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 l.u.s.t 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 a.s.sured 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 p.r.o.nounced, 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 l.u.s.trous 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 ma.s.s 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 gla.s.s. There was no expression on her reptile face, so it was impossible to know what she was thinking.

Chapter Thirty.

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.

"We're not going to be able to get through that mob, Polgara," Barak said. "Stay here a moment." He sheathed his sword, jumped up and caught the edge of a low roof. He pulled himself up and stood outlined dimly above them. "Ho, Greldik!" he roared in a huge voice that carried even over the noise of the crowd.

"Barak!" Greldik's voice came back. "Where are you?"

"At the foot of the pier," Barak shouted. "We can't get through the crowd."

"Stay there," Greldik yelled back. "We'll come and get you."

After a few moments there was the tramp of heavy feet on the wharf and the occasional sound of blows. A few cries of pain mingled with the sounds of panic from the crowd. Then Greldik, Mandorallen and a half dozen burly sailors armed with clubs strode out of the ashfall, clearing a path with brutal efficiency.

"Did you get lost?" Greldik yelled up to Barak.

Barak jumped down from the roof. "We had to stop by the palace," he answered shortly.

"We were growing concerned for thy safety, my Lady," Mandorallen told Aunt Pol, pushing a gibbering Nyissan out of his way. "Good Durnik returned some hours ago."

"We were delayed," she said. "Captain, can you get us on board your ship?"

Greldik gave her an evil grin.

"Let's go then," she urged. "As soon as we get on board, it might be a good idea to anchor out in the river a little way. This ash will settle after a while, but these people are going to be hysterical until it does. Has there been any word from Silk or my father yet?"

"Nothing, my Lady," Greldik said.

"What is he doing?" she demanded irritably of no one in particular. Mandorallen drew his broadsword and marched directly into the face of the crowd, neither slowing nor altering his course. The Nyissans melted out of his path.

The crowd pressing at the edge of the wharf beside Greldik's ship was even thicker, and Durnik, Hettar and the rest of the sailors lined the rail with long boat-hooks, pushing the terror-stricken people away.

"Run out the plank," Greldik shouted as they reached the edge of the wharf.

"n.o.ble captain," a bald Nyissan blubbered, clinging to Greldik's fur vest. "I'll give you a hundred gold pieces if you'll let me aboard your ship."

Disgusted, Greldik pushed him away.

"A thousand gold pieces," the Nyissan promised, clutching Greldik's arm and waving a purse.

"Get this baboon off me," Greldik ordered.

One of the sailors rather casually clubbed the Nyissan into insensibility, then bent and yanked the purse from his grip. He opened the purse and poured the coins out into one hand. "Three pieces of silver," he said with disgust. "All the rest is copper." He turned back and kicked the unconscious man in the stomach.

They crossed to the ship one by one while Barak and Mandorallen held the crowd back with the threat of ma.s.sive violence.

"Cut the hawsers," Greldik shouted when they were all aboard. The sailors chopped the thick hawsers loose to a great cry of dismay from the Nyissans crowding the edge of the wharf. The sluggish current pulled the ship slowly away, and wails and despairing moans followed them as they drifted.

"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 embarra.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances."

"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 st.u.r.dy 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 ch.o.r.e." 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."