David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

“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.”

And finally Garion danced with his cousin Adara.

“Are you happy?” he asked her.

“More than you could ever imagine,” she replied with a gentle smile.

“Then everything worked out for the best, didn’t it?”

“Yes, Garion. It’s as if it had all been fated to happen. Everything feels so right, somehow.”

“It’s possible that it was fated,” Garion mused. “I sometimes think we have very little control over our own lives—I know I don’t.”

She smiled. “Very deep thoughts for a bridegroom on his wedding day.” Then her face grew gravely serious. “Don’t let Ce’Nedra drive you to distraction,” she advised. “And don’t always give in to her.”

“You’ve heard about what’s been happening?”

She nodded. “Don’t take it too seriously, Garion. She’s been testing you, that’s all.”

“Are you trying to say that I still have to prove something?”

“With Ce’Nedra—probably every day. I know your little princess, Garion. All she really wants is for you to prove that you love her—and don’t be afraid to say it to her. I think you’ll be surprised at how agreeable she’ll be if you just take the trouble to tell her that you love her—frequently.”

“She knows that already.”

“But you have to tell her.”

“How often do you think I ought to say it?”

“Oh, probably every hour or so.”

He was almost certain that she was joking.

“I’ve noticed that Sendars are a reserved sort of people,” she told him. “That isn’t going to work with Ce’Nedra. You’re going to have to put your upbringing aside and come right out and say it. It will be worth the trouble, believe me.”

“I’ll try,” he promised her.

She laughed and lightly kissed his cheek. “Poor Garion,” she said.

“Why poor Garion?”

“You still have so much to learn.”

The dance continued.

Exhausted finally and famished by their efforts, Garion and his bride made their way to the groaning table and sat down to take their wedding supper. The supper was quite special. Two days before the wedding, Aunt Pol had calmly marched into the royal kitchen and had taken charge. As a result, everything was perfect. The smells from the heavily laden table were overwhelming. King Rhodar absolutely could not pass by without just one more nibble.

The music and the dance continued, and Garion watched, relieved that he had escaped the floor. His eyes sought out old friends in the crowd. Barak, huge but strangely gentle, danced with Merel, his wife. They looked very good together. Lelldorin danced with Ariana, and their eyes were lost in each others’ faces. Relg and Taiba did not dance, but sat together in a secluded corner. They were, Garion noted, holding hands. Relg’s expression was still slightly startled, but he did not look unhappy.

Near the center of the floor, Hettar and Adara danced with the innate grace of those who spend their lives on horseback. Hettar’s hawklike face was different somehow, and Adara was flushed with happiness. Garion decided that it might be a good time to try Adara’s advice. He leaned toward Ce’Nedra’s pink little ear and cleared his throat. “I love you,” he whispered. It was difficult the first time, so he tried it again—just to get the feel of it. “I love you,” he whispered again. It was easier the second time.

The effect on his princess was electrifying. She blushed a sudden rosy red, and her eyes went very wide and somehow defenseless. Her entire heart seemed to be in those eyes. She appeared unable to speak, but reached out instead gently to touch his face. As he returned her gaze, he was quite amazed at the change that the simple phrase had made in her. Adara, it appeared, had been right. He stored that bit of information away rather carefully, feeling more confident than he had in months.

The hall was filled with colors as the guests danced in celebration of the royal wedding. There were, however, a few faces that did not reflect the general happiness. Near the center of the floor, Mandorallen danced with the Lady Nerina, Baroness of Vo Ebor, and their faces mirrored that tragedy which was still central to their lives. Not far from them, Silk danced with Queen Porenn. The little man’s face bore once again that same bitter, self mocking expression Garian had first seen in King Anheg’s palace in Val Alorn.

Garion sighed.

“Melancholy already, my husband?” Ce’Nedra asked him with a little twinkle. Once again, even as they sat, she ducked her head beneath his arm and drew it about her in that peculiar way of hers. She smelled very good, and he noted that she was very soft and warm.

“I was just remembering a few things,” he replied to her question.

“Good. Try to get that all out of the way now. I wouldn’t want it interfering later.”

Garion’s face turned bright red, and Ce’Nedra laughed a wicked little laugh. “I think that perhaps later is not much further off,” she said then. “You must dance with Lady Polgara, and I will dance with your grandfather. And then I think it will be time for us to retire. It’s been a very full day.”

“I am a bit tired,” Garion agreed.

“Your day isn’t over yet, Belgarion of Riva,” she told him pointedly.

Feeling a bit peculiar about it, Garion approached Aunt Pol where she and Durnik sat watching the dance. “Will you dance with me, Aunt Polgara?” he asked with a formal little bow.

She looked at him a bit quizzically. “So you’ve finally admitted it,” she said.

“Admitted what?”

“Who I really am.”

“I’ve known.”

“But you’ve never called me by my full name before, Garion,” she pointed out, rising and gently smoothing back his hair. “I think it might be a rather significant step.”

They danced together in the glowing candlelight to the music of lutes and pipes. Polgara’s steps were more measured and slow than the dance Lelldorin had so painstakingly taught to Garion. She had reached back, Garion realized, into the dim past, and she led him through the stately measures of a dance she had learned centuries before, during her sojourn with the Wacite Arends. Together they moved through the slow, graceful, and somehow melancholy measures of a dance which had vanished forever some twenty-five centuries before, to live on only in Polgara’s memory.

Ce’Nedra was blushing furiously when Belgarath returned her to Garion for their last dance. The old man grinned impishly, bowed to his daughter and took her hands to lead her as well. The four of them danced not far from each other, and Garion clearly heard his Aunt’s question. “Have we done well, father?”

Belgarath’s smile was quite genuine. “Why yes, Polgara,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I think we’ve done very well indeed.”