.

Chapter Two: A Tale of Old Narnia

.

.

The seven outcast lords of Telmar seated themselves in a half-circle about the grandmother's cooking fire, watching as she lifted a ladle from a cloth beside her and dipped it inside her cauldron. Into plain wooden bowls she ladled the contents. Then she leaned forward to pass each one to the lord closest to her side. Slowly, the bowls of steaming soup were traded about and each man held one in his hands, cupping his fingers around the smooth wood and letting the warmth seep through them.

The grandmother ladled soup into a larger bowl and set it down before the white wolf before helping herself to her own.

Silence settled among the little gathering.

After considering the soup with suspicious eyes, the lords finally succumbed to their hunger.

"In exchange for a meal, I ask a humble price from my lords."

Restimar, the leader by indeterminate happenstance, looked up from his bowl of broth. His eyes glittered with question. Lips curling back from his teeth in a mocking smile, he asked, "And what price is that? We are men with little now to offer anyone."

The grandmother smiled, as if holding a secret inside that amused her. "A tale. I wish to tell you a tale that you listen to with care as payment."

Restimar shrugged, indifferent. "Proceed, whatever you say." He returned to his food, and did not listen. His mind lost itself in a thousand warring thoughts and tribulations that sent him down to a different land within himself.

"What do my lords know of Narnia?"

Now Mavramorn looked at the grandmother sharply. He had seen it in her when they first entered the clearing, and sitting nearer now he knew it without hesitation.

This was a Narnian.

Her eyes betrayed her, her voice betrayed her, her song had betrayed her. So his words fell quickly from his tongue with derisive condescension.

"Narnia has been a vassal of Telmar for beyond one thousand years. She was won by the might of our lord Caspian, the First of his name; Conqueror he is called in the history books. Her inhabitants were made serfs and subjects, the fell creatures and monstrous beasts were driven out or extinguished. This land was made clean, civilized, and inhabitable. Are you done trying to taunt us, Narnian?" His voice was black as he stared across at the old woman, brown eyes aflame with rage.

The grandmother bowed her white head. But when she looked back at him, it was not tears that made her clear eyes bright. "I have no desire to taunt you, Lord Mavramorn."

Octesian gasped at the address of his companion's name by a complete stranger.

The old Narnian continued, "But I think your history must be amended. For though this company of seven seeks justice and strives to uphold what is right, you are thieves."

Mavramorn jerked to his feet and drew his sword without hesitation. "We are not thieves!"

"But you are."

"I deny it! This is a lie, a barbarous, despicable slander! We are good men who have given everything we have for nothing in return!"

His voice resounded in the glen, curling out into the forest with an echo.

"Mavramorn!" Revilian hissed. But the other man was not listening to reproof.

"Acknowledge your words as false, Narnian barbarian! They are false!" Pain filled Mavramorn's tone, and his hand grasping tightly to his hilt shook until the blade trembled above the flames.

The Narnian gazed back at him unflinching, her eyes holding only compassion. "Put away your blade, my lord," she murmured, "I am not your adversary."

Mavramorn uttered a soft, tormented cry and dropped his sword. It fell from his hand to the dirt with a dull ring of metal. He turned from the fireside, putting his hand to his face; hunching his shoulders and bowing his head. The wind blew the ends of his dark curls as they fell against his collar.

He opened his eyes, staring across the glen into the forest, beyond the horses.

The wind gusted harder, moaning through the leaves above.

Tears stung his eyes, and a sob broke from his chest.

Was he to lose everything this night?

His king he had already lost, his dignity, his place in court, his wife, and now what yet remained—

The pride he carried in his heart for his country.

Bern stared at the grandmother, trying to determine what she could be. Her eyes were full of an age of wisdom and kind, sorrowful understanding. He turned his head, looking out at his friend who had gone away from the circle into the dancing shadows. Putting his hand out to brace himself, Bern rose from the sparse grass and dirt around the fire with a soft grunt.

"Mavramorn, come back, sit with us." Coaxing, he laid a gentle hand on Mavramorn's arm. The lord looked over at him.

Bern swallowed, seeing the tears bright in his companion's eyes. Mavramorn's face was full of grief, and it made his own young heart falter and ache painfully. They had lost so much in the days leading to this terrible night. But instead of giving in to their shared sorrow, he smiled at the other man. "Come with me, and let us hear what the Narnian shall tell us—whatever it will be."

Mavramorn swallowed, releasing a shuddering breath. He reached up, grasping Bern's hand on his arm. He pressed Bern's fingers gratefully, nodding in assent in the end. "I shall." His voice was low with emotion.

"Good man." Bern smiled, his own grief showing through on his face in that instant. Together they turned back to face the fire and sit again in their places round it.

ϾІϿ

The grandmother sketched her fingers absently in the dirt beside her, peering into the flames. "In the days when Telmarine rule stood fresh in the minds of every Narnian, and my people struggled to accept we were no longer free, our lives were full of suffering and torment. Much was lost to us that could not be regained. Our homes set to the flame, our titles, torn from our names and remade to give to others for valor unearned, our palace beside the sea – once our beacon of strength and glory – reduced to ruins because we could not preserve it. The day Caspian the First tore down those shining pale towers was the day the soul of Narnia died. Or so all of us who loved her believed." The old woman looked up then, at the lords, and then beyond them, seeing something they could not.

"We endured under torture, scorn, revilement, and slavery. All because of the false hope that we could perhaps live as we had long ago: beneath the White Queen in a winter to last a hundred years. But the darkness of the age grew still harsher as we toiled in fields that had once been ours, forced to serve masters we did not love. Many were driven into the forests like criminals; accused as outlaws for refusing to bend to the rule of King Caspian. Yet, even in the depths of such despair and bitterness we were not alone—just as we have not been forgotten now, though it might appear so."

As the old Narnian spoke this, the lords each felt strangely. For they, too, felt alone since the loss of their companion and king. They felt displaced and despondent; ignored and their plight unheard. Their fight for justice to prevail had failed, leaving them without reputation or victory. Though the grandmother spoke of Narnians, they felt in part as if those words could be for them, also. That perhaps, somehow, in some way, their loss would not last forever; that they were not so alone as they felt in this moment, on this night.

"There came . . . not heroes, no," the Narnian smiled softly, and looked up into the forest, "for they did not come to rescue, but to bring solace. To bid farewell and goodbye. I consider them guardians. The Guardians of Narnia. Safe-keepers of the old ways, bearers of all that Narnia was, and will become again. They were seven; loyal and steadfast and kind. They knew what it was to lose, for they were all of us in the darkness. To those without hope they brought promise of it, to the ones who grew faint-hearted they brought endurance. To many of us weakened in our trust of Aslan, they strengthened with their unwavering fealty to the Great Lion." The grandmother reached out her wrinkled, weathered hand and laid it on the head of the white wolf, stroking the thick, pale fur. "They made peace with Narnia for most of us. But for others . . . they fanned the flames of hate." She looked at the lords again, her eyes grave and dark. "They were hunted by Telmar because of their power to inspire the Narnians. The Guardians did not call for rebellion, but much of their bravery resulted in acts of Narnian revolt across the country."

The old woman fell silent. Only the fire between them sparked and cracked.

Bern, his arm resting on his drawn up knee, stared into the flames, imagining all of the accounts he had read in his history books retold through a new perspective.

The rebellions in the early days of the Conqueror's rule.

The traitors, the pockets of revolt in Glasswater and Silverleaf.

Now they appeared in different light. Not traitors, but a desperate people longing to regain what little dignity they might. Outcasts, attempting to exert justice that had been denied them by trickery and lies. The parallels made him cold, and he hunched in his cloak, pulling the thick wool closer about his body.

"What happened to them? Your . . . seven guardians?"

Revilian and Bern, sitting beside one another, started and lifted their heads, turning to look down the line of lords. Mavramorn sat there, tears bright in his eyes and lining his face, gazing at the old Narnian with all rapt attention and despair. His voice came soft as he asked his question, and the anger that had been present in him before was absent now.

Revilian looked back at the Narnian keenly. She smiled at Mavramorn, and as she did, the brightness in her eyes overflowed in two tears down her wrinkled brown cheeks. "They died for what they loved: their people and their country. But some would say that is a noble end, and a better cannot be bought by any."

"They are right," Mavramorn whispered fervently.

Around him, each lord nodded in silent agreement. They knew what it was to pay for love of justice.

"But that is not all they left us as their legacy. For they were given great weapons of renown—swords. Bestowed upon them by Aslan to protect Narnia. It is carried down through the sagas the Narnians tell one another around fires at night – such as I tell you now – that each sword was imbued with a unique magic, meant to aid the guardian who wielded it. To protect them from harm."

At this mention of swords of great power, Restimar, who had only listened to the old grandmother in part, attuned to her fully. Anything to give them greater advantage over Miraz and his supporters in the court. Anything that would make their chances of survival heighten. So that they might return to support the young prince, if his uncle allowed him to survive infancy—or perhaps so that they would be able to bring about an insurgency against Miraz' control.

"These weapons, what happened to them?" Restimar inquired, attempting to restrain his eagerness.

The Narnian regarded him for a moment, though it seemed a lasting age. His heart beat like the race of hooves and grew light, and he was afraid; afraid because she knew why he asked what he had. But she replied without malice, so that he felt a fool for trembling at such an impossible notion that she could know what his thoughts entertained in the dark.

"When each guardian died, they were taken away from their place of death to Cair Paravel's ruins at the coast, and all that had been theirs in life of value was put with them to rest in burial. Their swords were lain across their stone casks; so that when Aslan wakens all at the end of time, they will rise, and pick up their swords, to enter His Country; the country of the Emperor-beyond-the-sea. Where all shall live forever in Aslan's light." Her voice broke into a dusky whisper as she finished, and the light so brightly shining that ignited in her eyes was different than any they had seen before.

But Restimar felt no great awe for this conclusion of the saga he had been told. In truth he cared little for tales from any country; Telmarine, Narnian. Calormene, Archish, they were all the same. Divine things for little boys and girls, but for men and women something of greater substance was required. It was as he had always believed. So his heart caught against the enchanted swords of power, and he sought to have them before he stepped from this land—him and all his companions. For if there had been seven guardians, and there were seven of them, did not this mean they should be the ones to have these fine weapons?

"Perhaps . . . there is truth in what you spoke of in the beginning, grandmother," Mavramorn replied at length, having let the silence sit awhile and gain profundity. "There is history that must be amended, there is injustice that must be addressed." He looked across at the old Narnian gravely. "I offer my forgiveness—what little that it counts for."

She smiled at him and nodded her head. "Thank you, my lord." She shifted on her cushion, looking round at all the men who had gathered close to her fire, empty bowls before them, eyes full of attention or deep thought. She did not think they could be changed much by an ancient tale, but at least they had been given more to consider than their own pains, and, perhaps, some part of their souls were put at ease to know they were not alone in their fight.

The white wolf, Korah, rose to his paws. He shook all over, staring at the lords, and turned away into the forest at a stealthy lope. The grandmother watched him go before sighing. She turned back to the Telmarines in front of her. "He is right; it is time to say farewell—you have long to travel if you hope to reach Archer's Landing by first light."

Some of the lords regarded her speculatively, still disturbed by her easy knowing of all that they were and were doing. Octesian frowned grimly, and Rhoop's dark eyes blazed with either wrath or superstition, none of his companions were quite certain which. Slowly, with some reluctance to plunge once more into the dark forest, the men rose to stand.

The old Narnian, also, came to her feet.

As Bern adjusted a strap on his saddle before mounting, he glanced back to the fire. She still stood looking after, and though it might have unsettled him before, he found it a comfort—as if she were a mother watching children leave her to discover their own place in the world.

Mounted up on their horses, the lords circled close about one another, speculating how to go.

"To the left, my lords; after Korah's path. No harm shall come to you while Korah and his brothers stand their watch."

Restimar nodded to the woman, and spurred his mare into a gallop. His friends flew after, but Mavramorn stopped beside the fire, his pale mount sidestepping and eager to follow his stablemates.

"Thank you, my lady, for giving a few frightened men a moment's peace. And thank you, for being kind when you had no recourse for kindness."

The old woman shook her head, smiling. "You are not my enemy, and I am not yours. Now go, before you are left behind."

Mavramorn smiled, but before he cleared the glen, drew back and paused again. He turned in his saddle, peering back at the Narnian. "Pray tell me, what is your name, that I may remember you."

"Ibri, my lord—I am Ibri."

"Farewell, Ibri." Mavramorn bowed his head and then was gone, his tall gelding sprinting after the rest of his company.

Ibri watched him go, and her expression was full of thought. "Farewell, my Lord Mavramorn. May the great Aslan keep you all between his paws." Sighing with her age, and feeling sleep creep upon her, she turned back to the fire.

A/N:

Please review!