David Eddings: Queen of Sorcery

“He’s back by the stern,” Durnik said. “He’s got his sword out, and he won’t let anybody near him.”

“Come with me.” She started toward the stern with Garion and Durnik behind her.

“We have all experienced battle madness, my Lord,” Mandorallen was saying, trying to reason with the big Cherek. “It is not a thing of which to be proud, but neither is it a cause for such bleak despair.”

Barak did not answer, but stood at the very stern of the ship, his eyes blank with horror and his huge sword weaving in a slow, menacing arc, holding everyone at bay.

Aunt Pol walked through the crowd of sailors and directly up to him.

“Don’t try to stop me, Polgara,” he warned.

She reached out quite calmly and touched the point of his sword with one finger. “It’s a little dull,” she said thoughtfully. “Why don’t we have Durnik sharpen it? That way it’ll slip more smoothly between your ribs when you fall on it.”

Barak looked a bit startled.

“Have you made all the necessary arrangements?” she asked.

“What arrangements?”

“For the disposal of your body,” she told him. “Really, Barak, I thought you had better manners. A decent man doesn’t burden his friends with that kind of chore.” She thought a moment. “Burning is customary, I suppose, but the wood here in Nyissa’s very soggy. You’d probably smolder for a week or more. I imagine we’ll have to settle for just dumping you in the river. The leeches and crayfish should have you stripped to the bone in a day or so.”

Barak’s expression grew hurt.

“Did you want us to take your sword and shield back to your son?” she asked.

“I don’t have a son,” he answered sullenly. He was obviously not prepared for her brutal practicality.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? How forgetful of me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” she said. “It’s not important now. Were you just going to fall on your sword, or would you prefer to run up against the mast with the hilt? Either way works rather well.” She turned to the sailors. “Would you clear a path so the Earl of Tellheim can get a good run at the mast?”

The sailors stared at her.

“What did you mean about a son?” Barak asked, lowering his sword.

“It would only unsettle your mind, Barak,” she answered. “You’d probably make a mess of killing yourself if I told you about it. We’d really rather not have you lying around groaning for weeks on end. That sort of thing is so depressing, you know.”

“I want to know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, very well,” she said with a great sigh. “Your wife Merel is with child—the result of certain courtesies you exchanged when we visited Val Alorn, I imagine. She looks like a rising moon at the moment, and your lusty brat is making her life miserable with his kicking.”

“A son?” Barak said, his eyes suddenly very wide.

“Really, Barak,” she protested. “You must learn to pay attention. You’ll never make anything of yourself if you keep blundering around with your ears closed like this.”

“A son?” he repeated, his sword sliding out of his fingers.

“Now you’ve dropped it,” she chided him. “Pick it up immediately, and let’s get on with this. It’s very inconsiderate to take all day to kill yourself like this.”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” he told her indignantly.

“You’re not?”

“Of course not,” he sputtered, and then he saw the faint flicker of a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. He hung his head sheepishly.

“You great fool,” she said. Then she took hold of his beard with both hands, pulled his head down and kissed his ash-dusted face soundly. Greldik began to chortle, and Mandorallen stepped forward and caught Barak in a rough embrace. “I rejoice with thee, my friend,” he said. “My heart soars for thee.”

“Brink up a cask,” Greldik told the sailors, pounding on his friend’s back. “We’ll salute Trellheim’s heir with the bright brown ale of timeless Cherek.”

“I expect this will get rowdy now,” Aunt Pol said quietly to Garion. “Come with me.” She led the way back toward the ship’s prow.

“Will she ever change back?” Garion asked when they were alone again.

“What?”

“The queen,” Garion explained. “Will she ever change back again?”

“In time she won’t even want to,” Aunt Pol answered. “The shapes we assume begin to dominate our thinking after a while. As the years go by, she’ll become more and more a snake and less and less a woman.”

Garion shuddered. “It would have been kinder to have killed her.”

“I promised Lord Issa that I wouldn’t,” she said.

“Was that really the God?”

“His spirit,” she replied, looking out into the hazy ashfall. “Salmissra infused the statue with Issa’s spirit. For a time at least the statue was the God. It’s all very complicated.” She seemed a bit preoccupied. “Where is he?” She seemed suddenly irritated.

“Who?”

“Father. He should have been here days ago.”

They stood together looking out at the muddy river.

Finally she turned from the railing and brushed at the shoulders of her cloak with distaste. The ash puffed from under her fingers in tiny clouds. “I’m going below,” she told him, making a face. “It’s just too dirty up here.”

“I thought you wanted to talk to me,” he said.

“I don’t think you’re ready to listen. It’ll wait.” She stepped away, then stopped. “Oh, Garion.”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t drink any of that ale the sailors are swilling. After what they made you drink at the palace, it would probably make you sick.”

“Oh,” he agreed a trifle regretfully. “All right.”

“It’s up to you, of course,” she said, “but I thought you ought to know.” Then she turned again and went to the hatch and disappeared down the stairs.

Garion’s emotions were turbulent. The entire day had been vastly eventful, and his mind was filled with a welter of confusing images.

“Be quiet,” the voice in his mind said.

“What?”

“I’m trying to hear something. Listen.”

“Listen to what?”

“There. Can’t you hear it?”

Faintly, as if from a very long way off, Garion seemed to hear a muffled thudding.

“What is it?”

The voice did not answer, but the amulet about his neck began to throb in time with the distant thudding.

Behind him he heard a rush of tiny feet.

“Garion!” He turned just in time to be caught in Ce’Nedra’s embrace. “I was so worried about you. Where did you go?”

“Some men came on board and grabbed me,” he said, trying to untangle himself from her arms. “They took me to the palace.”

“How awful!” she said. “Did you meet the queen?”

Garion nodded and then shuddered, remembering the hooded snake lying on the divan looking at itself in the mirror.

“What’s wrong?” the girl asked.

“A lot of things happened,” he answered. “Some of them weren’t very pleasant.” Somewhere at the back of his awareness, the thudding continued.

“Do you mean they tortured you?” Ce’Nedra asked, her eyes growing very wide.

“No, nothing like that.”

“Well, what happened?” she demanded. “Tell me.”

He knew that she would not leave him alone until he did, so he described what had happened as best he could. The throbbing sound seemed to grow louder while he talked, and his right palm began to tingle. He rubbed at it absently.

“How absolutely dreadful,” Ce’Nedra said after he had finished. “Weren’t you terrified?”

“Not really,” he told her, still scratching at his palm. “Most of the time the things they made me drink made my head so foggy I couldn’t feel anything.”