“I wish this was all over,” he said for the sixth time.
“Just be patient, Garion,” Lelldorin advised him again.
“What are they doing out there?”
“Probably waiting for word that her Highness is ready. At this particular time, she’s far more important than you are. That’s the way weddings are, you know.”
“You’re the lucky one. You and Ariana just ran off and got married without all this fuss.”
Lelldorin laughed ruefully. “I didn’t really escape it, Garion,” he said, “just postponed it for a while. All the preparations here have inflamed my Ariana. As soon as we return to Arendia, she wants us to have a proper wedding.”
“What is it about weddings that does such strange things to the female mind?”
“Who can say?” Lelldorin shrugged. “A woman’s mind is a mystery – as you’ll soon discover.”
Garion gave him a sour look and adjusted his crown once again. “I wish it were all over,” he said again.
In time the fanfare echoed through the Hall of the Rivan King, the door opened, and, trembling visibly, Garion adjusted his crown one last time and marched out to meet his fate. Although he knew most of the people in the hall, the faces around him were all a blur as he and Lelldorin walked past the peat fires glowing in the pits in the floor toward the throne where his great sword once more hung in its proper place with the Orb of Aldur glowing on its pommel.
The hall was hung with buntings and banners, and there was a vast profusion of spring flowers. The wedding guests, in silks, satins, and brightly colored brocades, seemed themselves almost like some flower garden as they twisted and strained to watch the entrance of the royal bridegroom.
Awaiting him before the throne stood the white-robed old Gorim of Ulgo, a smile on his gentle face.
“Greetings, Belgarion,” the Gorim murmured as Garion mounted the steps.
“Holy Gorim,” Garion replied with a nervous bow.
“Be tranquil, my son,” the Gorim advised, noting Garion’s shaking hands.
“I’m trying, Holy One.”
The brazen horns sounded yet another fanfare, and the door at the back of the hall swung wide. The Imperial Princess Ce’Nedra, dressed in her creamy, pearl-studded wedding gown, stood in the doorway with her cousin Xera at her side. She was stunning. Her flaming hair streamed down across one shoulder of her gown, and she wore the varicolored golden circlet of which she had always been so fond. Her face was demure, and a delicate little blush colored her cheeks. She kept her eyes downcast, although once she flickered a quick glance at Garion, and he saw the little twinkle that lurked behind her thick lashes. He knew then with absolute certainty that all that demure modesty was a pose. She stood long enough to allow all to look their fill at her perfection before, accompanied by the sound of gently cascading harps, she came down the aisle to meet her quivering bridegroom. In a ceremony Garion thought just a trifle overdone, Barak’s two little daughters preceded the bride, strewing her path with flowers.
When she reached the dais, Ce’Nedra rather impulsively kissed the kindly old Gorim’s cheek and then took her place at Garion’s side. There was a fragrance about her that was strangely flowerlike – a fragrance that for some reason made Garion’s knees tremble.
The Gorim looked out at the assemblage and began to speak.
“We are gathered today,” he began, “to witness the last unraveling of the Prophecy which has guided all our lives through the deadliest of peril and brought us safely to this happy moment. As foretold, the Rivan King has returned. He has met our ancient foe and he has prevailed. His reward stands radiant at his side.”
Reward? Garion had not considered it in precisely that light before. He thought about it a bit as the Gorim continued, but it didn’t really help all that much. He felt a sharp little nudge in his ribs.
“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.”