She was older now. He was also older, no longer a fisherman's son, but a Prince.
She didn't call him Shasta anymore, but there was something about the way she looked at him, even in the middle of a quarrel, that sent a rush through him much like the excitement of galloping at full speed Northwards towards a place they knew would become home…
.
Cor looked down from the flattened rock at the top of the hill they had made their council hall. It was currently lacking said council, little more than the remnants of a campfire and a white canvas tent, as captains occupied themselves in the camp below to clothe and arm every soldier. The valley was loud with the voices of men and the movement of horses, but Cor felt as if he was floating above it all somehow, in a strange, terrifying way that threatened to drop him back to the ground at any second. The nervous tension of war had peaked into a sense of quiet unease.
The flapping of the tent behind him sounded like the carpets hung out to air over the streets of Tashbaan, clapping against the stone walls. He thought he could hear Hwin and Bree approaching… But no, as the sound of galloping hooves became louder, Peridan came into sight and dismounted at the bottom of the hill, pulling his helm off his head. He was sweating, face reddened by the sun.
The last of the Narnian delegation had arrived—a few thousand, scarcely the number Cor had secretly hoped for—and Peridan had ridden out to meet them; a kingly act that Cor suspected was only partly motivated by kindness towards his soldiers: standing in the camp awaiting for word of an approaching army was hardly morale-boosting, and did not help much with the already rampant anxiety of being both King and commander for a war of such magnitude.
Cor glanced back towards the tent. Corin was sitting by the dying embers of the fire he had initially announced his intention to rekindle, a tinderbox in hand and his eyes turned Southwards, as all eyes in the area seemed to be. He looked paler than usual.
Even as Cor looked at him, their gazes met. They had nothing more to say to each other, merely held gazes for a few seconds before Cor turned towards Peridan, who had reached the top of the hill and grasped his hand briefly.
"We are all now assembled," Peridan said, catching his breath. "And I hear we have word of the army?"
"Ten thousand set out yesterday evening," Corin spoke up from where he sat. "I almost wish it were all over with already."
Peridan had a strange look on his face as walked over to the logs by the campfire ashes and sat down. "Queen Lucy told me once that there was nothing glorious about war, unless you were riding on Aslan's back."
Corin looked away, reaching up to press his arm to his face.
Cor swallowed. "On Aslan's back?"
"She said she rode on Aslan's back when the Witch was defeated. Whether or not it was meant literally, I have always preferred to take it as a symbol." He set his jaw and stretched his legs, looking down at the blackened grass. "It seems to me that at the moment we are not on Aslan's back at all."
In his mind, Cor could still hear the cry of the Lion shattering the air. He could also see Aravis' eyes, wide and terrified as she rode behind him; could feel himself turn with sudden strength, and slip off the saddle willingly…
"I've been having dreams," he said quietly.
Peridan frowned distractedly. "Pardon?"
Cor shook his head slightly, and let the moment pass. What could he possibly say to assuage everyone's fears, when he himself could not interpret what he had dreamed? His mind, revolving so strangely around two vastly differing stories—the war against Calormen, and the mysterious fate of two children running across the desert—felt ready to burst.
He could not bring himself to sit down, reduced to pacing aimlessly as Corin finally tackled the tinderbox. Peridan had settled his head in his arms, hunched over to rest. In the distance, Cor heard the distinct whinny of a horse again.
His chest hurt. The burgundy colors of a Narnian tent caught his eye and looked like the hem of Aravis' dress. The trees cast shadows the shade of Aravis' hair. He felt simultaneously surrounded and forsaken.
Was he going mad?
Three men slowly making their way up the hill threw shadows onto the grass, and Cor took the distraction as a reprieve from his thoughts. He left Corin and Peridan behind him and sprinted down the slope towards the camp, trying to still his own steps along with his breath. Dar looked up at him, followed by two guards. His expression was tense.
"Sire, it would be best if King Peridan remained near the Prince," Dar said quietly, wasting no time on greetings.
The ache in his chest constricted with alarm. "Did something happen?"
"Not yet," Dar said grimly. "But Hawken and Archard have not been seen with the other captains, and that makes me uneasy. I fear that tensions could rise very quickly if people have time to plot."
"The alternative is not much better," Cor said wryly, glancing Southwards. "But I agree. He is with Corin, now. Could you make my brother aware of this?"
Dar and his men bowed and continued up the hill, armor clinking past him.
.
Cor wandered aimlessly, one foot in reality and the other in the dream, treading both with equal confusion. There was a ringing of metal against metal all about him – blacksmiths, soldiers training, the slide of armor against itself. His mind buzzed with memories of another battle; one that had never taken place.
He could see the young figures that occupied the shade of the trees and tents nearby, some little more than boys. They huddled close to each other, speaking loudly, laughing much too loudly—the posturing of children when faced with death.
Cor might be young, but his soldiers were younger.
He couldn't bring himself to look at them. He wondered about their mothers, left waiting at Anvard, or exiled towards Telmar. There was no outcome in which there would not be pain.
"My dear boy," said a soft voice at his side, extricating him from his thoughts. "You're in no state to be walking about."
Nurse Aida was wiping her hands on her apron, although the splinters clinging to the hem of her skirts were evidence enough that she had been occupied with carving arrows. Under the shadow of the canopy of a nearby tent, they were suddenly isolated from the main flurry of activity.
The old woman was looking at him with concern. He reached up and rubbed his eyes; this was reality. It was here that he was needed.
"I'm all right," he said, forcing a smile that must have looked more like a grimace. "I suppose I'm just tired."
"It's a great weight that you carry on your young shoulders," Nurse Aida said with a sigh, and gazed at him sadly. "If you were not a King, I would order you to drink soup and get some rest."
He let out a low laugh. "Thank you. I think it would do us all well."
She sighed. "As it is, a cup of something warm might have to do."
Instructing him to sit upon an upturned bucket, like a rebuked child, she disappeared, her plump figure disappearing in the gaps between tents.
Cor sat quietly as she had indicated, trying to keep his mind blank to avoid descending into a state of madness. He barely felt time pass at all before the nurse returned, pressing a cup of something warm into his hands.
"Here; drink."
It was something like a soup, he realized, sipping the slightly tasteless liquid. But it grounded him in reality, and he gradually grew more embarrassed at how easily he seemed to have grown distracted.
"Pressure does that to the best of us, my dear," Nurse Aida said gently, perhaps reading his expression. "You need to eat and drink, just like the rest of us."
"It's not the food, I don't think," Cor said, but dutifully drained his cup. "It's… I have questions."
About Calormen, about Archenland, about what might have happened if Lord Bar had succeeded, about Aravis, about the nature of the dreams that plagued him, now even in his waking hours…
Nurse Aida fixed him with a piercing gaze. "Questions are not questions until they are asked."
He set down the cup between blades of grass by his boot, and swallowed. It had helped. But while his stomach felt considerably warmer and had ceased some of its churning, the pressure in his chest remained. I don't think I know what the questions are, he wanted to say. How could one possibly begin to explain the story that was unfolding in his mind?
There was some movement nearby, and a cluster of fauns passed by, speaking among themselves in tense yet nonetheless melodious voices. They were followed by two Talking Cats who looked decidedly annoyed.
And there were questions—questions that could be answered. Perhaps not about Aravis, or the strange mission the children had found themselves forced to carry out, but there was still Bree…
He straightened suddenly and stood up, unwittingly knocking over the cup by his foot. Nurse Aida merely looked at him as if she had been expecting such a reaction all along.
.
Cor did not have to walk long: after making his way through the last of the tents at the edge of the narrow river, he soon caught sight of a group of Talking Horses that were busy chewing grass beneath some trees; clearly soldiers far from home, finding comfort in the familiarity of each other. Cor knew that Talking Horses did not go to war unless the King himself rode with the army. Seeing them so casually among themselves made him feel almost ashamed that Archenland's war had brought them to play the parts of steeds.
The Horses straightened immediately when they saw him, turning away from the tufts of grass and bowing their long necks.
"Your Majesty," said a grey dappled stallion, sounding surprised. Beside him, a slightly smaller horse rapidly finished chewing his mouthful of grass.
"Friends," Cor said, feeling rather awkward for having such an odd question at such an important time as this. "I was hoping to find the answer to a question, if I may have a moment of your time."
The Horses stared at him. It took him a moment to realize that perhaps, culturally, Horses would not egg him on to reply, but would rather wait in silence.
"Yes—well," he stammered uncomfortably. "Do you know of a Horse named Bree?"
The Horses looked at each other, mumbling things out of earshot, and then turned to him as one and shook their heads. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," said the first Horse. "But the name simply doesn't sound very Horselike."
Cor reached up and rubbed the headache through his forehead, trying desperately to remember. The Horse had been called Bree. But perhaps that was merely an abbreviation? He sighed. "He would have been a mere foal at the time, stolen… probably from the southern slopes of Narnia. Stolen by Calormene bandits."
This time, the glances the Horses exchanged were of shared understanding.
"There are many foals lost in this manner," the Horse said gravely. "Much of these kidnappings decreased once the late King Lune put an end to bandit activity near the border. But many of us have lost brothers or sisters to bandits—such is the doom of the Talking Beast; especially the Talking Horse."
Cor nodded sympathetically, and only then allowed himself to frown. "Then it would be possible?"
The Horses remained silent. Belatedly, Cor realized that they were awaiting for him to be more specific. "Would it have been possible for a Horse to be captured and taken to Calormen, and live there pretending to be a dumb horse?"
The Horses seemed mildly taken aback by his question, and some of them dragged a hoof through the dust, or looked away uncomfortably.
Cor grimaced. "Forgive me; I realize that this is a sensitive topic. I do not wish to awaken dark memories. I merely… I am looking for a specific Horse, and this might have been his story. I would greatly appreciate your assistance."
Slightly mollified, the first Horse nodded slightly, eyes softening. "That's quite all right, Your Majesty. Sadly, yes… that may very well be the fate of many Horses. It is our hope that one day Aslan may bring them all back home, to live as they were meant to."
Cor thanked them and retreated, suddenly finding his heart pounding for reasons completely unrelated to the war at hand. If Bree could have been real… if Cor himself had almost been kidnapped by Lord Bar as an infant… if it were possible that in some version of events he would have lived out his life in Calormen in utmost misery, as a fisherman's son, rather than knowing that he was the Crown Prince… if there had been a girl named Aravis who was also of a mind to escape…
Cor had to stop to sit against a tree, feeling his hands shaking. The bark was rough against his palms, like the stone of the Tombs outside Tashbaan. Did he wish that things had turned out that way? That he had never known his father, until he was almost entirely grown up? That he had grown without knowing that he even had a twin? That his life had been one of slavery to a cruel man?
No, he did not.
But if such circumstances would have avoided his father's death… perhaps he would have been of more service to Archenland as an escaped Calormen slave than as the Crown Prince.
A sudden cry roused him from his thoughts. It was followed by the sound of a horn.
Calormen was coming.
Jumping to his feet, he ran towards the hill.
…
The lessons taught by governesses in Kidrash Tarkaan's home had always touched on the desert, in some way or another. For the inhabitants of lands south of Tashbaan, where the grass grew greener and sand was closely associated to shores of some sort, the desert presented a mystery that could only be explained through the will of Tash. For it was through his hand, the far-reaching, the unconstrained, that our fathers crossed the wasteland and watched the land of Calormen flourish beneath their feet.
From where exactly they had come was not clear, but the miracle of the crossing was swiftly becoming clearer to Aravis.
The helm was bruising the line of her forehead and the nape of her neck, the veil tangling with loose strands of hair and sticking to her sweat. Infinitely worse, however, was the chafing of her skin against the armor, even through soft fabric, and the impossibly heavy weight of it all over her shoulders, ribs and thighs. To a Tarkaan habituated to wearing such equipment nearly every day of his life, a day's ride in full armor would hardly leave a mark on the body, but Aravis was painfully aware of the differences between a Tarkaan's life and the one she had been forced to live.
Beneath her, the huge stallion fidgeted, beads of sweat on its black coat where the grooms had removed the barding, lest the horse overheat. Being a war horse, it was accustomed to riding for long hours—but even so, it seemed to shrink in the sun.
For the first hour after leaving Tashbaan, the army's progress had seemed swift. The sound of hooves, marching boots and rattling chariot wheels had been nearly deafening upon the hardened soil. But the further into the desert they had gone, Tashbaan sinking into the ground like a long-lost island, the more muffled the sound became against the sand, and as the dunes rose around them, the world had become a stinging, windy, hazy hell that was nowhere—neither in Calormen nor in the North, but in some strange form of mid-ground, where humans had never been meant to tread.
Evening had faded into night and faded into morning, and seemingly mere minutes after their last pause for rest, the sky had exploded with a haze of blinding heat.
Aravis' hand trembled as Chlamash handed her a waterskin. Parallel to them, she could see the distant banners of Tehishbaan still cutting the wind like sharp daggers, and Fareez Tarkaan's upright figure. With one hundred men riding between them, his expression was impossible to see. But she could feel him watching her, and it made her skin crawl.
Khalid was nowhere in sight, fallen back at some point in the last few hours. Among the mass of riders and the confusing haze of heat, it was likely to happen—the body of Tashbaan was large—but she felt nervous at his absence. Calavar's cavalry was still at her back, but who knew what words were being exchanged under the cover of the army's exhaustion?
She glanced at Chlamash. His hand had moved to his sword hilt from the moment they had set out, and remained there until now.
There was no air in her lungs to muster words, so she remained silent. Her legs ached unbearably, burning as if they had been flogged. She had not ridden on a horse in years. Her armor, thankfully, forced her spine upright—a necessary torture. The Tisroc was strong.
Do not let them see.
Ahead, only dark shadows promised the line of the Northern mountains; a wavering vision in the heat. She could almost see herself there, walking barefoot over the dunes, Shasta at her side, slow and steady and desperate…
The overwhelming heat had only made the visions stronger. She could see his eyes everywhere.
She turned to Chlamash again, desperation rising in her throat.
"We stop now," she ordered. "Water and rest."
The order was given, shouted by Chlamash and echoed across the army. Captains reined in their horses and the masses of men came to a halt, spreading out like a strange ocean with a will of its own, the clash and clang of steel ringing in the desert wind as the company dismounted.
She watched Corradin Tarkaan remain on his horse, swiftly turning back towards the direction of Teebeth's banners, where already a cloud of dust had risen as men set to clear chariot wheels of accumulated sand. Barrels of water were rolled in the opposite direction, towards the cavalry. She would not be surprised if Corradin was meeting with Azrooh Tarkaan, but she felt a stab of alarm as she could not see Fareez anymore.
"Where is Khalid?" she asked under her breath, squinting at the masses as Chlamash dismounted at her side. A small army of guards had already set to laying heavy cloth between tentposts; a temporary refuge from the overpowering sun.
Chlamash did not seem to know. Aravis bit back a curse, and grasped the saddle to dismount.
She had almost forgotten the state of her legs, but when she swung her leg over the saddle to touch the ground, her knees nearly gave way under her, thighs as weak as if they were made of water.
Suddenly, there was a hand at her elbow. Chlamash Tarkaan's eyes were elsewhere, but his hand steadied her.
Aravis pulled away immediately, glaring at him. She glanced around quickly. In the commotion around them, no one had seen. "If I require your assistance," she said through clenched teeth, even as she grasped the stirrups on the enormous horse's side to avoid tumbling to the ground, "I will request it."
He did not have time to reply, as the sand-muted thud of hooves broke through the Tisroc's circle. Halting his steed by them, Khalid dismounted with so much ease that Aravis suspected he might be showing off on purpose.
"Gone are the days of Khasiks' unblemished skin," he said acidly under his breath, taking sight of her face. He was sweating in the heat just as much as the rest of them, but there was a glint in his eye that made her uneasy.
She ignored him, pretending she hadn't heard—she had no energy to think of a retort—still gripping the horse as she felt her legs buzz with an oddly contradicting mixture of numbness and pain. She blinked away the water in her eyes before anyone had time to see it.
Chlamash had stepped in between her and Khalid, hand perpetually posed over his sword hilt.
Khalid scowled. "I merely came to report." Behind him, the low tent meant for Aravis promised temporary shelter from the blistering light, if not from the heat itself. "Fareez Tarkaan has negotiated with Corradin to move his men, under the excuse that Zalindreh is disrupting the natural flow of the left flank. They will now be directly beside you."
A man was preparing a trough for her horse, and Aravis braced herself to let go of the saddle. Her boots were planted firmly on the ground. Her body would hold. "How many men?" she asked.
"Fifty skilled, from Tehishbaan's cavalry. Fareez himself is among them."
Aravis clenched her jaw, willing her mind to make a decision, and her legs to hold her upright. If Chlamash noticed her dilemma, he made no move to help—he had learned his lesson.
With the trough filled, the man led her horse away to the shadow of the tent, and Aravis let go.
She remained standing.
"Leave them be," she finally said. "Fareez will find one way or another; at least now we know towards whom to look." She looked out at the sea of banners, under which men had huddled together, making the most of the scarce shade as they drank precious water. "I will find a way."
Khalid gave a short nod, but made no move to leave. Chlamash was still a motionless figure between them.
"Have you something else to say, Tarkaan?" she demanded.
Khalid's eyes flitted towards Chlamash, and then to her own. His lips curved into a slight sneer.
"Rest well, O Tisroc," he told her, and stalked away.
Chlamash's eyes remained focused on the direction in which he had gone for a long time. Then he glanced behind him, at where the guards flanked the small tent.
"If I may offer my advice, O Tisroc," he said.
"Yes?"
"I would advise that you sleep in another tent," he said, and the look in his eyes, more than anything, sent a thrill of fear down her spine. "Where no one will know to find you."
.
The sun beat down upon the tent, one much smaller than the one meant for the Tisroc, and Aravis could not sleep, although she knew that this might be her last chance to rest before they reached the line of mountains in the evening, and war possibly broke out. The fabric that shielded her from the sun did not shield her from the people, and she was one in a multitude of thousands—thousands of men who wanted her dead.
Chlamash stood guard outside the Tisroc's tent; but that was not the tent where Aravis was.
She had never felt more exposed in her life.
Her scimitar was pressed against her chest, her hand a fist around the hilt, prepared for use it if necessary. Every whisper of the sand or flapping of a tent made her start. This was the same route she had somehow travelled with Shasta in her dreams… or the route she should have travelled with Shasta, had the gods had their way.
She reached behind her with her free hand and tried to feel the skin of her back, although it was impossible to do so through her clothes and the heavy armor. The ache of the ghost scars returned when she thought of it, powerful even over the aching pains riding had left on her body. The night before they had heard the noises of wild beasts in the distance. "Tash's heralds, announcing his pass through the desert," some of the men had whispered.
Or Tash's vultures, circling for prey.
Eyes wide open, all she could do was listen.
.
Her head was pounding by the time a soldier came for her, followed by a group that proceeded to dismantle the tent behind her. She could not tell if the men were surprised to see her there or not, but as she emerged into the light again, the white haze of the sand burning her eyes, she could tell that Chlamash had been uneasy. He all but sprang to her side as soon as she was close enough to the large, empty tent that had been meant for her.
Marekh Tarkaan was already at his side. She had not seen him since they had set out, although she knew that he must have been riding close to her. He seemed worried as he bowed. She could not blame him.
"Bring them to me," Aravis told Chlamash, and stood at the low entrance, closing her eyes. Her brain was bruising her skull. The Grand Vizier fidgeted nervously as Chlamash's footsteps moved away from them.
"Tell Kidrash Tarkaan to position a company from Calavar between the two halves of Tehishbaan, and move ten men to the frontlines," Aravis told him. "It will cushion any mischief."
"To hear is to obey," he replied. "The scouts will have returned by now."
"They have." Aravis looked up as a shadow fell across her face. Khalid Tarkaan's armor made him seem nearly thrice his size up close; an intimidating presence before whom Aravis felt no small rush of unease.
"The others are already on their way," he said, his voice a low grunt, out of dehydration or sullenness. "There will not be long to wait."
Tents seemed to fold inwards all around them, men roused from rest to reform their troops, scrambling to clean the remnants of sparse meals and ensure the wellbeing of their horses. Chlamash returned shortly, and the three of them stood in silence, waiting for the Tarkaans—Aravis trying to shed the anxiety that during their short rest, alliances may have been created, and a mutinous plan drawn.
But snippets of conversation passed them, as the troop moved and men ran back and forth with supplies. Aravis listened as an old Tarkaan, leading three younger members of the cavalry, rode back from where they had presumably been standing watch.
"And a river of riches flowed Southwards, to rain upon Tash's children," the old Tarkaan croaked from beneath the shadow of his turban. "All is now being fulfilled."
Beside Aravis, Khalid let out a derisive sound. "Superstition is the surest of allies," he quoted, just loud enough for her ears. He turned slightly to meet her gaze, eyes glinting. "Although such prophecies are oft accompanied by certainty that the barbarian demons will take the Tisroc's life."
"When their faith wavers at the failure of the second, the fulfillment of the first shall strengthen it," she retorted, refusing to flinch.
But she saw the youth in the younger soldiers' eyes, and wondered if they were not more likely to throw in their lot with Fareez. And for all his derision, she had no reason to trust the man beside her, either.
The others arrived soon after. Fareez Tarkaan came at the forefront, Corradin Tarkaan and his brother Ilgamuth close behind—Ilgamuth of the Twisted Lip, he was called behind his back; not only had he the misfortune of being blasphemously named after a Tisroc, but he had been born with a terrible birth defect. After them came the elderly Azrooh Tarkaan of Teebeth, his richly ornamented clothing proof that he rode in a chariot, not on horseback. Even he seemed to look to Fareez for hints at how to behave.
Bilash Tarkaan of Tehishbaan wielded much power through his son.
The men's faces were dusty and sweaty, but their backs were upright, as if they were prepared to march into battle at any moment. Aravis felt impossibly small and weak, muscles still aching from riding, hauberk chafing against her skin.
Kidrash Tarkaan came seconds later, on horseback. Aravis had forgotten how riding horses always took twenty years from her father's back; his normally slightly hunched posture had disappeared under the armor, the thinness of his frame and greyness of his hair forgotten as he expertly maneuvered his horse to stop before them. It was in his home that Aravis had learned to ride.
Her fingers grazed the steel and leather of her armor, the careful plating that had been done to fit her, and her only. She was still the Tisroc, no matter how many had allied themselves against her.
Behind her father came Farrokh Tarkaan, leader of Azim Balda, and the Tarkaan from Mezreel, whose name Aravis could not remember. Tentative allies, against Tehishbaan's alliance of vicious enemies… the numbers were nearly evenly split.
She caught Chlamash's eye as he held his ground slightly before her, hand still on his scimitar. It was little comfort. She nodded at Marekh.
The Grand Vizier cleared his throat, stepping forward. There was no time for niceties with the sun brutally beating down on them.
"The Tisroc (may she live forever) commands that Tehishbaan's company be separated in halves, with one third of Calavar's cavalry in between, and ten Calavar men riding on the frontlines. In such manner, our progress will be swifter."
"Arrangements were already made, O Tisroc. Corradin and I had solved the issue of the left flank privately; there is no need for a third province." Fareez's tone was deferent, but there was threat in his expression. He stared directly at her, bypassing Marekh entirely.
Aravis smiled thinly. "I, too, was concerned with the pace. Now it will be doubly improved."
There were no scowls; only a silent tension that Aravis found much more sinister. Fareez did not move an inch. Already, his posture was that of a man in power.
Marekh ground his teeth. "Have we heard word from the scouts?"
"The scouts have returned. The barbarians have moved their troops to the pass. We nearly double them in number."
There were satisfied mutters all around, although this was hardly news; the North could never have mustered as large a company as Aravis had.
But Farrokh Tarkaan of Azim Balda squinted up at the sky, grimacing. "I caught sight of an Eagle earlier. It is well known that the barbarians use such demons to spy on their enemies."
"They watch us, as we watch them," Azrooh scowled, his wrinkled features contracting. "I do not trust them to engage in legitimate battle. Who knows of what treachery they are capable?"
"They will be afraid," Aravis said. "And we will bring to them the fear of Tash."
Farrokh did not dare answer to her face, but he focused on Marekh as he spoke. "I would remind my brothers in arms that the barbarians are a wild people, whose dealings with demons and ghosts stretch back through the ages. They are no common enemy."
"Prophecies and curses," Khalid murmured at Aravis' side, just loud enough for her ears.
She knew what he was thinking. And no Tisroc survives an encounter with the North.
The scars from her dream tingled and burned.
.
"He that would find that way must start from the Tombs of the Ancient Kings and ride north-west so that the double peak of Mount Pire is always straight ahead of him."
Sunset fell behind them, and the demon's words rang repeatedly in Aravis' mind. Her horse walked briskly on, now invigorated by the cooling sand in the absence of the blistering heat. Kidrash rode closer, in between her and Fareez, but she did not make eye contact. Khalid was close to Chlamash at her other side, and often she found her own hand straying to her sword hilt, mimicking the Guard.
She thought of Ishamiel, left behind in Tashbaan, holding an Empire together without knowing if there was yet hope. With all the most dangerous Tarkaans away from the city, things were likely uncharacteristically quiet—all danger was closely wound around Aravis.
Her weariness had evaporated as the sky darkened. Now all that was left was the bone-crushing tension of what was to come.
Their calculations had been correct, after all. Even with the slow pace Teebeth's chariots could muster through the dunes, they had reached the line of the mountains. Aravis could see it ahead, now; a sharp ridge against a night sky. Soon, it would all fade into one towering wall of darkness.
Somehow, in proximity to Mount Pire, distance seemed even longer, until Aravis wondered how many hours the sun had remained frozen just beyond the horizon, still casting reddish haze against the ragged clouds that hung Southwards. The distance seemed too long, too ominous.
This was not how she should have arrived. She should have galloped through the pass in daylight, riding Hwin, at Shasta's side.
Her throat constricted. Hwin remained a slave in the palace stables. And Aravis—Aravis did not know what she was.
Finally, the ridge was directly before them, and scouts had confirmed what lay in the narrow pass ahead. "A man might be within a furlong of it a thousand times and never know that it was there," the demon had said. Now a body of ten thousand strong made to storm through it.
The army curved inwards on itself, slowing in the middle, and suddenly the Tarkaans appeared, eyes glinting against newly-kindled torchlight. The House banners above them flapped invisible in the darkness, their soldiers closing in behind them. Aravis felt trapped in the semicircle. The wind brushed through her veil and her hair, back and forth—a strange, sharp taste of the barbarian North.
She could hear the men whisper.
Khalid steered his horse and fell in step at her left. Fareez and his allies approached slowly, eyeing the mountain line. They gazed out at the tall cliffs that walled in the pass with disquiet.
"They will have already seen us," Aravis said, her voice coming out stronger than it was. "They must await just beyond."
The horses kicked at the sand, which was now harder, mixed with particles of rock. The wheels of the chariots had rattled, and the boots of the footmen thudded against the new ground, but now the army stood in eerie stillness, gazing out into the encroaching darkness.
In the distance, Aravis thought she saw something glimmer.
"Their camp is not far," Marekh said, a hand on his turbaned helm, which threatened to unwind itself in the wind. "The pass is too narrow to allow for a wide charge; they might find it advantageous."
"It may be best to attack in the night," Kidrash Tarkaan said. "They will have more difficulty shooting. Those crags pose too great an opportunity."
Ilgamuth Tarkaan scowled, his already marred features twisting strangely. "I am sure they are equipped with fire—but I suspect the cliffs are much too steep to allow for a body of archers."
"It is, nonetheless, more difficult to shoot in these conditions than in broad daylight," Farrokh interjected. "I would also advise nighttime—perhaps some hour approaching dawn, when their troops are the weakest."
Azrooh Tarkaan shook his head, eyes hooded in the darkness. "I would not march our troops through a dark pass with demons awaiting on the other side; not for anything in the world."
Aravis turned to him, pinning him down with her gaze. "You would deny my orders?"
His leathery, wrinkled features blanched slightly. "I would advise, O Tisroc, may you live forever," he replied, clearing his throat. "That given the tendency of the barbarians to slaughter our people through subtle means of dark magic, it is not advisable to expose ourselves to such treachery in the darkness."
The group shifted slightly, and Aravis sighed. While most of the Tarkaans had more on their minds than superstition at the moment, the captains they led were much more susceptible to fear. And if she herself was having strange dreams, despite her knowledge that a curse could not possibly be real…
The last thing she needed was an army so terrorized at the prospect of fighting a demonic enemy that they saw things that weren't there in the darkness and lost their minds mid-battle.
"Very well," she said. "We ride in the morning. For now, let the men rest and be well-fed. I doubt the barbarians will dare to venture out, given how few they are."
But she hesitated before ending the meeting, because the lights were still flickering before her, and she had a sudden vision of a sprawling city with red roofs, a stout, richly-dressed man laughing, and Shasta… Shasta looking at her with a grave expression in his eyes.
She flinched.
"I will send word to the Barbarian King," she told the Tarkaans. "Let them cower in their camp as they await the inevitable."
.
The messenger was sent a few hours later. By then, torches had been planted in the ground like fiery flowers, and a tentative camp was set up. In the shadow of Mount Pire, the men had grown quiet, whispering prayers for Tash to banish the Northern demons.
As the Tarkaans spread out towards their men, to drink and eat before battle fell upon them, Aravis left towards her tent, veering away at the last moment and leaving the Grand Vizier and Chlamash behind her. Her horse drank water noisily from an equally thirsty groom. She tugged at the veil and finally pulled off the helmet altogether, exposing her hair to the wind.
She allowed herself to vanish in the darkness.
Beyond the ring of firelight, she was nothing. Perhaps food for jackals, if she wandered far enough; but between the two massive armies, it was unlikely that life would risk venturing out. The sand felt softer, somehow, and the wide expanse of nothingness was both terrifying and relieving. It was better to be alone than in the crushing presence of the murderous thousands.
Here the wind was loud, whispering against the rocky cliffs ahead, carrying a sheet of sand everywhere it went. Shielded by the dark as she was, Aravis sat cross-legged on the flat ground and breathed in the Northern air until her lungs ached.
If Shasta were here, he would have understood the gaping wail that was the desert at night—pure exposure to the elements, a time that seemed to drag on endlessly and yet seemed to end much too quickly.
But Shasta was not here, and she was alone.
In the privacy of the darkness, she reached behind her and touched her back, pressing her lips together to avoid letting out an exclamation of pain. Her entire body was shaking. But she could see the dark shapes of the camp behind her, the torch fires flickering in the night, and she knew that she could not afford to let them see her like this.
She was the Tisroc of Calormen.
Before her, somewhere in the darkness, was the peak of Mount Pire. Before her, Archenland waited.
It felt like hours later that she returned, doing her best not to drag her feet. None, it seemed, had noticed her absence. The camp was a steady, low murmur, guards poised at the furthest North, watching for a reply from the barbarian King. The scent of soup and bread hit her nose; deceptively homelike.
Aravis did not even know what was expected of a Tisroc on the frontlines; if she was expected to give a speech, and what she could possibly say. Her swordsmanship was not terrible, but it was unlikely to match the force of a trained barbarian fighter.
But her message had been fierce. Letters, at least, she knew how to write.
The entrance to her tent was deserted when she reached it. Smaller tents were around it, but she could see no sentries. Placing the helmet on her head again, she took a deep breath. Now was no time for weak sentiment, or for thoughts of Shasta. There were no lions here; only the sharp claws of the Calormene themselves.
She walked inside.
The first thing she noticed was the dark mass hanging from the curved tent roof, but nearly tripping moved her attention downwards. Her foot had collided with armor; the shoulder plate of a soldier lying face-down at the edge of the rich carpet spread for the Tisroc, one arm twisted beneath him, the other held up to his neck, blood streaming down it. He was dead.
The tent shifted, bending with the new weight imposed upon it. The mass hanging from above was Chlamash Tarkaan, strung up with chain and wire, the sort used for repairing chariots, blood dripping down from where the wire had slit through his neck, and where a scimitar had sliced down his torso, leaving him open like a slaughtered animal.
…
In the name of Tash, the inexorable, the magnificent.
To King Cor, first of his name, ruler of the barbarian lands.
O enemy,
The day dawned red when your demon's curse fell, and stole Rabadash Tisroc away even. It spread among my people, and attempted to steal from us the might that built our empire. Whereupon I, seizing the reins of power in my predecessor's passing, rode Northwards with ten thousand to end this terrible pain and grant my people their deserved vengeance. Verily, generously have we allowed the barbarian peoples to spread and profit from the green lands of the North; but that time is no longer.
Let it be known to you, therefore, my intention to take hold of your lands and deliver your people from the chains of demonic tyranny. Forewarn your men, that they may not protest, lest they be executed. You have seen the power of Calormen firsthand; make not the same mistake again.
If you surrender, I shall grant you and your heirs life and prosperity, removed from the weight of responsibility. Your people, too, shall enjoy a fruitful life as Calormen's subjects, by the will of Tash, the mighty, the all-seeing. This I pledge to you.
Reflect on this matter wisely, O King. Well have the poets said that a king holds the measure of fate of his people, but the gods hold kings' necks by a thread. Look beyond your encampment! See how weak is the string from which you hang.
The Tisroc of Calormen and the Southern Lands.
Cor dropped the letter as if he had been burned, blood boiling. The messenger had come bearing a white flag against the frightening, bird-like banner of Calormen. A contradiction, as duplicitous as the enemy had always been.
"How dare they?" Corin exclaimed, face flushed with anger. "To add insult to injury is brazen, even for them!"
"This is a new Tisroc," Cor said numbly. "He must be of a different temperament." He turned towards Peridan. "I suppose we must redact an equally scathing reply."
"I would much rather reply with the sword, instead of exchanging petty niceties that veil threats," Corin snapped.
Peridan, who was sitting in a chair across the tent, waved away the letter, expression dark. "I need not finish it. I am familiar with the manner of speech. I remember my days in Tashbaan with excruciating clarity."
See how weak is the string from which you hang.
Cor sighed, and called for Varlin.
.
It strikes me, as I sit with this crown upon my head in the aftermath of Calormen's treacherous slaughtering of our people, and the violent murder of my father, King Lune, that you dare accuse us of bad faith. Archenland and Calormen were not outwardly enemies until the moment you struck at Anvard. If your gods are as merciful as you claim, then indeed the loss of Rabadash has been a kindness to your people; never in my life had I gazed upon the face of one so godless.
Archenland will never bow to the rule of a Tisroc, much less will I surrender the crown to those who have caused me, my kin, and our people interminable pain. The combined powers of Archenland and Narnia are yet great, and you will have two Kings to contend with.
If this is indeed our last stand against a deceitful empire, then let it be so. From my infancy I have battled you, and now I see what poetic logic exists behind this contention. I am eager now to take my revenge; for the pain you caused my father, for the pain you have caused this family from the moment you inserted yourself into its dealings, and for the terrible suffering you have caused this kingdom.
Archenland has survived the White Winter, a threat even the Tisrocs of Calormen feared. Do you think we fear you?
Well met, Tisroc. When we meet on the battlefield, my sword will sing the sweet song of justice.
Cor, first of his name, King of Archenland.
Someone mentioned that it would be useful to have a character list, so I put it on my tumblr, nasimwrites. I hope you find it helpful. (Also, feel free to follow me!)
This chapter was SO INCREDIBLY DIFFICULT! I've been working on it every day for what feels like months. Thank you for your wonderful reviews!