“Garion,” Aunt Pol said, “why don’t you go below and put on some decent clothes? And wash that disgusting rouge off your face. Then come back up here. I want to talk to you.”
Garion had forgotten how scantily he was dressed and he flushed slightly and went quickly below deck.
It had grown noticeably lighter when he came back up, dressed again in tunic and hose, but the gray ash still sifted down through the motionless air, making the world around them hazy and coating everything with a heavy layer of fine grit. They had drifted some distance out into the river, and Greldik’s sailors had dropped the anchor. The ship swung slowly in the sluggish current.
“Over here, Garion,” Aunt Pol called. She was standing near the prow, looking out into the dusty haze. Garion went to her a little hesitantly, the memory of what had happened at the palace still strong in his mind.
“Sit down, dear,” she suggested. “There’s something I have to talk with you about.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, sitting on the bench there.
“Garion.” She turned to look at him. “Did anything happen while you were in Salmissra’s palace?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” she said rather crisply. “You’re not going to embarrass us both by making me ask certain questions, are you?”
“Oh.” Garion blushed. “That! No, nothing like that happened.” He remembered the lush overripeness of the queen with a certain regret.
“Good. That was the one thing I was afraid of. You can’t afford to get involved in any of that sort of thing just yet. It has some peculiar effects on one in your rather special circumstances.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” he said.
“You have certain abilities,” she told him. “And if you start experimenting with that other thing before they’re fully matured, the results can sometimes be a bit unpredictable. It’s better not to confuse things at this point.”
“Maybe it’d be better if something had happened, then,” Garion blurted. “Maybe it would have fixed it so I couldn’t hurt people anymore.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “Your power’s too great to be neutralized so easily. Do you remember what we talked about that day when we left Tolnedra – about instruction?”
“I don’t need any instruction,” he protested, his tone growing sullen.
“Yes, you do,” she said, “and you need it now. Your power is enormous – more power than I’ve ever seen before, and some of it so complex that I can’t even begin to understand it. You must begin your instruction before something disastrous happens. You’re totally out of control, Garion. If you’re really serious about not wanting to hurt people, you should be more than willing to start learning how to keep any accidents from happening.”
“I don’t want to be a sorcerer,” he objected. “All I want to do is get rid of it. Can’t you help me do that?”
She shook her head. “No. And I wouldn’t even if I could. You can’t renounce it, my Garion. It’s part of you.”
“Then I’m going to be a monster?” Garion demanded bitterly. “I’m going to go around burning people alive or turning them into toads or snakes? And maybe after a while I’ll get so used to it that it won’t even bother me anymore. I’ll live forever – like you and grandfather – but I won’t be human anymore. Aunt Pol, I think I’d rather be dead.
“Can’t you reason with him?” Her voice inside his head spoke directly to that other awareness.
“Not at the moment, Polgara, ” the dry voice replied. “He’s too busy wallowing in self pity. ”
“He must learn to control the power he has,” she said.
“I’ll keep him out of mischief, ” the voice promised. “I don’t think there’s much else we can do until Belgarath gets back. He’s going through a moral crisis, and we can’t really tamper with him until he works out his own solutions to it. ”
“I don’t like to see him suffering this way. ”
“You’re too tender-hearted, Polgara. He’s a sturdy boy, and a bit of suffering won’t damage him. ”
“Will the two of you stop treating me as if I’m not even here?” Garion demanded angrily.
“Mistress Pol,” Durnik said, coming across the deck to them, “I think you’d better come quickly. Barak’s going to kill himself.”
“He’s what?” she asked.
“It’s something about some curse,” Durnik explained. “He says he’s going to fall on his sword.”
“That idiot! Where is he?”
“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.”