Queen of Sorcery

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