A/N: Thanks, everyone, for the patient wait! I promised to start updating this fic again, and I'm not lying! I've already started on chapter eleven, so stay tuned. :) -Sushi
Chapter Ten
Even with Gyneth's enormous farm beast to weigh them down, the companions made good time that morning on their way to the King's Arms Inn, Wolfdell. The heat that had seemed imminent never made good on its threat, for which Aravis was grateful (she might be Calormene, but she had spent enough time in the north to appreciate the beauty of a cool day while traveling). The sun, in fact, barely seemed to reach them at all once they left Gittensreeve Valley; if the mountains weren't shading them, the thick, overarching trees were.
They stopped briefly midafternoon for a bit of lunch; no one really felt like starting a fire, so Romith spread some Anvardian honey on hunks of rye bread and passed them around. Even if the men had had much to say, the thick stickiness the honey was famous for prevented them from doing so, and Aravis spent a very pleasant time lounging on her back and licking the crumbs off her fingers as she listened to birdsong and the homey sounds of resting horses.
As the day grew on, the dusty road grew wider and more rugged with the signs of regular use. Wolfdell, it appeared, was popular with mountain traders and travelers on their way to or from the south of Narnia, and so saw most of its activity in the late spring and summer.
"What do Wolfdell's inhabitants do in the fall and winter months, then?" Aravis asked as the gates of the town, heavily shadowed by the setting sun, came into view over the crest of the next hill.
"Many of the men are trappers," Sir Borran answered in his low voice. "There are some small gardens and the like, but the soil is too rocky for much farming."
"I see. And the women?"
"The women of Wolfdell are surprisingly gifted tanners, milady," Borran replied, sniffing the air pointedly.
Aravis drew a breath of cool mountain air in through her nostrils and almost immediately regretted it. Underscoring the otherwise sweet smells of foliage and moist soil was the more sinister odor of death, and it only grew stronger as they approached the town walls.
From behind the town walls, the deep, brassy sound of the watch bells rung out. "We must hurry," said Rhys, pointing suddenly. "They close the gates at sunset."
Almost as a body, the companions spurred their horses into a lazy trot, their baggage and weapons jingling in time with the striking of the beasts' hooves on the stony path. Inga chafed at the bit and Aravis took a firmer grip on the reins; at the same time, though, her stubborn heart ached just a little at the sight of the fine beast being bridled in.
Cor spurred his hot-blooded bay into motion behind them, cantering past Aravis and Inga with the taunting jingle of steel on brass. Inga flattened her ears and bucked slightly against Aravis's tight control, and Aravis herself felt a wave of resentment and wistfulness—Inga had not been bred for the mountains; rather, she was descended from the long-limbed, hot-tempered wild horses that had once thundered across the broad, flat plains of Narnia. In that way, Aravis thought, they were very alike: both transplanted foreigners in a strange land where no one quite understood them.
She let the reins go.
For a moment, Inga continued at the same plodding pace, not aware that she had been given her head. The next second, though, she shot forward, her fine ears straining forward as Aravis bent obediently over her neck, clinging on as cold mountain air rushed over them. In a flash, they passed Cor and his big bay, and Inga snorted as though laughing at them.
The town wall guards leapt aside as Inga stormed through the gates, whinnying as she slowed to a canter, then a trot, in a muddy courtyard. Aravis could not help but draw her shoulders back as Inga paced about: the beast was a fine animal, and she was arching her neck and tail and lifting her muddy hooves high, much to the admiration of the townspeople who looked on. Inga whickered, and Aravis patted her lathered neck.
The other companions came thundering in behind them, and as soon as Romith and his fat little pack pony were all the way in, the gatekeepers began to haul at the heavy chains that drew the high, thick doors shut.
Cor made eye contact with Aravis across the confusion of horses and baggage, his brow furrowed above his scruffy new beard. Inexplicably, Aravis felt the heat of a flush creeping across her cheeks, but she maintained the gaze without faltering, daring him to confront her.
Suddenly, a great cry arose from the broad main street ahead of them. Aravis whirled around, reaching for her claymore for the first time since they'd left Anvard just as Lord Darrin drew his greatsword. "Stand fast!" he bellowed, jostling Inga and Aravis aside as he and his big horse moved to the front of the group.
Aravis had to laugh with relief, though—the crowd that was lining the street was not hoisting spears or swords, but their raised hands were waving and throwing flowers. "Long live the future king!" they were crying.
Despite the cheer of the welcoming committee, Aravis couldn't help but notice the fearful expressions on the men's faces. How did Wolfdell know who they were? Yes, every noble family in Archenland possessed copies of the royal portraits, but they had been painted years ago, and the bright, freckled face of Cor's youth had been changed forever by the beard, the mark of manhood in his face, and the broadness of his shoulders. At any rate, the scruffy, dusty, lanky man she was looking at bore no resemblance to the popular image of the High Prince.
With his mouth in a grim, anxious line, Cor urged his horse forward. Darrin and Corin followed immediately, flanking him with their hands on the hilts of their swords. Aravis could almost taste their tension. As she merged into the column of horseflesh, however, she put a gracious smile on her face as only befitted a lady of Anvard. No matter how the town came to hear of their identity, these people were to be Cor's subjects in a matter of months and it would do no good to disappoint them.
It would take an effort to let them down, though, Aravis observed; ahead of them, Cor gave a slightly nervous wave, and the throngs of people cheered louder and showered the companions with bits of colored paper. There was a tug at her skirts, and Aravis turned to see a small, dirty-faced little girl holding up a fist of mountain thyme with a shy smile.
"Thank you, young miss," Aravis said solemnly, accepting the flowers.
The girl squeaked in response and darted back into the crowd.
Smiling, Aravis tucked the thyme into her saddlebags, where it peeked out and bobbed jauntily in time with Inga's steps. Ahead of her, Darrin and Corin were also bedecked with flowers; the garlands dragged along the dirty cobbled street beside their horses' hooves.
Cor, Corin, and Darrin waved once more and turned their horses to the right, cobblestones giving way to a courtyard of packed dirt. Aravis looked around curiously—a rhythmic squeak above their heads made her look up, and she saw a weathered sign with the words "King's Arms Inn."
Romith, who was last in the courtyard, leapt off his pony and drew the inn's gates closed before the townspeople, who were pressing forward, could stream in. Darrin and Borran relaxed visibly, and Cor even laughed as he swung down off his horse. "What a welcome," he said broadly.
"I must say, sire," said Rhys, "that I quite worried about your safety. The king's emissaries are not always welcome in such remote areas."
Suddenly, there was a crash, and everyone spun about to see a short, plump girl standing in the doorway, the ruins of a pitcher of water at her feet and splashed up her skirt. With a high whimper, she turned and fled into the darkens of the building.
Cor shrugged and motioned for everyone to dismount. "I think you needn't worry, Rhys."
"all the same, sire, I think we should consider—"
"Welcome to Wolfdell!"
The great, booming voice that cut across Rhys accompanied and equally large body; the innkeeper strode into the courtyard, a neatly patched apron drawn tight across a round belly and thick arms thrown wide in welcome. "My humble inn is honored by the presence of such noble guests."
The man bowed low as Cor approached him. "Your Highness is very well met."
"Well-met, indeed," Cor answered, smiling courteously. "I am Cor, first son of His Majesty, the king of Archenland, and this is my royal brother, Corin."
The innkeeper bowed low again to both men. "You are most welcome, surely."
"We trust you have enough beds for us?"
"Of course, my liege. Enough even for my ladies"—punctuated by a bow in Aravis's direction—"to have the privacy and comfort they are surely accustomed to."
"Very good. We thank you, Master…"
"Elin, my liege. I am Elin Cowslip, son of Olin."
"We thank you, Master Elin. Now, if it please you, we would have a meal."
Innkeeper Elin bowed deeply, then clapped his hands. As dirty-faced grooms came forward to take Inga's reins, Aravis dismounted, her dirty boots sinking into the damp dirt of the courtyard when she landed. Lord Nim steadied her, and they all headed towards the entrance of the inn.
Once they were inside the leaning stone building, Aravis stood for a moment, blinking in the cool darkness of the corridor. Darrin took her elbow. "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked.
Aravis nodded. "I've never been in an inn before," she told him, looking around as her eyes adjusted. "We've always traveled with silken tents…"
"It's merely a dirtier, colder house you pay through the nose for the privilege of sleeping in," Darrin answered under his breath.
Aravis had to laugh, and she accepted his proffered arm before going into the smoky, low-ceilinged dining room. Corin, Cor, Romith, Rhys, Gyneth, and Nim were already seated at a long table, upon which serving maids were starting to plunk large mugs of amber-colored liquid.
Darrin pulled out a scarred oak chair for Aravis and sat down between her and Borran. A serving maid placed a mug of this liquid in front of her, and she sipped experimentally at it.
"The North is famous for its ale," Darrin told her, watching her expression. "Something about mountain barley, I think."
Aravis nodded with silent approval and took another sip.
Elin's food was of that hearty country stock with the taste of fresh air. Despite herself, Aravis found herself quite enjoying the meal. The bread was thick and nutty, the broth was rich, and the meat tender; the ale and the good company made Aravis's extremities warm and her cheeks pink.
The plump girl whom they'd seen in the courtyard made a few appearances, having been introduced to the companions as Elin's maiden daughter, Hana. She was pretty in a domestic way, Aravis thought, with curly strawberry-blonde hair and a sweet, rosy face that matched her personality perfectly.
"She is a pleasant girl," Aravis told Darrin after her second mug of ale. "Don't you think?"
"Not as pleasant as you, milady!"
Aravis laughed. "She would look well at Anvard, I think."
Darrin tried to look very thoughtful, though his own face was growing a bit pink with drink as well. "Indeed…pretty enough to look well on a coin, young enough to bear healthy sons, and yet meek enough to mind her own business at court."
He drowned a meaningful look in Gyneth's direction in another large gulp of ale.
Aravis giggled at the fury that was evident on Gyneth's face when she saw Darrin's reproachful glance. "I shall speak to Hana when I get the chance, then."
The chance came sooner than she expected. The next time Hana came into the room, her arms laden with another pot of steaming stew, Aravis saw Gyneth reach back suddenly, her stretching arms stopping the heavy wooden door from opening all the way. Poor Hana ran straight into the door, and her pot of strew crashed to the ground.
Gyneth started to laugh.
Aravis leapt up and went to help Hana, who was mopping up the mess with her apron and struggling to hold back tears. "Let me help with that," she said, pulling a tea cozy from the table and starting to sop up the broth.
"Oh, no," Hana said quickly, "I couldn't expect such a noble lady as yourself clean up after my mistake."
"I insist," Aravis said, gratified.
Hana smiled with bright eyes. When she tried to take the heavy iron pot back from Aravis, though, Aravis shook her head and said, "You must be exhausted. Let me bring this back to the kitchen for you."
The girl hesitated, then shyly nodded and motioned for Aravis to follow. She did so, and in doing, it seemed that she stepped into another world. The floor in the servants' corridor was dirty and scarred; the braziers in the sconces on the wall were charred with use, and they smoked incessantly. As Hana led Aravis through it, they were jostled by harried-looking serving maids on their ways to the inn's multiple dining rooms.
"I'm sorry for our appearance, milady," Hana said, pushing the kitchen door open with her hip and holding it open for Aravis.
"I think it's quite nice, really," Aravis answered truthfully as she ducked a drying bunch of herbs.
Hana smiled and took the pot, moving through the clouds of fragrant smoke to the huge fire, where a greasy-faced kitchen boy was turning a suckling pig on a spit. "The inn was built by my father's great-grandfather, milady," she said softly, kneeling to ladle out more strew from a tureen in the red coals of the fire.
Aravis gazed around the dark room at the many generations of dirt. How many meals had been prepared by how many cooks in this very room? "And will your brother take over the management after your father?"
Hana smiled ruefully. "I haven't got a brother, milady. My future husband and I"—she sighed a bit—"will do it."
"And do you wish to run the inn like your father does?"
Straightening, Hana picked up the pot and braced it against her hip. "I don't wish to sound ungrateful, milady, because truly I'm not. But tending an inn is a hard life's work, and I begin to feel tired and worn out just thinking about it."
Aravis threw the stew-sodden rags into a basin of other dirty cloth. "What if I told you that you might not have to tend the inn—now or ever?"
"I'd say your ladyship was being rather idealistic, milady, with all due respect."
"His Highness the Crown Prince is under direct orders from his royal father to seek out a bride," Aravis said, the words tumbling from her mouth. "My role is to assist the prince in this process, as the maiden he chooses will take my place as lady of Anvard."
Hana set the stew down and fiddled with her apron, her eyes bright despite the smoke. "And…milady is not…bitter about this? If you'll forgive the presumption."
Aravis gave a very unladylike shrug. "I suppose not. The king hasn't said as much, but I do think he intends for me to find a husband, too."
"His Royal Highness the Crown Prince does not wish to marry you?"
The look on Aravis's face must have startled Hana, for she blanched and stammered out, "I—I—I don't wish to be impertinent, y-your ladyship—I only wondered that two such noble p-persons in need of spouses do not—do not turn to each other…"
Aravis smiled, a little startled herself. "You needn't apologize, Hana. I just suppose His Highness aren't…how should I put it…compatible."
Hana nodded, though her cheeks were still rather pale. "So…what is your ladyship proposing I do? About His Royal Highness, I mean."
"Well," Aravis said, leaning against a low countertop, "if you accept our offer, you will travel with us for the rest of His Highness's fledgling year—about ten and a half months, now. When we return to Anvard, you and the other maidens His Highness and I select will be interviewed by His Majesty's privy council. The council will submit their recommendations to Prince Cor, who will then choose from these who his bride shall be."
"I see," Hana whispered.
Aravis watched the girl carefully. Her emotions played clearly across her face—they would have to train that out of her if she were ever to make an effective queen. 'Well?" she asked after a suitable amount of time had passed.
"What if His Highness doesn't pick me?" Hana asked quietly, twisting her dirty apron between her fingers.
Aravis hadn't thought of that. "Well," she stalled. "You will of course be allowed to remain at court for a time while you consider your affairs. There are also quite a few men in the royal city who are of means and in want of a wife—the very fact that you have been considered to be queen will make you eminently marriageable."
Hana managed a smile at this. "So I will not be sent home in disgrace if His Highness chooses someone else?"
Aravis laughed lightly. "Oh, hardly—the new queen will need ladies-in-waiting, will she not? If by chance you do not wed, there will always be opportunities for you."
Hana began to relax. "And milady will be with us until then?"
"Of course."
"Then I will go," she declared, throwing her shoulders back and looking rather regal, indeed.
"Excellent!" Aravis clapped her hands. "I shall inform His Highness. You might pack your things and tell your father."
"What if he doesn't give his permission?" Hana squeaked, looking fearful again.
Aravis waved her hand in the air. "Then you shall come anyway. I never asked my father if I might come to Archenland."
Hana looked flabbergasted that a young woman would undertake such a journey without the permission of her father, but Aravis turned away. "I'll have some record-keeping in the morning when we leave, Hana, and you'll sign some things then. Does that sound all right to you?"
"Yes, milady," Hana breathed, dropping a deep curtsy.
"You might call me Aravis, I think," Aravis said as she left the smoky kitchen.
Darrin stood up as she returned to the dining room. "What did she say?"
"She seems nervous about it, but she's agreed to it," Aravis sighed, sitting down in her seat and suppressing a yawn.
"I'll tell Prince Cor for you, milady," he replied, pouring her another mug of cool ale.
Aravis nodded gratefully and sipped at the froth. For some reason, her discussion with Hana had been exhausting. She had a sneaking suspicion it was an emotional tiredness—indeed, as she sat brooding over her drink, she felt the prickling of tears behind her eyes. She knew she wouldn't start to cry—she hadn't cried in two years—but, as she gazed into the murky depths of hr mug, she realized that she would have to shore up her defenses if she were to perform her duties efficiently this year. Her place in the royal family had only been temporary, after all, and she had known it all along; she would only be lady of Anvard until either she or Cor married. It had always been that way, and always would be.
"Still," she muttered to her ale.
Darrin plopped into place next to her, bracing his arm against the back of her chair. "He's been informed, dear lady."
Aravis pulled herself out of her introspection and smiled up at the tall Archenlander. Ale agreed with him, she thought; he really was much too proper for his own good, otherwise. "You say he's been informed. Does that imply his willingness?"
Darrin squirmed. "He said, and I quote, 'Well, let's let the council decide that, shall we?'"
She had to laugh. "That's just mean. I hope they do choose Hana, just to spite him.
"She would be the better choice," Darrin replied, looking at Gyneth, who had drunk far too much ale that night.
Aravis twirled her mug about, watching the froth creep up the sides. "But you still don't share my suspicions of her, do you?"
He took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out slowly. "Honestly?"
"Honestly."
"I really don't know what to think, at least anymore. You know my loyalty lies with the princes."
"I would expect no less."
"But I find my loyalty slowly shifting a bit, my dear lady; shifting enough to include you."
Aravis, touched, patted his hand.
"At any rate," he said, clearing his throat, "I have observed how Gyneth treats you—as if she were already queen!—and I begin to resent her, myself. But does that make her guilty of some diabolical deed? Hardly."
She nodded slowly. "What do you recommend?"
Darrin gave a small smile. "Ah, dear Aravis. Do you ask for my advice out of legitimate desire to hear it? Or are you merely a good diplomat?"
"Both," she answered coyly.
He laughed. "Very well. My advice, first, is to be kinder to Prince Cor. He may not deserve it," he added over her protestations, "but then, if he did, it wouldn't be kindness, would it? I know how fond you are of each other, and it would be a damn shame—pardon—if your friendship collapsed this year."
Aravis grumbled in response.
"His Highness is not at his best, I agree," Darrin went on as there was a burst of raucous laughter from the other end of the table. He put his head closer to Aravis's so she could hear him better. "But try to imagine yourself in his position. You are young, suddenly in sole command, lauded and admired wherever you go, with a pretty maiden on your arm…and the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders."
She looked up into Darrin's face, and he was gazing down at her with unreadable grey eyes, gently creased in the corners. "I suppose I understand," she said doubtfully.
He shrugged one of his shoulders in a half-hearted way. "As for Gyneth…just remember that you are Aravis Tarkheena, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkhaan of Calavar, and she is naught but a farmer's daughter."
Aravis felt a gratified blush creeping up her cheeks. "Well, now that you put it that way…"
He gave her a wry grin. "You, excepting of course Their Highnesses, are the finest-bred of all of us. Remember that in your dealings with these women."
There was a tap at Aravis's shoulder at this moment, and she turned to see Hana, eyes bright and cheeks red. "I have spoken to my father, Lady Aravis," she said firmly. "He was reluctant at first, but he has agreed to let me travel with you and be considered for His Highness's hand."
Aravis stood up, beaming, and wrung Hana's hand. "How wonderful! You simply must meet everyone."
"Oh, I c-couldn't," Hana stammered frightfully.
Darrin stood, taking Hana's hand and kissing it as he swept into a low bow. "Well met, Mistress Hana. I am Darrin, Lord of Boldenhal Keep and privy councilor to His Majesty the King."
Hana, now cherry red, stuttered out a polite response and Darrin offered her his arm. "Come, dear madam, let me introduce you to my comrades-in-arms."
Aravis followed the two of them, feeling a bit like a protective mother hen as Darrin gently and chivalrously introduced Hana to each and every member of the small band. When he came to Gyneth, Aravis held her breath, but the girl was so overcome by her ale that she could only manage a bleary glare and a slurred insult.
At last, they came to Cor. He stood as they approached, and Aravis saw Hana's eyes widen a bit, and put her hand on her other arm.
"Your Highness," Darrin said, bowing. "May I introduce to you the maid Hana Cowslip of Wolfdell."
Hana, trembling, curtsied low, shooting Aravis a tight-lipped look. "My liege," she murmured.
Cor bowed. "So you are the Hana I've been told of. Well met, madam."
"Thank you, sire."
Smiling, Cor said, "Well, I expect we'll get to know each other well over the next few months, eh? You might start calling me Prince Cor."
"I wouldn't' dream of such disrespect, sire," Hana breathed.
"Come now. I insist."
"Yes…Prince Cor…"
Cor smiled and bowed himself away. Darrin and Aravis led the shell-shocked Hana towards the back of the room, where she needed a moment to recover. "You will forgive me," she said breathlessly. "I must seem quite silly to you, but you must understand…I've never met anyone so…important…as His Highness."
"Don't be ashamed," Aravis said with a smile. "I thought you did quite brilliantly. Now. Let's go to bed, hmm? We have an early morning ahead of us."
Hana nodded mutely.
"There, there," Aravis went on. "Everything will look better in the daylight, don't you think?"
"Wise words," Darrin said with a nod.
Hana nodded again and turned towards the door, her face a mask of disbelief.
Aravis smiled apologetically at Darrin. "I'd best take her upstairs and see that she packs appropriately."
"I understand."
"I feel a bit responsible for her, you see."
"Of course."
"Be sure to wake me with everyone else, Darrin."
"Yes, milady," Darrin said with a chuckle.
Aravis smiled and hurried upstairs after Hana.