Castle of Wizardry

seriously. They make fun of each other too, you know. You could almost say that as long as they're joking, everything is all right. If they suddenly become very serious and formal, then you'll know that you're in trouble."
    "I suppose I hadn't thought of it that way," Garion admitted.
    "You'll get used to it in time," Brand assured him.
    Garion felt much better after his conversation with Brand. In the company of his guards he started back toward the royal apartments; but part way there, he changed his mind and went looking for Aunt Po1 instead. When he entered her rooms, his cousin Adara was sitting quietly with her, watching as Aunt Pol carefully mended one of Garion's old tunics. The girl rose and curtsied formally.
    "Please Adara," he said in a pained voice, "don't do that when we're alone. I see enough of it out there." He gestured in the direction of the more public parts of the building.
    "Whatever your Majesty wishes," she replied.
    "And don't call me that. I'm still just Garion."
    She looked gravely at him with her calm, beautiful eyes. "No, cousin," she disagreed, "you'll never be `just Garion' any more."
    He sighed as the truth of that struck his heart.
    "If you'll excuse me," she said then, "I must go attend Queen Silar. She's a bit unwell, and she says it comforts her to have me near."
    "It comforts all of us when you're near," Garion told her without even thinking about it.
    She smiled at him fondly.
    "There might be some hope for him after all," Aunt Pol observed, her needle busy.
    Adara looked at Garion. "He has never really been that bad, Lady Polgara," she said. She inclined her head toward them both and quietly left the room.
    Garion wandered around for a few moments and then flung himself into a chair. A great deal had happened that day, and he felt suddenly at odds with the whole world.
    Aunt Pol continued to sew.
    "Why are you doing that?" Garion demanded finally. "I'll never wear that old thing again."
    "It needs fixing, dear," she told him placidly.
    "There are a hundred people around who could do it for you."
    "I prefer to do it myself."
    "Put it down and talk to me."
    She set the tunic aside and looked at him inquiringly. "And what did your Majesty wish to discuss?" she inquired.
    "Aunt Pol!" Garion's voice was stricken. "Not you too."
    "Don't give orders then, dear," she recommended, picking up the tunic again.
    Garion watched her at her sewing for a few moments, not really knowing what to say. A strange thought occurred to him. "Why are you doing that, Aunt Pol?" he asked, really curious this time. "Probably nobody'll ever use it again, so you're just wasting time on it."
    "It's my time, dear," she reminded him. She looked up from her sewing, her eyes unreadable. Then, without explanation she held up the tunic with one hand and ran the forefinger of her other hand carefully up the rip. Garion felt a very light surge, and the sound was only a whisper. The rip mended itself before his eyes, rewoven as if it had never existed. "Now you can see how completely useless mending it really is," she told him.
    "Why do you do it then?"
    "Because I like to sew, dear," she replied. With a sharp little jerk she ripped the tunic again. Then she picked up her needle and patiently began repairing the rip. "Sewing keeps the hands and eyes busy, but leaves the mind free for other things. It's very relaxing."
    "Sometimes you're awfully complicated, Aunt Pol."
    "Yes, dear. I know."
    Garion paced about for a bit, then suddenly knelt beside her chair and, pushing her sewing aside, he put his head into her lap. "Oh, Aunt Pol," he said, very close to tears.
    "What's the matter, dear?" she asked, carefully smoothing his hair.
    "I'm so lonely."
    "Is that all?"
    He lifted his head and stared at her incredulously. He had not expected that.
    "Everyone is lonely, dear," she explained, drawing him close to her. "We touch other people only briefly, then we're alone again. You'll get used to it in time."
    "Nobody will talk to me now - not the way they did before. They're always bowing and saying 'Your Majesty' to me."
    "You are the king, after all," she replied.
    "But I don't want to be."
    "That's too bad. It's the destiny of your family, so there's not a thing you can do about it. Did anyone ever tell you about Prince Gared?"
    "I don't think so. Who was he?"
    "He was the only survivor when the Nyissan assassins killed King Gorek and his family. He escaped by throwing himself into the sea."
    "How old was he?"
    "Six. He was