Breakfast was hardly over before Second Day began in earnest. Caspian took his place with Uncle Miraz and Aunt Prunaprismia in the royal box at the arena. A few privileged members of the court were admitted to the box as well; Nurse was not among them, having been seated on an ordinary bench not far away. Caspian waved at her and she waved back. In that moment, Caspian wondered – for the fiftieth time that morning – about her behaviour the last two nights, but even if he dared to ask her about it in such a crowd of people, he had no chance: the heralds trumpeted a fanfare and the entire arena erupted in a din of cheering and applauding. A number of armed men entered the ring to an increased applause.

When the people settled, Uncle Miraz called out in his clear voice. "Three hundred years ago, our forefathers struggled and fought for everything they had against warring tribes of plunderers and each other, against famine and plague, against nature itself and monsters nature never intended; but one man prevailed over all and it is he that we honour here today!" Caspian couldn't help but join in the roar that burst forth like waters breaking through a dam.

Again, Uncle Miraz had to wait till it passed before he could speak again; when he did, it was not to the crowd, but to the men in the ring. "Men of Telmar, you represent for us today all those who have battled before us. Compete in their memory and you may win the prize in the end." He swept his arm toward Aunt Prunaprismia, who stood and revealed what she held for all to see. Even Caspian, who lived surrounded by beautiful and costly things, drew a breath: in his aunt's grasp was a length of embroidered velvet, a sword sheathed in a gleaming scabbard, and a circlet of brass polished till it shone bright as gold and set with a single sapphire. A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd and sound of applause returned. "Each man will duel till first blood," Uncle Miraz announced before he lost his chance to be heard again. "They that shed blood will be eliminated while they that draw it face a new opponent, till one of you wins the title of Conqueror of the Day. May fortune rest on you all. Begin!"

The spectators let loose another tumult of cheers. Uncle Miraz and Aunt Prunaprismia took their seats; the contestants saluted and dispersed, most of them to stand along the edges of the arena while eight took their places by the simple structure in the center, which looked like four long hitching posts that met like spokes on a wheel, dividing the arena into quarters. Each pair of competitors shook hands and waited for the trumpet blast. Caspian caught himself holding his breath for that exhilarating moment too. The trumpets sounded and were very nearly drowned out the next moment by the clash of iron and the roar from the stands.

Caspian wasn't sure how many men were set to duel; he only knew that there were more in the arena that he'd ever seen in any other tournament: a number were soldiers, some were nobles, and others were ordinary people prepared to try their luck. All of them wore simple chainmail shirts and helmets, but no other armour. Caspian thought that must make the duels a little more fair: those who were not soldiers or noblemen would hardly have stood a chance otherwise.

One man was struck in the arm. He and his opponent were escorted from their quarter, one to wait for his next match, the other to be tended to in a pavilion outside the arena. One of Uncle Miraz' captains chose two new contestants to take their place in the vacant quarter. They shook hands and the captain signalled them to begin. While all that took place, the other three duels continued uninterrupted until the next match was ended.

Shouts of encouragement resounded from all sides, overlapping with the cries of victory; both overruled the groans of disappointment. Caspian hardly knew what to call out and when. Each of the quarters distracted him from the others and he was always happy for the victors and disappointed for each man that met defeat. He did let out a very different sort of cry – along with half the arena – when one man dealt a dreadful blow to his opponent, sending him to the ground with a heavily bleeding leg. Despite every instinct to hide his eyes from the sight, Caspian stared until the injured man was carried off on a stretcher. The equally horrified victor refused to rejoin the other contestants, choosing instead to follow the stretcher out of the arena.

The tournament continued and the crowd's original energy returned in short order. Soon, there were no more fresh men, only victors; then their numbers began to dwindle. By the time eight remained, Caspian had chosen the ones he particularly hoped would win: one, a thick-shouldered commoner with a bushy brown beard, the other, a young noble Uncle Miraz had identified as Lord Scythley's nephew – not that Caspian could remember who Lord Scythley was.

Both of Caspian's favourites advanced to the next round and each was paired with a soldier. He learned so far forward in his seat to watch that Uncle Miraz barely managed to save him from a tumble. "Watch yourself."

"Sorry, Uncle." Caspian met his uncle's gaze and found, to his surprise, a rare opportunity to share a smile with him. The twinkle in Uncle Miraz' eyes told him that they were equally excited for the final matches.

The trumpets sounded and the contestants leapt into action. Caspian's bearded favourite struck out at his opponent with broad swings and heavy blows, his sturdy legs braced against the force his soldier applied to his shield. The nobleman seemed to avoid most of his opponent's strikes altogether, for he never ceased to move his feet, advancing here, feinting there, leaping back, and doing it all again. Caspian's eyes darted between the two matches, his hands stung from clapping, and his cheers grew hoarse. After a minute or two, his nobleman was disqualified by a nick to his hand, but Caspian's disappointment did not last long, for his remaining favourite won his match.

Caspian ignored his tired arms and numb hands as he joined everyone else in the anticipation of the final duel. The finalists shook hands and exchanged a few words before they stepped back to wait for the signal. The heralds blew out a fanfare that sent Caspian into an exhilarated tremble.

Swords flashed and shields were raised, but all sounds of the battle were drowned out by the shouts that seemed to shake the ground. The soldier was quick, but could not find an opening, for the bearded commoner always met his strokes with his shield. The latter had yet to land a solid blow himself. Around and around they danced until Caspian's favourite darted forward to surprise the soldier. There was a collective cheer at the change, but the soldier parried the strike and forced the commoner back a few steps. They circled each other, watching the other keenly. Caspian clenched his fists, waiting for either one to strike again. Finally, the soldier dove forward, only to glance off the commoner's shield while its wielder stepped forward and pressed his sword to the soldier's collar. The stands rumbled under the feet of the rising spectators, the air rent by their wild cheers. Caspian too leapt to his feet and shouted till he was sure had no voice left to contribute.

The competitors parted, both breathing heavily and dripping sweat, but not without smiles. The soldier clapped a hand to the commoner's shoulder before shaking hands with him again. The victor raised his sword in acknowledgement of the crowd's praise before he approached the royal box to claim his prize. Uncle Miraz raised his hands to signal for quiet. When he finally had it, he asked the champion for his name.

"Bahram of Beruna," Uncle Miraz pronounced in his most ceremonious tone, "you have prevailed over all others to glory as champion of the Feast of Caspian. Well and truly have you earned your reward." He gestured to Aunt Prunaprismia, who stood next to him, the prizes in her hands. Uncle Miraz took the sword and brass circlet from her and she leaned forward to drape the embroidered velvet over Bahram's shoulders. He bowed to thank her while Uncle Miraz continued. "You bear on your shoulders the power of a mighty man. At your side, you carry the strength of a warrior." The sword passed from the king to the commoner, who grasped the weapon with something like reverence.

A sudden thought came to Caspian and he tugged on Uncle Miraz' tunic before he could change his mind. Uncle Miraz turned to him with a definite flash of the eyes that asked how he dared interrupt, but Caspian had not yet convinced himself to abandon his request. He pointed to the circlet and asked, "May I, please?"

Uncle Miraz seemed to consider it for a second before his face broke into a smile. "And finally," he said for all to hear, "you wear on your brow the honour of the Conqueror himself, bestowed upon you by his highness, Prince Caspian!" Uncle Miraz handed the circlet to Caspian and lifted him to stand on the wall that separated them from the champion. Caspian rotated the circlet in his grasp to be sure it would be centered. Bahram bowed his head while Caspian crowned him. When he straightened again, he smiled at Caspian with his eyes as much as he did with his mouth. Caspian would have grinned wider if he could have: his favourite had won the tournament and Uncle Miraz had let him present a prize!

Uncle Miraz motioned to Bahram to face the arena and shouted, "I present Bahram of Beruna, Conqueror of the Day!"

Bahram stepped toward the center of the arena and drew his new sword to the thunderous adulation of the crowd. Caspian clapped and cheered as loud as he could and, though the champion could not have heard him, Bahram winked and bowed to him.

. * .

"War he waged, battles he raged:

our great and fearless warrior;

Nations he razed, Telmar he saved:

hail Caspian Conqueror!"

Nurse recited the final part of the poem, saying it over and over again so it would stick in Caspian's mind. She had firmly prohibited him from talking much after the tournament, making him gargle salt water and swallow spoonfuls of honey throughout the rest of the day. "We want your voice to work when you give your toast tomorrow," was what she said, "and after all that excitement, we need to help it heal." So, here he was, shifting his weight on his feet to the rhythm of the poem and raising his arms so Nurse could pull off his shirt.

"We will practice the whole thing in the morning." Nurse said. "After lunch and right before the banquet too, so you will be ready."

"Yes, Nu–" Caspian clapped his hands over his mouth and nodded.

Nurse smiled sympathetically. "How does it feel?"

Caspian kept his voice quiet, but not at a whisper – Nurse had told him that whispering would make it worse. "Hurts a little." He rubbed a hand up and down his neck.

Nurse helped him into his nightshirt. "Do you want more salt water?"

Caspian nodded and waited for her to prepare the solution. He didn't care for the taste, but the pleasure of hearing the water bubble in his throat like a boiling kettle was worth it. He spit the water back into the cup and passed it back to Nurse. She held his goblet of wine, but pulled it from his reach to say, "Just taste it, don't swallow it. It might sting your throat."

When Caspian nodded again, she placed the goblet in his hands. He let the wine wash into his mouth, but resisted the urge to swallow. The wine swished and sloshed over his tongue, filling his mouth with its curious blend of sour, sweet, and almost spicy tones. He spit it back out, wishing he'd done so a couple seconds sooner. He passed the goblet back to Nurse and busied himself with wiping the taste from his tongue. Nurse opened the window and flung the contents of both vessels into the branches of the tree below. Caspian froze, his tongue still touching the sleeve of his nightshirt. When Nurse had opened the window the previous night, did she throw out some of her wine? But why would she do that? She was always careful to never waste anything.

"Oh, Caspian!" Nurse exclaimed, jerking him back to the present. "Don't do that, that's not very proper." Caspian pulled his arm away from his mouth and realized he'd stained a pink spot on the sleeve's wrist. Nurse took his hand and inspected the damage herself. "Here, I'll give you some water to get rid of the taste, and then we'll put on a new nightshirt."

At last, Caspian sat against his headboard, pillow at his back to cushion him against the wood, washing down a dose of honey with another cup of water.

"Do you want to use the chamberpot before you get comfortable?" Nurse asked.

"No," was Caspian's hoarse reply.

"Alright. All Narnia continued to celebrate the feast. During the day, when they weren't banqueting, the Narnians occupied themselves with fairs and contests – no, not like the tournament we saw today. Creatures could participate in the games that suited them best. The Rabbits, Deer, and Dogs would race across the open plains; Naiads, Beavers, and Marshwiggles swam in the rivers; teams of Dwarves, Fauns, and Dryads played shinty; Centaurs, Bears, and Gryphons would test their strength; Squirrels, Hedgehogs, and Moles would line up along a rope and try to pull the group on the other side into a little stream or pool."

Much as he liked the tournament of Second Day, Caspian thought that the games of the Old Narnians sounded like great fun. If he hadn't been so strictly charged to rest his voice, he would have asked what shinty was and whether Nurse could play it with him in the castle garden.

"On the night of the third day, the Cair was filled again with revellers. Long before King Edmund was to propose his toast, a number of the guests speculated about the things they were to hear. This was exactly what the kings and queens had hoped for: it turned everyone's thoughts to Aslan.

"Toward the end of the meal, King Edmund rose and the whole assembly was ready to listen." Caspian leaned forward himself. "'As many of you know, I was not always as I am now. Mine is the story of a traitor, an enemy to all Narnia, to my family, and to Aslan. It is a story I know that I do not bear alone, for I was one of many who fell to the White Witch's charms. Yet, here I am today, standing before you now, and not by anything I had done. No, I was a prisoner bound to her will, wholly unable to escape her grasp – I did not even have hope of rescue. But Aslan appeared all the same, releasing Narnia from the chains of winter and freeing even a traitor like me. More than that: He paid a price that should not have been His to pay.'" Remembering the awful things that befell Aslan sent a shudder through Caspian. "'His life was the cost of every freedom we enjoy, and He gave it willingly. I owe Him an unimaginable debt for that. We all do. To the Great Deliverer!'"

Sore throat or not, Caspian couldn't resist raising his cup and crying, "To the Deliverer!" Then he threw back his head and gulped down the water. The result was less spectacular than he'd hoped, for there was more water in the cup than would fit in his mouth, so some splashed up his nose and down his cheeks. He spluttered and coughed while Nurse exclaimed and chuckled her own surprise.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Caspian coughed twice more and nodded while he wiped the water from his face with his sleeve. "Good. Lie down and go to sleep. Let's get that voice rested."

He scooted forward so she could fluff the pillow and lay it down for his head. He rubbed at his nose to remove the final sensations of his watery mishap. Reminded of the toast that had caused it, he decided to use his voice again. "Nurse?"

"Mm?"

"Are you e'cited for Third Day?"

Perhaps it was just a trick of the lamplight, but he thought something flickered in Nurse's eyes as she studied him. "Yes. I look forward to the last day of the feast." A teasing smile overtook her face and she added, "Because after that, we can have normal bedtimes." Caspian twitched and giggled as she tickled him under the chin. "Good night, your highness."

"'Night, Nurse."

Nurse had hardly left the room when Caspian suddenly felt the effect of all the water he'd drunk. He slipped out from under the covers and ran on tiptoes to the chamberpot behind the partition. He cocked an ear, but Nurse didn't seem to have noticed that he'd left his bed. When he'd finished, he tiptoed not to the bed, but to the door. Hardly daring to do so for fear he would be seen, Caspian peered out into the antechamber.

Nurse already had wine poured and partway to her mouth. "We would not still be here if not for You," she whispered to silence. "Our own efforts have only brought us low, but even now, You have chosen to preserve us. May I ever be grateful. To the Great Deliverer." She tilted the goblet to her lips and then set it back down. Caspian ducked back behind the door before he remembered that she would see the empty bed anyway if she looked in his direction. She didn't – or if she did, she thought nothing of it –, for Caspian heard nothing more that the final gathering up of things, a rustle of skirts, and the gentle bump of the closing door.

He tiptoed back to the bed and scrambled back in. He stared at the lamp's flame as if he could speak to it like a friend, though it didn't answer back. He was sure Nurse didn't drink to any of the toasts at the banquet, so why did she drink to the ones from the story? Was she not allowed to have wine? Surely that wasn't it: even the servants got to toast. Perhaps there was something about the story that meant that she would have to participate in the long-gone celebrations. Maybe that was why she whispered to herself too. But if she drank to old toasts because the story was so important, why would she not do the same to all the stories about Caspian I? Even the toast Caspian himself was to give told a little of the story: days of victory, a lasting legacy, Caspian the Conqueror. A man honoured by all for his valiant deeds, the pride of his people years and years later. Funny. Aslan was like that too, from what the ancient kings and queens said of Him, what they wanted their feast to be about. And yet, while the Telmarines gave grand, dynamic tributes to their hero, there was Nurse offering her quiet, humble salutations. So much was the same, but it was all so very different at the same time.

Even as these thoughts swirled in his mind like a fog, the gentle waving of the lamp's flame lulled him to sleep.

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