Garion and his friends waited in a small antechamber while the last of the local dignitaries were announced.
The fussy chief of protocol, a small Melcene with an elaborately trimmed brown beard, wanted them to line up in ascending order of rank, but the difficulties involved in assigning precise rank to the members of this strange group baffled him. He struggled with it, manfully trying to decide if Sorcerer outranked King or Imperial Princess until Garion solved his problem for him by leading Ce’Nedra out onto the landing at the top of the stairs.
“Their Royal Majesties, King Belgarion and Queen Ce’Nedra of Riva,” the herald declaimed grandly, and the trumpets blared.
Garion, dressed all in blue and with his ivory‑gowned Queen on his arm, paused on the marble landing at the top of the stairs to allow the brightly clad throng below the time to gawk at him. The somewhat dramatic pause was not entirely his idea. Ce’Nedra had dug her fingernails into his arm with a grip of steel and hissed, “Stand still! “
It appeared that Zakath also had some leaning toward the theatrical, since the stunned silence which followed the herald’s announcement clearly indicated that the Emperor had given orders that the identity of his guests remain strictly confidential until this very moment. Garion was honest enough with himself to admit that the startled buzz which ran through the crowd below was moderately gratifying.
He began down the stairway, but found himself reined in like a restive horse. “Don’t run!” Ce’Nedra commanded under her breath.
“Run?” he objected. “I’m barely moving.”
“Do it slower, Garion.”
He discovered then that his wife had a truly amazing talent. She could speak without moving her lips! Her smile was gracious, though somewhat lofty, but a steady stream of low‑voiced commands issued from that smile.
The buzzing murmur that had filled the banquet hall when they had been announced died into a respectful silence when they reached the foot of the stair, and a vast wave of bows and curtsies rippled through the crowd as they moved along the carpeted promenade leading to the slightly elevated platform upon which sat the table reserved for the Emperor and his special guests, domestic and foreign.
Zakath himself, still in his customary white, but wearing a gold circlet artfully hammered into the form of a wreath woven of leaves as a concession to the formality of the occasion, rose from his seat and came to meet them, thereby avoiding that awkward moment when two men of equal rank meet in public. “So good of you to come, my dear,” he said, taking Ce’Nedra’s hand and kissing it. He sounded for all the world like a country squire or minor nobleman greeting friends from the neighborhood.
“So good of you to invite us,” she replied with a whimsical smile.
“You’re looking well, Garion,” the Mallorean said, extending his hand and still speaking in that offhand and informal manner.
“Tolerable, Zakath,” Garion responded, taking his cue from his host. If Zakath wanted to play, Garion felt that he should show him that he could play, too.
“Would you care to join me at the table?” Zakath asked. “We can chat while we wait for the others to arrive.”
“Of course,” Garion agreed in a deliberately commonplace tone of voice.
When they reached their chairs, however, his curiosity finally got the better of him. “Why are we playing ‘just plain folks’?” he asked Zakath as he held Ce’Nedra’s chair for her. “This affair’s a trifle formal for talking about the weather and asking after each other’s health, wouldn’t you say?”
“It’s baffling the nobility,” Zakath replied with aplomb. “Never do the expected, Garion. The hint that we’re old, old friends will set them afire with curiosity and make people who thought that they knew everything just a little less sure of themselves.” He smiled at Ce’Nedra. “You’re positively ravishing tonight, my dear,” he told her.
Ce’Nedra glowed then looked archly at Garion. “Why don’t you take a few notes, dear?” she suggested. “You could learn a great deal from his Majesty here.” She turned back to Zakath. “You’re so very kind to say it,” she told him, “but my hair is an absolute disaster.” Her expression was faintly tragic as she lightly touched her curls with her fingertips. Actually, her hair was stupendous, with a coronet of braids interwoven with strings of pearls and with a cascade of coppery ringlets spilling down across the front of her left shoulder.
During this polite exchange, the others in their party were being introduced. Silk and Velvet caused quite a stir, he in his jewel‑encrusted doublet and she in a gown of lavender brocade.
Ce’Nedra sighed enviously. “I wish I could wear that color,” she murmured.
“You can wear any color you want to, Ce’Nedra,” Garion told her.
“Are you color‑blind, Garion?” she retorted. “A girl with red hair can not wear lavender.”
“If that’s all that’s bothering you, I can change the color of your hair anytime you want.”
“Don’t you dare!” she gasped, her hands going protectively to the cascade of auburn curls at her shoulder.
“Just a suggestion, dear.”
The herald at the top of the stairs announced Sadi, Eriond, and Toth as a group, obviously having some difficulty with the fact that the boy and the giant had no rank that he could discern. The next presentation, however, filled his voice with awe and his bony limbs with trembling. “Her Grace, the Duchess of Erat,” he declaimed, “Lady Polgara the Sorceress.” The silence following that announcement was stunned. “And Goodman Durnik of Sendaria,” the herald added, ‘the man with two lives.’“
Polgara and the smith descended the stairs to the accompaniment of a profound silence.
The bows and curtsies which acknowledged the legendary couple were so deep as to resemble genuflections before an altar. Polgara, dressed in her customary silver-trimmed blue, swept through the hall with all the regal bearing of an Empress. She wore a mysterious smile, and the fabled white lock at her brow glowed in the candlelight as she and Durnik approached the platform.
Meanwhile, at the top of the stairs, the herald had shrunk back from the next guest, his eyes wide and his face gone quite pale.
“Just say it,” Garion heard his grandfather tell the frightened man. “I’m fairly sure that they’ll all recognize the name.”
The herald stepped to the marble railing at the front of the landing. “Your Majesty,” he said falteringly, “My lords and ladies, I have the unexpected honor to present Belgarath the Sorcerer.”
A gasp ran through the hall as the old man, dressed in a cowled robe of soft gray wool, stumped down the stairs with no attempt at grace or dignity. The assembled Mallorean notables pulled back from him as he walked toward the table where the others had already joined Zakath.
About halfway to the imperial platform, however, a blond Melcene girl in a low‑cut gown caught his eye. She stood stricken with awe, unable to curtsy or even to move as the most famous man in all the world approached her.
Belgarath stopped and looked her up and down quite slowly and deliberately, noting with appreciation just how revealing her gown was. A slow, insinuating smile crept across his face, and his blue eyes twinkled outrageously.
“Nice dress,” he told her.
She blushed furiously.
He laughed, reached out, and patted her cheek.
“There’s a good girl,” he said.
“Father,” Polgara said firmly.
“Coming, Pol.” He chuckled and moved along the carpet toward the table. The pretty Melcene girl looked after him, her eyes wide and her hand pressed to the cheek he had touched.
“Isn’t he disgusting?” Ce’Nedra muttered.
“It’s just the way he is, dear,” Garion disagreed. “He doesn’t pretend to be anything else. He doesn’t have to.”
The banquet featured a number of exotic dishes that Garion could not put a name to and several which he did not even know how to eat. A deceptively innocent-looking rice dish was laced with such fiery seasonings it brought tears to his eyes and sent his hand clutching for his water goblet.
“Belar, Mara, and Nedra!” Durnik choked as he also groped about in search of water. So far as he could remember, it was the first time Garion had ever heard Durnik swear. He did it surprisingly well.
“Piquant,” Sadi commented as he calmly continued to eat the dreadful concoction.
“How can you eat that?” Garion demanded in amazement.
Sadi smiled. “You forget that I’m used to being poisoned, Belgarion. Poison tends to toughen the tongue and fireproof the throat.”
Zakath had watched their reactions with some amusement. “I should have warned you,” he apologized. “The dish comes from Gandahar, and the natives of that region entertain themselves during the rainy season by trying to build bonfires in each other’s stomachs. They’re elephant trappers, for the most part, and they pride themselves on their courage.” .
After the extended banquet, the brown‑robed Brador approached Garion. “If your Majesty wouldn’t mind,” he said, leaning forward so that Garion could hear him over the sounds of laughter and sprightly conversation from nearby tables, “there are a number of people who are most eager to meet you.”