She was breathless. Hwin was galloping faster than ever, but it was doing them no good. Every pore in her skin, even beneath the scalding sun, was hyper-aware of the threat behind them. Just ahead, she could see the back of Shasta's golden head as he sped ahead of them on Bree. Bree had been a charging horse—much faster than her mare, who had been a gift to a young Tarkheena, hardly suitable for fleeing an enemy.
She was screaming without air in her lungs, and she knew she was making no noise. There was no use in any of it, really. She could feel her very skin tingling with the proximity of the beast. She could hear its roar in her ears. She was hunched over Hwin, but it would do them no good. Ahead, Shasta's head turned. At the very least he would reach the North. He, at least, deserved to go unharmed.
He turned, and she saw his blue eyes widen, steely resolve materializing in them. And then he slid off the horse.
As she opened her mouth to cry out in alarm, what felt like a thousand daggers slit through her clothes and into the flesh of her back, in such a clean, effective slash that in her numb shock she almost admired it. She could feel the skin on her back tear, and then the stinging, burning agony of the pain...
.
She screamed.
Arms were seizing her. She shook them off, her throat hoarse. Something was on her mouth, something warm and foreign. She reeled back over the sheets, blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes to the light. Rabadash was here, again, his small, sharp knife poised at her breast... he had finally come to punish her.
"Aravis!" someone gasped.
Her eyes focused. Badrih swam into view, her eyes wide and insistent as she slowly lowered her hands. She had been covering Aravis' mouth.
"You were screaming," she said, glancing over her shoulder.
Aravis shuddered and fell back onto the bed, and then, with a low cry, turned over, pressing her face to the pillow. Her back felt so tender that she could nearly feel the blood soaking through her clothes. The lion had been in her dream, not in real life, but it had caused her harm nonetheless.
She forced her eyelids open again, reaching for the fabric of her gown. It felt no different than usual. And yet the skin of her back hurt so terribly...
Badrih was kneeling by her bed, one hand on Aravis' wrist. The image felt too familiar.
Aravis swallowed. Then she drew a shuddering breath, and sat up, running a hand over her face.
"Was it him?" Badrih asked evenly, taking in the way her hand shook.
Mechanically, Aravis shook her head.
"I shall have the slaves bring you tea," Badrih said, standing up and eyeing her with some worry before retreating quickly towards the door.
Aravis bit down hard on her lip. She reached behind her and gently touched the skin of her back. It burned as if the injury had been real, but her own touch had no effect on it. The same intensity remained, as if the pain was a phantom that refused to leave her.
"I—" Aravis struggled to get the words out as Badrih returned to her side. Her throat still seemed to close in on itself, her muscles tense from the pain. She could still hear the roar of the lion, ringing in her ears. She reached up with another hand and felt tears drying on her cheeks. Her chest was still heaving. "I had another dream."
Badrih had always been the best among Rabadash's four wives to deal with an emergency. Aravis could see it in the woman's eyes, now – that collected, tense caution as she sat on the carpet beside her bed.
Aravis forced herself to take a steadying breath. "Can you look at my back?"
Wordlessly, Badrih undid the top ties that held her gown together, as Aravis turned her back on her. She lowered the fabric gently, but Aravis had to hold her breath, both to stop herself from gasping with pain and out of fear – although she knew rationally that there could be nothing there.
"Nothing," Badrih finally said, closing the gown for her again and turning to look at her, frowning. "What did you see in the dream?"
"I…" Aravis trailed off. Tentatively, she stood up from the bed, feeling her muscles burn in protest. She ignored them. The pain would have to disappear. It was not real.
And yet, the memory of Hwin's gallop and the golden gleam of Shasta's hair as he turned to look at her…
She swallowed. "There was a lion."
The children had now crossed the desert. They were on the border with Archenland.
Badrih spoke hesitantly, as if Aravis were an animal she was afraid to startle. "The lion is a demon-figure. The barbarian god is…"
"I know. I do not understand why my mind is playing such tricks on me."
"Did the lion strike?"
Aravis hesitated, digging her toes into the carpet and willing the pain to fade. "Yes."
"Then perhaps the meaning is clear."
They looked at each other for a long moment, until Aravis turned away and shook herself. The pain was fading, and she could hear the distant cries of merchants and roosters. "What do you believe?" she asked quietly.
Behind her, Badrih hesitated. "It is not my place to spread fear, even to you," she said. "But the wise men in the city say that no Tisroc can survive a battle against the demons of the North."
"That is a lie," Aravis snapped. "There is no curse."
But the pain was real; she had never felt anything realer.
.
It was a rash thing, to begin a war against a country she did not know. Indeed, all she knew of Archenland—and by extension, Narnia—was what was whispered among those in the Tarkaans' homes and what Rabadash had confided through mutters of anger, which were less directed at her than they were born of such intense hatred that they escaped him of their own accord. Rabadash loathed the North to unprecedented heights. While all Tisrocs before him had lusted for barbarian kindoms, Rabadash had been propelled by a more personal vendetta. He had often whispered of Queen Susan in the night, when he was prone to turn the most violent.
But as she pored over maps and charts of what Calormen knew of the North, and came across the old accounts of the travels of Tarkaans through Narnia and Archenland, particularly the letters of the now deceased Prince Jarrash in the first few years of the Four's reign, she found it difficult to feel much of anything towards the barbarians. They seemed, for the most part, willing to trade; although their mistrust of the South – a warranted suspicion, clearly – limited Calormene access to the North.
A historian from Teebeth had dared to propose, during Adeben Tisroc's time, that the Calormenes had originally come from the North in times beyond collective memory, mixing with the Southern Tribes and creating their own race. He had been met with much public outcry at such a blasphemous claim; Tarkaans and Tashkhid everywhere had responded with a resounding retort: North and South are as different as fire and water. And with a quieter question: if so, then whyever would we have left? The Tisroc had ended the conversation by promptly having the historian executed.
The Tashkhid often made great speeches denouncing the North as Tash's yearned-for land, which was stolen by the gods' enemy—the demon of the North. She had always suspected, but now was wholly sure, that no engraving or scripture anywhere acknowledged the existence of the Northern countries as anything close to an enemy. It was the Tashkhid's own greed, supported and strengthened by that of the Tisrocs, that had brought about such ideas.
And indeed the North looked beautiful and promising in her dreams, whether or not the dreams could be counted as the truth. Even the demons—the raven, and she supposed the horses, as well, although it made her oddly uncomfortable to think of them as demons—did not seem to her as violent and frightful as the stories passed from mouth to mouth would have her believe.
But war was a necessity; for the stability of the country, and for the stability of her reign. Already, she toyed with the idea of sending Durriya to live far in the North, on the border with Ettinsmoor. Perhaps if they were to establish a colony there, she would be better pleased and easier to control.
Durriya was yet a matter she had not dealt with. The child was still existing—a child that would likely grow up bearing bitterness, fed to him by his relatives; who would seek to one day overthrow her.
It was a matter for the future, she reminded herself. After all, she did not even know if she would survive a year.
More nations were arriving. Zalindreh was the first after Tehishbaan, led by Corradin Tarkaan, visibly worn from months of battle in the South. He had been a close ally of Rabadash, but he kept his eyes averted – although Aravis suspected it was less out of deference than it was out of distaste.
"I bring you five hundred warriors, hungry for war," he announced. "They are willing to fight to the death, each and every one of them, for the triumph of your glorious reign and the taking of the barbarian lands."
"Thank you, Corradin Tarkaan," she replied. "For your courageous battling against our enemies. This land is indebted to you for your strength and cleverness in the field of battle. We will need such skills again. For this is the most ambitious of our endeavors since Ilsombreh Tisroc set out to expand the Empire."
"You did well," Ishamiel said quietly when Corradin left. "I fear, however, that Corradin Tarkaan's sympathy yet lies with your late husband. He remains a part the vicious majority."
.
And indeed, the leader of said vicious majority made his appearance soon after, as Aravis made her way to the throne room. Marekh Tarkaan delivered the news, less nervous in mannerisms than usual—he seemed to have grown somewhat accustomed to her presence—although she could see the apprehension in his eyes.
"O Tisroc, be it known to you that Fareez Tarkaan, Bilash Tarkaan's firstborn son, rides hither."
Aravis nodded. The skin on her back tingled, but she ignored it, pulling her shawl closer over her. The guards on either side of the door stepped aside, bowing, so that she could enter. "Direct him to me upon his arrival."
Marekh nodded, trailing behind her, but then hesitated. "O Tisroc," he said gravely, lowering his voice. "His half-sister is your predecessor's wife, who is currently confined to her rooms. Doubtless he will ask to see her. What are we to say?"
Aravis stopped at the foot of the dais and took a breath of the crisp air, where the high ceilings held out the hot stuffiness of Tashbaan. It was an evil that could not be avoided. To deny access to Durriya would only serve to make Tehishbaan all the more spiteful towards her rule. She sighed.
"They may see her," she replied. "But report to me the frequency and nature of the visits."
The Tehishbaan assembly did, indeed, enter with flair more appropriate for a show of force than for a pledge of allegiance. The tall Tarkaan at its head wore a burgundy turban, momentarily inherited from Bilash Tarkaan his father while acting in his stead, as was the fashion for the Head of Tehishbaan. His eyes were green, his skin slightly lighter than that of the men that followed him, and he might have appeared handsome if not for the carefully collected viciousness Aravis could see in his eyes. He was Durriya's half-brother; equally fierce, more adequately armed.
Fareez Tarkan remained standing as the others bowed. There were nearly thirty of them, Aravis counted—all stern-looking, experienced warriors, although they had shed their weapons upon entering.
She remained still upon her seat, her features expressionless. She had been expecting the tension in the air. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ishamiel slip into the room as well, a hand on the hilt of his scimitar. Marekh stood still as a statue. Fareez, however, had eyes only for her.
"O Tisroc, may you live forever in such splendor and beauty," Fareez Tarkaan's son said, his deep voice thinly skirting the line of the respectful into the indecent, dripping with mocking disbelief. "Truly, this is beyond my wildest imaginings."
He would never have said such a thing to Rabadash. Aravis raised an eyebrow.
"I thank your father for his loyal contribution of arms and men to this war. Tehishbaan will be greatly rewarded upon our taking of the North."
"Your generosity knows no bounds," he said with a smile. His white teeth shone, bright like a snarling dog's. "My father prays now for our steady journey towards victory. We have always watched the peak of Mount Pire from Tehishbaan and longed for a day in which our people could inhabit those fertile lands."
"Then bid your men rest, for they shall be needed soon. I will summon you tonight to join the War Council."
Fareez's smile was frozen on his face, like a violent mask. As he waved his men away and they all touched their foreheads to the floor once more before retreating, his eyes searched the room slowly, moving over the Grand Vizier as if he were nothing but a piece of furniture. He met Ishamiel's gaze.
"So here is the late Tisroc's brother, upon him be the peace of the gods," he said, his mouth twisting as if he had tasted something sour. "Striking, how the mouse becomes a lapdog."
"Striking," Ishamiel replied, his hand unwavering upon his scimitar's hilt. "How loose a fit your father's shoes are."
"Were he here, his words would not be so gentle," was the icy reply. Fareez turned his eyes back to Aravis. "Where resides my dear sister, whom the gods blessed to touch the ground of your household? Scarce word has reached us of her."
Aravis held his gaze. "She resides in this palace, under my protection."
He took a breath. His smile was bared like a line of knives. "She is yet nursing a child of tender years—a child of great… prominence."
Aravis raised her eyebrows. Fareez fell silent, but his suggestion had already been made.
"Is there anything you wish to say, Tarkaan?"
He closed his lips over his teeth. "No, O exalted Tisroc. Forgive me, it must have slipped my mind." He paused, and then, as if in afterthought, spoke again. "I hope," he said softly. "That you remember that I, in the name of my father and all generations before us, command two thousand men of the main body of your army. We provide the weapons and the arms that will ensure your victory."
"I know this."
"We have also the privileged position of riding in the frontlines. By our arms is the Tisroc's safety assured. That is what my father has bid the Tisroc, may she live forever, to remember. The long-standing alliance between Tehishbaan and the house of Tash—the house of Rabadash Tisroc—will not be forgotten."
His last words were harsh and pointed. Tehishbaan had thrown in its lot with Aravis' enemies, and two thousand of its men were now within the walls of Tashbaan. It was not a number large enough to overthrow Tashbaan's own troops, but upon the battlefield nothing would be certain. Bilash Tarkaan's power stretched far and wide, greatly supplied by his riches and prestige.
It was not entirely true that Tehishbaan had supported the Tisrocs before her—indeed, many suspected that Bilash aspired to shift power away from the Tashkhid and to his own province, and to make it the new capital—but before the threat of Aravis' rise to power, perhaps even old enmities would be forgotten.
Aravis did not raise her voice, but the words fell sharp from her lips. "If there is nothing more, then you are free to leave."
Fareez stood still as a statue for a moment, his green eyes on hers, burning with intent. Then he bowed again, but turned heel so sharply that it defeated any pretense of respect.
Ishamiel watched the doors close behind Fareez until the hall fell silent once more. Only then did his hand leave his scimitar. His expression was grim.
"You do well to not march into war beside him."
It was little comfort. Aravis stood up and paced the length of the dais, scowling. "And how does it in any way work in my advantage to allow him to go in my stead?"
"He will not be going in your stead."
"Someone must!" Aravis paused in her steps and faced him. "Someone must, surely, and I cannot be rash in that decision. It would have to be someone of a rank high enough to command the respect of all the commanders—and yet I cannot think of a single person in such a rank whom I could trust."
Ishamiel sighed. "The most important thing at this moment is your safety upon the throne, and to make a show of power by commanding the Tarkaans to your will."
Marekh Tarkaan finally spoke up. "I will endeavor to present you with a suitable solution."
Aravis shook her head bitterly. "It matters not, in the end, if the result is to have the army ride back to us only to overtake the Palace."
"They are not fools," Ishamiel said.
"I am a woman on the throne, Ishamiel," she snapped. "They will be. Do you think the bloodshed and raiding of the North will calm their bloodthirst?" She let out a low laugh. "No, it will only drive them drunk in their own power, until their coveting of mine becomes too much to bear."
Ishamiel did not seem to know what to say. Slowly, Aravis stepped down from the dais, gathering her shawl around her. Her back tingled again, with the invisible wounds. Her thoughts felt like a dark cloud, heavy within her skull.
A side door opened and a messenger bowed low at the threshold.
"O Tisroc," he called out, pressing his forehead to the ground. "Word has come from Kidrash Tarkaan of Calavar. He approaches the city, to arrive when the moon is high."
Aravis' breath caught in her throat. She forced herself to remain calm, and turned away from the men slightly, crossing her arms in front of her. She had been doing her best to forget the fact that her father would be arriving as well. "The gates will be closed by then."
"It is his request that the gates be opened for Calavar's troops, and that the trumpets be made to ring."
Aravis glanced at Ishamiel. He returned her gaze grimly.
"This was to be expected," he said under his breath.
She scowled. "It is not customary to arrive at night, much less to disturb the city with heralds." She lowered her voice, swallowing down the knot in her throat. "He says this because he is my father."
"Perhaps he is justified."
Her eyes flashed. "My rank does not extend to him."
Ishamiel glanced towards the window. "Perhaps he should be made aware of the fact."
She could not, however, leave Calavar stranded outside the walls. It would be fair, truly—at the very least for her father. Had she not had to wait all night beyond the walls to enter Tashbaan as a beggar?
She started, suddenly reeling with confusion. That was not the truth; she had been thinking of the dream. But the dream was now so closely woven with the truth that she found herself confused as to which part of it was real, and which part had been dreamed.
The messenger awaited patiently.
Anger rose in her, lashing out painfully. She had not seen her father in years since he had given her into the arms of the Tisroc, and in the instances later when he had come to Tashbaan, she had avoided him—something that was not difficult to do when one was married to Rabadash, who, however viciously he might dislike her, was fiercely jealous of his wives and would prefer to keep them locked away from anyone's eyes.
Now Kidrash was already expecting, having exchanged no word with her at all, that he would be received into the city as royalty.
She could not afford to drive a wedge between them before the other Tarkaans. It would not do for them to see weakness there; if they believed that Calavar stood with the Tisroc, they would be more loath to betray her. Calavar was a crucial power in the war. And in the face of the Tarkaans opposed to her, an ally was sorely needed.
She clenched her hands into fists and let out a shaking breath. "Send word to the Guard to let them in," she told the messenger, her voice hollow. "But no trumpets shall be blown. Let them come to the Palace unheralded—after all, at such an hour the city streets will be cleared."
The messenger bowed, and left quickly.
Ishamiel raised an eyebrow. "Your relationship with your family is one requiring much deliberation."
Her eyes flashed. "It is not a matter upon which I need advising. From the moment in which I was banished from my home and delivered to Tashbaan as a gift, Kidrash Tarkaan has ceased to be any kin of mine."
…
The morning dawned cold. Cor could feel it sharp on his face; could see the stinging red on the nose and cheeks of the men around him. The Guard was dressed in full armor now; he, for one, felt like he had never taken it off. All of this seemed like it was merely an extension of the nightmarish day Rabadash had assaulted Anvard.
They had ridden to the edge of the city before the people were out and about, and crossed the grassy terrain that arched upwards into the mountains. There was only one small village between Anvard and the Pass, tentatively inhabited during the days of the Witch and only now beginning to thrive. It had mercifully remained untouched by Rabadash's forces.
Word had come in the shape of a Talking Eagle, which had swept over the battlements and called out that Narnia was fast approaching. A messenger would most likely be dispatched again once the Narnian assembly had crossed the Pass, but Cor couldn't bring himself to await idly within the castle walls.
No, if Peridan had sent men so swiftly already, then they surely must be riding at full pace. He appreciated the gesture; it was generous, and impressive. He had not expected such speed, much less when Narnia was still struggling to put itself together and had not been in a mindset of war, as Archenland had. But he was rather perplexed at it—although there was haste, surely Peridan could not be under the impression that Calormen had already set out?
Only Dar among the Lords had ridden out with him. The Guard was assembled around them, bearing banners that flapped in the wind, as they stopped on the outskirts of the village, gazing towards the gap in the vast line of mountains, and to the rocky road lined with trees that steadily grew in size, stretched out towards Narnia. The horses were impatient, perhaps sensing the meaning of the new weight in armor that they carried, and expecting battle.
"Not yet," Cor murmured to his charger, patting its mane. "Not yet."
When the dusky sky turned blue in the East, glinting over Anvard's roofs, one of the men saw the Eagle again. It saw them, too, and swiftly swept down, its impressive size startling the horses as its wings beat down on the air while it descended. Cor seized the reins tightly, waiting nearly on baited breath as the Eagle descended.
Turning its head sideways, it fixed a beady eye on Cor and bowed from the rock upon which it perched.
"Your Majesty," it croaked. "King Peridan of Narnia has sent me ahead. He has crossed the Pass and is swift approaching."
Cor's eyes widened. He felt his breath catch in his chest. The men around him looked equally shocked.
"The King has come himself?" he finally exclaimed, too surprised to believe it.
"Yes, Your Majesty." The Eagle bobbed once, its strange version of a bow. "He leads an army of five hundred strong."
In the face of their bewilderment, it merely extended its wings once more and returned to the sky, flying towards the Pass to where Peridan presumably rode towards them.
"They must have ridden all night to reach here with such time," Cor said under his breath.
But if they had expected Peridan's army to seem weary when they approached, they were surprised. Narnia's Lion flew high above all heads, gleaming golden in the morning light, and Narnia's soldiers were all the more colorful. As always, even after years of close proximity to Narnia and near constant travels to and fro, Cor felt his heart rise in his chest at the sight of the Narnians—fierce felines with colorful fur; large, hulking minotaurs; dwarves with long beards, nearly buried under their heavy armor; fauns and satyrs with bright eyes and sharp swords. And at the head of them all, Peridan, his golden hair shining in the morning sun—a welcome, much-loved face in the midst of so much despair.
Cor dismounted immediately, and before him Peridan did the same as his company came to a halt. Pulling off his riding gloves, Cor reached out and shook Peridan's hand. The other man was slightly taller than him, and older by seven years. Cor had always, if rather unconsciously, looked up to him—perhaps because of the high regard in which the High King Peter had always held Peridan.
The newly crowned King of Narnia grasped his hand tightly, offering him a grim smile. "Congratulations on your coronation, Your Majesty," he said gravely. "I only wish it had not been in such terrible circumstances."
Cor smiled ruefully. "It has been a difficult time. For you also. I extend the same to you… congratulations, and condolences."
Peridan nodded once, averting his eyes. Cor looked at the Narnians behind him. Despite the liveliness of the company, it was clear that they too, had gone through irreparable loss. Archenland had lost a King. Narnia had lost an entire family of rulers.
"I cannot thank you enough for coming, much less for leading the company yourself," Cor continued. "We did not expect such a swift response. It is a great generosity in such times."
"Narnia and Archenland have ever been entwined; I would be folly in not answering to her call with all the forces I could muster." Peridan looked behind him, at the soldiers who had followed him. "Here we are five hundred—the strongest, and swiftest to prepare. More will follow. I bade my people to hurry, for I know in what dire straits you find yourself now."
Cor shook his head, frowning. "I could not have asked for even this much." And indeed, he could feel his voice catching in his throat, although it was followed by a rush of triumph. Were the Council to witness this arrival, they would surely be embarrassed at the ease in which they had contemplated betraying Narnia and the union that had tied both countries to each other for so long.
Peridan smiled. "Furthermore," he said in a lower voice, looking around them, at the rocky plains that were now illuminated by the morning. "This is my birthplace, and my first home. If not as a King, then as a man I am bound to protect her."
Cor smiled back. "And she welcomes you with open arms. Come, my friend. Anvard, food and rest await you, although it may be only for a short time, given the circumstances."
As they rode back to the city, Peridan and Cor side by side, Cor felt slightly dizzied at how quickly things had changed. Within the span of weeks, Peridan had gone from a mere knight to the King of Narnia, the greatest power in the North, and Cor had become a King after knowing Peridan in his childhood. Their roles had been changed in astounding ways.
.
"We came in haste, because I suspect that there is much to be done when it comes to preparing nearby settlements for the onslaught of war," Peridan said gravely, looking to the Council that was assembled around the table. "Indeed, were it not for the turmoil in our own lands, we would have hastened here sooner to lend our hand to reinforcing the Southern border."
"It is not only a matter of reinforcing, Your Majesty," Lord Shar said, and though his tone was deferential, it had a rather steely tone to it. "But of assisting evacuees to take refuge here in Anvard. By now it is much too late to carry out all the work that ought to be done."
Cor fixed the Lord with a look, but Shar seemed very occupied with avoiding his gaze. "Thank you, once more, for your extraordinary kindness. We are estimating nearly ten thousand soldiers from Calormen. From here we might produce three thousand, at most."
The silence that followed was grim. Peridan nodded.
"Narnia can assemble a few thousand more, we hope—I am still awaiting news from Ettinsmoor."
"Will they come?" Shar's gaze was indisputably hard.
If Peridan was fazed by the tone, he did not show it. It occurred to Cor that perhaps he was used to dealing with the Council; after all, he had often been a mediator between the Four and Lune, given his history with Archenland, and was bound to have been involved in many a discussion with them. Perhaps, Cor realized, Peridan had known exactly what the state of affairs in Archenland would be like.
He felt a wave of thankfulness wash over him. It would be akin to relief if the entire situation weren't so suffused with despair.
"I have sent out heralds. Narnians know well the invaluable force that is Archenland, and how crucial this border is in safeguarding all our lands. If Archenland falls, we may well all follow within days. My people know this. They did not go through the Witch's Winter to believe that they can make do without considering how one invasion brings about a larger one." He paused, looking around at them all. "And that is without considering the love and faith that exists between our peoples."
His gaze was steady; not threatening, but calmly imposing.
Cor almost smiled. The Council—and indeed he himself, at times—had underestimated Peridan.
"That gives us a considerable number, albeit merely a hopeful one," Cor said, breaking the tense silence and hoping that Shar would understand that this was not the time to further his agenda against Peridan. "If your people are willing, Peridan, perhaps they could be dispatched to the villages requiring aid at this moment? And you and I could arrange for a battle strategy."
"That is well," Peridan nodded.
"If there are no more concerns?" Cor looked at those seated around the table, keeping his expression hard. A silent warning; now was not the time. Shar, thankfully, stood down.
It was strange, Cor thought, that both he and Peridan were the two youngest in the room.
.
In the study, Cor poured them both mugs of mead as Peridan sat in front of the desk and examined the maps there, running a finger over the trails. Cor hadn't anticipated feeling so comforted at the presence of another King; although he knew for a fact that Peridan was likely less prepared for this than he was, not having expected to ever have to become the heir to the Four, to have him at his side during the war would prove a comfort. Peridan had always been the High King Peter's right hand—someone reliable who, although at the time lower in rank than Cor, had often given him advice on matters of court.
The wind had grown stronger since the morning, storm clouds gathering again. Cor hoped that they would just pass them by; mud in the roads would just make everything harder for everyone involved. A storm could set them back further than nearly anything else.
"Who did you leave at the Cair?" Cor asked, handing Peridan the glass and settling down on the opposite side of the desk.
Peridan nodded his thanks and took a sip. "Dorick. He is well respected, and with an iron will. Narnia is safe in his hands, with the support of the Council."
At the very least Narnia had a Council that its King could trust. Cor watched him gravely. "These are unstable times. I must admit that it surprised me that you would leave so soon."
Peridan smiled wryly, looking up from the maps. "Indeed," he said. "But although I will remain hopeful before the eyes of both our peoples, I do not remain under the illusion that all will be well." He sighed. "Upon my coronation there was already talk of this being the beginning of a Dark Age for Narnia—but I did not expect it to come upon us so swiftly, with such ruthlessness."
"Neither did I," said Cor quietly.
They sat in silence for a moment, until Cor shook himself. Now was not the time for mourning. He set down his cup and dispelled the thoughts from his mind.
"We are assuming an army nearing ten thousand, but we hardly know how realistic that is. In fact, we know very little about Calormen's movements. Few of our spies remain."
"In that regard, Narnia has been more fortunate," Peridan replied. "We have our Talking Beasts, some of whom, we hope, have successfully infiltrated Calormen. I should be receiving word from them sometime soon."
Yes, the Council had underestimated Peridan.
.
They rode out together in the afternoon, a small assembly of some of the Lords from nearby villages, and the captains of Peridan's army. Nearly half of the men Cor had expected to gather had already assembled in Anvard—a sign of how much the kingdom had been waiting for war to break out. Most of them seemed to have sent their families away, or to have brought them along to take refuge within the citadel.
They crossed the Winding Arrow some hours into their journey, their horses expertly navigating the waters, yet twitching slightly in the cold wind. The Centaurs seemed unfazed by the cold water—perhaps accustomed to such journeys already—but the Minotaur grumbled deep in its throat, although none dared to remark upon his discomfort.
Some distance placed between them and the water, they stopped to look down at where the roots of the mountains formed the shapes they had seen in maps. And in Cor's case… in dreams.
He was slightly out of breath from the whipping wind—although the threat of a storm had not turned into actual rain, thank the Lion—but his heart was beating with more force than was warranted. In his mind's eye, he could recognize the paths he had taken in the dream; could almost hear the distant roar of a lion… of the Lion, perhaps…
Peridan's eyes were narrowed. "The place you spoke of…?"
"Beyond those peaks, towards where the tree line begins again." Cor roused himself from his trance, although it was difficult, to focus on the present. He was continuously forced to delve back into the dream in search of the memory. He shifted in the saddle. "But I have never seen the place for myself; it would require our own exploration."
An older Lord from a village West of Anvard rode up—Lord Kairn, with a greying beard and keen green eyes, one of the few who had fought in wars before. "Are we certain that the Calormenes will use this road? Surely it is not much too narrow for such an endeavor?"
Cor shook his head. "It is the swiftest path to Anvard, and where the Arrow runs shallowest."
"It may be wiser to wait on this end," Peridan mused, although he glanced at Kairn, as if reluctant to contradict Cor in the presence of one of his subjects. "There is risk in wedging ourselves so deeply in the mountains. It hampers upon a retreat."
"If there is a need to retreat," Cor said quietly. "Then it is already too late."
He looked back at Kairn, and at the men who awaited some steps behind them. They seemed weary. He glanced at Peridan, and then down at the valley and the pass from where he could just see the beginning of the trees. "There is no use in lingering. Shall we?"
They rode down into the hollow of the valley, rocks skidding under the horses' hooves. The closer they got to the place, the harder Cor's heart seemed to beat. He spurred his horse on, until the captains and Peridan had fallen behind, although he forced himself to not ride out of sight. But he had a strange feeling—where was the girl? The girl who had been scarred by the Lion, who had ridden through this place in his dreams only the night before?
He could see her now so clearly that he knew she must be real; if not in the dream, then in some distant memory, perhaps of his childhood. How else could she feel so familiar? He could see plainly her every expression, her every gesture. Aravis.
A Calormene girl.
And Shasta… although the matter of Shasta, or himself, or in what ways they overlapped was still a mystery to him.
The valley was exactly as he had seen it, even with the sun dipping at a different angle than he remembered. There were the trees… there was the water. There was the plain upon which the Talking Horse had lain on its back, upon which he had dragged himself to the bank. There was the spot from where he had gazed up at Archenland and felt hope.
He felt a sudden wave of grief wash over him, at the naivety of Shasta—at the dream that he upheld with such faith, with such yearning. The North was no longer what it once had been.
Cor was no longer who he had once been.
He would have given so much to be Shasta.
There was a sound of hooves behind him and Peridan joined his side. In the distance, the other captains approached. If Cor had been capable of feeling much more than what he was already feeling, he would have felt guilt at leaving them behind. But as it was, he could only stare helplessly at their surroundings.
Peridan said nothing for a moment, appearing to look around them, but when Cor finally focused his thoughts on the matter at hand, he saw that Peridan's eyes were also unseeing.
"It seems that we are both set to be the Last Kings of the North," the Narnian King said softly, his expression serene, although the light in his eyes seemed clouded with heavy grief. "A dramatic end to a glorious tale."
"I would have thought that in my place would stand a more well-equipped hero," Cor remarked wryly.
Peridan let out a laugh, his serenity breaking. He reached out and patted Cor's arm; a gesture of empathy. He sighed. "I did not expect to have to take the place of four."
Cor glanced behind them. The captains had reached them now, Dar bringing up the rear, his expression guarded as usual. Two of the Archen Lords had stopped some distance away, surveying the fields. But Cor did not miss the glances they threw in his direction—more specifically, towards Peridan.
He felt a sudden surge of foreboding. Shar's words had not been empty; if a man as well-learned as he was still harbored such greed towards the North, then the Lords who were less mellowed by the court were likely to hold more extreme views.
A war, now, was a signal of the onslaught of a new era—an opportunity a certain faction of Archenland's population was sure to make use of. While they would not act against their King outright, or ride to Narnia themselves, they could certainly take advantage of chaos and confusion to forward their own plans—and possibly make the throne of Narnia available to the less-favored relatives of the Sons of Adam who had left Narnia before the Witch's Winter.
Peridan, it seemed, was even more alone than Cor was.
As they rode back to Anvard, already having explored as much of the future campsite as they could, Cor fell back to join Dar's side, keeping his voice low and unheard to the rest of the company.
"Please see to something for me."
"Sire."
Cor glanced at where Peridan rode between two of the Narnian centaurs, head held up high. "Make arrangements so that my Guard is split in half. I will have my men watch over the King of Narnia with the same dedication they show to me."
Dar frowned slightly. "I shall do as you command, Sire, but… the King has a Guard of his own."
"He does," Cor said grimly. "But they will not be protecting him from us."
…
"That is a careless enterprise, Tisroc, if I may be allowed to dissent."
"You are allowed, Ishamiel, but I shall pursue it nonetheless." Aravis crossed her arms, looking between Ishamiel, Lasaraleen, Marekh, Badrih and Aya. "I am informing you of the fact, not requesting your permission."
"And you will get yourself killed in battle with the North!" Lasaraleen gasped, aghast. "Marching in battle does nothing for you!"
"It is everything." Aravis fixed her with a stern expression. "How can I be expected to send an army of ten thousand to find glory in the North, while I remain comfortably in my own Palace? How do I retain their respect?"
"You will have ushered them into a new age of the Empire. You will have given them those new lands!"
"I will have done nothing. The ones who will have fought for them, who will have acquired Archenland and Narnia, will be the Tarkaans—namely, Fareez Tarkaan and perhaps even my own father. And they will return to Calormen with thousands cheering their name." She turned her glare on Ishamiel. "Do you disagree?"
He wisely remained silent.
"This Empire is built upon warfare and brutality. That is the scale upon which character and power is weighed. This war is useless if it merely puts me below the Tarkaans in the public's regard."
"The war was a mad idea," Lasaraleen said under her breath, but low enough for Aravis to pretend that she did not hear it.
Ishamiel looked away, his mouth a grim line. "It is true, Tisroc, that if you succeed you will have gained the support—or at least, the submission—of most of those who currently threaten your claim. But that is too small of a chance. The alternatives are too brutal to count. They would slit your throat in the midst of battle and claim that it was the enemy; and then we would see Bilash Tarkaan ride back and make Tehishbaan his capital, while your supporters are executed in cold blood. I will likely be your only ally on that road—except perhaps Kidrash Tarkaan, as he has a stake in this matter as well. But five hundred men is hardly enough to protect you from thousands."
And he was right; of course he was. The war had, from the very beginning, been a mad idea, fueled by desperation—one last attempt to conserve what she had seized from Rabadash's dying hands. But there was too much at stake. After all, what did she know of war?
But she did know. She had learned enough about formations and cavalries from her father, and she knew the strengths of most provinces. And she could not merely toil in Tashbaan and expect to be allowed to continue to rule with nothing to subdue the violence of the Tashkhid and the Tarkaans. Something was needed; a distraction, a prey to redirect the pressure to. And Calormen had always been seeking an opportunity to strike. Why should Aravis not become the first Tisroc to take the North?
She would not cower in Tashbaan and send the armies to victory under another leader. The risks posed to those who would remain behind would have to be dealt with, but that was another matter. Gritting her teeth, she looked to the Grand Vizier.
"Have you an opinion?" she snapped.
Marekh Tarkaan bowed, and then nodded. "I believe you are in the right, O Tisroc. Marching to war is the best course of action, precisely because the Tarkaans do not expect you to."
The room was silent. Aravis stared at the Grand Vizier for a moment, and then let out a breath. "Very well then," she said. "The decision is made."
.
"I thought we had our eyes on him; he was not to stray beyond his house and the tavern," Aravis snapped at Chlamash. Four other guards were following her beside them. The draft in the stairs swept through her skirts and made her feel like she was flying.
"We did, O Tisroc," he said, with some embarrassment. "But it seems that he got away. It seems—" and he lowered his voice slightly, glancing around to ensure that no one else was listening. "That Khalid Tarkaan had a hand in bringing him here."
Aravis let out a low noise of frustration. Of course Khalid would. Wreaking havoc in the Palace was the best way to show the other Tarkaans—whether they were present, or hearing of it in gossip as they feasted in the evenings leading up to their march to war—that the Tisroc did not have as strong a grip on power as she would like them to believe.
"And your men have not attempted to seize him?"
"He has been seized, O Tisroc. But we cannot arrest a Prince without your spoken command before him."
He was, after all, royalty—royalty that she was not.
Ishaq Tarkaan had found his way into the Hall of Pillars, and there seemed to be more people there than usual; perhaps as a result of the bustle of war preparations, but Aravis would not have been surprised to learn that some of them had gotten wind of what was happening and had come out of curiosity, or been dispatched by curious masters. They stood in corners, watching and whispering, whilst five guards attempted to restrain Ishaq Tarkaan, who seemed even more disturbed than usual.
"Where is the Tisroc?" he half-shouted, his voice slurred. His turban was askew upon his head, partly unwound. His eyes were bloodshot, and a distinct smell of alcohol and smoke filled the air around him. "I wish to speak to the Tisroc!"
"She stands before you," Aravis called out to him sharply. "This behavior is untoward in the furthest degree. Desist, before I instruct the guards to arrest you."
"Khasik," Ishaq said, his words slurring into a mutter. "Here's my brother's pretty wife."
Aravis' jaw clenched. Those near the walls of the hall could not possibly have heard them, as the Guard had skillfully shepherded them off, but some of the guards standing by averted their eyes uncomfortably.
Ishaq's words were dangerous. She glanced around at the figures in the Hall of Pillars, some of whom were little more than black figures in the shadows. "Who brought you here?"
"Viper, viper, viper," Ishaq muttered, almost as a song, reaching out a hand in her direction, although she was mercifully out of his reach. The guards struggled to both hold down his arms and preserve his dignity.
Aravis glared at him. Turning heel, she looked to Chlamash. "Have him kept in your custody, and assign new guards to him." She would very much like to see Ishaq in the dungeons, as he likely deserved to be, but it would prove ineffective, in the end. The last thing she needed is to make herself look weaker than she already did—or to turn more Tarkaans against her.
Chlamash nodded rather jerkily, and swiftly gestured for the guards to pull Ishaq out of the hall. But Ishaq seemed to rouse himself back to life, and as he was removed from their midst, he shouted back at the Hall of Pillars, voice cracking: "Viper, VIPER, VIPER!"
With each cry, Aravis could feel her hear tremble beneath her ribs. Rabadash had screamed the same to her, during nights she dared not remember. She listened as Ishaq's voice faded away, perhaps silenced by the guards, and then turned on the spot, looking around her.
Murmurs rose tentatively about the pillars, with the hesitant eagerness that always followed a scandal, and she braced herself for the face she knew she would find…
Khalid Tarkaan emerged from the shadows, calm and collected, lips curved into a smirk. He stopped at a deferential distance and held her gaze for a long moment.
"Curious, is it not? The drivel my brother comes up with," he remarked, his voice little more than a whisper. The people slowly resumed their movement, and even the Tisroc was left behind as servants realized the risk of being caught away from their duties. But Aravis heard Khalid's every word. "Yet they do say that the Tisroc was bitten by a viper."
"So now you place your own drivel in the mouths of imbeciles." His dark eyes, so similar to his late brother's, shot panic down Aravis' spine, but she forced herself to remain upright, and keep her voice level.
"As of late, any manner of creature can hold rank and speak orders," he said coldly. "Surely my brother is the least of the degeneracy that has taken a hold of this government?" He let out a laugh as Chlamash's expression turned to alarm, the Head of the Guard suddenly unsure whether to strike down a Prince or neglect to defend the Tisroc from slander. "Fear not, guard, for the Tisroc will hear naught but honesty from me—something sorely lacking in this Palace. And she will know better than to threaten me, when she has brought into this city so many who detest her."
Khalid took one step closer, and all pretense of respect disappeared. "You may feed them promises now, but it will not quench their hatred," he spat, eyes boring into Aravis'. "And unlike them, I refuse to kneel with false flattery; I knew you as my brother's whore, and a dead man's whore you remain."
See, I told you I would be updating more regularly!
Please let me know what you think, and Happy New Year!