Look, The Peridan Chronicles continue! And will continue for much, much longer, too, by the look of things... I'm still in Peridan's first year in Narnia. Do your math.
For those so inclined, I'm now putting this up on Archive of Our Own as well. I'm mostly saying this because I might – no promises at all, but I might – insert a picture there sometimes. When I make one I actually like, and find out how it's done.
Happy new year, too. :-)
Chapter 14
In which our hero does more scribing
Methos and Garvan arrived to the Great Hall late; there were more lords from around the country present already and most people were finishing their meals by now. The breakfast that day was much more of a feast than was the wont – Mrs Beaver had apparently decided that a special occasion deserved special treatment on all fronts. After all, how often does one turn ten? Methos knew from some of his experience with children how important that day could be; and felt a pang of regret over not knowing what his tenth birthday had been like. He did not overly mind not celebrating birthdays now; but he also knew, somehow, that back when he had been ten it had not been a big deal and that he may have enjoyed it more had it been, and maybe his life could have turned out differently. He berated himself inwardly for thinking like that other Methos; but the fact was, he simply could not get over how beaming and how congenial Lucy was – and how everyone around her seemed to reflect that light in her. He was glad for her and all her contemporaries that they got to celebrate their birthdays this way. Yes, some children could be spoiled, demanding selfish brats. Queen Lucy, however, still seemed genuinely surprised that it was all done because of her, even though it must have been going on for some time now. She was then even more surprised when Peter and Edmund finally formally announced the competition upon Garvan's arrival.
"Oh, so that's why everyone's come!" the younger queen exclaimed delightedly. "This is going to be so much fun."
Methos did not hear more, though, indeed did not even get a chance to observe Garvan giving the Queen his formal salutations or possibly congratulate her himself; because at that moment, Lord Tol approached him.
"Here you are, Peridan," he said. "Could you go to the tournament field and help Sir Thunderbolt and my scribe write down the names of those who would enter the competition, as soon as possible? It is to start in an hour." Even though it was phrased like a question, it was really a command.
"Oh," Methos said. "Yes, sure." He recalled having seen some plans for the establishment of the tournament grounds south of the castle earlier in the previous weeks. He had never had a reason to go to the place yet (he went north to the river mouth much more often), but at least he did not have to ask for directions.
"Put a clean tunic on before you go," Tol added, pointing out an ink stain on his sleeve. "In this state, you would be a poor example of the Queen's Grace to the country people."
Methos bit back a remark about having had no idea of the necessity to be an example half a minute ago; he quickly gulped down some tea and toast, tried to say "farewell" to Garvan and found out the lord was otherwise occupied; and then he hurried back to the west wing to change into a clean tunic, if there was one to be found in his chest, silently fuming over them lordly folks' lack of regard for his dietary needs. (Which really meant that he was annoyed that he had missed out on the exquisite breakfast, not that he was too terribly hungry at the moment.)
He could not remain angry for too long, though. When, after some fifteen minutes of frenetic activity and running (despite the pressure for time, he decided against riding, because he would most likely have no time to care for Tira afterwards), he arrived to the tournament grounds in a reasonably clean tunic, Thunderbolt welcomed him from far away, with visible relief:
"Thank the Lion you came, Peridan!"
He and Tol's scribe were working at two small tables at the edge of the field, with long, long queues of potential competitors in front of them. More precisely, they were two queues for the length of about six people; beyond that, it simply became a crowd. It seemed that the only thing keeping the crowd from spilling over and completely overwhelming the scribes was a rather flimsy rope railing; it was a credit to the Narnians that most of them respected that barrier. The seats of the wooden auditorium were already filling, too. Methos had never before seen so many different Narnians in one place – not even in the councils. It was a flurry of furs, feathers, scales, hair, skin and bark of various colours and textures, and clothes, too: from bright-coloured silky fabrics on some to drab brown linen on others. He even saw beings he had not seen before. (There were more head-scratchers of the non-Old-World type: he could see Kangaroos and Macaws, among others. The most striking addition to his internal catalogue of Narnians, however, was probably a group of tall, lanky, vaguely human-like, vaguely frog-like people with greenish-greyish skin and thick hair of similar colour, who, despite the merry occasion and abounding excitement all around, all looked even sourer than Thornbut's usual countenance. Maybe that was the expression of joy with their kind; whatever that was.) There were also other attendants, and just like Thunderbolt and the other scribe, dressed in white accented with Queen Lucy's colours, green and yellow-gold. Those were trying to retain some semblance of order, directing the competitors who had already been signed in to various places further on in the grounds according to where and when they were supposed to compete. Had these attendants not been differentiated by the colours they wore, some of them would have no doubt achieved nothing in the hubbub, because when a Hare tries to command a Bear or a Minotaur in a crowded place, the results are likely to be less than desired.
Methos cautiously came nearer, wondering where all these archers had come from; Thunderbolt was already explaining the situation to him:
"We thought we could manage just with Arnelf here -" – Lord Tol's scribe gave him a curt nod from beyond Thunderbolt's left arm and turned back to the Badger he was enrolling – "- but there are so many people; many have brought their entire families, which we did not expect. It would take us too long. We hoped we could give you the day off, after all the work you have done recently; I am sorry we cannot."
"It is no problem," Methos said, and leapt over the ropes. He had not counted on having a day off anyway; had he got it, it would have been a pleasure and a privilege, but certainly not an entitlement. And this could actually prove to be an excellent opportunity to learn more about the various people who lived in Narnia.
He was then thrown to the mercy of a Dryad and a Reed Warbler, who quickly stitched two ribbons of the Queen's colours onto his tunic (while he was in it); and at the same time, he had to absorb Thunderbolt's crash course on how the enrolment worked. There were three types of competition planned: bows, longbows and crossbows. These disciplines were then divided further into groups according to the competitors' size. However, the size rule did not apply a hundred percent, because dwarfs with bows and crossbows competed in the same group with humans and similar larger people – dwarfs were a very strong nation and tended to use almost human-sized bows. But dwarfs' actual size was reflected in their shorter longbows, not that bigger than their regular bows (Methos was immediately foreseeing a lot of confusion as to which type of bow one was dealing with) – and thus, in that particular discipline, they were competing with people closer to their own size (like fauns or human and Dryad children).
Peridan was given another small table, a stool to sit on and writing utensils and some papers; he quickly copied Thunderbolt's forms – Name, People (optional), Place of Origin, Type of Bow, Group – and before he was finished, a third queue was already formed in front of him. He got into the routine fairly quickly; the fact that the other two scribes were working with the same detached efficiency helped him.
Some time later, he noticed that Thunderbolt was giving a remarkably warm welcome to a family of Red Dwarfs: father, mother and three sons, all with bows and all dressed in hardwearing homespun woollens that looked way too warm for the hot summer day this Friday was forming into. From the snippets of their conversation that he caught in between his own interrogation of a Monkey, the dwarfs came from Stormness Vast – that mountainous region at the borders with Archenland where Thunderbolt himself hailed from. That would explain the warm welcome.
Methos did not catch more, though, because his next client in line was most unexpected even for Narnian standards.
There had been no question whether they should go. An invitation signed by the Kings themselves, written in Sir Thunderbolt's unmistakable hand, with Lord Tol's signature tucked at the end – such a thing cannot be turned down. They had remembered them! And the opportunities – to see the Aslan-appointed Kings and Queens, to show their archery skill to other Narnians and to see half of Narnia on the way! They were all excited, so of course they had gone.
Just the sight of Cair Paravel and the tournament grounds would have been enough to justify that journey. There were so many people there, and more were coming – much more than they had expected; it was quite overwhelming. All these archers about to compete with them. All the people to prove their skills in front of. All the courtiers in the latest fashions. (Brierbell took careful note of what the local Dwarf ladies were wearing for such a special occasion, while Rogin kept on a lookout for the cut and embroidery of the young Dwarf men's hose and hoods and did not fail to eagerly point out how close his own were. Dibble and Duffle were not amused.) And all these Men – there were certainly more of them than all Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve in Stormness Vast put together. It was a slightly disconcerting sight, still unusual to their eyes. The similarities were almost as striking as the differences. Tall men and women in sleek, colourful clothes; as tall as some Naiads, but more, if such a word could be used, sturdy, more of the earth, flesh and bone, more like dwarfs in that respect. The men were usually smooth-shaven, though, and the women often wore their hair braided into elaborate hairstyles. But it was amazing to see all these people together, and then all the bright flags flying in the sea breeze, Queen Lucy's colours on banners everywhere, the four standards of the four rulers with Queen Lucy's higher than the others; and above it all, the green flag of Narnia with its red Lion. It was the first time they had seen it flown anywhere so openly and proudly.
"This is what we fought for," Dibble said with satisfaction, and not just for his sons' sake.
And to top it off, it was Sir Thunderbolt himself who welcomed them to Cair Paravel and signed them into the competition, asking after everyone back home as he did so. Even though he was now one of the most important people in the country and always away at the court, he clearly did not think too much of himself to do that, which they were glad to observe. He had not forgotten that the people of Stormness Vast had always helped him with his work during the Winter. He commented on how Duffle, Rogin and Bricklethumb had grown, approved Brierbell's new bow, and told them where to go afterwards and whom to turn to if they needed to know more. So they, in turn, asked how he was and (this was, of course, Dibble asking) how was the whole school problem everyone spoke of these days coming along. Thunderbolt, now writing down their names and everything, expressed his honest belief that it would turn out just fine, because Their Majesties knew what they were doing.
"Thunderbolt, can I ask -" the young Man at Thunderbolt's right interrupted them at that point.
"Yes, Peridan?" Thunderbolt asked, still absorbed in his writing.
"Where do recurve bows go?" Peridan asked. "And where do Kinglets go?"
That captured Thunderbolt's attention – and theirs as well. There were, of course, birds in the audience, but you were highly unlikely to find a bird archer. Yet, there she was: hovering in the air in front of the younger scribe was a tiny she-Goldcrest grasping a tiny recurve bow (quite a masterpiece of woodwork, Dibble noted appreciatively) in her tiny talons and carrying a tiny quiver with arrows across her chest. She was rather ruffled up, looking at them all challengingly, as if saying "Try to send me away! Just try!"
They did not. Instead, Thunderbolt and Peridan started discussing the possibilities – coming suspiciously close to an argument, too. Even though he had asked for Thunderbolt's advice, the man called Peridan had very much his own opinion on the subject, arguing that the recurve bow was as good as a longbow, so that was where Twinkletop, the bird, should compete. But Thunderbolt ruled for regular bows in the end. Neither Peridan nor, indeed, Twinkletop herself seemed satisfied with that decision, but they submitted to his word.
The dwarfs left together with Twinkletop, because they, too, were competing with regular bows and were going in the same direction.
"Who made your bow, Mistress Twinkletop?" Dibble asked the Kinglet. "It is quite the piece."
"Oh, a Woodpecker friend of mine," she said. "She is very good with wood, you see."
"Of course," Dibble nodded.
"The design is fairly unusual," Brierbell said.
"It is an Archenlander design," Twinkletop explained. "We live at the borders, at the sea, and they come often and we exchange ideas."
"So you are used to Humans," Duffle said.
"Oh yes," she said. "Of course, they did not come in the Winter, but we could still occasionally see them at sea, and they started coming first thing when the Spring came. Fishermen and merchants and craftsmen. We are good friends now."
"We live at the borders as well," Brierbell said, "but we do not see the Archenlanders as often. It might be the mountains. Some merchants come, and of course, the King came last year -"
"King Lune!" Twinkletop exclaimed. "Well, that must have been something!"
"It was; they came to see Starspell the centaur, and stayed at Stormness Fast for a week," Dibble said. "But we scarcely see so many Men usually; Lord Tol stays here at the court most of the year, and so does a large part of his household. It is rather weird to see so many of them here. Like the two scribes."
"Well, it is hardly their fault that we Narnians are not so good at writing – yet," Brierbell retorted brusquely.
"My dear, I am not complaining at all," Dibble said. "Unlike some, I do not mind a bit of change!"
"That one – Peridan – seemed very nice; wasn't he, Twinkletop?" Brierbell said, appeased.
Twinkletop exuded an air that suggested a smirk, even though it is impossible for birds to smirk.
"I am not sure 'nice' is the word I would use," she said. "He is all steel, underneath. But a good kind of steel, I think."
"How can you tell?" Bricklethumb wondered.
"Well, I am used to humans," Twinkletop replied. "He would not budge to Sir Thunderbolt; not many people can do that. He respects him, but he would confront him if he believed him really wrong. And that is good, I think. If it was not for people like that, we would still be obeying the White Witch, would we not?"
"If it were not for Aslan," Dibble said firmly.
"Well, that, too," Twinkletop said. "Anyway, we may still need someone like that."
"The Kings and Queens are good," Rogin argued.
"Oh, the Kings and Queens for sure," Twinkletop said. "But have you ever not wondered if they are not too good? They are children. They do not know much of what life is like yet, do they? That one, he knows. He knows all too well for his age, I think."
"You are forgetting that the Kings have already seen battle," Dibble said.
"You are a tough one, are you not?" Brierbell remarked to Twinkletop.
"My dear Mistress Dwarf, if you are a bird woman determined to be the best archer there is, you have to be," Twinkletop retorted. "I do not only have to be good at archery, I also have to make sure I understand people and can make them do what I want – because too many of them would only dismiss me. So, back to the intent of your original question – I did like Peridan. He, at least, was not dismissive. And that, I can tell you, is a rare trait in a human."
This *Đ[đ®]n! chapter. (Insert optional curse; I like the visual one most.) This and the following one. It was supposed to be one chapter. It was not supposed to drag on like this. But it refused to cooperate. It insisted on being full of character introductions (and therefore new names I had to make up) and exposure and worldbuilding and stuff, and on being two chapters. So here goes. I'm comforted by the fact that I'm still – hopefully – dedicating less chapters to the competition than Walter Scott did in Ivanhoe.
I do not know much about archery, aside from having tried my hand at it, very recreatively, a few times. I have shot a longbow, but not a recurve. So if my assumption that recurve bows could be equal to longbows is wrong – well, you can chalk it up to Methos' lack of recent experience in the field as well, I suppose.