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 hundred 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.