Guardians of the West

you."
    "That's a chance I'd prefer not to take, your Majesty. We can talk about the matter we were discussing some other time."
    Frowning slightly, Garion went down the hall to the door of Aunt Pol's apartment. He tapped gently and then went in.
    "Ah, there you are," she said crisply. "I was about to send another servant after you." She wore a fur-lined cloak with a deep hood pulled up until it framed her face. Ce'Nedra and Xera, similarly garbed, were standing just behind her.
    "I want you to go find Durnik," she said. "He's probably fishing. Find him and bring him back to the Citadel. Get a shovel and a pick from someplace and then bring Durnik and the tools to that little garden just outside your apartment window."
    He stared at her.
    She made a kind of flipping motion with one hand.
    "Quickly, quickly, Garion," she said. "The day is wearing on."
    "Yes, Aunt Pol," he said without even thinking. He turned and went back out, half-running. He was nearly to the end of the hallway before he remembered that he was the king here, and that people probably shouldn't order him around like that.
    Durnik, of course, responded immediately to his wife's summons -well, almost immediately. He did make one last cast before carefully coiling up his fishing line and following Garion back to the Citadel. When the two of them entered the small private garden adjoining the royal apartment, Aunt Pol, Ce'Nedra, and Xera were already there, standing beneath the intertwined oak trees.
    "Here's what we're going to do," Aunt Pol said in a businesslike fashion. "I'd like to have the area around these tree trunks opened up to a depth of about two feet."
    "Uh -Aunt Pol," Garion interposed, "the ground is sort of frozen. Digging is going to be a little difficult."
    "That's what the pick is for, dear," she said patiently.
    "Wouldn't it be easier to wait until the ground thaws?"
    "Probably, but it needs to be done now. Dig, Garion."
    "I've got gardeners, Aunt Pol. We could send for a couple of them." He eyed the pick and shovel uncomfortably.
    "It's probably better if we keep it in the family, dear. You can start digging right here." She pointed.
    Garion sighed and took up the pick.
    What followed made no sense at all. Garion and Durnik picked and spaded at the frozen ground until late afternoon, opening up the area Aunt Pol had indicated. Then they dumped the four bales of loam into the hole they had prepared, tamped down the loose earth, and watered the dark soil liberally with the water from the two casks. After that, Aunt Pol instructed them to cover everything back up again with snow.
    "Did you understand any of that?" Garion asked Durnik as the two of them returned their tools to the gardener's shed in the courtyard near the stables.
    "No," Durnik admitted, "but I'm sure she knows what she's doing." He glanced at the evening sky and then sighed. "It's probably a little late to go back to that pool," he said regretfully.
    Aunt Pol and the two girls visited the garden daily, but Garion could never discover exactly what they were doing, and the following week his attention was diverted by the sudden appearance of his grandfather, Belgarath the Sorcerer. The young king was sitting in his study with Errand as the boy described in some detail the training of the horse Garion had given him a few years back when the door banged unceremoniously open and Belgarath, travel-stained and with a face like a thundercloud, strode in.
    "Grandfather!" Garion exclaimed, starting to his feet. "What are- "
    "Shut up and sit down!" Belgarath shouted at him.
    "What?"
    "Do as I tell you. We are going to have a talk, Garion -that is, I'm going to talk, and you're going to listen." He paused as if to get control of what appeared to be a towering anger. "Do you have any idea of what you've done?" he demanded at last.
    "Me? What are we talking about, Grandfather?" Garion asked.
    "We're talking about your little display of pyrotechnics on the plains of Mimbre," Belgarath replied icily. "That impromptu thunderstorm of yours."
    "Grandfather." Garion explained as mildly as possible, "they were right on the brink of war. All Arendia would probably have gotten involved. You've said yourself that we didn't want that to happen. I had to stop them."
    "We aren't talking about your motives, Garion. We're talking about your methods. What possessed you to use a thunderstorm?"
    "It seemed like the best way to get their attention."
    "You couldn't think of anything else?"
    "They were