“Nonsense,” she said. “Just because you argue with someone doesn’t mean that you don’t love him. I love my father very much, but we fight all the time. We enjoy fighting with each other.” Ce’Nedra knew that she was safe using such terms as “silly” and “nonsense” with the Gorim. She had by now so utterly charmed him that she was quite sure she could get away with almost anything.
Although it might have been difficult to persuade anyone around her that such was the case, there had been a few distinct but subtle changes in Ce’Nedra’s behavior. Impulsive though she might seem to these serious, reserved people, she now gave at least a moment’s thought – however brief – before acting or speaking. She had on occasion embarrassed herself here in the caves, and embarrassment was the one thing Ce’Nedra absolutely could not bear. Gradually, imperceptibly, she learned the value of marginal self control, and sometimes she almost appeared ladylike.
She had also had time to consider the problem of Garion. His absence during the long weeks had been particularly and inexplicably painful for her. It was as if she had misplaced something – something very valuable – and its loss left an aching kind of vacancy. Her emotions had always been such a jumble that she had never fully come to grips with them. Usually they changed so rapidly that she never had time to examine one before another took its place. This yearning sense of something missing, however, had persisted for so long that she finally had to face it.
It could not be love. That was impossible. Love for a peasant scullion – no matter how nice he was – was quite out of the question! She was, after all, an Imperial Princess, and her duty was crystal clear. If there had been even the faintest suspicion in her mind that her feelings had moved beyond casual friendship, she would have an absolute obligation to break off any further contact. Ce’Nedra did not want to send Garion away and never see him again. The very thought of doing so made her lip tremble. So, quite obviously, what she felt was not – could not – be love. She felt much better once she had worked that out. The possibility had been worrying her, but now that logic had proved beyond all doubt that she was safe, she was able to relax. It was a great comfort to have logic on her side.
That left only the waiting, the seemingly endless, unendurable waiting for her friends. Where were they? When were they coming back? What were they doing out there that could take so long? The longer she waited, the more frequently her newfound self control deserted her, and her pale-skinned companions learned to watch apprehensively for those minute danger signs that announced imminent eruption.
Then finally the Gorim told her that word had reached him that her friends were returning, and the little princess went absolutely wild with anticipation. Her preparations were lengthy and elaborate. She would greet them properly of course. No little girl enthusiasm this time. Instead, she would be demure, reserved, imperial and altogether grown up. Naturally, she would have to look the part.
She fretted for hours before selecting the perfect gown, a floor-length Ulgo dress of glistening white. Ulgo gowns, however, were perhaps a trifle too modest for Ce’Nedra’s taste. While she wished to appear reserved, she did not want to be that reserved. Thoughtfully, she removed the sleeves from the gown and made a few modifications to the neckline. Some elaborate cross-tying at bodice and waist with a slender gold sash accentuated things a bit. Critically she examined the results of her efforts and found them to her liking.
Then there was the problem of her hair. The loose, tumbled style she had always worn would never do. It needed to be up, piled in a soft mass of curls atop her head and then cascading elegantly down over one shoulder to add that splash of color across the pristine whiteness of her bodice that would set things off just right. She worked on it until her arms ached from being raised over her head for so long. When she was finished, she studied the entire effect of gown and hair and demurely regal expression. It wasn’t bad, she congratulated herself. Garion’s eyes would fall out when he saw her. The little princess exulted.
When the day finally arrived, Ce’Nedra, who had scarcely slept, sat nervously with the Gorim in his now-familiar study. He was reading from a long scroll, rolling the top with one hand while he unrolled the bottom with another. As he read, the princess fidgeted, nibbling absently on a lock.
“You seem restless today, child,” he observed.
“It’s just that I haven’t seen him – them – for so long,” she explained quickly. “Are you sure I look all right’?” She had only asked the question six or eight times that morning already.
“You’re lovely, child,” he assured her once again. She beamed at him.
A servingman came into the Gorim’s study. “Your guests have arrived, Holy One,” he said with a respectful bow.
Ce’Nedra’s heart began to pound.
“Shall we go greet them, child?” the Gorim suggested, laying aside his scroll and rising to his feet.
Ce’Nedra resisted her impulse to spring from her chair and run out of the room. With an iron grip she controlled herself. Instead, she walked at the Gorim’s side, silently repeating to herself, “Dignity. Reserve. Imperially demure.”
Her friends were travel-stained and weary-looking as they entered the Gorim’s cavern, and there were strangers with them whom Ce’Nedra did not recognize. Her eyes however, sought out only one face.
He looked older than she remembered him. His face, which had always been so serious, had a gravity to it now that had not been there before. Things had obviously happened to him while he had been gone – important things – and the princess felt a little pang at having been excluded from such momentous events in his life.
And then her heart froze. Who was that great gangling girl at his side? And why was he being so deferential to the big cow? Ce’Nedra’s jaws clenched as she glared across the calm waters of the lake at the perfidious young man. She had known it would happen. The minute she had let him out of her sight, he had run headlong into the arms of the first girl who happened by. How dared he? How dared he!
As the group on the far side of the lake began to come across the causeway, Ce’Nedra’s heart sank. The tall girl was lovely. Her dark hair was lustrous, and her features were perfect. Desperately, Ce’Nedra looked for some flaw, some blemish. And the way the girl moved! She actually seemed to flow with a grace that nearly brought tears of despair to Ce’Nedra’s eyes.
The greetings and introductions seemed hardly more than some incoherent babble to the suffering princess. Absently she curtsied to the king of the Algars and his lovely queen. Politely she greeted the lushly beautiful woman – Taiba, her name was – whom Lady Polgara introduced to her. The moment she was dreading was approaching, and there was no way she could forestall it.
“And this is Adara,” Lady Polgara said, indicating the lovely creature at Garion’s side. Ce’Nedra wanted to cry. It wasn’t fair! Even the girl’s name was beautiful. Why couldn’t it have been something ugly?
“Adara,” Lady Polgara continued, her eyes intently on Ce’Nedra’s face, “this is her Imperial Highness, the Princess Ce’Nedra.”
Adara curtsied with a grace that was like a knife in Ce’Nedra’s heart. “I’ve so wanted to meet your Highness,” the tall girl said. Her voice was vibrant, musical.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Ce’Nedra replied with a lofty superiority. Though every nerve within her screamed with the need to lash out at this detested rival, she held herself rigid and silent. Any outburst, even the faintest trace of dismay showing in her expression or her voice would make this Adara’s victory complete. Ce’Nedra was too much a princess – too much a woman – to permit that ultimate defeat. Though her pain was as real as if she were in the hands of a torturer, she stood erect, enclosed in all the imperial majesty she could muster. Silently she began to repeat all of her titles over and over to herself, steeling herself with them, reminding herself grimly just who she was. An Imperial Princess did not cry. The daughter of Ran Borune did not snivel. The flower of Tolnedra would never grieve because some clumsy scullery boy had chosen to love somebody else.
“Forgive me, Lady Polgara,” she said, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead, “but I suddenly seem to have the most dreadful headache. Would you excuse me, please?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to walk slowly toward the Gorim’s house. She paused only once, just as she passed Garion. “I hope you’ll be very happy,” she lied to him.