Valgon had seized on Garion's break with tradition and was trying to wring the last measure of advantage from it, while Brand was desperately trying to add clauses and stipulations to circ.u.mscribe Ce'Nedra's authority rigidly. As the two haggled back and forth, Garion found himself more and more frequently staring out the window. The sky over Riva was an intense blue, and puffy white clouds ran before the wind. The bleak crags of the island were touched with the first green blush of spring. Faintly, carried by the wind, the high, clear voice of a shepherdess singing to her flock wafted through the open window. There was a pure, unschooled quality to her voice, and she sang with no hint of self consciousness as if there were not a human ear within a hundred leagues. Garion sighed as the last notes of her song died away and then returned his attention to the tedious negotiations.

His attention, however, was divided in those early days of spring. Since he was unable to pursue the search for the man with the torn cloak himself, he was forced to rely on Lelldorin to press the investigation. Lelldorin was not always entirely reliable, and the search for the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin seemed to fire the enthusiastic young Asturian's imagination. He crept about the Citadel with dark, sidelong glances, and reported his lack of findings in conspiratorial whispers. Turning things over to Lelldorin might have been a mistake, but there had been no real choice in the matter. Any of Garion's other friends would have immediately raised a general outcry, and the entire affair would have been irrevocably out in the open. Garion did not want that. He was not prepared to make any decisions about the a.s.sa.s.sin until he found out who had thrown the knife and why. Too many other things could have been involved. Only Lelldorin could be relied upon for absolute secrecy, even though there was some danger in turning him loose in the Citadel with a license to track someone down. Lelldorin had a way of turning simple things into catastrophes, and Garion worried almost as much about that as he did about the possibility of another knife hurtling out of the shadows toward his unprotected back.

Among the visitors present for the betrothal ceremonies was Ce'Nedra's cousin Xera, who was present as the personal representative of Queen Xantha. Though shy at first, the Dryad soon lost her reserve - particularly when she found herself the center of the attention of a cl.u.s.ter of smitten young n.o.blemen.

The gift of Queen Xantha to the royal couple was, Garion thought, somewhat peculiar. Wrapped in plain leaves, Xera presented them with two sprouted acorns. Ce'Nedra, however, seemed delighted. She insisted upon planting the two seeds immediately and rushed down to the small private garden adjoining the royal apartments.

"It's very nice, I suppose," Garion commented dubiously as he stood watching his princess on her knees in the damp loam of the garden, busily preparing the earth to receive Queen Xantha's gift.

Ce'Nedra looked at him sharply. "I don't believe your Majesty understands the significance of the gift," she said in that hatefully formal tone she had a.s.sumed with him.

"Stop that," Garion told her crossly. "I still have a name, after all and I'm almost positive you haven't forgotten it."

"If your Majesty insists," she replied loftily.

"My Majesty does. What's so significant about a couple of nuts?"

She looked at him almost pityingly. "You wouldn't understand."

"Not if you won't take the trouble to explain it to me."

"Very well." She sounded irntatingly superior. "The one acorn is from my very own tree. The other is from Queen Xantha's."

"So?"

"See how impossibly dense he is," the princess said to her cousin.

"He's not a Dryad, Ce'Nedra," Xera replied calmly.

"Obviously."

Xera turned to Garion. "The acorns are not really from my mother," she explained. "They're gifts from the trees themselves."

"Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" Garion demanded of Ce'Nedra.

She sniffed and returned to her digging.

"While they're still just young shoots, Ce'Nedra will bind them together," Xera went on. "The shoots will intertwine as they grow, embracing each other and forming a single tree. It's the Dryad symbol for marriage. The two will become one - just as you and Ce'Nedra will."

"That remains to be seen," Ce'Nedra sniffed, trowelling busily in the dirt.

Garion sighed. "I hope the trees are patient."

"Trees are very patient, Garion," Xera replied. She made a little gesture that Ce'Nedra could not see, and Garion followed her to the other end of the garden.

"She does love you, you know," Xera told him quietly. "She won't admit it, of course, but she loves you. I know her well enough to see that."

"Why's she acting the way she is, then?"

"She doesn't like being forced into things, that's all."

"I'm not the one who's forcing her. Why take it out on me?"

"Whom else can she take it out on?"

Garion hadn't thought of that. He left the garden quietly. Xera's words gave him some hope that one of his problems, at least, might eventually be resolved. Ce'Nedra would pout and storm for a while, and then - after she had made him suffer enough - she would relent. Perhaps it might speed things along if he suffered a bit more obviously.

The other problems had not changed significantly. He was still going to have to lead an army against Kal Torak; Belgarath had still given no sign that his power was intact; and someone in the Citadel was still, so far as Garion knew, sharpening another knife for him. He sighed and went back to his own rooms where he could worry in private.

Somewhat later he received word that Aunt Pol wanted to see him in her private apartment. He went immediately and found her seated by the fire, sewing as usual. Belgarath, dressed in his shabby old clothes, sat in one of the deep, comfortable chairs on the other side of the fire with his feet up and a tankard in his hand.

"You wanted to see me, Aunt Pol?" Garion inquired as he entered.

"Yes, dear," she replied. "Sit down." She looked at him somewhat critically. "He still doesn't look much like a king, does he, father?"

"Give him time, Pol," the old man told her. "He hasn't been at it for very long."

"You both knew all along, didn't you?" Garion accused them. "Who I was, I mean."

"Naturally," Aunt Pol answered in that maddening way of hers.

"Well, if you'd wanted me to behave like a king, you should have told me about it. That way I'd have had some time to get used to the idea."

"It seems to me we discussed this once before," Belgarath mentioned, "a long time ago. If you'll stop and think a bit, I'm sure you'll be able to see why we had to keep it a secret."

"Maybe." Garion said it a bit doubtfully. "All this has happened too fast, though. I hadn't even got used to being a sorcerer yet, and now I have to be a king, too. It's all got me off balance."

"You're adaptable, Garion," Aunt Pol told him, her needle flickering.

"You'd better give him the amulet, Pol," Belgarath mentioned. "The princess should be here soon."

"I was just about to, father," she replied, laying aside her sewing.

"What's this?" Garion asked.

"The princess has a gift for you," Aunt Pol said. "A ring. It's a bit ostentatious, but act suitably pleased."

"Shouldn't I have something to give her in return?"

"I've already taken care of that, dear." She took a small velvet box from the table beside her chair. "You'll give her this." She handed the box to Garion.

Inside the box lay a silver amulet, a bit smaller than Garion's own. Represented on its face in minute and exquisite detail was the likeness of that huge tree which stood in solitary splendor in the center of the Vale of Aldur. There was a crown woven into the branches. Garion held the amulet in his right hand, trying to determine if it had some of the same kind of force about it that he knew was in the one he wore. There was something there, but it didn't feel at all the same.

"It doesn't seem to be like ours," he concluded.

"It isn't," Belgarath replied. "Not exactly, anyway. Ce'Nedra's not a sorceress, so she wouldn't be able to use one like yours."

"You said 'not exactly.' It does have some kind of power, then?"

"It will give her certain insights," the old man answered, "if she's patient enough to learn how to use it."

"Exactly what are we talking about when we use the word 'insight'?"

"An ability to see and hear things she wouldn't otherwise be able to see or hear," Belgarath specified.

"Is there anything else I should know about it before she gets here?"

"Just tell her that it's a family heirloom," Aunt Pol suggested. "It belonged to my sister, Beldaran."

"You should keep it, Aunt Pol," Garion objected. "I can get something else for the princess."

"No, dear. Beldaran wants her to have it."

Garion found Aunt Pol's habit of speaking of people long dead in the present tense a trifle disconcerting, so he didn't pursue the matter. There was a light tap on the door.

"Come in, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol answered.

The little princess was wearing a rather plain green gown open at the throat, and her expression was somewhat subdued.

"Come over by the fire;" Aunt Pol told her. "The evenings are still a bit chilly this time of year."

"Is it always this cold and damp in Riva?" Ce'Nedra asked, coming to the fire.

"We're a long ways north of Tol Honeth," Garion pointed out.

"I'm aware of that," she said with that little edge in her voice.

"I always thought it was customary to wait until after the wedding to start bickering," Belgarath observed slyly. "Have the rules changed?"

"Just practicing, Belgarath," Ce'Nedra replied impishly. "Just practicing for later on."

The old man laughed. "You can be a charming little girl when you put your mind to it," he said.

Ce'Nedra bowed mockingly. Then she turned to Garion. "It's customary for a Tolnedran girl to give her betrothed a gift of a certain value," she informed him. She held up a heavy, ornate ring set with several glowing stones. "This ring belonged to Ran Horb II, the greatest of all Tolnedran Emperors. Wearing it might help you to be a better king."

Garion sighed. It was going to be one of those meetings. "I'll be honored to wear the ring," he replied as inoffensively as possible, "and I'd like for you to wear this." He handed her the velvet box. "It belonged to the wife of Riva Iron-grip, Aunt Pol's sister."

Ce'Nedra took the box and opened it. "Why, Garion," she exclaimed, "it's lovely." She held the amulet in her hand, turning it to catch the firelight. "The tree looks so real that you can almost smell the leaves."

"Thank you," Belgarath replied modestly.

"You made it?" The princess sounded startled.

The old man nodded. "When Polgara and Beldaran were children, we lived in the Vale. There weren't very many silversmiths there, so I had to make their amulets myself. Aldur helped me with some of the finer details."

"This is a priceless gift, Garion." The tiny girl actually glowed, and Garion began to have some hope for the future. "Help me with it," she commanded, handing him the two ends of the chain and turning with one hand holding aside the ma.s.s of her deep red hair.

"Do you accept the gift, Ce'Nedra?" Aunt Pol asked her, giving the question a peculiar emphasis.

"Of course I do," the princess replied.

"Without reservation and of your own free will?" Aunt Pol pressed, her eyes intent.

"I accept the gift, Lady Polgara," Ce'Nedra replied. "Fasten it for me, Garion. Be sure it's secure. I wouldn't want it to come undone."

"I don't think you'll need to worry too much about that," Belgarath told her.

Garion's fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the curious clasp.

His fingertips tingled peculiarly as the two ends locked together with a faintly audible click.

"Hold the amulet in your hand, Garion," Aunt Pol instructed him. Ce'Nedra lifted her chin and Garion took the medallion in his right hand. Then Aunt Pol and Belgarath closed their hands over his. Something peculiar seemed to pa.s.s through their hands and into the talisman at Ce'Nedra's throat.

"Now you are sealed to us, Ce'Nedra," Aunt Pol told the princess quietly, "with a tie that can never be broken."

Ce'Nedra looked at her with a puzzled expression, and then her eyes slowly widened and a dreadful suspicion began to grow in them.

"Take it off," she told Garion sharply.

"He can't do that," Belgarath informed her, sitting back down and picking up his tankard again.

Ce'Nedra was tugging at the chain, pulling with both hands.

"You'll just scratch your neck, dear," Aunt Pol warned gently. "The chain won't break; it can't be cut; and it won't come off over your head. You'll never have to worry about losing it."

"You did this," the princess stormed at Garion.

"Did what?"

"Put this slave chain on me. It wasn't enough that I had to bow to you; now you've put me in chains as well."

"I didn't know," he protested.

"Liar!" she screamed at him. Then she turned and fled the room, sobbing bitterly.

Chapter Fifteen.

GARION WAS IN a sour mood. The prospect of another day of ceremony and tedious conferences was totally unbearable, and he had risen early to escape from the royal bedchamber before the insufferably polite appointment secretary with his endless lists could arrive to nail down the entire day. Garion privately detested the inoffensive fellow, even though he knew the man was only doing his job. A king's time had to be organized and scheduled, and it was the appointment secretary's task to take care of that. And so, each morning after breakfast, there came that respectful tapping at the door, and the appointment secretary would enter, bow, and then proceed to arrange the young king's day, minute by minute. Garion was morbidly convinced that somewhere, probably hidden away and closely guarded, was the ultimate master list that laid out the schedule for the rest of his life- including his royal funeral.

But this day dawned too gloriously for thoughts of stuffy formality and heavy conference. The sun had come boiling up out of the Sea of the Winds, touching the snowfields atop the craggy peaks with a blushing pink, and the morning shadows in the deep valleys above the city were a misty blue. The smell of spring pushed urgently in from the little garden outside his window, and Garion knew he must escape, if only for an hour or so. He dressed quickly in tunic, hose, and soft Rivan boots, rather carefully selecting clothes as unroyal as his wardrobe offered. Pausing only long enough to belt on his sword, he crept out of the royal apartment. He even considered riot taking along his guards, but prudently decided against that.

They were at a standstill in the search for the man who had tried to kill him in that dim hallway, but both Lelldorin and Garion had discovered that the outer garments of any number of Rivans needed repair. The gray cloak was not a ceremonial garment, but rather was something thrown on for warmth. It was a st.u.r.dy, utilitarian covering, and quite a number of such robes had been allowed to fall into a condition of shocking disrepair. Moreover, now that spring was here, men would soon stop wearing them, and the only clue to the attacker's ident.i.ty would be locked away in a closet somewhere.