Urtag, trembling visibly now, dismounted before a vast, arched portal and led them through a half open iron door. The echoing chamber they entered was as large as the Imperial throne room in Tol Honeth. Wordlessly, his torch held high over his head, Urtag led them across the pitted floor to another iron-arched doorway and then down a flight of clanging iron steps that reached into the darkness beneath. At the bottom of the stairs, perhaps fifty feet below the wreckage above, stood another door of black iron, studded with great, round rivetheads. Hesitantly, Urtag rapped his knuckles on the door, and the sound of his rapping echoed hollowly in the chamber beyond.

"Who comes to disturb the slumber of the Dragon-God of Angarak?" a muffled voice demanded from behind the door.

"I am Urtag, the Archpriest of Camat." The Grolim's voice was friughtened. "As commanded, I bring the prisoners to the Disciple of Torak."

There was a moment of silence, and then the rattling sound of an immense chain, followed by the grating of an enormous bolt. Then slowly, creakingly, the door opened.

Ce'Nedra gasped. Standing in the doorway was Belgarath! It was a moment before her startled eyes began to sort out the subtle differences that informed her that the white-haired man before her was not indeed the old sorcerer, but rather someone who looked so much like him that they could easily pass for brothers. Subtle though the differences were, they were nonetheless profound. In the eyes of the man in the doorway there was a haunted look - a look compounded of grief and horror and a dreadful self loathing, all overlaid with the helpless adoration of a man who has given himself utterly to a dreadful master.

"Welcome to the tomb of the one-eyed God, Polgara," he greeted the sorceress.

"It's been a long time, Belzedar," she replied in an oddly neutral voice.

"I've given up the right to that name," he told her, and his tone was faintly regretful.

"It was your decision, Zedar."