“But how do we know he can do anything?” Garion demanded. “I mean, if he’s lost his power—”
“There are many kinds of power, Garion. Sorcery is only one of them. Now go fetch him at once.”
“Yes, Aunt Pol,” Garion replied, already moving toward the door.
16
The High Priest of Belar was an imposing-looking man nearly seven feet tall. He had a long gray beard and burning eyes sunk deep in their sockets beneath bristling black eyebrows. He arrived from Val Alorn the following week after the seemingly endless negotiations had finally produced the official betrothal document. Accompanying him as a kind of retinue were two dozen hard-faced warriors dressed in bearskins.
“Bear-cultists,” Barak observed sourly to Garion and Silk as the three of them stood atop the wall of the Citadel, watching the High Priest and his men mounting the steps from the harbor in the bright spring sunshine.
“I didn’t say anything about bringing soldiers with him,” Garion objected indignantly.
“I imagine he took it upon himself,” Silk replied. “Grodeg’s very good at taking things upon himself.”
“I wonder how he’d like it if I threw him into a dungeon,” Garion said hotly. “Do I have a dungeon?”
“We could improvise one, I suppose.” Barak grinned at him. “Some nice damp cellar someplace. You might have to import some rats, though. The island’s reputed to be free of them.”
“You’re making fun of me,” Garion accused his friend, flushing slightly.
“Now you know I wouldn’t do that, Garion,” Barak replied, pulling at his beard.
“I’d talk with Belgarath before I had Grodeg clapped in irons, though,” Silk suggested. “The political implications might go a bit further than you intend. Whatever you do, don’t let Grodeg talk you into letting him leave any of his men behind. He’s been trying to get a foothold on the Isle of the Winds for twenty years now. Not even Brand has had the nerve to let him go that far.”
“Brand?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I wouldn’t want to say that Brand’s a cult member, but his sympathies certainly lie in that direction.”
Garion was shocked at that, and a little sick. “What do you think I ought to do?” he asked.
“Don’t try to play politics with these people,” Barak replied. “Grodeg’s here to conduct the official betrothal ceremony. Just let it go at that.”
“He’ll try to talk to me, though,” Garion fretted. “He’s going to try to make me lead an invasion of the southern kingdoms so that he can convert the Arends and Tolnedrans and Nyissans to the worship of Belar.”
“Where did you hear that?” Silk asked curiously.
“I’d rather not say,” Garion evaded.
“Does Belgarath know?”
Garion nodded. “Aunt Pol told him.”
Silk chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. “Just be stupid,” he said finally.
“What?”
“Pretend to be a simple country bumpkin with no idea of what’s going on. Grodeg’s going to do everything he can to get you alone so he can wring concessions out of you. Just keep smiling and nodding foolishly, and every time he makes a proposal, send for Belgarath. Let him think that you can’t make a single decision on your own.”
“Won’t that make me seem—well—?”
“Do you really care what he thinks?”
“Well, not really, I guess, but ”
“It will drive him crazy,” Barak pointed out with a wicked grin. “He’ll think that you’re a complete idiot—a ripe plum ready for picking. But he’ll realize that if he wants you, he’ll have to fight Belgarath to get you. He’ll be tearing out his beard in frustration before he leaves.”
He turned and looked admiringly at Silk. “That’s really a terrible thing to do to a man like Grodeg, you know.”
Silk smirked. “Isn’t it though?”
The three of them stood grinning at each other and finally burst into laughter.
The official betrothal ceremony was conducted the following day. There had been a great deal of haggling about who should enter the Hall of the Rivan King first, but that difficulty had been overcome by Belgarath’s suggestion that Garion and Ce’Nedra could enter arm in arm. “This is all in preparation for a wedding, after all,” he had pointed out. “We might as well start off with a semblance at least of friendship.”
Garion was very nervous as the hour approached. His princess had been smoldering since the incident with the amulet, and he was almost certain that there was going to be trouble. But to his surprise, Ce’Nedra was radiant as the two of them waited alone together in a small antechamber while the official guests gathered in the Hall. Garion fidgeted a great deal and walked up and down, nervously adjusting his clothing, but Ce’Nedra sat rather demurely, patiently awaiting the trumpet fanfare which was to announce their entrance.
“Garion,” she said after a while.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember that time we bathed together in the Wood of the Dryads?”
“We did not bathe together,” Garion replied quickly, blushing to the roots of his hair.
“Well, very nearly.” She brushed his distinction aside. “Do you realize that Lady Polgara kept throwing us together like that all the time we were travelling? She knew that all this was going to happen, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Garion admitted.
“So she kept shoving us at each other, hoping something might happen between us.”
Garion thought about that. “You’re probably right,” he concluded.
“She likes to arrange people’s lives for them.” Ce’Nedra sighed. “Look at all the opportunities we missed,” she said somewhat regretfully.
“Ce’Nedra!” Garion gasped, shocked at her suggestion.
She giggled a bit wickedly. Then she sighed again. “Now it’s all going to be dreadfully official—and probably not nearly as much fun.”
Garion’s face was flaming by now.
“Anyway,” she continued, “that time we bathed together—do you remember that I asked you if you’d like to kiss me?”
Garion nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“I never got that kiss, you know,” she said archly, standing up and crossing the small room to him, “and I think I’d like it now.”
She took hold of the front of his doublet firmly with both little hands. “You owe me a kiss, Belgarion of Riva, and a Tolnedran always collects what people owe her.” The look she directed up through her lashes at him smoldered dangerously.
Just outside, the trumpets blared out an extended fanfare.
“We’re supposed to go in now,” Garion sputtered a bit desperately.
“Let them wait,” she murmured, her arms sliding up around his neck.
Garion tried for a quick, perfunctory kiss, but his princess had other ideas. Her little arms were surprisingly strong, and her fingers locked in his hair. The kiss was lingering, and Garion’s knees began to tremble.
“There,” Ce’Nedra breathed when she finally released him.
“We’d better go in,” Garion suggested as the trumpets blared again.
“In a moment. Did you muss me?” She turned around so that he could inspect her.
“No,” he replied. “Everything still seems to be in order.”
She shook her head rather disapprovingly. “Try to do a little better next time,” she told him. “Otherwise I might start to think that you’re not taking me seriously.”
“I’m never going to understand you, Ce’Nedra.”
“I know,” she said with a mysterious little smile. Then she patted his cheek gently. “And I’m going to do everything I can to keep it that way. Shall we go in? We really shouldn’t keep our guests waiting, you know.”
“That’s what I said in the first place.”
“We were busy then,” she declared with a certain grand indifference. “Just a moment.” She carefully smoothed his hair. “There. That’s better. Now give me your arm.”
Garion extended his arm, and his princess laid her hand on it. Then he opened the door to the third chorus from the trumpets. They entered the Hall, and an excited buzz ran through the crowd assembled there. Taking his cue from Ce’Nedra, Garion moved at a stately pace, his face sober and regal-looking.