David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“That’s enough of that,” Aunt Pol said crisply, coming up on deck with Durnik and Ce’Nedra behind her.

“We were merely having a little legal discussion,” Barak said innocently.

“I know what you were doing,” she snapped. Her eyes were angry. She looked coldly across the intervening stretch of river at the Murgo.

“You’d better leave,” she told him.

“I have something to retrieve first,” the man in the boat called back.

“I’d forget about it!”

“We’ll see,” he said. He straightened and began muttering as if to himself, his hands moving rapidly in a series of intricate gestures. Garion felt something pushing at him almost like a wind, though the air was completely still.

“Be sure you get it right,” Aunt Pol advised quietly. “If you forget even the tiniest part of it, it’ll explode in your face.”

The man in the boat froze, and a faintly worried frown crossed his face. The secret wind that had been pushing at Garion stopped. The man began again, his fingers weaving in the air and his face fixed with concentration.

“You do it like this, Grolim,” Aunt Pol said. She moved her hand slightly, and Garion felt a sudden rush as if the wind pushing at him had turned and begun to blow the other way. The Grolim threw his hands up and reeled back, stumbling and falling into the bottom of his boat. As if it had been given a heavy push, the boat surged backward several yards.

The Grolim half raised, his eyes wide and his face deathly pale.

“Return to your master, dog,” Aunt Pol said scathingly. “Tell him to beat you for not learning your lessons properly.”

The Grolim spoke quickly to the Nyissans at the oars, and they immediately turned the boat and rowed back toward the slave ship.

“We had a nice little fight brewing there, Polgara,” Barak complained. “Why did you have to spoil it?”

“Grow up,” she ordered bluntly. Then she turned on Garion, her eyes blazing and the white lock at her brow like a streak of fire. “You idiot! You refuse any kind of instruction, and then you burst out like a raging bull. Have you the slightest conception of what an uproar translocation causes? You’ve alerted every Grolim in Sthiss Tor to the fact that we’re here.”

“He was dying,” Garion protested, gesturing helplessly at the slave lying on the wharf. “I had to do something.”

“He was dead as soon as he hit the water,” she said flatly. “Look at him.”

The slave had stiffened into an arched posture of mortal agony, his head twisted back and his mouth agape. He was obviously dead.

“What happened to him?” Garion asked, feeling suddenly sick.

“The leeches are poisonous. Their bites paralyze their victims so that they can feed on them undisturbed. The bites stopped his heart. You exposed us to the Grolims for the sake of a dead man.”

“He wasn’t dead when I did it!” Garion shouted at her. “He was screaming for help.” He was angrier than he had ever been in his life.

“He was beyond help.” Her voice was cold, even brutal.

“What kind of monster are you?” he asked from between clenched teeth. “Don’t you have any feelings? You’d have just let him die, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss it.”

“No! This is the time-right now, Aunt Pol. You’re not even human, did you know that? You left being human behind so long ago that you can’t even remember where you lost it. You’re four thousand years old. Our whole lives go by while you blink your eyes. We’re just an entertainment for you—an hour’s diversion. You manipulate us like puppets for your own amusement. Well, I’m tired of being manipulated. You and I are finished!”

It probably went further than he’d intended, but his anger had finally run away with him, and the words seemed to rush out before he could stop them.

She looked at him, her face as pale as if he had suddenly struck her. Then she drew herself up. “You stupid boy,” she said in a voice that was all the more terrible because it was so quiet. “Finished? You and I? How can you even begin to understand what I’ve had to do to bring you to this world? You’ve been my only care for over a thousand years. I’ve endured anguish and loss and pain beyond your ability to understand what the words mean—all for you. I’ve lived in poverty and squalor for hundreds of years at a time—all for you. I gave up a sister I loved more than my life itself—all for you. I’ve gone through fire and despair worse than fire a dozen times over—all for you. And you think this has all been an entertainment for me?—some idle amusement? You think the kind of care I’ve devoted to you for a thousand years and more comes cheaply? You and I will never be finished, Belgarion. Never! We will go on together until the end of days if necessary. We will never be finished. You owe me too much for that!”

There was a dreadful silence. The others, shocked by the intensity of Aunt Pol’s words, stood staring first at her and then at Garion.

Without speaking further, she turned and went below decks again. Garion looked around helplessly, suddenly terribly ashamed and terribly alone.

“I had to do it, didn’t I?” he asked of no one in particular and not entirely sure exactly what it was that he meant.

They all looked at him, but no one answered his question.

By midafternoon the clouds had rolled in again, and the thunder began to rumble off in the distance as the rain swept in to drown the steaming city once more. The afternoon thunderstorm seemed to come at the same time each day, and they had even grown accustomed to it. They all moved below deck and sat sweltering as the rain roared down on the deck above them.

Garion sat stiffly, his back planted against a rough-hewn oak rib of the ship and watched Aunt Pol, his face set stubbornly and his eyes unforgiving.

She ignored him and sat talking quietly with Ce’Nedra.

Captain Greldik came through the narrow companionway door, his face and beard streaming water. “The Drasnian-Droblek—is here,” he told them. “He says he’s got word for you.”

“Send him in,” Barak said.

Droblek squeezed his vast bulk through the narrow door. He was totally drenched from the rain and stood dripping on the Hoor. He wiped his face. “It’s wet out there,” he commented.

“We noticed,” Hettar said.

“I’ve received a message,” Droblek told Aunt Pol. “It’s from Prince Kheldar.”

“Finally,” she said.

“He and Belgarath are coming downriver,” Droblek reported. “As closely as I can make out, they should be here in a few days—a week at the most. The messenger isn’t very coherent.”

Aunt Pol looked at him inquiringly.

“Fever,” Droblek explained. “The man’s a Drasnian, so he’s reliable—one of my agents at an upcountry trading post—but he’s picked up one of the diseases that infest this stinking swamp. He’s a little delirious just now. We hope we can break the fever in a day or so and get some sense out of him. I came as soon as I got the general idea of his message. I thought you’d want to know immediately.”

“We appreciate your concern,” Aunt Pol said.

“I’d have sent a servant,” Droblek explained, “but messages sometimes go astray in Sthiss Tor, and servants sometimes get things twisted around.” He grinned suddenly. “That’s not the real reason, of course.”

Aunt Pol smiled, “Of course not.”

“A fat man tends to stay in one place and let others do his walking around for him. From the tone of King Rhodar’s message, I gather that this business might be the most important thing happening in the world just now. I wanted to take part in it.” He made a wry face. “We all lapse into childishness from time to time, I suppose.”