‘Not everything, mother,’ Aunt Pol answered.
‘Perhaps it’s as well,’ Poledra noted.
Once again another figure emerged out of the dark depths of the ice. The second woman had hair like sunlight, and her face was even more like Aunt Pol’s than Poledra’s. ‘Polgara, my dear sister,’ she said.
‘Beldaran,’ Aunt Pol responded in a voice overwhelmed with love.
‘And Belgarion,’ Garion’s ultimate grandmother said, ‘the final flower of my love and Riva’s.’
‘Our blessings also, Belgarion,’ Poledra declared. ‘Farewell for now, but know that we love thee.’ And then the two were gone.
‘Does that help?’ Aunt Pol asked him, her voice deep with emotion and her eyes filled with tears.
Garion was too stunned by what he had just seen and heard to answer. Dumbly he nodded.
‘I’m glad the effort wasn’t wasted then,’ she said. ‘Please close the window, dear. It’s letting the winter in.’
Chapter Fourteen
It was the first day of spring, and King Belgarion of Riva was terribly nervous. He had watched the approach of Princess Ce’Nedra’s sixteenth birthday with a steadily mounting anxiety and, now that the day had finally arrived, he hovered on the very edge of panic. The deep blue brocade doublet over which a half dozen tailors had labored for weeks still did not seem to feel just right. Somehow it was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the stiff collar scratched his neck. Moreover, his gold crown seemed unusually heavy on this particular day, and, as he fidgeted, his throne seemed even more uncomfortable than usual.
The Hall of the Rivan King had been decorated extensively for the occasion, but even the banners and garlands of pale spring flowers could not mask the ominous starkness of the great throne room. The assembled notables, however, chatted and laughed among themselves as if nothing significant were taking place. Garion felt rather bitter about their heartless lack of concern in the face of what was about to happen to him.
Aunt Pol stood at the left side of his throne, garbed in a new silver gown and with a silver circlet about her hair. Belgarath lounged indolently on the right, wearing a new green doublet which had already become rumpled.
‘Don’t squirm so much, dear,’ Aunt Pol told Garion calmly.
‘That was easy enough for you to say,’ Garion retorted in an accusing tone.
‘Try not to think about it,’ Belgarath advised. ‘It will all be over in a little while.’
Then Brand, his face seeming even more bleak than usual, entered the Hall from the side door and came to the dais. ‘There’s a Nyissan at the gate of the Citadel, your Majesty,’ he said quietly. ‘He says that he’s an emissary of Queen Salmissra and that he’s here to witness the ceremony.’
‘Isn’t that impossible?’ Garion asked Aunt Pol, startled by the Warder’s surprising announcement.
‘Not entirely,’ she replied. ‘More likely, though, it’s a diplomatic fiction. I’d imagine that the Nyissans would prefer to keep Salmissra’s condition a secret.’
‘What do I do?’ Garion asked.
Belgarath shrugged. ‘Let him in.’
‘In here?’ Brand’s voice was shocked. ‘A Nyissan in the throne room? Belgarath, you’re not serious.’
‘Garion is Overlord of the West, Brand,’ the old man replied, ‘and that includes Nyissa. I don’t imagine that the snakepeople will be much use to us at any time, but let’s be polite, at least.’
Brand’s face went stiff with disapproval. ‘What is your Majesty’s decision?’ he asked Garion directly.
‘Well—’ Garion hesitated. ‘Let him come in, I guess.’
‘Don’t vacillate, Garion,’ Aunt Pol told him firmly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Garion said quickly.
‘And don’t apologize,’ she added. ‘Kings do not apologize.’
He looked at her helplessly. Then he turned back to Brand. ‘Tell the emissary from Nyissa to join us,’ he said, though his tone was placating.
‘By the way, Brand,’ Belgarath suggested, ‘I wouldn’t let anyone get too excited about this. The Nyissan has ambassadorial status, and it would be a serious breach of protocol if he were to die unexpectedly.’
Brand bowed rather stiffly, turned, and left the Hall.
‘Was that really necessary, father?’ Aunt Pol asked.
‘Old grudges die hard, Pol,’ Belgarath replied. ‘Sometimes it’s best to get everything right out in front so that there aren’t any misunderstandings later.’
When the emissary of the Snake Queen entered the Hall, Garion started with surprise. It was Sadi, the chief eunuch in Salmissra’s palace. The thin man with the dead-looking eyes and shaved head wore the customary iridescent blue-green Nyissan robe, and he bowed sinuously as he approached the throne. ‘Greetings to his Majesty, Belgarion of Riva, from Eternal Salmissra, Queen of the Snakepeople,’ he intoned in his peculiarly contralto voice.
‘Welcome, Sadi,’ Garion replied formally.
‘My queen sends her regards on this happy day,’ Sadi continued.
‘She didn’t really, did she?’ Garion asked a bit pointedly.
‘Not precisely, your Majesty,’ Sadi admitted without the least trace of embarrassment. ‘I’m sure she would have, however, if we’d been able to make her understand what was happening.’
‘How is she?’ Garion remembered the dreadful transformation Salmissra had undergone.
‘Difficult,’ Sadi answered blandly. ‘Of course that’s nothing new. Fortunately she sleeps for a week or two after she’s been fed. She moulted last month, and it made her dreadfully short-tempered.’ He rolled his eyes ceilingward. ‘It was ghastly,’ he murmured. ‘She bit three servants before it was over. They all died immediately, of course.’
‘She’s venomous?’ Garion was a bit startled at that.
‘She’s always been venomous, your Majesty.’
‘That’s not the way I mean.’
‘Forgive my little joke,’ Sadi apologized. ‘Judging from the reactions of people she’s bitten, I’d guess that she’s at least ten times more deadly than a common cobra.’
‘Is she terribly unhappy?’ Garion felt a strange pity for the hideously altered queen.
‘That’s really rather hard to say, your Majesty,’ Sadi replied clinically. ‘It’s difficult to tell what a snake’s really feeling, you understand. By the time she’d learned to communicate her wishes to us, she seemed to have become reconciled to her new form. We feed her and keep her clean. As long as she has her mirror and someone to bite when she’s feeling peevish, she seems quite content.’
‘She still looks at herself in the mirror? I wouldn’t think she’d want to now.’
‘Our race has a somewhat different view of the serpent, your Majesty,’ Sadi explained. ‘We find it a rather attractive creature, and our queen is a splendid-looking snake, after all. Her new skin is quite lovely, and she seems very proud of it.’ He turned and bowed deeply to Aunt Pol. ‘Lady Polgara,’ he greeted her.
‘Sadi,’ she acknowledged with a brief nod.
‘May I convey to you the heartfelt thanks of her Majesty’s government?’
One of Aunt Pol’s eyebrows rose inquiringly.
‘The government, my Lady – not the queen herself. Your – ah – intervention, shall we say, has simplified things in the palace enormously. We no longer have to worry about Salmissra’s whims and peculiar appetites. We rule by committee and we hardly ever find it necessary to poison each other any more. No one’s tried to poison me for months. It’s all very smooth and civilized in Sthiss Tor now.’ He glanced briefly at Garion. ‘May I also offer my congratulations on your success with his Majesty? He seems to have matured considerably. He was really very callow when last we met.’
‘Whatever happened to Issus?’ Garion asked him, ignoring that particular observation.
Sadi shrugged. ‘Issus? Oh, he’s still about, scratching out a living as a paid assassin, probably. I imagine that one day we’ll find him flo
ating facedown in the river. It’s the sort of end one expects for someone like that.’
There was a sudden blare of trumpets from just beyond the great doors at the back of the Hall. Garion started nervously, and his mouth quite suddenly went dry.
The heavy doors swung open, and a double file of Tolnedran legionnaires marched in, their breastplates burnished until they shone like mirrors, and the tall crimson plumes on their helmets waving as they marched. The inclusion of the legionnaires in the ceremony had infuriated Brand. The Rivan Warder had stalked about in icy silence for days after he had discovered that Garion had granted ambassador Valgon’s request for a proper escort for Princess Ce’Nedra. Brand did not like Tolnedrans, and he had been looking forward to witnessing the pride of the empire humbled by Ce’Nedra’s forlorn and solitary entrance into the Hall. The presence of the legionnaires spoiled that, of course, and Brand’s disappointment and disapproval had been painfully obvious. As much as Garion wanted to stay on Brand’s good side, however, he did not intend to start off the official relationship between his bride-to-be and himself by publicly humiliating her. Garion was quite ready to acknowledge his lack of education, but he was not prepared to admit to being that stupid.
When Ce’Nedra entered, her hand resting lightly on Valgon’s arm, she was every inch an Imperial Princess. Garion could only gape at her. Although the Accords of Vo Mimbre required that she present herself in her wedding gown, Garion was totally unprepared for such Imperial magnificence. Her gown was of gold and white brocade covered with seed pearls, and its train swept the floor behind her. Her flaming hair was intricately curled and cascaded over her left shoulder like a deep crimson waterfall. Her circlet of tinted gold held in place a short veil that did not so much conceal her face as soften it into luminousness. She was tiny and perfect, exquisite beyond belief, but her eyes were like little green agates.
She and Valgon moved at stately pace down between the ranks of her tall, burnished legionnaires; when they reached the front of the hall, they stopped.
Brand, sober-faced and imposing, took his staff of office from Bralon, his eldest son, and rapped sharply on the stone floor with its butt three times. ‘Her Imperial Highness Ce’Nedra of the Tolnedran Empire,’ he announced in a deep, booming voice. ‘Will your Majesty grant her audience?’
‘I will receive the princess,’ Garion declared, straightening a bit on his throne.
‘The Princess Ce’Nedra may approach the throne,’ Brand proclaimed. Though his words were ritual formality, they had obviously been chosen with great care to make it absolutely clear that Imperial Tolnedra came to the Hall of the Rivan King as a suppliant. Ce’Nedra’s eyes flashed fire, and Garion groaned inwardly. The little princess, however, glided to the appointed spot before the dais and curtsied regally. There was no submission in that gesture.
‘The Princess has permission to speak,’ Brand boomed. For a brief, irrational moment Garion wanted to strangle him.
Ce’Nedra drew herself up, her face as cold as a winter sea. ‘Thus I, Ce’Nedra, daughter to Ran Borune XXIII and Princess of Imperial Tolnedra, present myself as required by treaty and law in the presence of His Majesty, Belgarion of Riva,’ she declared. ‘And thus has the Tolnedran Empire once more demonstrated her willingness to fulfill her obligations as set forth in the Accords of Vo Mimbre. Let other kingdoms witness Tolnedra’s meticulous response and follow her example in meeting their obligations. I declare before these witnesses that I am an unmarried virgin of a suitable age. Will his Majesty consent to take me to wife?’
Garion’s reply had been carefully thought out. The quiet inner voice had suggested a way to head off years of marital discord. He rose to his feet and said, ‘I, Belgarion, King of Riva, hereby consent to take the Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra to be my wife and queen. I declare, moreover, that she will rule jointly by my side in Riva and wheresoever else the authority of our throne may extend.’
The gasp that rippled through the Hall was clearly audible, and Brand’s face went absolutely white. The look Ce’Nedra gave Garion was quizzical, and her eyes softened slightly. ‘Your majesty is too kind,’ she responded with a graceful little curtsy. Some of the edge had gone out of her voice, and she threw a quick sidelong glance at the spluttering Brand. ‘Have I your Majesty’s permission to withdraw?’ she asked sweetly.
‘As your Highness wishes,’ Garion replied, sinking back down onto his throne. He was perspiring heavily.
The princess curtsied again with a mischievous little twinkle in her eyes, then turned and left the Hall with her legionnaires drawn up in close order about her.
As the great doors boomed shut behind her, an angry buzz ran through the crowd. The word ‘outrageous’ seemed to be the most frequently repeated.
‘This is unheard of, your Majesty,’ Brand protested.
‘Not entirely,’ Garion replied defensively. ‘The throne of Arendia is held jointly by King Korodullin and Queen Mayaserana.’ He looked to Mandorallen, gleaming in his armor, with a mute appeal in his eyes.
‘His Majesty speaks truly, my Lord Brand,’ Mandorallen declared. ‘I assure thee that our kingdom suffers not from the lack of singularity upon the throne.’
‘That’s Arendia,’ Brand objected. ‘This is Riva. The situations are entirely different. No Alorn kingdom has ever been ruled by a woman.’
‘It might not hurt to examine the possible advantages of the situation,’ King Rhodar suggested. ‘My own queen, for example, plays a somewhat more significant role in Drasnian affairs than custom strictly allows.’
With great difficulty Brand regained at least some of his composure. ‘May I withdraw, your Majesty?’ he asked, his face still livid.
‘If you wish,’ Garion answered quietly. It wasn’t going well. Brand’s conservatism was the one stumbling block he hadn’t considered.
‘It’s an interesting notion, dear,’ Aunt Pol said quietly to him, ‘but don’t you think it might have been better to consult with someone before you made it a public declaration?’
‘Won’t it help to cement relations with the Tolnedrans?’
‘Quite possibly,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not saying that it’s a bad idea, Garion; I just think it might have been better to warn a few people first. What are you laughing at?’ she demanded of Belgarath, who was leaning against the throne convulsed with mirth.
‘The Bear-cult’s going to have collective apoplexy,’ he chortled.
Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I’d forgotten about them.’
‘They aren’t going to like it very much, are they?’ Garion concluded. ‘Particularly since Ce’Nedra’s a Tolnedran.’
‘I think you can count on them to go up in flames,’ the old sorcerer replied, still laughing.
In the days that followed, the usually bleak halls of the Citadel were filled with color as official visitors and representatives teemed through them, chatting, gossiping, and conducting business in out-of-the-way corners. The rich and varied gifts they had brought to celebrate the occasion filled several tables lining one of the walls in the great throne room. Garion, however, was unable to visit or to examine the gifts. He spent his days in a room with his advisers and with the Tolnedran ambassador and his staff as the details of the official betrothal document were hammered out.
Valgon had seized on Garion’s break with tradition and was trying to wring the last measure of advantage from it, while Brand was desperately trying to add clauses and stipulations to circumscribe Ce’Nedra’s authority rigidly. As the two haggled back and forth, Garion found himself more and more frequently staring out the window. The sky over Riva was an intense blue, and puffy white clouds ran before the wind. The bleak crags of the island were touched with the first green blush of spring. Faintly, carried by the wind, the high, clear voice of a shepherdess singing to her flock wafted through the open window. There was a pure, unschooled quality to her voice, and she sang with no hint of self-consciousness as if there were not a human ear within a hun
dred leagues. Garion sighed as the last notes of her song died away and then returned his attention to the tedious negotiations.
His attention, however, was divided in those early days of spring. Since he was unable to pursue the search for the man with the torn cloak himself, he was forced to rely on Lelldorin to press the investigation. Lelldorin was not always entirely reliable, and the search for the would-be assassin seemed to fire the enthusiastic young Asturian’s imagination. He crept about the Citadel with dark, sidelong glances, and reported his lack of findings in conspiratorial whispers. Turning things over to Lelldorin might have been a mistake, but there had been no real choice in the matter. Any of Garion’s other friends would have immediately raised a general outcry, and the entire affair would have been irrevocably out in the open. Garion did not want that. He was not prepared to make any decisions about the assassin until he found out who had thrown the knife and why. Too many other things could have been involved. Only Lelldorin could be relied upon for absolute secrecy, even though there was some danger in turning him loose in the Citadel with a license to track someone down. Lelldorin had a way of turning simple things into catastrophes, and Garion worried almost as much about that as he did about the possibility of another knife hurtling out of the shadows toward his unprotected back.
Among the visitors present for the betrothal ceremonies was Ce’Nedra’s cousin Xera, who was present as the personal representative of Queen Xantha. Though shy at first, the Dryad soon lost her reserve – particularly when she found herself the center of the attention of a cluster of smitten young noblemen.
The gift of Queen Xantha to the royal couple was, Garion thought, somewhat peculiar. Wrapped in plain leaves, Xera presented them with two sprouted acorns. Ce’Nedra, however, seemed delighted. She insisted upon planting the two seeds immediately and rushed down to the small private garden adjoining the royal apartments.
‘It’s very nice, I suppose,’ Garion commented dubiously as he stood watching his princess on her knees in the damp loam of the garden, busily preparing the earth to receive Queen Xantha’s gift.
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