Author's note: Ta-da! The sequel is here. I don't know if this is entertaining enough but no matter good or bad, do drop me a review, won't you?

Disclaimer: I don't own any of C.S. Lewis's stuff.

Chapter 1: Of Pessimists and Romantics

The mountainous region of Archenland slept in a pleasant silence that had been befell when peace made its home here. Its green valleys and harsh gorges and steep edges slumbered, hiding the true power of their wrath. The birds chirped and sang and the trees sighed in contentment. All was quiet and peaceful –

- until it was shattered by the stamping of hoofs and merry laughter. The forested valley that lay to the far east of Anvard twitched an eye for its disturbers, but soon returned to sleep again, for it was only the restless royalty of Archenland.

"Come, my fair comrades! Keep up!" shouted the leader of the three riders, Prince Rum. His horse was a beautiful chestnut mare that had been bred in the very stables of Anvard. The Prince himself was now a full-grown man of twenty winters, very wise and stately and handsome and sought after by many princesses from distant lands.

Prince Rumil, his younger brother, rode after him, laughing as was always his nature. He was called affectionately by his people as Rumil the Mirthful, for he was never short of laughter and laughed even in the face of danger. He had not much grown from the little boy that had sneaked into the Battle of Anvard, except for his height.

The last rider of them all was a fair and dauntless lady who was not known to have ever refused a challenge. She was known far and wide as Lady Mallory the Brave, and though she was not a princess she was much beloved by the royal family of Archenland. Her equally fearless steed was Snowmane the Unicorn.

They descended into the valley and prepared their feathered friends. "On the count of three!" shouted Prince Rum.

"Fire away, Rum!" added Prince Rumil, grinning.

Rum grinned back at him. "One – two – THREE!" The three friends released their birds and they leapt off from their hands and soared into the clear, blue sky. Then the riders entered the forest and pulled their horses to a stop, panting.

"I reckon Rumil will win again this time," said Rum, rearranging the skin of leather covering his right arm from which his hawk had took off. "Mine faltered a bit when just before shooting up."

"Oh, don't you say that, Rum. It's time he lost," said Mallory, casting Rumil a sharp but playful glance.

Rumil shrugged. "What can I do? It's my luck."

"Yeah, tough luck for the rest of us," said Mallory. She got down from her horse and sat on the grass, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her brown riding dress. The brothers joined her.

"I almost forgot," said Rum, "Lune told us to get in today before mid-day. I reckon he's going to give one of those long lectures about keeping the honour of Archenland."

Mallory and Rumil groaned simultaneously. "Must he?"

"Yes," said Rum in a matter-of-fact way. "And you know why: we've got an invitation this morning just before we went out. The Kings and Queens of Narnia are having a grand celebration for the anniversary of their coronation and we're invited." Rum grinned at Mallory.

Mallory couldn't help but smile knowingly back. Lately, Narnia had come to mean 'High King Peter' to both she and Rum because they both knew that Rumilia was seriously and thoroughly in love with the High King ever since Rum, Rumil and Rumilia had gone for the Narnian rulers' summer tournament last year.

"Can't we give this one a miss?" complained Rumil. He removed one of his boots and massaged his feet. "I've got a blister on this one. And anyway, why've they got to organise so many tournaments? They don't have to show off. I know we're not as rich as they are."

"Come on, Rumil. It's an anniversary. And just so you should know they didn't become Kings and Queens through inheritance," said Rum. "And you, Mallory, are to come with us."

She was halfway through one gulp of water from the leatherskin water-bottle when she heard it and as an unfortunate result she choked and coughed. Rumil helped her by clapping her back as Rum laughed.

"Must I?" she managed to gasp at last. She had successfully managed to avoid going to Narnia every time they had sent an invitation and she desperately wanted to give this one a miss too. One reason was because she knew that when Rumilia was in love with someone, Mallory would be forced to listen to her gush about it, and since the celebration was likely to last for several days she didn't want to be Rumilia's listening-post. Besides, she still hadn't forgotten about her argument with Peter and Mallory was the sort of person who would give that sort of thing a wide berth whenever possible. But that didn't mean she was a coward.

"You've been skipping too many, Mallory. Lune said it's high time you showed yourself. And besides," smiled Rum, "who knows you might be able to snag someone for yourself there?"

That was the final straw. Rumil burst out laughing and Mallory not only turned a very deep shade of scarlet but her eyes were wide open too. "RUM!"

"Mallory, you heard Lune. It's time you got married."

"No! Never! I won't, I'm telling you – and you can't make me!"

"I'm sure King Edmund's not too bad a candidate," teased Rumil.

"If that's your reason for making me go, then forget about it. I'm definitely not going."

"Come on, Mallory, be a good sport. It sure won't hurt for you to meet the Narnian rulers. They're a perfectly good and sensible lot."

"I know they are," said Mallory hesitantly, "But it's just – well, what if I disgrace Archenland?"

"You won't, and why would you anyway?" frowned Rumil.

"Because – because - " Mallory was finally at a loss for words.

Rum laughed. "Good, it's settled then."

A piercing cry came from above and all three looked up at once. Mallory gasped in disbelief. "It's my hawk!"

When they had got back to the castle, Mallory found to her utmost horror that Rumilia had already packed her things. If that wasn't enough, Rumilia was extremely giggly and perhaps too ecstatic about the trip. Rumilia had grown into a beautiful gentlewoman with a behaviour fitting for a princess. Whereas Mallory had adopted an unhealthy interest for swordplay, archery, hawking and horseback riding, Rumilia had polished her skills in dancing, singing, embroidery and playing the mandolin. The reputation of her great beauty and gentle ways had enraptured the hearts of princes from distant lands, and already there were many that had come to the very castle of Anvard to ask for her hand in marriage. But Rumilia had rejected every single one of her suitor. This situation might be a mystery to King Lune and perhaps every single Archenlander, but Rum, Rumil and Mallory knew the exact reason. It was this: Rumilia had sworn her heart to the Narnian High King Peter and was not likely to give it up to anyone else.

"Can you believe it, Mallory?" gushed Rumilia, her face pink and lit up by her famously enchanting smile. "Lune says that we're to go to Cair Paravel tomorrow morning. Oh, aren't you just excited?"

"Oh, very," said Mallory dryly.

She frowned, but such was Rumilia's beauty that even when she was furious or flooded by tears, she always looked pretty. "Don't be such an idiot, Mallory. Narnia is a wonderful place. Why don't you give it a chance?"

"I know that Narnia is a magnificent place, and Cair Paravel is ten times bigger than Anvard, but – but well - "

"Oh, I see it now, Mallory," said Rumilia, breaking into a sweet and sly smile. "You're nervous about King Edmund, aren't you?"

Mallory could only blink. "What?"

Rumilia laughed. "Don't deny it, silly. Otherwise, why would you be so keen on getting away from him? And you have met him before, haven't you? As a self-respecting lady, Mallory, you should go to him, find out about his interests, get him to take interest in you, or nothing will ever happen and before you know it, he's got himself married to another princess who's not even half as wonderful as you - "

Mallory cut her off with a short bark of a laugh. "Rumilia, I think you should know that I'm older than him, therefore I have no interest in him whatsoever."

Rumilia tried to frown, but the smile was still playing on her lips. "Oh, but still, Mallory, I'm not just hinting about him. You've got to fight you know, to get what you want."

"Tell me about fighting," said Mallory, smiling. The two women were so close that they couldn't possibly stay angry at one another for so long.

Rumilia took Mallory's hand in hers and gave it a tender squeeze. "Cheer up, Mallory. Maybe this won't turn out as bad as you expect it to be. You're always such a frightening pessimist!"

Mallory grinned. "And you, my dear Rumilia, are the most hopeless romantic!"

Sleep was unusually difficult for Mallory that night. This wasn't the first time, though. During her first few months in Anvard she had missed home so much that she tried crying herself to sleep, which worked at first but later she decided that she must not cry but try to find another way to get to sleep. One night she had the ingenious idea of rummaging through her Enchanted Chest, sorting out every weapon, every personal thing that she had chucked or tucked away inside it, and before she knew it she was yawning already.

So that night, Mallory stood and padded towards her Chest. The fire in the hearth was still burning so she didn't have to light an oil lamp, which she detested because she didn't like the tedious procedure. She opened the lid and knelt and felt about inside for a random object. Her fingers grasped a piece of parchment and she pulled it out and went to the hearth to read it.

It was the letter from Peter. Her insides squirmed a bit when she read his neat handwriting. Nearly ten years had passed and still she hadn't replied his letter. It read:

Dear Mallory,

How is Archenland? Aslan has only mentioned of it once, and I'd sure like to visit it myself because it sounds like a nice place. I'm sure you know the reason on which I am writing this: a wanting apology from my side. You left before I had the chance to say sorry for yelling at you like a perfect ass when all you've been trying to do is to assure me and Susan and Lucy. I have to admit though that personally it was mean of you to leave without telling me. But I suppose you have a reasonable explanation for all this. You don't look like the sort of person who acts on pure whim.

How daft of me; I should have included this earlier: heartiest congratulations on being knighted, although I'd dearly love to hear what you've done to deserve it. Maybe it's got something to do with you leaving Narnia in the dead of the night? Whichever it was that had happened, I wish you the best of luck in whatever you attempt to do as a Lady of Archenland.

Mr. Tumnus (that's the Faun who saved Lucy but that's a long story and if you write back I'll tell you all about it), said that as Kings and Queens we are obliged to hold tournaments and invite foreign dignitaries to participate so that we can all get to know each other and establish allies especially in trade. It doesn't sound like a bad idea, even though I'm sure it'll be awfully hard work to carry them out, but we'll do our best whenever we can. Our very first tournament is in order already, in honour of our coronation (it's all Mr. and Mrs. Beaver's idea, if it were up to me I wouldn't dream of celebrating myself). Nevertheless, it's on anyway in two weeks' time and I'd love for you to come. No, scratch that, we're ALL dying to see you, just to find out how you've been and all and how you're looking (the last part is Susan's idea, honest!). Lucy's picked up a bit of archery and seems to be showing an excellent aptitude for it and so, being a very energetic girl (I'm sure you know all about it) she's just about ready to take anybody on. Ed's getting along the best, I think; he's taking all this kingly thing more smoothly than I am. Golly, I don't know if you'll ever believe this but he's a better sprinter than I am: should I be ashamed?

I suppose this is all for the time being. I really, sincerely hope that you'd write back to us because you're a very dear friend to all of us. After all, it's not every day you find fellow Londoners to talk with in Narnia (in this case Archenland too). And do, do come for the tournament!

Yours always,

Peter