Castle of Wizardry

can explain. We had an awful argument once - in Nyissa. I said some things I didn't really mean, and she told me exactly what she'd gone through for me." He looked somberly out of the window, remembering Aunt Pol's words on the steamy deck of Greldik's ship. "She's devoted a thousand years to me, Adara - to my family actually, but finally all because of me. She's given up every single thing that's ever been important to her for me. Can you imagine the kind of obligation that puts on me? I'll do anything she wants me to, and I'd cut off my arm before I'd ever hurt her again."
    "You love her very much, don't you, Garion?"
    "It goes beyond that. I don't think there's even been a word invented yet to describe what exists between us."
    Wordlessly Adara took his hand, her eyes warm with a wondering affection.
    Later that afternoon, Garion went alone to the room where Aunt Pol was caring for her recalcitrant patient. After the first few days of bed rest, Belgarath had steadily grown more testy about his enforced confinement. Traces of that irritability lingered on his face even as he dozed, propped up by many pillows in his canopied bed. Aunt Pol, wearing her familiar gray dress, sat nearby, her needle busy as she altered one of Garion's old tunics for Errand. The little boy, sitting not far away, watched her with that serious expression that always seemed to make him look older than he really was.
    "How is he?" Garion asked softly, looking at his sleeping grandfather.
    "Improving," Aunt Pol replied, setting aside the tunic. "His temper's getting worse, and that's always a good sign."
    "Are there any hints that he might be getting back his-? Well, you know." Garion gestured vaguely.
    "No," she replied. "Nothing yet. It's probably too early."
    "Will you two stop that whispering?" Belgarath demanded without opening his eyes. "How can I possibly sleep with all that going on?"
    "You were the one who said he didn't want to sleep," Polgara reminded him.
    "That was before," he snapped, his eyes popping open. He looked at Garion. "Where have you been?" he demanded.
    "Garion's been getting acquainted with his cousin Adara," Aunt Pol explained.
    "He could stop by to visit me once in a while," the old man complained.
    "There's not much entertainment in listening to you snore, father."
    "I do not snore, Polgara."
    "Whatever you say, father," she agreed placidly.
    "Don't patronize me, Pol!"
    "Of course not, father. Now, how would you like a nice hot cup of broth?"
    "I would not like a nice hot cup of broth. I want meat - rare, red meat - and a cup of strong ale."
    "But you won't get meat and ale, father. You'll get what I decide to give you-and right now it's broth and milk."
    "Milk?"
    "Would you prefer gruel?"
    The old man glared indignantly at her, and Garion quietly left the room.
    After that, Belgarath's recovery was steady. A few days later he was out of bed, though Polgara raised some apparently strenuous objections. Garion knew them both well enough to see directly to the core of his Aunt's behavior. Prolonged bed rest had never been her favorite form of therapy. She had always wanted her patients ambulatory as soon as possible. By seeming to want to coddle her irascible father, she had quite literally forced him out of bed. Even beyond that, the precisely calibrated restrictions she imposed on his movements were deliberately designed to anger him, to goad his mind to activity - never anything more than he could handle at any given time, but always just enough to force his mental recovery to keep pace with his physical recuperation. Her careful manipulation of the old man's convalescence stepped beyond the mere practice of medicine into the realm of art.
    When Belgarath first appeared in King Cho-Hag's hall, he looked shockingly weak. He seemed actually to totter as he leaned heavily on Aunt Pol's arm, but a bit later when the conversation began to interest him, there were hints that this apparent fragility was not wholly genuine. The old man was not above a bit of self dramatization once in a while, and he soon demonstrated that no matter how skillfully Aunt Pol played, he could play too. It was marvellous to watch the two of them subtly maneuvering around each other in their elaborate little game.
    The final question, however, still remained unanswered. Belgarath's physical and mental recovery now seemed certain, but his ability to bring his will to bear had not yet been tested. That test, Garion knew, would have to