"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 singleminded 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.