The door in the face of the rock was made of iron, black and pitted with rust and age. It was broader than the gate at Faldor’s farm, and the upper edge of it was lost in the swirling sleet.
Barak, following close behind him, reached out and touched the iron door. Then he banged on it with his huge fist. The door echoed hollowly. “There is a cave,” he said back over his shoulder to the others. “I thought that the wind had blown out the boy’s senses.”
“How do we get inside?” Hettar shouted, the wind snatching away his words.
“The door’s as solid as the mountain itself,” Barak said, hammering with his fist again.
“We’ve got to get out of this wind,” Aunt Pol declared, one of her arms protectively about Ce’Nedra’s shoulders.
“Well, Garion?” Mister Wolf asked.
“It’s easy,” Garion replied. “I just have to find the right spot.” He ran his fingers over the icy iron, not knowing just what he was looking for. He found a spot that felt a little different. “Here it is.” He put his right hand on the spot and pushed lightly. With a vast, grating groan, the door began to move. A line that had not even been visible before suddenly appeared like a razor-cut down the precise center of the pitted iron surface, and flakes of rust showered from the crack, to be whipped away by the wind.
Garion felt a peculiar warmth in the silvery mark on the palm of his right hand where it touched the door. Curious, he stopped pushing, but the door continued to move, swinging open, it seemed, almost in response to the presence of the mark on his palm. It continued to move even after he was no longer touching it. He closed his hand, and the door stopped moving.
He opened his hand, and the door, grating against stone, swung open even wider.
“Don’t play with it, dear,” Aunt Pol told him. “Just open it.”
It was dark in the cave beyond the huge door, but it seemed not to have the musty smell it should have had. They entered cautiously, feeling at the floor carefully with their feet.
“Just a moment,” Durnik murmured in a strangely hushed voice. They heard him unbuckling one of his saddlebags and then heard the rasp of his flint against steel. There were a few sparks, then a faint glow as the smith blew on his tinder. The tinder flamed, and he set it to the torch he had pulled from his saddlebag. The torch sputtered briefly, then caught. Durnik raised it, and they all looked around at the cave.
It was immediately evident that the cave was not natural. The walls and floor were absolutely smooth, almost polished, and the light of Durnik’s torch reflected back from the gleaming surfaces. The chamber was perfectly round and about a hundred feet in diameter. The walls curved inward at they rose, and the ceiling high overhead seemed also to be round. In the precise center of the floor stood a round stone table, twenty feet across, with its top higher than Barak’s head. A stone bench encircled the table. In the wall directly opposite the door was a circular arch of a fireplace. The cave was cool, but it did not seem to have the bitter chill it should have had.
“Is it all right to bring in the horses?” Hettar asked quietly.
Mister Wolf nodded. His expression seemed bemused in the flickering torchlight, and his eyes were lost in thought.
The horses’ hooves clattered sharply on the smooth stone floor as they were led inside, and they looked around, their eyes wide and their ears twitching nervously.
“There’s a fire laid in here,” Durnik said from the arched fireplace. “Shall I light it?”
Wolf looked up. “What? Oh-yes. Go ahead.”
Durnik reached into the fireplace with his torch, and the wood caught immediately. The fire swelled up very quickly, and the flames seemed inordinately bright.
Ce’Nedra gasped. “The walls! Look at the walls!” The light from the fire was somehow being refracted through the crystalline structure of the rock itself, and the entire dome began to glow with a myriad of shifting colors, filling the chamber with a soft, multihued radiance.
Hettar had moved around the circle of the wall and was peering into another arched opening. “A spring,” he told them. “This is a good place to ride out a storm.”
Durnik put out his torch and pulled off his cloak. The chamber had become warm almost as soon as he had lighted the fire. He looked at Mister Wolf. “You know about this place, don’t you?” he asked.
“None of us has ever been able to find it before,” the old man replied, his eyes still thoughtful. “We weren’t even sure it still existed.”
“What is this strange cave, Belgarath?” Mandorallen asked.
Mister Wolf took a deep breath. “When the Gods were making the world, it was necessary for them to meet from time to time to discuss what each of them had done and was going to do so that everything would fit together and work in harmony—the mountains, the winds, the seasons and so on.” He looked around. “This is the place where they met.”
Silk, his nose twitching with curiosity, had climbed up onto the bench surrounding the huge table. “There are bowls up here,” he said. “Seven of them—and seven cups. There seems to be some kind of fruit in the bowls.” He began to reach out with one hand.
“Silk!” Mister Wolf told him sharply. “Don’t touch anything.” Silk’s hand froze, and he looked back over his shoulder at the old man, his face startled.
“You’d better come down from there,” Wolf said gravely.
“The door!” Ce’Nedra exclaimed.
They all turned in time to see the massive iron door gently swinging closed. With an oath, Barak leaped toward it, but he was too late. Booming hollowly, it clanged shut just before his hands reached it. The big man turned, his eyes filled with dismay.
“It’s all right, Barak,” Garion told him. “I can open it again.”
Wolf turned then and looked at Garion, his eyes questioning. “How did you know about the cave?” he asked.
Garion floundered helplessly. “I don’t know. I just did. I think I’ve known we were getting close to it for the last day or so.”
“Does it have anything to do with the voice that spoke to Mara?”
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to be there just now, and my knowing about the cave seemed to be different somehow, I think it came from me, not him, but I’m not sure how. For some reason, it seems that I’ve always known this place was here—only I didn’t think about it until we started to get near it. It’s awfully hard to explain it exactly.”
Aunt Pol and Mister Wolf exchanged a long glance. Wolf looked as if he were about to ask another question, but just then there was a groan at the far end of the chamber.
“Somebody help me,” Hettar called urgently. One of the horses, her sides distended and her breath coming in short, heaving gasps, stood swaying as if her legs were about to give out from under her. Hettar stood at her side, trying to support her. “She’s about to foal,” he said.
They all turned then and went quickly to the laboring mare. Aunt Pol immediately took charge of the situation, giving orders crisply. They eased the mare to the floor, and Hettar and Durnik began to work with her, even as Aunt Pol filled a small pot with water and set it carefully in the fire. “I’ll need some room,” she told the rest of them pointedly as she opened the bag which contained her jars of herbs.
“Why don’t we all get out of your way?” Barak suggested, looking uneasily at the gasping horse.
“Splendid idea,” she agreed. “Ce’Nedra, you stay here. I’ll need your help.”
Garion, Barak, and Mandorallen moved a few yards away and sat down, leaning back against the glowing wall, while Silk and Mister Wolf went off to explore the rest of the chamber. As he watched Durnik and Hettar with the mare and Aunt Pol and Ce’Nedra by the fire, Garion felt strangely abstracted. The cave had drawn him, there was no question of that, and even now it was exerting some peculiar force on him. Though the situation with the mare was immediate, he seemed unable to focus on it. He had a strange certainty that finding the cave was only the first part of whatever it was that was happening, There was something else he had to do, and his abstraction was in some way a preparation for it.