Guardians of the West

raised one hand and turned his face away. "Please, Belgarion," he said in a pained voice, "don't try to explain it to me. I don't even want to hear about it. If you're going to do it, just do it and get it over with, but please don't try to convince me that it's in any way natural or wholesome."
    "All right," Garion agreed. "Which way did you say that garden was?"
    It wasn't really difficult, of course. Garion had seen Belgarath the Sorcerer do it on many occasions. It was no more than ten minutes later that he returned to the corridor outside the sickroom with a small basket of dark purple cherries.
    Varana looked steadily at the basket, but said nothing. Garion quietly opened the door and went inside.
    Ran Borune lay propped on his pillows, his drawn face sagging with exhaustion. "I don't see why not," he was saying to Ce'Nedra. "A respectful daughter would have presented her father with a half-dozen grandchildren by now."
    "We'll get to it, father," she replied. "Why is everyone so worried about it?"
    "Because it's important, Ce'Nedra. Not even you could be so silly as to-" He broke off, staring incredulously at the basket in Garion's hand. "Where did you get those?" he demanded.
    "I don't think you really want to know, Ran Borune. It's the kind of thing that seems to upset Tolnedrans for some reason."
    "You didn't just make them, did you?" the emperor asked suspiciously.
    "No. It's much harder that way. I just gave the trees in your garden a little encouragement, that's all. They were very co-operative."
    "What an absolutely splendid fellow you married, Ce'Nedra," Ran Borune exclaimed, eyeing the cherries greedily. "Put those right here, my boy." He patted the bed at his side.
    Ce'Nedra flashed her husband a grateful little smile, took the basket from him, and deposited it by her father's side. Almost absently she took one of the cherries and popped it into her mouth.
    "Ce'Nedra! You stop eating my cherries!"
    "Just checking to see if they're ripe, father."
    " Any idiot can see that they're ripe," he said, clutching the basket possessively to his side. "If you want any, go get your own." He carefully selected one of the plump, glowing cherries and put it in his mouth. "Marvelous," he said, chewing happily.
    "Don't spit the seeds on the floor like that, father," Ce'Nedra reproved him.
    "It's my floor," he told her. "Mind your own business. Spitting the seeds is part of the fun." He ate several more cherries. "We won't discuss how you came by these, Garion," he said magnanimously. "Technically, it's a violation of Tolnedran law to practice sorcery anywhere in the Empire, but we'll let it pass -just this once."
    "Thank you, Ran Borune," Garion said. "I appreciate that."
    After he had eaten about half of the cherries, the Emperor smiled and sighed contentedly. "I feel better already," he said. "Ce'Vanne used to bring me fresh cherries in that same kind of basket."
    "My mother," Ce'Nedra said to Garion.
    Ran Borune's eyes clouded over. "I miss her," he said very quietly. "She was impossible to live with, but I miss her more every day."
    "I scarcely remember her"' Ce'Nedra said wistfully.
    "I remember her very well," her father said. "I'd give my whole Empire if I could see her face just one more time."
    Ce'Nedra took his wasted hand in hers and looked imploringly at Garion. "Could you?" she asked, two great tears standing in her eyes.
    "I'm not entirely sure," he replied in some perplexity. "I think I know how it's done, but I never met your mother, so I'd have to- " He broke off, still trying to work it out in his mind. "I'm sure Aunt Pol could do it, but- " He came to the bedside. "We can try." he said. He took Ce'Nedra's other hand and then Ran Borune's, linking the three of them together.
    It was extremely difficult. Ran Borune's memory was clouded by age and his long illness, and Ce'Nedra's remembrance of her mother was so sketchy that it could hardly be said to exist at all. Garion concentrated, bending all his will upon it. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead as he struggled to gather all those fleeting memories into one single image.
    The light coming in through the flimsy curtains at the window seemed to darken as if a cloud had passed over the sun, and there was a faint, far-off tinkling sound, as if of small, golden bells. The room was suddenly filled with a kind of woodland fragrance -a subtle smell of moss and leaves and green trees. The light faded a bit more, and the tinkling and the odor