" Ce'Nedra curiously asked one of the Grolims as she looked across the dirty water toward the far shore.
"Yar Marak," the black-robed priest answered curtly.
"Ah," she said, remembering now her tedious geography lessons. The two cities, one Thullish, the other Nadrak, faced each other across the estuary at the mouth of the River Cordu, and the boundary between Mishrak ac Thull and Gar og Nadrak ran down the precise center of the river.
"When the Emperor returns from Thull Mardu, I imagine he'll take steps to eradicate that place over there," one of the other Grolims added. "He was not pleased with the behavior of King Drosta on the battlefield, and some chastisement seems in order."
They proceeded directly down a cobbled avenue to the harbor, where but a few ships were moored to the wharves.
"My crew absolutely refuses to put to sea," the Mallorean captain of the ship upon which they were to embark reported to the Grolims. "The Chereks out there are like a pack of wolves, burning and sinking everything afloat."
"The Cherek fleet is farther south," the priest in charge of the detachment of Grolims declared.
"The Cherek fleet is everywhere, revered priest," the captain disagreed. "Two days ago they burned four coastal towns two hundred leagues to the south of here, and yesterday they sank a dozen ships a hundred leagues to the north. You wouldn't believe how fast they can move. They don't even take the time to loot the towns they burn." He shuddered. "They're not men! They're a natural disaster."
"We will set sail within the hour," the Grolim insisted.
"Not unless your priests know how to man oars and handle the rigging," the captain told him. "My men are terrified. They won't sail."
"We'll convince them," the Grolim said darkly. He gave a few orders to his under-priests. An altar was quickly erected on the high stern deck, and a brazier filled with glowing coals was placed to one side of it. The leader of the Grolims took his place at the altar and began chanting in a deep, hollow voice, his arms raised to the sky. In his right hand he held a gleaming knife. At random, his cohorts selected a sailor and dragged him, screaming and struggling, to the stern deck. As Ce'Nedra watched with horror, he was bent backward across the altar and butchered with an almost casual efficiency. The Grolim who had wielded the knife lifted the dead man's dripping heart.
"Behold our offering, Dragon-God of Angarak!" he cried in a great voice, then turned and deposited the heart in the smoking brazier. The heart steamed and sizzled horribly for a moment, then began to blacken and shrivel as the fire consumed it. From the bow of the ship a gong clanged in iron celebration of the sacrifice.
The Grolim at the altar, his bloody hands dripping, turned to confront the ashen-faced sailors crowded amidships.
"Our ceremonies will continue until the ship sails," he told them. "Who will be the next to give his heart to our beloved God?"
The ship set sail immediately.
Ce'Nedra, sick with revulsion, turned her face away. She looked at Polgara, whose eyes burned with hatred and who seemed in the grip of an overpowering interior struggle. Ce'Nedra knew her, and she knew that it was only by a tremendous effort of her will that Polgara was able to keep herself from unleashing a terrible retribution on the bloodstained Grolim at the altar. Beside her, protected in the clasp of one of her arms, stood Errand. On the child's face was an expression Ce'Nedra had never seen there before. His look was sad, compassionate, and at the same time filled with a kind of iron-hard resolution, as if, had he but the power, he would destroy every altar to Torak in all the world.
"You will go below decks now," one of their Grolim captors told them. "It will be a matter of some days before we reach the shores of boundless Mallorea."
They sailed north, hugging the Nadrak coastline, fearfully ready to run for any beach that offered itself, should Cherek ships appear on the horizon. At a certain point, the Mallorean captain peered about at the empty sea, swallowed hard, and swung his tiller over for the quick, terrified dash across open water to the east.
Once, a day or more out from the Nadrak coast, they saw a dreadful column of thick black smoke rising far to the south, and a day or so farther on they sailed through a sea littered with charred debris where bodies, pale and bloated, bobbed in the dark waves of the eastern sea. The frightened sailors pulled their oars with all their strength, not even needing the encouragement of whips to row faster.
Then, one murky morning when the sky behind them threatened rain squalls and the air was oppressively heavy with the advancing storm, a low, dark smudge appeared on the horizon ahead of them, and the sailors doubled their efforts, rushing desperately toward the safety of the Mallorean coast ahead.
The beach upon which the small boats from their ship landed them was a sloping shingle of dark, salt-crusted gravel where the waves made a strange, mournful sighing as they receded. Awaiting them some distance up from the water's edge sat a mounted party of Grolims, their black robes belted at the waist with crimson sashes.