David Eddings: Queen of Sorcery

“She sought alliance with Torak,” Maas said. “She thought to trade Belgarion to the Accursed One in exchange for the immortality his embrace would bestow upon her.”

“His embrace? My priestess would submit to the foul embrace of my mad brother?”

“Willingly, Lord,” Maas said. “It is her nature to seek the embrace of any man or God or beast who passes.”

A look of repugnance flickered across Issa’s stony face. “Has it always been so?” he asked.

“Always, Lord,” Maas said. “The potion which maintains her youth and semblance to thy beloved sets her veins afire with lust. That fire remains unquenched until she dies. Let me go, Lord. The pain!”

“Sleep, Maas,” Issa granted sorrowfully. “Take my thanks with you down into silent death.”

“Ahhh—” Maas sighed and sank down again.

“I too will return to slumber,” Issa said. “I must not remain, lest my presence rouse Torak to that war which would unmake the world.” The great statue stepped back to the spot where it had stood for thousands of years. The deafening creak and groan of flexing rock again filled the huge chamber. “Deal with this woman as it pleases thee, Polgara,” the stone God said. “Only spare her life out of remembrance of my beloved.”

“I will, Lord Issa,” Aunt Pol said, bowing to the statue.

“And carry my love to my brother, Aldur,” the hollow voice said, fading even as it spoke.

“Sleep, Lord,” Aunt Pol said. “May thy slumber wash away thy grief.”

“No!” Salmissra wailed, but the green fire had already died in the statue’s eyes, and the jewel on her crown flickered and went dark.

“It’s time, Salmissra,” Aunt Pol, vast and terrible, announced.

“Don’t kill me, Polgara,” the queen begged, falling to her knees. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Salmissra,” Aunt Pol told her. “I promised Lord Issa that I would spare your life.”

“I didn’t make any such promise,” Barak said from the doorway. Garion looked sharply at his huge friend, dwarfed now by Aunt Pol’s immensity. The bear was gone, and in its place the big Cherek stood, sword in hand.

“No, Barak. I’m going to solve the problem of Salmissra once and for all.” Aunt Pol turned back to the groveling queen. “You will live, Salmissra. You’ll live for a very long time—eternally, perhaps.”

An impossible hope dawned in Salmissra’s eyes. Slowly she rose to her feet and looked up at the huge figure rising above her. “Eternally, Polgara?” she asked.

“But I must change you,” Aunt Pol said. “The poison you’ve drunk to keep you young and beautiful is slowly killing you. Even now its traces are beginning to show on your face.”

The queen’s hands flew to her cheeks, and she turned quickly to look into her mirror.

“You’re decaying, Salmissra,” Aunt Pol said. “Soon you’ll be ugly and old. The lust which fills you will burn itself out, and you’ll die. Your blood’s too warm; that’s the whole problem.”

“But how—” Salmissra faltered.

“A little change,” Aunt Pol assured her. “Just a small one, and you’ll live forever.” Garion could feel the force of her will gathering itself. “I will make you eternal, Salmissra.” She raised her hand and spoke a single word. The terrible force of that word shook Garion like a leaf in the wind.

At first nothing seemed to happen. Salmissra stood fixed with her pale nakedness gleaming through her gown. Then the strange mottling grew more pronounced, and her thighs pressed tightly together. Her face began to shift, to grow more pointed. Her lips disappeared as her mouth spread, and its corners slid up into a fixed reptilian grin.

Garion watched in horror, unable to take his eyes off the queen. Her gown slid away as her shoulders disappeared and her arms adhered to her sides. Her body began to elongate, and her legs, grown completely together now, began to loop into coils. Her lustrous hair disappeared, and the last vestiges of humanity faded from her face. Her golden crown, however, remained firmly upon her head. Her tongue flickered as she sank down into the mass of her loops and coils. The hood upon her neck spread as she looked with flat, dead eyes at Aunt Pol, who had somehow during the queen’s transformation resumed her normal size.

“Ascend your throne, Salmissra,” Aunt Pol said.

The queen’s head remained immobile, but her coils looped and mounted the cushioned divan, and the sound of coil against coil was a dry, dusty rasp.

Aunt Pol turned to Sadi the eunuch. “Behold the Handmaiden of Issa, the queen of the snake-people, whose dominion shall endure until the end of days, for she is immortal now and will reign in Nyissa forever.”

Sadi’s face was ghastly pale, and his eyes bulged wildly. He swallowed hard and nodded.

“I’ll leave you with your queen, then,” she told him. “I’d prefer to go peacefully, but one way or another, the boy and I are leaving.”

“I’ll send word ahead,” Sadi agreed quickly. “No one will try to bar your way.”

“Wise decision,” Barak said dryly.

“All hail the Serpent Queen of Nyissa,” one of the crimson-robed eunuchs pronounced in a shaking voice, sinking to his knees before the dais.

“Praise her,” the others responded ritualistically, also kneeling. “Her glory is revealed to us.”

“Worship her.”

Garion glanced back once as he followed Aunt Pol toward the shattered door. Salmissra lay upon her throne with her mottled coils redundantly piled and her hooded head turned toward the mirror. The golden crown sat atop her head, and her flat, serpent eyes regarded her reflection in the glass. There was no expression on her reptile face, so it was impossible to know what she was thinking.

The corridors and vaulted halls of the palace were empty as Aunt Pol led them from the throne room where the eunuchs knelt, chanting their praises to the Serpent Queen. Sword in hand, Barak stalked grimly through the awful carnage that marked the trail he had left when he had entered. The big man’s face was pale, and he frequently averted his eyes from some of the more savagely mutilated corpses that littered their way.

When they emerged, they found the streets of Sthiss Tor darker than night and filled with hysterical crowds wailing in terror. Barak, with a torch he had taken from the palace wall in one hand and his huge sword in the other, led them into the street. Even in their panic the Nyissans made way for him.

“What is this, Polgara?” he growled over his shoulder, waving the torch slightly as if to brush the darkness away. “Is it some kind of sorcery?”

“No,” she answered. “It’s not sorcery.”

Tiny flecks of gray were falling through the torchlight. “Snow?” Barak asked incredulously.

“No,” she said. “Ashes.”

“What’s burning?”

“A mountain,” she replied. “Let’s get back to the ship as quickly as we can. There’s more danger from this crowd than from any of this.” She threw her light cloak about Garion’s shoulders and pointed down a street where a few torches bobbed here and there. “Let’s go that way.”

The ash began to fall more heavily. It was almost like dirty gray flour sifting down through the sodden air, and there was a dreadful, sulfurous stink to it.

By the time they reached the wharves, the absolute darkness had begun to pale. The ash continued to drift down, seeping into the cracks between the cobblestones and gathering in little windrows along the edges of the buildings. Though it was growing lighter, the falling ash, like fog, blotted out everything more than ten feet away.

The wharves were total chaos. Crowds of Nyissans, shrieking and wailing, were trying to climb into boats to flee from the choking ash that sifted with deadly silence down through the damp air. Mad with terror, many even leaped into the deadly waters of the river.