Why People Don't Walk in the Western Wood
O0O0O0O
When last we left Susan, she was seated in an open, airy chamber that was to serve as her council room, with Queen Lora standing nearby. This is where we rejoin her, although Queen Lora has by now taken a seat, and the two queens are sitting very straight indeed as the door is opened to admit three women from the far western Calormene province of Calmir.
All three of the women who entered the room on that day wore the costume of Calmirian ladies. They were kept warm by long, well-made cloaks of softest lambs' wool dyed in bright, solid colours and wrapped with apparent effortlessness over clean white tunics. Their shining dark hair was dressed in delicate spirals of gold, but aside from these they wore no jewellery. Their simple leather sandals made only the softest whispering noises against the flagstone floor as they entered. With the door closed behind the newcomers and the lone attendant decorously removed to the corridor, Susan suffered only a momentary qualm at the strangeness of it all before she made indication that the women were free to seat themselves across from her, which they did. Susan then drew a deep breath, fixed her gaze on each woman in turn, and spoke.
"I am Queen Susan of Narnia," she said quietly, "and beside me," with a graceful nod to her companion, "is Queen Lora of Archenland. She has consented to sit with us for this interview. I have," (this said with candour and without apology) "very little knowledge yet of how these things are accomplished."
If this shocked or alarmed the Calmirian women, they did not betray it. They merely sat very still and remained silent, regarding the two Queens with dark, bright eyes.
"If you would be so good," Susan went on, "I should like to know which of you is which. I have three names here before me," she made a small gesture at a scroll on her lap, "but I do not know . . . one of you is Ulia Ba'Son?"
The woman on the far left of the three, the tallest and oldest, wrapped in a cloak of brightest azure with silver threads adding age and its accompanying stature to the already brilliant spirals of gold in her hair, inclined her head.
"I am she, Lady," Ulia said, and although she spoke quietly, it seemed as if her words filled the entire audience chamber, slipping into each corner and circling back to echo softly all around them. This is a handy trick of speech that is often learned by women in a land where silence is expected of them, and yet communication is, naturally, also imperative.
Susan smiled warmly at Ulia and bade her friendly welcome to the audience. Queen Lora, who was watching Ulia closely, thought she saw perhaps the faintest flicker of surprise touch the eyes of the much older woman. Queen Lora hid an understanding smile of her own; Susan's smile was of such brilliance that an observer did well to be prepared to receive it.
"And," Susan returned her gaze to the scroll, "Na'mia Adrash?"
Na'mia proved to be the smallest and youngest of the three, the petite girl in a cloak of scarlet who sat in the chair on the far right. She did not incline her head gently, as Ulia had done, but rather lifted bright, sharp eyes to Susan's and, in polite but carrying tones, identified herself as such. Susan bade the young woman welcome as she had done with Ulia, and then turned to address the woman who sat between her fellows.
"You, then, must be Eurveth Tarshett," the young Queen deduced, but to her surprise, the woman in question —older than Na'mia by at least half a decade, but certainly ages younger than Ulia— made a peculiar little motion with her hand, and answered, softly, to the negative.
"I— I beg your pardon," Susan looked quickly back down to the scroll before her, "it is the only other name I have here, so I assumed . . . you are not Eurveth Tarshett? But you have received invitation to claim lands in the name of an ancestor, surely?"
"I did, Lady," the woman, gowned in a cloak so vibrantly green it might have been fashioned from a piece of Narnian hillside, inclined her head in much the same way that Ulia had done. "Forgive my ambiguity. Eurveth is indeed my name, and once Tarshett was too. But in seeking to claim the land offered to me by way of my mother's line, I defy the will of my father. I can no longer claim the name of Tarshett, for my father no longer calls me his daughter."
"Oh," said Susan, suddenly feeling that a large, dark hole yawned at her feet. She struggled not to misstep. "I . . . I suppose, then, that there is . . . no place left for you, now, in Calmir?"
Eurveth held the Queen's gaze in a steady, respectful manner. "There is one, Lady . . . but it is not the sort of place that any mother would wish for her daughter. It is a ruination from which a Calmirian woman is permitted no return."
"Oh," said Susan again, and, for want of anything else to do, she turned her attention to the scroll once more. Unfortunately it was of no help to her; only the three names she had already spoken aloud looked back at her, coupled with very succinct descriptions of the right by which each woman meant to claim her land. "Oh," said Susan again, and hoped very much that she would not start to cry in the middle of her first official audience. What had they done? She and Peter and Edmund and Lucy— what had they done? Offering things that they could not guarantee, until they had met the persons to whom they had been offered . . . inducing people to take chances that could cost them their very way of life in the worst possible way. It suddenly seemed monstrous.
Queen Lora cast one brief, assessing glance at her young friend and moved swiftly, placing a firm hand on her little cousin's arm. The warmth of her palm and the weight of the gesture infused the girl with a sudden reminder of her place, her position, and, yes, her calling. Susan lifted her head abruptly, sat up a bit straighter, and addressed Eurveth.
"You have risked much in coming, Lady," she said, and her tones, measure for measure, matched those of all the wisest rulers who had gone before her. "You are prepared, then, to forsake the safety and comfort of your father's house for the chance to make a new life in a strange land? Do I understand that you would choose an unknown land," this said still gently, and with even some hint of good humour, "which I believe has been rumoured, in your Empire, to be populated by the most fearsome demons, hobgoblins, and any other manner of unnatural things, above the assurance of protection that is offered to you in the house of your father and the home of your birth?"
Eurveth spoke softly but without hesitation as she made her answer.
"You may indeed take this as truth, Lady. For you see, I have been told by my mother of the tales that were told her by her mother before her, and hers, before her. I have heard, too, the tales told by men in my father's company when they sit with their coffee after their meals. I have heard the stories they tell of Narnia, and long have I contrived to hear all that they say. In Calmir it is not thought seemly for a maiden to listen to the private talk of men, and my father is a man who loves that which is seemly and proper above all else. Had I been caught in my eavesdropping the consequences would have been severe, and yet I risked the wrath of my father gladly, for it was as though I was spurred on by something far more powerful than I.
"From the moment of my first hearing the name of Narnia, the mention of the great Lion . . . truly, I could not help myself; the very notion of these things became as life, breath and water to me, and I could not help but seek them whenever I could. I have learned in my secret studies that to stand in service of the Lion of Narnia is to fear no wrong thing, but rather to know that all that befalls you there is as the Lion and only the Lion would see it done. Long have I heard stories of those who served him, and long did I believe, and grieve, that it could never be so for me.
"I blush now, to think of it, but I doubted that even the Lion of Narnia could snatch me from the province of Calmir and the palace of my father! When my mother passed into the care of her ancestors I grew even more certain that my fate was to dwell in the home of my father until I passed into the house of my husband. Great was my sorrow to imagine I should never see the kingdom of he who was my one hope for deliverance. Yet even in my doubt that the Lion could offer succour, still I called out to him, entreating him for some sign that I might yet hope, or, else wise, for some sign that I must set aside childish notions in favour of service to my father. For even then it had begun to creep into my mind that a girl must be foolish indeed, to think she could serve a great king in the stead of her own parent.
"But oh! Lady! When the message came from the King —your noble brother, Lady— and when I saw on it the seals of not only the King and his Royal brother, but the signs and seals of the Queens also, noblewomen holding rank alongside their kinsmen . . . I knew that it was a sign sent unto me by the will of the Lion. I do not," with graceful haste, "mean to say that I took it as a sign that I was meant to be granted the land I seek to claim; that is, of course, a matter for my lady Queen to determine. But I took it and indeed do take it yet as a sign intended to assure me that the Lion sought me for His service earnestly and with —oh, to even think it!— a devotion that equalled, if it did not actually surpass, my own in seeking him. I swore on the moment of receipt of that summons that I would seek to stand in service of him, cost me what it may, and so I shall. Though I may be barred title to the land, if I am granted even entry to Narnia and am there made free to seek my way in service of him, that would be sufficient. I would be a slave in the meanest home in all the Lion's kingdom, Lady, before I returned to title and honour in the home of my father."
Eurveth ended this tale with no pretty flourish or gesture, but simply sat back and lowered her eyes slightly, to signal that she had concluded her speech.
I do not believe that I can hope to convey to you the effect that this narrative had on Susan. If Artith's tale to the council had struck them all dumb, then Eurveth's tale had brought the gentle Queen to the verge of tears. Yet, Susan thought, surely it would not be proper to shed those tears in the presence of the women who looked to her to make a just and impartial judgement of their fitness to take up the land they hoped to claim. Thus Susan sat quite still and held her breath to keep from weeping, turning first a little pink, and then a little purple, until at last she thought she had herself well in control once more and was able to address the matter at hand.
"I . . . thank you, Eurveth," she murmured, "for your candour, and your courage. You may trust we will not be long in considering your case. I . . ." poor Susan found the lettering on the scroll was difficult to make out, through the saltwater haze that obscured her vision. "I think . . ." she tried to remember the name. "Ulia Ba'Son, will you tell me, then, what it is that brings you to seek a home in Narnia?"
Ulia's tale, mercifully, was much more straightforward than that of her countrywoman. She was an older woman whose sons had passed on to wives and households of their own, and her husband had, like Eurveth's mother, passed on to the care of his ancestors.
"I am left with two daughters," Ulia concluded, "and a desire to pass my final days in the home of my ancestors, if my lady Queen sees fit to permit it."
"Thank you, Ulia Ba'Son," Susan said, and made a careful notation beside the woman's name. "I assure you, we will not be long in deliberating. And now . . . Na'mia Adrash?"
Na'mia sat up a little straighter at hearing her name called, much the way schoolchildren will when they know the teacher's eyes are on them. She tipped her head slightly to one side and met Susan's gaze with forceful expectancy.
"Your Majesty?"
"Your petition states you are without family."
"I am," Na'mia nodded.
"You have no living relations of any description?"
"I do not."
"And you wish you come alone to make your home in Narnia?"
"I do."
Susan began to feel almost as if she were pulling teeth. There was nothing at all disrespectful or secretive about the girl, but neither did she seem particularly forthcoming. She simply regarded Susan with those bright, grave eyes and waited for the next question, which Susan found herself fumbling in the face of her own disquiet.
"And— and you say here," she squinted quickly at her notes, "you claim your land through your father's line?"
"I do."
"The land you seek to claim— it is the estate of Eastford?"
"Yes."
"That is, the keep and lands on the eastern bank of the Archen River Ford in the Western Wood?"
"I do not know."
"You— I'm sorry?"
"I do not know," Na'mia repeated. "I have never been there."
"Oh, yes, of course." Susan began to feel rather flustered, and hated the thought that she must look it, too. Susan, being that type of person who prefers to say no more than is absolutely necessary, felt most at ease with people who leaped to fill the silences she left. When it came to confronting a person who was as economical in her speech as Susan herself, if not even more so . . . it was more of a trial than the Queen would have cared to acknowledge. "And," she looked quickly over the list, "why do you want to come to Narnia?"
"I want to make a home," Na'mia explained. "I have nowhere to make it in Calmir."
"Nowhere?" Susan asked, forgetting her discomfort in the face of her surprise.
"No. Calmirian women do not make homes; they have homes made for them, and are then taken there to live."
This explanation barely warranted the name, in one respect, but in another it seemed to say everything that was necessary; certainly Ulia and Eurveth both nodded their quiet assent to this truth, which left Susan feeling she was hardly in a position to question it further. Instead she looked back down at her list, felt her face grow hot with confusion, and wondered desperately how next to proceed.
Then, in much the same way she had described to Edmund only recently, as she reflected desperately on the issue at hand suddenly the answer was simply there, seeming almost to shape itself around the problem as if it had been made to order. She knew what to do as surely as if she had done it a hundred times before. So Susan raised her head, nodded briefly to each of the women, thanked them for their time and then sat back in her chair, signalling an end to the audience. Only once the three had made respectful bows and shuffled out did Susan turn to Queen Lora beside her.
"My dear!" her friend smiled. "My dear cousin I hope you will not refuse my congratulations. That was very well done, indeed."
"Do you think so?" Susan laughed shakily. "I am not so sure. But in any event I hope to make a proper consideration of each of them, and of course I would hear Edmund's counsel also. I am afraid I am a poor hand at taking the measure of a person."
"Well, was there among these three any woman who gave you pause?"
"No-o," Susan said doubtfully. "That is to say, not in any way that should matter. I am afraid I made a bad job of interviewing Na'mia Adrash; she is the sort of person who would be better served to speak with Lucy. There can be no reticence or taciturnity when one speaks with Lucy; she cannot bear such things."
"The more you speak of this beloved sister, the more eager I am to meet her," Queen Lora laughed. "She sounds a most enchanting thing. I cannot think, though," she patted Susan's hand encouragingly, "that even the Queen Lucy could have conducted herself with any better grace than did my sovereign cousin this very hour. Your comportment, my dear, was without fault."
"I thank you, but you would do well to reserve judgment," Susan sighed, carefully rolling up the list she held. "I am not done with this."
"No?"
"No, it . . . I'm afraid I don't yet know enough to make a decision concerning Na'mia."
"She was not, perhaps, the most forthcoming claimant of the three," Queen Lora conceded. "Very well then, my dear; what scheme have you in mind?"
"I thought that perhaps it might help if she were to see the land she seeks to claim," Susan explained. "She mentioned she had never seen the property, which makes sense, since none of them have. But I wonder if letting her see the place she wishes to call her home might not . . . if it might not provoke her to further declaration."
It sounded very weak when she actually said it aloud, Susan thought, and she almost regretted saying it, but Queen Lora's thoughtful expression changed her mind.
"I think you may have something there," Lora nodded slowly. "How do you propose that this might be accomplished?"
Susan struggled not to fidget with the sleeve of her gown. "Well," she said, and there was a distinct note of apology in her tone, "it is yet quite early in the day . . ."
Queen Lora's laugh was light and rich with delight. "It is indeed. Very well then, dear cousin," she inclined her head most graciously to the younger Queen, "let us make ready to ride."
O0O0O0O
"You want to go riding? Now?" Edmund stared at his sister in blank incomprehension. Susan did not blush or fidget, but she did have the grace to look just a little apologetic.
"Yes, but it's not for fun, Edmund, I think it's necessary. I had the interviews today, you know—"
"Oh, yes. How did that work out?"
"Well enough, I think, but I cannot consider them concluded until this has been accomplished. I think it necessary."
"I've no doubt you do, Susan, else you would not have suggested it. But can it be safe? Our first night passing through the wood you were attacked; the next day there was the wolf, and . . ." he looked at his older sister beseechingly. "You cannot expect me to countenance you returning there with none but Her Majesty and this— this Na'mia person to accompany you."
"No, of course not," Susan smiled. "I had thought we would take a guard, of course; a few of the men in King Lune's castle guard, and then perhaps some of our own court— a Centaur, possibly, and some of the Cats, if they would consent."
"None would refuse the honour of protecting the Queen, Susan," Edmund said, and sounded far more vexed than he meant to. He couldn't help it; he was suffering from that particular irritation which is borne of frustration at knowing you will only look petty if you continue to insist on having your way. The boy searched desperately for some flaw in his sister's proposition, but could find none sufficient to warrant further protest. The kindly expression on Susan's face told him she knew it to be so, and this only made him all the more cross.
"Very well, then," he said, and if he sounded more like a petulant little boy than he did a gracious regent, well, who's to condemn him? Susan even smiled and planted a fond kiss on his cheek, which at once both embarrassed and pleased the young King. "Yes, well," he mumbled, and ducked his head, causing Susan's smile to widen.
"Will you come and see us off?" she entreated. "We will leave inside of an hour, Edmund . . . won't you agree to see us safely on our way?"
And she knew Edmund was not truly cross with her when he said yes, all right, very well, he would do it.
O0O0O0O
Standing in the courtyard three quarters of an hour later, Edmund surveyed the preparations that had been made for the excursion. The sort of guard that the two Queens were able to assemble in less than an hour was naturally not a terribly grand one, but at the same time the King was forced to admit they were the sort with whom any enemy would be hesitant to reckon. Three large Cats reclined by the castle gates, tails twitching in indolent irritation as they awaited the command to be off. Pollus the Centaur stood at the ready, and Lobie and Pansy of the Talking Hound pack were frisking about the hooves of the six horses being readied for the journey.
Edmund, on seeing the number of mounts being readied, crossed the courtyard to intercept Susan as she started for her own mare.
"Who is going with you?" he wanted to know. "I count six horses."
Lucy or Peter in that situation might have made a joke about Edmund's mathematical prowess, but Susan simply smiled. "Queen Lora, as you know, has kindly offered to join us on our journey to the Eastford property. Na'mia in turn requested permission to bring two persons, and I said she might."
"Who? The other two women?" Edmund wondered, but a deep, burred voice behind him swiftly disabused him of the notion that women would be accompanying them.
"I am many things, Edmund of Narnia, but a woman I am not. 'Tis a mistake not many have made, I must say," the newcomer observed. Edmund turned to find Magnus and Fergus standing behind him. Magnus no longer carried the staff he had held on entering the council, but rather held a long, straight spear nearly as tall as the staff had been; Fergus carried one identical to it. The three men exchanged nods and small bows, and Edmund presented Susan.
"Madam." Magnus made a deeper bow than he had done when greeting Edmund, and Fergus followed suit. Upon straightening, Magnus addressed Edmund. "Mistake me not again for a woman, O King," he recommended, but there was a glint of humour in his eyes as he said it, which provoked a smile from Edmund.
"I shall make a most sincere effort," the King promised, and thought that perhaps Magnus's lips may have twitched in an answering smile, though the man's short, stiff beard made it difficult to say for sure.
"When I put to her the possibility of us travelling to view her estate, Na'mia was much in favour," Susan explained. "But of course I felt it only fair that I warn her of the dangers that inhabit the Western Wood, and so I suggested she choose from among her own people a guard such as could be trusted, or else that she consent to my appointing an extra person from our own court. She elected to choose from among her countrymen."
"Are you acquainted with the lady, then?" Edmund queried, but Magnus shook his head.
"Never met her before today," he said cheerfully. "But it is the custom of my people that we refuse neither hospitality nor protection to those who request it, and of course the Tarkheena Na'mia knew this. She sent a messenger with words of introduction and her petition for our services; all very proper, even by the standards of Calormen, I assure you. You need not fear, King Edmund," he added, and this time there was a gentle sort of solemnity about him as he spoke. "We take this custom of protection . . . very seriously."
Edmund nodded, and though he did not say so, he did feel almost absurdly relieved. There was something about the spears coupled with the grim geniality of these men that made it impossible to doubt their ability to fully discharge their obligation.
The remaining preparations to depart were completed with considerable speed, with each member of the travelling party looking to his or her own needs, and very little attention being paid to what took place around them. Edmund pressed a kiss to each of his sister's cheeks and offered his cupped hands to aid her in mounting. As he stepped back to give room for Norry to prance just a little, Lobie appeared at the King's side, tilting his head enquiringly to look up at the Queen.
"Shall I accompany your Majesty?" he queried, tongue lolling agreeably. "It would be a great honour, you know; very nice day, lots of lovely scents, I'd be most happy to point them out to you if you liked."
"That's very kind of you, Lobie," Susan smiled. "Yes, thank you, I should enjoy that." Then she turned her attention to quieting Norry, which left Edmund free to kneel down and address the Hound in a very quiet, solemn tone.
"You'll look after her, won't you, Lobie?" he said. "For me."
Some of the gaiety in the dog's eyes dimmed and was replaced by watchful consideration. "Of course, Sire," he said, and then thumped his whippy tail on the ground, because of course a hound's a hound, even if he can talk, and there's not much room for prolonged solemnity with them.
"Good," Edmund nodded, then rose, and stepped back even farther so that all those assembled could arrange themselves in something like an organised fashion. No trumpets sounded, but people smiled and talked and laughed (well, most of them did. Edmund could not help but notice that Na'mia looked rather solemn, but that seemed to be a trait of many Calormenes, so he chose to attribute it to culture rather than nature) and as one easy, agreeable group, they moved out.
After the travelling party took their leave so did Edmund, and all grooms at hand returned at once to their duties, but the stableyard did not quiet immediately after they left. Instead, not even a quarter of an hour had passed before one small, fat pony bearing a small, slight rider trotted out of the stables, making purposefully for the gate. Pony and rider, however, were the only ones in the stable yard, which meant that when Prince Corin of Archenland dug his heels imperiously at the pony's sides and ordered it into a canter, the pair of them leaving the courtyard in favour of following the party of grown-ups over the field, up to the pass at Anvard and into the Western Wood, nobody saw them go.
O0O0O0O
The ride to the Western Wood is an exceptionally pretty one at any time of year, but in late autumn there is the added appeal of the rich reds, golds and ambers that colour the hardwoods. Susan, who hadn't really been able to enjoy the view the last time they travelled, given the gathering twilight and the assassination attempt and whatnot, found herself wishing she might slow Norry's pace to better appreciate the view.
"Oh, for a day to do nothing but simply stand and stare at such loveliness," she sighed, speaking more to herself than to any in her company. Lora, who rode beside the younger Queen, smiled at her in amusement and understanding.
"I have often wished for the same," she confessed. "But it is for others to have, I am afraid . . . what do you know of the estate of Eastford? Is there aught you think should be told to the young lady ere we arrive?"
"Nothing I can recall," Susan turned her attention from the scenery to ponder the question. "It is a pretty piece of land. Westford lies directly across the river, you know, and from what can be determined from records and correspondence found in the castle, those who hold each estate have long made a custom of partnering in defence of their properties. When you see them for yourself, you will understand why this has been such a success. The bridge itself is in want of some small repairs, but nothing that a single stonemason could not put right. I do believe—"
But what Susan believed would never be known, since before she could give voice to it the wind shifted, and Pansy lifted her head to the sky in sudden, excited awareness.
"Horse!" she bayed. "Horse-horse-horse!"
"Ride-ride-rider!" Lobie yipped, joining Pansy in the alert. "Horse and rider!" Both dogs whirled about in quivering anticipation, staring down the path they had just travelled. The entire party ground to a sudden, prancing, nervous halt, and faster than Susan could ever have imagined possible, she, Queen Lora and Na'mia found themselves bundled snugly into the centre of a bristling, snarling, spear-levelling group.
"Danger?" Na'mia asked softly. Susan, sitting straight and pale in her saddle, shook her head slowly.
"I cannot say . . ." she looked down at the dog beside her. "Lobie?"
Lobie's nose was twitching with frantic enquiry. Pansy, closer to the outskirts of the defensive knot of horses, riders and other folk, also seemed to be making queries of the breeze blowing over them, but neither dog appeared moved to aggression. To the contrary, Lobie's tail began a sudden, eager assault on his own flanks, and Pansy's did likewise.
"Safe!" Pansy carolled. "Safe-safe-safe! Boy-boy-boy!" and then she bolted eagerly down the path, for Prince Corin had a terrible habit of dropping scraps under the table while he ate, and even Talking Dogs are not averse to a little begging when the mood takes them. Pansy had a particular fondness for Prince Corin.
Pansy met Corin's pony just as it topped a low ridge and came into clear view of the travelling party. As Pansy bounded and bounced around pony and rider, making known her pleasure at encountering them, Queen Lora's expression was decidedly less welcoming, and her words, as she received her cheery son, still less so. After she had given voice to her initial displeasure at his recklessness, she went onto lecture him with lesser volume but greater distress.
"'Tis not a game, my boy!" she exclaimed. "This business of creeping out and exploring as though these woods were safe for children— 'tis madness!" She was clearly torn between unQueenly shouts and floods of tears as she lectured. "These woods are yet overrun with beasts and monsters that would do us all most grievous harm, and art no knight yet, my boy; art a child still, and . . . and . . ." Tears were clearly winning the day as she reached down, dragged her son from his pony and clasped the squirming, blushing, mortified boy to her breast, squishing him down on the saddle in front of her as one does an infant who cannot yet seat his own pony. "Corin, art my dearest and most precious treasure in this and every world. I would die before I saw thee harmed."
"Mama," Corin muttered, "Mama, you're squishing me."
"Yes, well," Queen Lora snuffled into his hair, "I shall do a great deal more than that, ere I am satisfied shalt not pursue me in this fashion again. Now! Back to the castle with thee."
But this edict was not to be carried out, for an examination of their ranks soon provide they could not spare the numbers that Queen Lora would deem sufficient to protect her son. Instead, Prince Corin was to accompany them to the estate at Eastford— although his mother insisted he would ride with her on her horse, because clearly the responsibility of having his own pony was yet beyond the child's ability to handle properly.
"Until canst behave as a young gentleman who respects his mother's edict," Lora scolded, as they topped the last ridge before they reached the river, "shalt ride with thy mother and disregard her at thy peril."
Susan, watching this exchange out of the corner of her eye, felt a smile tugging at her lips. She fought to keep it under control, and found she was fighting it still as they left the main path to follow the narrow, less-travelled trail that ran alongside the Archen River. They fell into single file at this point, so Susan could no longer observe the exchange between mother and son, but she could still hear most parts of it. As far as Susan could make out, Queen Lora's lectures continued unabated even as the sun rose high in the sky, the river widened beside them, and the riverbed deepened into a gorge. It was only when the sun began its descent from the heavens and the party rounded a sharp bend, at last coming in sight of the estates of Eastford and Westford where they flanked the ford of the Archen river, that the Queen seemed to have talked her anxieties into something more manageable, for she fell silent at last, as did the rest of the little company.
"This is Eastford?" it was Na'mia who spoke, studying the property before them. Susan drew Norry alongside the Calmirian's horse to make her reply.
"On this side of the river, yes. On the far side of the river lies Westford— yours, milord, an I am not mistaken?" she looked to Magnus, who was regarding the properties as well. He did not give assent.
"My title to the property remains undecided," he observed, and Susan nodded.
"Of course." She looked back to Na'mia. "Shall we not move closer, that you might better see what you seek to claim?"
Na'mia was in agreement and so the party journeyed on, halting only at the gates of Eastford castle. These were opened by Pollus and then all passed through, dismounting in the stableyard and setting to stretching and kneading at their own necks and arms and backs, which were stiff from so much riding.
The horses had their saddles loosened and bridles were removed, allowing them to make good use of the remnants of hay that had been stored there when Lucy and Susan had first visited the estate with their own company. Water was drawn for them from the castle well, and Susan urged Na'mia to taste the water for herself, which was found to be sweet and pure.
"The well runs deep into the rock," she explained, as the Calmirian girl made appreciative faces at the taste of the cold, clear water. "It is drawn from the river, and from what the records tell us, was much prized for its consistent purity."
"This is indeed treasure," Na'mia decided, and for the first time since Susan had laid eyes on her, the girl smiled. Then she confessed an eagerness to see more of the castle, and so with both Queens, Prince Corin, Magnus and Fergus all in close attendance, she began to explore.
As they moved from one room to the next, Susan gave commentary on the nature and purpose of each chamber. She added what points she could recall from having researched the history of each property with Lucy, and as far as she could tell, Na'mia seemed favourably impressed overall. She did not, however, converse much. At times Magnus would knock his spear against some object or other and put a question about it to the Narnian Queen, which Susan would answer, but Na'mia herself seemed content to listen. Only once they had toured most of the castle did she finally voice a preference of her own.
"I should like very much," she decided, "to see the grounds beyond the castle walls. There are homes for tenants, are there not? Farms, and such?"
Susan agreed that there were, and said she would be happy to show them, but at this offer Fergus, who had to that point remained as silent as Na'mia, stirred uneasily.
"My lord?" he murmured, and Magnus grunted in acknowledgment.
"Is this wise, your Majesty?" he wondered. "The woods holding dangers as they do . . . are these tenements safe for exploration?"
"They are as safe as our guard can make them, I am sure," Susan said. "But I would hear the counsel of my guard and of my good cousin," with a nod to Lora, "if they would consent to offer it."
"I would hold that the tenements are no more dangerous than the wood itself," Queen Lora decided. "The company of our guard should be ample deterrent to any who would do us harm."
"Very well, then," Magnus nodded, and quelled mutterings from Fergus with a single, hard look. "If the Queens see fit to recommend it, we will take a look."
They took a look, but they did not take Corin. He protested mightily, but his mother insisted on leaving him in the company of Pollus, Pansy and the horses as the rest of them set out to explore the little dwellings that surrounded the castle. It was, she explained, more out of her desire to deprive him of some of the delights of his own disobedience than any concern for his safety that she left him there, and nobody elected to question her, so Corin remained sulking in the courtyard as the rest of them ventured out.
What happened next was, Susan would say for years afterward, not in any way anybody's fault. More accurately it was, perhaps, a little bit of everybody's fault, but Susan was not the sort of person to say such things, and so it was never said.
Pansy was not given to indulging the sulks of her own puppies and had no interest in indulging the sulks of a human puppy, no matter how well she loved him, and so she set off on a little expedition of her own around the castle yard. She poked into corners, wandered in and out of utility rooms and generally made a memory of the place while Corin was indulged by Pollus, who had no colts of his own and was rather smitten with the fearless little Prince.
So it was that Corin was able to cajole Pollus into boosting him up to the lowest parapet, a sturdy enough walk on a low wall that overlooked part of the wood that had grown up against the castle. For quite a while Corin was content to make his games up there, shouting down to Pollus all that he could see. I am almost positive, too, that he meant no mischief when, on sighting something moving in the wood below him, he leaned out over the winter-worn wall to get a better look. However, when Pollus finally realised that the Prince was attending to something he should not, and shouted a warning for the boy to come down, Corin was having none of that and instead leaned out a little further onto the wall . . . which crumbled beneath his little hands, sending him sliding over the top, and down to the forest floor below.
Pollus let out a shout of alarm at this, and Pansy, scampering out from the stables to see what could have set the Centaur to shouting, saw that Corin was not where he should be —namely, anywhere within reach or even sight of them— and did what any sensible dog would do: she threw back her head and gave voice, then bolted forward to see what the fastest way of fixing everything might be.
And when Corin, picking himself up from a nice, springy ground covering of moss, turned around and saw before him the most hideous, fearsome creature he had ever before seen in his few years— well, the shriek of terror that escaped him at the sight surely only spurred Pansy to run all the faster.
O0O0O0O
All those who had not stayed behind in the courtyard went about together from cottage to cottage, farmstead to farmstead, digging here and there at foundations, pacing to and fro across overgrown fields, seeing beneath the dust and the remnants of riotous spring and summer growth the evidence of lives once lived. Na'mia attended to Susan when the Queen spoke, but in the silence between explanations she made her own way, wandering about, here resting a hand on a doorframe that had withstood the Witch's winter, there stooping to examine a plant that sprang up from the earth in defiance of the choking weeds around it.
"The people who were once here," she murmured, "they would perhaps be pleased to know they did not labour in vain." She stood in what had once been a fertile, tended field, looking about in all directions. "They are gone, but the work of their days, the expenditure of their lives . . . it is still here."
"Awaiting someone to take up in their stead," Queen Lora agreed. Na'mia made no answer to this, though, and Susan was again conscious of confusion and concern. She had not expected Na'mia to burst into raptures of delight, of course, but all the same she had hoped to see . . . what? Some sort of yearning, at least. Some sensibility on Na'mia's part of her connection to this land; perhaps some desire to deepen that bond and become mistress of a people who would rely on her sound judgment and her respect for their labours in her governance of them. But instead . . . Na'mia looked only thoughtful, and a little curious.
"If you will permit a question?" Susan addressed the girl, and Na'mia nodded. "Tell me then, what was it that first made you want to come here? When you received word of the petition you were entitled to make, what was it that swayed you to accept?"
For one moment Susan thought she would be denied a reply. Certainly Na'mia seemed to be weighing the merits of making one. At last, the young woman seemed to reach a decision, and answered.
"I was told—" she began, but what it was she had been told would not be revealed at that time, for she was cut off mid-sentence by a sudden, horsy shout, the hysterical baying of a hound, and —the sound that brought a scream to Queen Lora's lips— the thin, terrified shriek of a child.
Of one accord the party bolted from the field, none giving heed to one another, each bent only on reaching the spot whence the sound had come. As they all left at the same instant and none checked their speed for a moment it was a poorly matched race, for a Cat can outdistance a human in seconds, and the accompanying three naturally did. However, Cats do not seek best by sound, and these three lost precious time by ending up in a spot some hundred yards off their mark, which meant that Lobie was the first to find Corin, followed closely by the humans.
For the space of two or three heartbeats, Susan actually thought that all was well. Corin was standing when they found him, clearly frightened and upset but also not noticeably hurt. There were a few scrapes on his knuckles and a single, shallow scratch down his arm, but these showed nothing more than a few drops of blood, and he was clearly more delighted to see his mother than he was concerned about such trifling wounds.
Then Susan saw the Hag.
She had been partially shrouded by the shadowy thicket at her back, and her clothes were made of stuff that seemed made to blend in with the forest around her, but once sighted, there was no way anyone could have forgotten her. She was a loathsome, repulsive creature, so close to personhood as to be made all the more disgusting by the vile stench of Not Quite that hung about her. Her skin was a little too coarse and leathery, her nose and chin a little too sharp, her gimlet eyes just a little too cold and calculating for her to be mistaken for a human.
She held in one clawed hand a wicked, crooked dagger, and not only was the point of it held within striking distance of the little Prince, but the moist gleam on the tip suggested she had already struck. Susan's eyes flew again to the scratch on the boy's arm, and yes— it did look too straight, too clean, to have been made by a common bramble bush. Then she looked back to the Hag, who was cackling with delight at the sight of the newcomers. Her cruel eyes swept them all appraisingly.
"So it is Mama, come bleating for her little lamb," she decided, assessing Lora. "And it is an angry, angry man, yes, mmm, powerful, not scared at all." She regarded Magnus in open delight. "Another such, too, a little fearful, but not very, not very, don't fret, dearie, nobody doubts your courage good my lord," and she went off into a bout of hysterical cackling that had Fergus glowering fearsomely before she regained control of herself and continued. "A funny little girl, smells of sand, of stone, of . . . mmm, strength . . ." Na'mia remained stonily impassive. "And . . ." the Hag looked last at Susan, and Susan, in spite of herself, found she was listening, leaning forward, wanting to hear what the creature would say. There was a terrifying sort of appeal about her as she tipped her head, birdlike, and studied the young Queen.
"Royalty . . ." she spoke the word the way some people savour rich food or fine wine. "A Queen . . . oh a Queen . . . not married to it, not thrust into it, born to it, a thousand times more a ruler than the Princeling, dear lost lambkin, will ever be . . . born to it, she's born to it . . ." her eyes glazing over, her voice thick with hunger, the Hag moved forward, toward Susan, her dagger raised.
I do not know what power the Hag held over them that day, that they all stood motionless as statues and watched her advance on Susan; perhaps it was actual magic, and perhaps it was merely the sort of hypnotic trick that a snake charmer uses on his pet. I do not know what caused the spell, but as well as anybody who heard the story afterward, I know what broke it.
Pollus had not been able to get out the gate with any speed, and of course being in a hurry he could not seem to make the latch obey him, but Pansy, small and lithe and no bigger around than any active dog will ever be, nipped between the bars of the portcullis as neat as you please and went blazing around the wall of the castle. She burst into the clearing at that moment with a snarl that jolted her packmate from his own trance, and together the dogs bolted forward. Twin blazes of satin brown streaked toward the Hag in the middle of the glen— the Hag who was by now nearly abreast with the little Prince.
And now they could hear it, all of them, dogs and humans alike; they heard the snarls and screams of the great Cats as they fought some other foe they had found in the woods beyond, and they saw the werewolf and the strange, creeping dark thing close to the ground that had crept into the glen as the Hag moved toward them, and clearest of all they saw that the Hag was nearly on top of Corin, but even in the time it took them to see all that, everything changed.
Ears pinned back against her skull, velvety muzzle wrinkled with deadly intent, Pansy left the ground two yards away from the Hag and struck her full in the chest. The creature toppled beneath the weight of the raging dog and Lobie, for his part, darted in to grab Corin's sleeve in his mouth. He yanked the Prince off his feet and hauled him backward, away from the screaming, squealing, snarling, yelping tangle that was Pansy and the Hag intertwined, away from the slavering jaws of the werewolf and the terrifying shadow-thing that slid along the earth.
The boy howled in fright at the dog's grip on him but the strange spell had already been broken, and Queen Lora was stumbling forward, running to grab her son up, clutch him to her chest and fall back, nearly tripping over her skirts in her haste. Susan hovered, uncertain of her ability to be of much use, but Magnus and Fergus suffered from no such uncertainty. They had already run forward, and Na'mia went with them.
Fergus took aim at the werewolf and his shot was as true as any marksman could have wished. The spear felled the animal at once, and Fergus lingered only to retrieve it before retreating to take up a position between Susan and the messy brawl before them.
Na'mia did not waste time in assessing the identity of the creeping, loathsome shadow on the ground but drew from her tunic a thin, silver prong, and fell on the Thing with such finality that nobody could doubt who would emerge the victor; she rose, gasping, a sticky dark substance marring her blade, and she, too, fell back to Fergus's side before she stooped to wipe the weapon clean on the mossy ground.
For his part Magnus held his spear, his eyes locked on the writhing knot of Hag and furious dog, leaving Lobie to deal with covering Queen Lora's retreat to Susan's side. Just as the older Queen and her sobbing son drew abreast of the younger girl, Pollus, the gate finally having yielded to him, came thundering into view, and Susan turned to him with unashamed relief.
"Pollus," she shouted, "take the Queen and the Prince."
"Madam, my duty—"
"Your duty is to those who need you most. Take them!" And so saying she pushed Lora at the Centaur before permitting Fergus to drag her further back from the centre of the battle, push her against a tree and take up a position beside Lobie, the pair of them shielding her on either side from any potential attack.
No attack was forthcoming, however, and the fight that did remain ended with brutal speed. Magnus had waited only for a clear shot, and Pansy had waited only to ensure that her death would not be in vain before she flung herself clear of the Hag and Magnus took the shot her absence presented. The spear thudded home, and the Hag slumped down, dead.
Pansy, gasping, dragged herself yet farther away. The dagger in her side told the end of her story, but Lobie darted forward anyway. He whuffled and whimpered. He nudged her ear with his nose, he bathed her face with his tongue and she looked up at him with a sort of gentle apology.
"Had to be done; you know that. I . . . just got there first," she observed. Lobie snuffled her throat in assent, and whined. Then Pansy's sides heaved once more, and she laid still.
For a moment, all was silent. And then . . .
The scent of Pansy's last breath still colouring the air around him, Lobie sank to his haunches, threw back his head and howled. The sound rattled the greenwood, and it drew the great Cats —all three of them, grimly victorious— to the clearing, where they sat, tails twitching, and contemplated a ritual they could not quite understand. Lobie's song carried high above the treetops, was scattered by the four winds and announced his heartbreak to all who heard. By the time the faint, answering howls of all relations near and far were carried back to them, all those who stood in the glen had bowed their heads in mourning too.
"My fault," Corin whimpered, shivering. He clung to his mother. "Mama, it's my fault." Then he pressed his face in against her, and Lobie, who had heard the self-reproach, stood and turned to refute this.
"She chose it," he explained, his breathing somewhat laboured from giving voice at such length, but his sincerity unmistakeable. "Didn't die because of you, no. She died for you. There's a difference. Loyalty. Sacrifice. We understand those things, our kind does. Dogs do. Humans . . ." he looked at Susan. "Humans who've had it done for them, they understand it, too."
And Susan remembered somebody had died for her, too. For her brothers, and her sister, and for the kingdom they were trying to build.
She looked to one side, where Na'mia stood flanked by her countrymen. Then she looked to Queen Lora, who held . . . "Corin?" Susan looked closer. She had never seen the boy so still . . . "Corin?"
Queen Lora looked down at her son.
"Corin?"
A note of panic crept into the query. Lora shook him, held him up, shook him again.
"Corin!"
But the little boy was still, pale and silent, and made no reply.
O0O0O0O
A.N.: This should have been posted ages ago, but there were multiple issues . . . it was all very trying. Anyway, I have great hopes that the writing will pick up speed sometime soonishly, since I finally have a regular work schedule and for some reason that makes it much easier to do fun things, like writing, in my spare time. Mind you, I do not know if that will actually happen, especially since I am also working on a great deal of original fiction and that always takes precedence; just be assured that regular updates to this story rank quite high on my list of general hopes. Right up there beside a well-behaved Internet connection.
A quick note about the names of all these minor characters— I am pulling a good number of them out of thin air. Some names like Magnus, Fergal and the like I obviously heard elsewhere and brought into play here, but a lot of them I am just cobbling together with bits of twine and whimsy, playing with sounds that seem to flow nicely and spelling them out as best I can. This is very fun for me but it also contains an element of risk; I have already discovered that one name I "created" actually exists, and I have no doubt I will discover in time that others do, too. I am currently labouring under the hope that none of the names I've used thus far mean anything particularly foul in some language, but if they do, please tell me! I really don't want to offend somebody by giving a character a name that means Camel Spit, or anything like that (no offence to any camels reading, of course; I just don't care to name a character after your expectorant).
Up next: Wheat from Chaff, in which Peter and Lucy are frustrated to meet an entire family, walk a diplomatic knife's edge, and are grateful to take their leave.
