“Something’s bothering you,” Garion said bluntly. “Would you like to get it out in the open?”
“Whatever your Majesty wishes,” she replied.
“Do we have to do this?”
“I can’t imagine what your Majesty is talking about.”
“Don’t you think we know each other well enough to be honest?”
“Of course. I suppose I’d better accustom myself to obeying your Majesty immediately.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know,” she flared.
“Ce’Nedra, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” She looked at him suspiciously, then her eyes softened just a bit.
“Perhaps you don’t at that,” she murmured. “Have you ever read the Accords of Vo Mimbre?”
“You taught me how to read yourself,” he reminded her, “about six or eight months ago. You know every book I’ve read. You gave me most of them yourself.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?” she said. “Wait just a moment. I’ll be right back.” She went briefly into the adjoining room and returned with a rolled parchment. “I’ll read it to you,” she told him. “Some of the words are a little difficult.”
“I’m not that stupid,” he objected.
But she had already begun to read. “ ‘—And when it shall come to pass that the Rivan King returns, he shall have Lordship and Dominion, and swear we all fealty to him as Overlord of the Kingdoms of the West. And he shall have an Imperial Princess of Tolnedra to wife, and—’”
“Wait a minute,” Garion interrupted her with a strangled note in his voice.
“Was there something you didn’t understand? It all seems quite clear to me.”
“What was that last part again?”
“-‘he shall have an Imperial Princess of Tolnedra to wife, and...’”
“Are there any other princesses in Tolnedra?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then that means—” He gaped at her.
“Precisely.” She said it like a steel trap suddenly snapping shut.
“Is that why you ran out of the Hall yesterday?”
“I did not run.”
“You don’t want to marry me.” It was almost an accusation.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you do want to marry me?”
“I didn’t say that either—but it doesn’t really matter, does it? We don’t have any choice at all—neither one of us.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
Her look was lofty. “Of course not. I’ve always known that my husband would be selected for me.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
“I’m an Imperial Princess, Garion.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not accustomed to being anyone’s inferior.”
“Inferior? To who—whom?”
“The Accords state that you are the Overlord of the West.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, your Majesty, that you outrank me.”
“Is that all that’s got you so upset?”
Her look was like a drawn dagger. “With your Majesty’s permission, I believe I’d like to withdraw.” And without waiting for an answer, she swept from the room.
Garion stared after her. This was going too far. He considered going immediately to Aunt Pol to protest, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that she would be totally unsympathetic. Too many little things began to click together all at once. Aunt Pol was not merely a party to this absurd notion; she had actively done everything in her power to make absolutely sure that there was no escape for him. He needed someone to talk to—someone devious enough and unscrupulous enough to think a way out of this. He left Ce’Nedra’s sitting room and went looking for Silk.
The little man was not in his room, and the servant who was making up the bed kept bowing as he stammered out his apologies at not having the slightest notion of where Silk might be. Garion left quickly.
Since the apartment Barak shared with his wife and children was only a few steps down the corridor, Garion went there, trying not to look back at the gray-cloaked attendant he knew was still following him. “Barak,” he said, knocking on the big Cherek’s door, “it’s me, Garion. May I come in?”
The Lady Merel opened the door immediately and curtsied respectfully.
“Please, don’t do that,” Garion begged her.
“What’s the trouble, Garion?” Barak asked from the green-covered chair where he sat, bouncing his infant son on his knee.
“I’m looking for Silk,” Garion replied, entering the large, comfortable room that was littered with clothes and children’s toys.
“You’re a little wild around the eyes,” the big man noted. “Is something wrong?”
“I’ve just had some very unsettling news,” Garion told him, shuddering. “I need to talk to Silk. Maybe he can come up with an answer for me.”
“Would you like some breakfast?” Lady Merel suggested.
“I’ve already eaten, thank you,” Garion replied. He looked at her a bit more closely. She had undone the rather severe braids she customarily wore, and her blond hair framed her face softly. She wore her usual green gown, but her carriage seemed not to have the rigidity it had always had. Barak, Garion noted, had also lost a bit of the grim defensiveness that had always been there previously when he was in the presence of his wife.
Barak’s two daughters entered the room then, one on each side of Errand. They all sat down in the corner and began playing an elaborate little game that seemed to involve a great deal of giggling.
“I think my daughters have decided to steal him.” Barak grinned. “Quite suddenly I’m up to my ears in wife and children, and the funny part about it is that I don’t seem to mind it at all.”
Merel threw him a quick, almost shy smile. Then she looked over at the laughing children, “The girls absolutely adore him,” she said, and then turned back to Garion. “Have you ever noticed that you can’t look directly into his eyes for more than a moment or so? He seems to be looking right into your heart.”
Garion nodded. “I think it might have something to do with the way he trusts everybody,” he suggested. He turned back to Barak. “Do you have any idea where I might find Silk?”
Barak laughed. “Walk up and down the halls and listen for the rattle of dice. The little thief’s been gambling ever since we got here. Durnik might know. He’s been hiding out in the stables. Royalty makes him nervous.”
“It does the same thing to me,” Garion said.
“But you are royalty, Garion,” Merel reminded him.
“That makes me even more nervous,” he replied.
There was a series of back hallways that led to the stables, and Garion decided to follow that route rather than pass through the more stately corridors where he might encounter members of the nobility. These narrower passageways were used for the most part by servants going to and from the kitchen, and Garion reasoned that most of the minor household staff would probably not recognize him yet. As he walked quickly along one of the passageways with his head down to avoid any chance recognition, he caught another glimpse behind him of the man who had dogged his steps ever since he had left the royal apartment. Irritated finally to the point where he no longer cared about concealing his identity, Garion turned to confront his pursuer. “I know you’re there,” he declared. “Come out where I can see you.” He waited, tapping his foot impatiently.
The hallway behind him remained empty and silent.
“Come out here at once,” Garion repeated, his voice taking on an unaccustomed note of command. But there was no movement, no sound. Garion thought for a moment of retracing his steps to catch this persistent attendant in the act of creeping along behind him, but just then a servant carrying a tray of dirty dishes came along from the direction Garion had just come.