David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

He was at Thull Zelik, and Hettar and Mandorallen were reporting on the activities of ’Zakath, the Mallorean Emperor. “He’s laying siege to Rak Goska right now,” hawk-faced Hettar was saying. There had been a peculiar softening in Hettar’s face since Garion had last seen him, as if something very significant had happened. The tall Algar turned to Garion. “Eventually you’re going to have to do something about ’Zakath,” he said. “I don’t think you want him roaming around at will in this part of the world.”

“Why me?” Garion asked without thinking.

“You’re Overlord of the West, remember?”

Once again Garion awoke. Sooner or later he would have to deal with ’Zakath; there was no question about that. Maybe after the wedding, he’d have time to consider the matter. That thought, however, stopped him. Strangely, he had no conception of anything that might happen after the wedding. It stood before him like some huge door that led into a place he had never been. ’Zakath would have to wait. Garion had to get through the wedding first.

Half asleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, Garion relived a significant little exchange between himself and her Imperial Highness.

“It’s stupid, Ce’Nedra,” he was protesting. “I’m not going to fight anybody, so why should I ride in waving my sword?”

“They deserve to see you, Garion,” she explained as if talking to a child. “They left their homes and rode into battle at your summons.”

“I didn’t summon anybody.”

“I did it in your behalf. They’re a very good army, really, and I raised them all by myself. Aren’t you proud of me?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You were too proud to ask. That’s one of your failings, Garion. You must never be too proud to ask the people who love you for help. Every man in the army loves you. They followed me because of you. Is it too much trouble for the great Overlord of the West to reward his faithful soldiers with just a little bit of a display or appreciation? Or have you become too grand and lofty for simple gratitude?”

“You’re twisting things, Ce’Nedra. You do that a lot, you know.” But Ce’Nedra had already moved on as if the entire matter were settled. “And of course you will wear your crown—and some nice armor. I think a mail shirt would be appropriate.”

“I’m not going to make a clown of myself just to satisfy your urges toward cheap theatricality.”

Her eyes filled. Her lower lip trembled. “You don’t love me any more,” she accused him in a quavering little voice.

Garion groaned even in his sleep. It always came down to that. She won every single argument with that artful bit of deception. He knew it was not genuine. He knew that she only did it to get her own way, but he was absolutely defenseless against it. It might have nothing whatsoever to do with the matter under discussion, but she always managed to twist things around until she could unleash that devastating accusation, and all hope of his winning even the smallest point was immediately lost. Where had she learned to be so heartlessly dishonest?

And so it was that Garion, dressed in mail, wearing his crown and self consciously holding his flaming sword aloft, had ridden into the forts atop the eastern escarpment to the thunderous cheers of Ce’Nedra’s army.

So much had happened since Garion and Silk and Belgarath had crept from the citadel at Riva the previous spring. The young king lay musing in his high, canopied bed, having almost given up on sleep. Ce’Nedra had in fact raised an army. As he had heard more of the details, he had been more and more astonished—not only by her audacity but also by the enormous amount of energy and sheer will she had expended in the process. She had been guided and assisted, certainly, but the initial concept had been hers. His admiration for her was tinged slightly with apprehension. He was going to marry a very strongminded young woman—and one who was not overly troubled by scruples.

He rolled over and punched at his pillow, hoping somehow by that familiar act to bring on more normal sleep, but once again he slipped into restless dreaming. Relg and Taiba were walking toward him, and they were holding hands!

And then he was at the Stronghold, sitting at Adara’s bedside. His beautiful cousin was even paler than he remembered, and she had a persistent, racking cough. Even as the two of them talked, Aunt Pol was taking steps to remedy the last complications of the wound which had so nearly claimed the girl’s life.

“I was mortified, of course,” Adara was saying. “I’d taken so much care to conceal it from him, and now I’d gone and blurted it out to him, and I wasn’t even dying.”

“Hettar?” Garion said again. He’d already said it three times.

“If you don’t stop that, Garion, I’m going to be cross with you,” Adara said quite firmly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized quickly. “It’s just that I’ve never considered him in that light. He’s a good friend, but I never thought of him as particularly loveable. He’s so—I don’t know—implacable, I suppose.”

“I have certain reasons to believe that may change,” Adara said with a faint blush. Then she began to cough again.

“Drink this, dear,” Aunt Pol ordered, coming to the bedside with a fuming cup.

“It’s going to taste awful,” Garion warned his cousin.

“That will do, Garion,” Aunt Pol told him. “I can manage this without the helpful comments.”

And then he was in the caves beneath Prolgu, standing beside Relg as the Gorim performed the simple ceremony uniting the zealot and the Marag woman who had so totally changed Relg’s life. Garion sensed another presence in the underground chamber, and he wondered if anyone had yet told Relg about the bargain that had been struck in Cthol Mishrak. He’d thought about saying something himself, but had decided against it. All things considered, it might be best to let Relg adjust to one thing at a time. Marriage to Taiba was probably going to be enough of a shock to the fanatic’s system for now. Garion could feel Mara’s gloating exultation as the ceremony concluded. The weeping God no longer wept.

It was useless, Garion decided. He was not going to be able to sleep—at least not the kind of sleep that would do him any good. He threw off the covers and pulled on his robe. The fire in his fireplace had been banked for the night, and he stirred it up again. Then he sat in the chair in front of it, staring pensively into the dancing flames.

Even if his wedding to Ce’Nedra had taken place immediately upon their arrival back at Riva, things might still have turned out all right, but the arrangements for a royal wedding of this magnitude were far too complex to be made overnight, and many of those who were to be honored guests were still recuperating from wounds received during the battle of Thull Mardu.

The interim had given Ce’Nedra time to embark upon a full-blown plan of modification. She had, it appeared, a certain concept of him—some ideal which only she could perceive—and she was absolutely determined to cram him into that mold despite all his objections and protests. Nothing could make her relent in her single-minded drive to make him over. It was so unfair. He was quite content to accept her exactly as she was. She had her flaws—many of them—but he was willing to take the good with the bad. Why couldn’t she extend him the same courtesy? But each time he tried to put his foot down and absolutely refuse one of her whims, her eyes would fill with tears, her lip would tremble, and the fatal, “You don’t love me any more,” would drop quaveringly upon him.

Belgarion of Riva had considered flight several times during that long winter.