“Pay attention,” Ce’Nedra whispered.
It got down to the questions and answers shortly after that. Garion’s voice cracked slightly, but that was only to be expected. Ce’Nedra’s voice, however, was clear and firm. Couldn’t she at least pretend to be nervous just a little?
The rings which they exchanged were carried on a small velvet cushion by Errand. The child took his duties quite seriously, but even on his small face there was that slightly amused look. Garion resented that. Was everyone secretly laughing at him?
The ceremony concluded with the Gorim’s benediction, which Garion did not hear. The Orb of Aldur, glowing with an insufferable smugness, filled his ears with its song of jubilation during the Gorim’s blessing, adding its own peculiar congratulations.
Ce’Nedra had turned to him. “Well?” she whispered.
“Well what?” he whispered back.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?”
“Here? In front of everybody?”
“It’s customary.”
“It’s a stupid custom.”
“Just do it, Garion,” she said with a warm little smile of encouragement. “We can discuss it later.”
Garion tried for a certain dignity in the kiss—a kind of chaste formality in keeping with the general tone of the occasion. Ce’Nedra, however, would have none of that. She threw herself into the business with an enthusiasm which Garion found slightly alarming. Her arms locked about his neck and her lips were glued to his. He irrationally wondered just how far she intended to go with this. His knees were already beginning to buckle.
The cheer which resounded through the hall saved him. The trouble with kissing in public was that one was never sure just how long one should keep it up. If it were too short, people might suspect a lack of regard; if it were too long, they might begin to snicker. Grinning rather foolishly, Belgarion of Riva turned to face the wedding guests.
The wedding ball and the supper which was part of it immediately followed the ceremony. Chatting gaily, the wedding guests trooped through a long corridor to a brightly decorated hall which had been converted into a grand ballroom ablaze with candles. The orchestra was composed of Rivan musicians under the direction of a fussy Arendish concertmaster, who strove mightily to keep the independent Rivans from improvising on those melodies which pleased them.
This was the part Garion had dreaded the most. The first dance was to be a solo affair featuring the royal couple. He was expected to march Ce’Nedra to the center of the floor and perform in public. With a sudden horror, he realized—even as he and his radiant bride went to the center of the room—that he had forgotten everything Lelldorin had taught him.
The dance which was popular at that particular season in the courts of the south was graceful and quite intricate. The partners were to face in the same direction, the man behind and slightly to one side of the woman. Their arms were supposed to be extended and their hands joined. Garion managed that part without too much trouble. It was all those quick, tiny little steps in time to the music that had him worried.
In spite of everything, though, he did quite well. The fragrance of Ce’Nedra’s hair, however, continued to work on him, and he noted that his hands trembled visibly as the two of them danced. At the end of the first melody, the wedding guests applauded enthusiastically; as the orchestra took up the second tune, they all joined in, and the floor was filled with whirling colors as the dance became general.
“I guess we didn’t do too badly,” Garion murmured.
“We were just fine,” Ce’Nedra assured him.
They continued to dance.
“Garion,” she said after a few moments.
“Yes?”
“Do you really love me?”
“Of course I do. What a silly thing to ask.”
“Silly?”
“Wrong word,” he amended quickly. “Sorry.”
“Garion,” she said after a few more measures.
“Yes?”
“I love you too, you know.”
“Of course I know.”
“Of course? Aren’t you taking a bit much for granted?”
“Why are we arguing?” he asked rather plaintively.
“We aren’t arguing, Garion,” she told him loftily. “We’re discussing.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s all right then.”
As was expected, the royal couple danced with everyone. Ce’Nedra was passed from king to king like some royal prize, and Garion escorted queens and ladies alike to the center of the floor for the obligatory few measures. Tiny blond Queen Porenn of Drasnia gave him excellent advice, as did the stately Queen Islena of Cherek. Plump little Queen Layla was motherly—even a bit giddy. Queen Silar gravely congratulated him, and Mayaserana of Arendia suggested that he’d dance better if he weren’t quite so stiff. Barak’s wife, Merel, dressed in rich green brocade, gave him the best advice of all.
“You’ll fight with each other, of course,” she told him as they danced, “but never go to sleep angry. That was always my mistake.”
And finally Garion danced with his cousin Adara.
“Are you happy?” he asked her.
“More than you could ever imagine,” she replied with a gentle smile.
“Then everything worked out for the best, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Garion. It’s as if it had all been fated to happen. Everything feels so right, somehow.”
“It’s possible that it was fated,” Garion mused. “I sometimes think we have very little control over our own lives—I know I don’t.”
She smiled. “Very deep thoughts for a bridegroom on his wedding day.” Then her face grew gravely serious. “Don’t let Ce’Nedra drive you to distraction,” she advised. “And don’t always give in to her.”
“You’ve heard about what’s been happening?”
She nodded. “Don’t take it too seriously, Garion. She’s been testing you, that’s all.”
“Are you trying to say that I still have to prove something?”
“With Ce’Nedra—probably every day. I know your little princess, Garion. All she really wants is for you to prove that you love her—and don’t be afraid to say it to her. I think you’ll be surprised at how agreeable she’ll be if you just take the trouble to tell her that you love her—frequently.”
“She knows that already.”
“But you have to tell her.”
“How often do you think I ought to say it?”
“Oh, probably every hour or so.”
He was almost certain that she was joking.
“I’ve noticed that Sendars are a reserved sort of people,” she told him. “That isn’t going to work with Ce’Nedra. You’re going to have to put your upbringing aside and come right out and say it. It will be worth the trouble, believe me.”
“I’ll try,” he promised her.
She laughed and lightly kissed his cheek. “Poor Garion,” she said.
“Why poor Garion?”
“You still have so much to learn.”
The dance continued.
Exhausted finally and famished by their efforts, Garion and his bride made their way to the groaning table and sat down to take their wedding supper. The supper was quite special. Two days before the wedding, Aunt Pol had calmly marched into the royal kitchen and had taken charge. As a result, everything was perfect. The smells from the heavily laden table were overwhelming. King Rhodar absolutely could not pass by without just one more nibble.
The music and the dance continued, and Garion watched, relieved that he had escaped the floor. His eyes sought out old friends in the crowd. Barak, huge but strangely gentle, danced with Merel, his wife. They looked very good together. Lelldorin danced with Ariana, and their eyes were lost in each others’ faces. Relg and Taiba did not dance, but sat together in a secluded corner. They were, Garion noted, holding hands. Relg’s expression was still slightly startled, but he did not look unhappy.
Near the center of the floor, Hettar and Adara danced with the innate grace of those who spend their lives on horseback. Hettar’s hawklike face was different somehow, and Adara was flushed with happiness. Garion decided that it might be a good time to try Adara’s advice. He leaned toward Ce’Nedra’s pink little ear and cleared his throat. “I love you,” he whispered. It was difficult the first time, so he tried it again—just to get the feel of it. “I love you,” he whispered again. It was easier the second time.