Queen of Sorcery

take part in it." He made a wry face. "We all lapse into childishness from time to time, I suppose."
    "How serious is the condition of the messenger?" Aunt Pol asked.
    Droblek shrugged. "Who can say? Half of these pestilential fevers in Nyissa don't even have names, and we can't really tell one from another. Sometimes people die very quickly from them; sometimes they linger for weeks. Now and then someone even recovers. About all we can do is make them comfortable and wait to see what happens."
    "I'll come at once," Aunt Pol said, rising. "Durnik, would you get me the green bag from our packs? I'll need the herbs I have in it."
    "It's not always a good idea to expose oneself to some of these fevers, my Lady," Droblek cautioned.
    "I won't be in any danger," she said. "I want to question your messenger closely, and the only way I'll be able to get any answers from him is to rid him of his fever."
    "Durnik and I'll come along," Barak offered.
    She looked at him.
    "It doesn't hurt to be on the safe side," the big man said, belting on his sword.
    "If you wish." She put on her cloak and turned up the hood. "This may take most of the night," she told Greldik. "There are Grolims about, so have your sailors stay alert. Put a few of the more sober ones on watch."
    "Sober, my Lady?" Greldik asked innocently.
    "I've heard the singing coming from the crew's quarters, Captain," she said a bit primly, "Chereks don't sing unless they're drunk. Keep the lid on your ale-barrel tonight. Shall we go, Droblek?"
    "At once, my Lady," the fat man assented with a sly look at Greldik.
    Garion felt a certain relief after they had gone. The strain of maintaining his rancor in Aunt Pol's presence had begun to wear on him. He found himself in a difficult position. The horror and self-loathing which had gnawed at him since he had unleashed the dreadful fire upon Chamdar in the Wood of the Dryads had grown until he could scarcely bear it. He looked forward to each night with dread, for his dreams were always the same. Over and over again he saw Chamdar, his face burned away, pleading, "Master, have mercy." And over and over again he saw the awful blue flame that had come from his own hand in answer to that agony. The hatred he had carried since Val Alorn had died in that flame. His revenge had been so absolute that there was no possible way he could evade or shift the responsibility for it. His outburst that morning had been directed almost more at himself than at Aunt Pol, He had called her a monster, but it was the monster within himself he hated. The dreadful catalogue of what she had suffered over uncounted years for him and the passion with which she had spoken - evidence of the pain his words had caused her - twisted searingly in his mind. He was ashamed, so ashamed that he could not even bear to look into the faces of his friends. He sat alone and vacant-eyed with Aunt Pol's words thundering over and over in his mind.
    The rain slackened on the deck above them as the storm passed. Swirling little eddies of raindrops ran across the muddy surface of the river in the fitful wind. The sky began to clear, and the sun sank into the roiling clouds, staining them an angry red. Garion went up on deck to wrestle alone with his troubled conscience.
    After a while he heard a light step behind him. "I suppose you're proud of yourself?" Ce'Nedra asked acidly.
    "Leave me alone."
    "I don't think so. I think I want to tell you just exactly how we all felt about your little speech this morning."
    "I don't want to hear about it."
    "That's too bad. I'm going to tell you anyway."
    "I won't listen."
    "Oh yes, you will," She took him by the arm and turned him around. Her eyes were blazing and her tiny face filled with a huge anger. "What you did was absolutely inexcusable," she said. "Your Aunt raised you from a baby. She's been a mother to you."
    "My mother's dead."
    "The Lady Polgara's the only mother you ever knew, and what did you give her for thanks? You called her a monster. You accused her of not caring."
    "I'm not listening to you," Garion cried. Knowing that it was childish - even infantile - he put his hands over his ears. The Princess Ce'Nedra always seemed to bring out the worst in him.
    "Move your hands!" she commanded in a ringing voice. "You're going to hear me even if I have to scream."
    Garion, afraid that she meant it, took his hands away.
    "She carned you when you were a baby," Ce'Nedra went on, seeming to know exactly where the sorest spot on