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tents were larger, for one thing, and they were stretched over pole frames. The tents lined either side of a street made of logs laid tightly side by side. The corrals for the shepherds' horses were at the lower end of the street, and a log dam had backed up a mountain brook to form a sparkling little pond that provided water for the sheep and horses. The shadows of evening were settling over the little valley where the camp lay, and blue columns of smoke rose straight up from the cookfires into the calm and windless air.
    A tall, lean fellow with a deeply tanned face, snowy white hair, and the simple white smock that seemed to be the common garb of these shepherds came out of one of the tents as Garion and Zakath reined in just outside the camp. "We have been advised of your coming," he said. His voice was very deep and quiet. "Will you share our evening meal with us?" Garion looked at him closely, noting his resemblance to Vard, the man whom they had met on the Isle of Verkat, half a world away. There could be no question now that the Dals and the slave race in Cthol Murgos were related.
    "We would be honored,'' Zakath responded to the invitation. "We do not wish to impose, however."
    "It is no imposition. I am Burk. I will have some of my men care for your mounts."
    The others rode up and stopped.
    "Welcome all," Burk greeted them. "Will you step down? The evening meal is almost ready, and we have set aside a tent for your use." He looked gravely at the she-wolf and inclined his head to her. It was evident that her presence did not alarm him.
    "Your courtesy is most becoming," Polgara said, dismounting, "and your hospitality is quite unexpected this far from civilization."
    "Man carries his civilization with him, Lady," Burk replied.
    "We have an injured man with us," Sadi told him, "a poor traveler we came across on our way over the mountain. We gave him what aid we could, but our business is pressing, and I'm afraid our pace is aggravating his injuries."
    "You may leave him with us, and we will care for him." Burk looked critically at the drugged priest slumped in his saddle. "A Grolim," denoted. "Is your destination perhaps Kell?"
    "We have to stop there," Belgarath said cautiously.
    "This Grolim would not be able to go with you then."
    "We've heard about that," Silk said, swinging down from his horse. "Do they really go blind when they try to go to Kell? "
    "In a manner of speaking, yes. We have such a one here in our camp with us now. We found him wandering in the forest when we were bringing the sheep up to summer pasture."
    Belgarath's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you suppose I might be able to talk with him?" he asked. "I've made a study of such things, and I'm always eager to get additional information."
    "Of course," Burk agreed. "He's in the last tent on the right."
    "Garion, Pol, come along," the old man said tersely and started along the log street. Oddly, the she-wolf accompanied them.
    "Why the sudden curiosity, father?" Polgara asked when they were out of earshot.
    "I want to find out just how effective this curse the Dals have laid around Kell really is. If it's something that can be overcome, we might run into Zandramas when we get there after all."
    They found the Grolim sitting on the floor in his tent. The harsh angularity of his face had softened, and his sightless eyes had lost the burning fanaticism common to all Grolims. His face instead was filled with a kind of wonder.
    "How is it with you, friend?" Belgarath asked him gently.
    "I am content," the Grolim replied. The word seemed peculiar coming from the mouth of a priest of Torak.
    "Why is it that you tried to approach Kell? Didn't you know about the curse?"
    "It is not a curse. It is a blessing."
    "A blessing?"
    "I was ordered by the Sorceress Zandramas to try to reach the holy city of the Dals," the Grolim continued. "She told me that I would be exalted should I be successful." He smiled gently. "It was in her mind, I think, to test the strength