"Sardius? Sardonyx, you mean?"

Beldin shrugged. "The Mallorean Grolims call it Cthrag Sardius. What's the difference?"

"Sardonyx is a gemstone -sort of orange colored with milky-white stripes. It's not really very rare -or very attractive."

"That doesn't quite match up with the way I heard the Malloreans talk about it." Beldin frowned. "From the way they use the name Cthrag Sardius, I gather that it's a single stone -and that it' s got a certain kind of importance."

"What sort of importance?"

"I can't say for sure. About all I could gather was that just about every Grolim in Mallorea would trade his soul for the chance to get his hands on it."

"It could just be some kind of internal symbol -something to do with the power struggle that's going on over there."

"That's possible, I suppose, but why would its name be Cthrag Sardius then? They called the Orb of Aldur 'Cthrag Yaska,' remember? There'd almost have to be a connection between Cthrag Sardius and Cthrag Yaska, wouldn't there? And if there is, maybe we ought to have a look into it."

Belgarath gave him a long look and then sighed. "I thought that, once Torak was dead, we might get a chance to rest."

"You've had a year or so." Beldin shrugged. "Much more than that and you start to get flabby."

"You're a very disagreeable fellow, do you know that?"

Beldin gave him a tight, ugly grin. "Yes," he agreed. "I thought you might have noticed that."

The next morning Belgarath began meticulously sorting though a mountainous heap of crackling parchments, trying to impose some kind of order upon centuries of chaos. Errand watched the old man quietly for a time, then drifted over to the window to look out at the sun-warmed meadows of the Vale. Perhaps a mile away, there was another tower, a tall, slender structure that looked somehow very serene.

"Do you mind if I go outside?" he asked Belgarath.

"What? No, that's all right. Just don't wander too far away."

"I won't," Errand promised, going to the top of the stairway that spiraled down into the cool dimness below.

The early morning sunlight slanted across the dewdrenched meadow, and skylarks sang and spun through the sweet-smelling air. A brown rabbit hopped out of the tall grass and regarded Errand quite calmly. Then it sat on its haunches and began vigorously to scratch its long ears with a busy hind foot.

Errand had not come out of the tower for random play, however, nor to watch rabbits. He had someplace to go and he set out across the dewy green meadow in the direction of the tower he had seen from Belgarath's window.

He hadn't really counted on the dew, and his feet were uncomfortably wet by the time he reached the solitary tower.

He walked around the base of the stone structure several times, his feet squelching in their sodden boots.

"I wondered how long it would take before you came by," a very calm voice said to him.

"I was busy helping Belgarath," Errand apologized.

"Did he really need help?"

"He was having a little trouble getting started."

"Would you like to come up?"

"If it's all right."

"The door's on the far side."

Errand went around the tower and found a large stone that had been turned to reveal a doorway. He went into the tower and on up the stairs.

One tower room was much like another, but there were certain differences between this one and Belgarath's. As in Belgarath's tower, there was a fireplace here with a fire burning in it, but there appeared to be nothing in the flames here for them to feed upon. The room itself was strangely uncluttered, for the owner of this tower stored his parchment scrolls, tools, and implements in some unimaginable place, to be summoned as he required them.

The owner of the tower sat beside the fire. His hair and beard were white, and he wore a blue, loose-fitting robe.

"Come over to the fire and dry your feet, boy," he said in his gentle voice.

"Thank you," Errand replied.

"How is Polgara?"

"Very well," Errand said, "And happy. She likes being married, I think." He lifted one foot and held it close to the fire.

"Don't burn your shoes."

"I'll be careful."

"Would you like some breakfast?"

"That would be nice. Belgarath forgets things like that sometimes."

"On the table there."

Errand looked at the table and saw a steaming bowl of porridge that had not been there before.

"Thank you," he said politely, going to the table and pulling up a chair.

"Was there something special you wanted to talk about?"

"Not really," Errand replied, picking up a spoon and starting on the porridge. "I just thought I should come by. The Vale is yours, after all."

"Polgara's been teaching you manners, I see."

Errand smiled. "And other things, too."

"Are you happy with her, Errand?" the owner of the tower asked.

"Yes, Aldur, I really am," Errand replied and continued to eat his porridge.

CHAPTER THREE

As the summer progressed, Errand found himself rather naturally more and more in the company of Durnik. The smith, he soon discovered, was an extraordinarily patient man who did things the old way, not so much because of some moral bias against what Belgarath called "the alternative we have available to us," but rather because he took a deep satisfaction in working with his hands. This was not to say that Durnik did not occasionally take short cuts. Errand noticed a certain pattern to the smith's evasions. Durnik absolutely would not cheat on any project involving making something for Polgara or for their home. No matter how laborious or tedious those projects might be, Durnik completed them with his hands and his muscles.Certain outside activities, however, were not quite so closely tied up with Durnik's sense of ethics. Two hundred yards of rail fence, for example, appeared rather quickly one morning. The fence needed to be there; there was no question of that, since a nearby herd of Algar cattle had to be diverted from plodding with bovine stubbornness across Polgara's garden on their way to water. As a matter of fact, the fence actually began to appear instantly just in front of the startled cows. They regarded the first fifty feet or so in bafflement then, after considering the problem for several minutes, they moved to go around the obstruction. Another fifty feet of fence appeared in their path. In time, the cows grew surly about the whole thing and even tried running, perhaps thinking in their sluggish way that they might be able to outrace this phantom fence builder. Durnik, however, sat planted on a stump, his eyes intent and his face determined, extending his fence section by section in front of the increasingly irritable cows.