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.
Ce’Nedra looked at him sharply. “I don’t believe your Majesty understands the significance of the gift,” she said in that hatefully formal tone she had assumed with him.
“Stop that,” Garion told her crossly. “I still have a name, after all and I’m almost positive you haven’t forgotten it.”
“If your Majesty insists,” she replied loftily.
“My Majesty does. What’s so significant about a couple of nuts?”
She looked at him almost pityingly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Not if you won’t take the trouble to explain it to me.”
“Very well.” She sounded irritatingly superior. “The one acorn is from my very own tree. The other is from Queen Xantha’s.”
“So?”
“See how impossibly dense he is,” the princess said to her cousin.
“He’s not a Dryad, Ce’Nedra,” Xera replied calmly.
“Obviously.”
Xera turned to Garion. “The acorns are not really from my mother,” she explained. “They’re gifts from the trees themselves.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” Garion demanded of Ce’Nedra.
She sniffed and returned to her digging.
“While they’re still just young shoots, Ce’Nedra will bind them together,” Xera went on. “The shoots will intertwine as they grow, embracing each other and forming a single tree. It’s the Dryad symbol for marriage. The two will become one—just as you and Ce’Nedra will.”
“That remains to be seen,” Ce’Nedra sniffed, trowelling busily in the dirt.
Garion sighed. “I hope the trees are patient.”
“Trees are very patient, Garion,” Xera replied. She made a little gesture that Ce’Nedra could not see, and Garion followed her to the other end of the garden.
“She does love you, you know,” Xera told him quietly. “She won’t admit it, of course, but she loves you. I know her well enough to see that.”
“Why’s she acting the way she is, then?”
“She doesn’t like being forced into things, that’s all.”
“I’m not the one who’s forcing her. Why take it out on me?”
“Whom else can she take it out on?”
Garion hadn’t thought of that. He left the garden quietly. Xera’s words gave him some hope that one of his problems, at least, might eventually be resolved. Ce’Nedra would pout and storm for a while, and then—after she had made him suffer enough—she would relent. Perhaps it might speed things along if he suffered a bit more obviously.
The other problems had not changed significantly. He was still going to have to lead an army against Kal Torak; Belgarath had still given no sign that his power was intact; and someone in the Citadel was still, so far as Garion knew, sharpening another knife for him. He sighed and went back to his own rooms where he could worry in private.
Somewhat later he received word that Aunt Pol wanted to see him in her private apartment. He went immediately and found her seated by the fire, sewing as usual. Belgarath, dressed in his shabby old clothes, sat in one of the deep, comfortable chairs on the other side of the fire with his feet up and a tankard in his hand.
“You wanted to see me, Aunt Pol?” Garion inquired as he entered.
“Yes, dear,” she replied. “Sit down.” She looked at him somewhat critically. “He still doesn’t look much like a king, does he, father?”
“Give him time, Pol,” the old man told her. “He hasn’t been at it for very long.”
“You both knew all along, didn’t you?” Garion accused them. “Who I was, I mean.”
“Naturally,” Aunt Pol answered in that maddening way of hers.
“Well, if you’d wanted me to behave like a king, you should have told me about it. That way I’d have had some time to get used to the idea.”
“It seems to me we discussed this once before,” Belgarath mentioned, “a long time ago. If you’ll stop and think a bit, I’m sure you’ll be able to see why we had to keep it a secret.”
“Maybe.” Garion said it a bit doubtfully. “All this has happened too fast, though. I hadn’t even got used to being a sorcerer yet, and now I have to be a king, too. It’s all got me off balance.”
“You’re adaptable, Garion,” Aunt Pol told him, her needle flickering.
“You’d better give him the amulet, Pol,” Belgarath mentioned. “The princess should be here soon.”
“I was just about to, father,” she replied, laying aside her sewing.
“What’s this?” Garion asked.
“The princess has a gift for you,” Aunt Pol said. “A ring. It’s a bit ostentatious, but act suitably pleased.”
“Shouldn’t I have something to give her in return?”
“I’ve already taken care of that, dear.” She took a small velvet box from the table beside her chair. “You’ll give her this.” She handed the box to Garion.
Inside the box lay a silver amulet, a bit smaller than Garion’s own. Represented on its face in minute and exquisite detail was the likeness of that huge tree which stood in solitary splendor in the center of the Vale of Aldur. There was a crown woven into the branches. Garion held the amulet in his right hand, trying to determine if it had some of the same kind of force about it that he knew was in the one he wore. There was something there, but it didn’t feel at all the same.
“It doesn’t seem to be like ours,” he concluded.
“It isn’t,” Belgarath replied. “Not exactly, anyway. Ce’Nedra’s not a sorceress, so she wouldn’t be able to use one like yours.”
“You said ‘not exactly.’ It does have some kind of power, then?”
“It will give her certain insights,” the old man answered, “if she’s patient enough to learn how to use it.”
“Exactly what are we talking about when we use the word ‘insight’?”
“An ability to see and hear things she wouldn’t otherwise be able to see or hear,” Belgarath specified.
“Is there anything else I should know about it before she gets here?”
“Just tell her that it’s a family heirloom,” Aunt Pol suggested. “It belonged to my sister, Beldaran.”
“You should keep it, Aunt Pol,” Garion objected. “I can get something else for the princess.”
“No, dear. Beldaran wants her to have it.”
Garion found Aunt Pol’s habit of speaking of people long dead in the present tense a trifle disconcerting, so he didn’t pursue the matter. There was a light tap on the door.
“Come in, Ce’Nedra,” Aunt Pol answered.
The little princess was wearing a rather plain green gown open at the throat, and her expression was somewhat subdued.
“Come over by the fire;” Aunt Pol told her. “The evenings are still a bit chilly this time of year.”
“Is it always this cold and damp in Riva?” Ce’Nedra asked, coming to the fire.
“We’re a long ways north of Tol Honeth,” Garion pointed out.
“I’m aware of that,” she said with that little edge in her voice.
“I always thought it was customary to wait until after the wedding to start bickering,” Belgarath observed slyly. “Have the rules changed?”