A/N: Sorry for the delay! I contracted food poisoning, then came down with a terrible case of Final Exams. I'm sure y'all can feel my pain (though hopefully not literally!). -Sushi

Chapter Fourteen

When Aravis awoke the next morning, she lay in her bedroll for a few minutes, staring up at the grey canvas ceiling of her tent. The weather was dry, finally, but it was exceedingly cold; the world outside seemed muffled and still. Her body was sore everywhere, and the temptation to bundle up in her wolfskin blanket and go back to sleep was strong, but there were voices outside and the smell of frying cornmeal. She dressed slowly, gingerly pulling a woolen kirtle over her aching shoulders and pulling a boot on over her swollen, bruised ankle and limping out of her tent.

A white, fluffy world greeted her. Darrin waved from his spot near the fire, where someone had pushed most of the heavy, wet snow out of the way so the companions could sit in comfort. "Happy Christmas, milady," he said with a grin.

Aravis lifted the cuffs of her riding trousers free of the snow and picked her way over to the fire. "It's June!" she said, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice.

"We are near Narnia," Lord Nim explained, handing her a fried corncake and some dried cherries. "It often snows in the mountains so late in the season."

She nibbled on the cherries, their tart, summery sweetness a stark contrast to her cold and damp surroundings. "Will there be snow at Dorovan Hall?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I should think not," Darrin said, looking at the sky. "We will come down out of the mountains tonight, and Dorovan Hall rests nearly at the base of the foothills."

Hana, who had just joined Aravis and was fiddling anxiously with her corncake, said, "Oh, I do hope we reach it tonight. The thought of those horrid men still out there makes me shiver."

Darrin nodded, but Lord Rhys cut in and said, "I wouldn't worry about those ruffians, my dear. They were common thugs, nothing more." With that, he stood up and went to inspect Romith's nose, as it was still puffy from the night before.

There was silence for a moment; then, Darrin said quietly, "You look troubled, Lady Aravis."

Aravis, who had been lost in thought, looked up and sighed. "Oh. I just think…well, didn't those bandits seem a bit too organized to be common thugs? The kerchiefs, the horses, the sharp, expensive swords…"

Those within earshot of her quiet voice looked thoughtful, and even Cor seemed to be listening intently, though he was doggedly scrubbing the brass of his horse's saddle.

"I've never heard of common thugs being so well-fed or coordinated," Aravis continued. "At the very least, they'd need some system of communication, because they seemed to know exactly where we were, despite the fact that we were traveling on a hidden mountain path and no one was supposed to know. I think—"

Gyneth let out a high laugh, cutting off Aravis's next words. "Do you hear this girl? Conspiracies and intrigue! What will she think of ne—"

"That's enough, Gyneth."

Everyone looked up. Cor, the cleaning rag dangling from a white-knuckled fist, had stood up, and his blue eyes were hard and flinty.

"Your Highness," Gyneth giggled, her pretty face going pale, "I was just—"

"Don't you think you've done enough damage already?" Cor interrupted sharply. Gyneth gaped like a fish. "I recommend that you close your mouth, get your horse ready, and let the lady think what she will."

With that, he tossed the cleaning rag at her, turned on his heel, and went into his tent on the other side of camp. Silence reigned. Finally, Gyneth, who had caught the rag with a stricken look, fled to her tent, and the companions presently heard he sounds of angry muffled sobs.

"When will that woman learn to hold her tongue?" Darrin muttered.

"Well, it must be hard to get it between her teeth when it's forked," said Hana brightly.

Aravis couldn't muffle her laugh fast enough.

The snow melted as the corps picked its way down the mountainside, and Aravis found herself shedding first her cloak, then her kirtle, and soon after lunch she became sorely tempted to remove her shift and chemise and ride bare-chested like the men were starting to. As it was, her bare arms were covered with a sheen of sweat, broken only partly from the exertion of staying astride the saddle as Inga went gingerly down rocky and somewhat slippery paths; just a few days on the northern side of the Archen Mountains had made her forget was an Archen summer could feel like. It did not have any of the delicious dryness that Calormen had, where she could sit with her face to the sun and practically feel her skin tightening and darkening in response. No; Archenland's heat was a thick, wet one, with the worst days coming in July with heavy rains and mugginess that made her feel like she was drowning in the very air she breathed.

Glumly, she realized that, at the rate they were going, they would be in eastern Archenland by late July, just in time to wait out the rain season in Roscommon Castle, a fortress on the shores of the Eastern Ocean whose mighty winds would bring the full fury of the rain season upon their heads.

She sighed just as Cor and Corin ahead of her drank deeply from their water skins and, dashing a few drops on their red faces, draped their reins over their saddle horns so they could remove their sweat-soaked tunics. In mere moments, Aravis was confronted by the sight of two sets of broad, sturdy, and very freckled shoulders. She studied them pensively, reflecting on the fact that she could tell the twins apart even from the back: Corin was stockier and had more brawn to his arms, and Cor was taller, thinner, and the smooth, healthy skin of his back bore faint pink dents, the only physical evidence that Arsheesh had ever existed.

He'd also lost weight, Aravis noticed vaguely, but in a good way. The last time she'd seen him bare-chested was several months before she had left for Calavar a good year ago; Cor had leaned across her desk to show her something and absentmindedly dipped his tunic in her sealing-wax candle. (That also happened to be the fastest she'd ever seen him move.) He had a scholar's body then, she remembered; still boyish, pale as parchment, and with freckles as numerous as the stars in the night sky.

"What a difference a year makes," she mused aloud.

"What?" asked Hana.

"Oh, nothing."

The day dragged on as the companions made their way down into the valley. Summer was here in earnest, the setting sun shining on bright green trees and patches of purple heather. Inga stopped to tear up a few huge mouthfuls of the tender shoots of new grass, and Aravis couldn't bring herself to rein her in.

Suddenly, Darrin called out. "Dorovan Hall, straight ahead!"

Aravis shaded her eyes and saw, nestled into the folds of two arching hills, was a beautiful, expansive manor house of a rather recent design, much homier and more appealing than the cold stone fortresses of the south and west. One of the hills had a ruin on it, a fading remnant of the days when the First Men set up a government in the southern wilds and trusted no one, not even their peaceful Narnian neighbors.

"The royal banner has been run up," Corin crowed. "There'll be a hot meal and soft beds for us tonight, and no one to drag us from them!"

No one cheered—they were all too noble and overheated for that—but the men all put their tunics back on, applied their spurs to the sides of their horses, and the company thundered across the rolling heathered meadows and pounded onto a gravelly path, the sweet valley air coursing through their hair as they neared the cozily resplendent front courtyard of the manor house.

It all seemed too good to be true, and Aravis held her breath as they reined their horses up near a bubbling fountain.

"Welcome, my dear friends, welcome!"

The salutation came ringing from the front entrance, and they all turned to see a smiling woman in a yellow silk gown come down the steps from the house, her arms thrown wide in greeting.

"Hello, Your Majesty," Cor and Corin said in unison, grinning as they went to shake her hand.

"None of that, now," the woman said, laughing. "This is your kingdom! Call me Lady Pevensie, if you absolutely must use titles. Come, now—Erimon and Beorn are absolutely dying to see all of you."

"First," said Cor, "I should introduce you to those you don't know."

"Of course!" the woman said. "How silly of me. Do go on."

"You remember Lord Darrin and Lord Nim, but this is Sir Borran the Voyagemaker, Lord Rhys the Herbalist, Romith, and Dor. And these ladies are the maids Gyneth of Gittensreeve, Hana of Wolfdell, and the Lady Aravis, Tarkheena of Calavar."

"Ah!" said the woman. "You are 'the' Aravis! Forgive me, but I have heard so much about you, I feel as though I know you."

Aravis smiled politely and curtsied, feeling particularly conscious of her bare arms and sweat-drenched shift.

"You must call me Arrania," the woman continued. "And try not to feel too awkward for not recognizing me from court—I have lived in Narnia for the past seven years."

As she spoke, the pieces began to fall together in Aravis's mind, and she nearly let a gasp escape. This was the queen of Narnia! The daughter of one of Lune's emissaries, she had married King Edmund and borne him two sons; rumor had it that she nearly went mad when the four kings and queens were lost to the Wilds. For some reason, Aravis had always imagined her as being quite old—but Aravis couldn't have been more than five years younger than she.

She smiled again, this time genuinely, and said, "It is a pleasure, Lady Arrania."

Arrania beamed and said, "Come, now! My people will take your things to your chambers, and you must come straight in to dinner. No, don't worry about your clothes! You must be famished."

She ushered them in. Hana stuck close by Aravis's side, looking rather nervously about her at the reserved finery of the front hall. Arrania did not seem to think much of the fact that Gyneth and Hana had hardly seen such a house before; she led them right to the dining room, rather large and open for a manor of such size. Already seated at the long carved table were two small boys, no older than five, who looked as though they could hardly stay in their seats.

"Say hello to the princes, boys," Arrania said, going over and giving them kisses on their dark heads.

"Hello," said the oldest one shyly, looking through his lashes with dark blue eyes. Those eyes traveled over the companions' dirty cloaks and assorted injuries, stopping quite obviously on the long, sweat-stained swords most of them still wore at their hips. Aravis knew enough about little boys to know that they could hardly contain their glee at the sight of real warriors.

"What is the news from Anvard?" Cor asked as soon as they were all seated (the boys insisted that he and Corin sit between them).

"Your royal father has been complaining of gout again," Arrania said as the first course, a simple one of nutty breads and thick soup, was set in front of them. "I have a whole sack of letters and packages for you all, so you will have that as soon as you've had a chance to eat. But no, very little important news from the capital, at least that I know of. Most of the rumors and rumblings seem to be coming from the west."

"Oh?" said Darrin.

"Yes, indeed. Word has it that the western tribes are on the move. It has been a dry year, so they are moving eastward."

"Of course," said Rhys. "What with the Narnian rulers dropping off the face of the world and leaving the government in tatters—oh, I mean, er…yes. I do understand."

Aravis had seen the welcoming, cheerful expression on the former queen's face disappear for an instant, replaced by a hollow, lifeless look that made her look ages older than she was. The next second, the smile was back, and Arrania had turned back to Cor. "That's not all, Your Highness."

"Do go on."

"My father's brother is a marcherlord in the northwest, and he has heard whispers of the Old Ones on the move again."

"Well, that should be of no surprise," Nim said mildly. "The Old Ones have been awake in Narnia for some time now, haven't they?"

Arrania smiled. "You think of the Deep Magic and the Talking Beasts, my lord. No, the Old Ones are those creatures even we only read about. Trolls, my friends, and harpies."

"That's not so bad," Rhys said, his confident words no match for his white knuckles. "We know how to fight trolls, and harpies are no threat now that we have longbows."

"Perhaps not," Arrania conceded. "But what about dragons?"

An involuntary shiver ran down Aravis's back, and she was not the only one. "Dragons?" Darrin breathed. "But how can we be sure? They have been dormant or dead these past five hundred years!"

"They are awake," Arrania insisted, pouring herself more mead. "They are few in number, to be sure, and not as clever or large as they were in the days of our forefathers, but awake nonetheless. The scrub farmers in the western reaches are fleeing south and east, their herds burnt and consumed by the beasts."

Cor tossed his napkin onto the table, looking very grim. "This is troubling news. My dear lady, I wonder if my father has sent word to this regard."

"Of course, Your Highness! You must all desperately want your letters." She motioned to a footman, who hurried from the room. "Please, open them right away and continue to eat."

The man came back, bearing a large sack over his shoulder and looking rather like what the Narnians had told Aravis of Father Christmas. He set it on the ground, opened it, and began pulling out letters and packages and handing them to their addressee. Aravis found it necessary to sit on her hands; else, she would have flown across the room and clawed her way through the sack herself.

"The Lady Aravis Tarkheena," was the next name he called, and scarce had Darrin passed her the thick letter than she was tearing the seal and looking on the written word for the first time in what seemed like years.

'My dear Lady Aravis,' it read in King Lune's thick handwriting.

'I hope this letter finds you in good health. If you are reading this, you have arrived safely at Dorovan Hall, and the mountains have proved laughable to your indomitable spirit.

'Cor hasn't been a terrible bother to you, I do hope—he has improved much in the ten months you were in Calormen, but he is still my son, and for that I do apologize. I also eagerly await the first news of a potential bride for him: mark you well that she be not only fit to be a queen, but fit to be Cor's mate. 'Tis nothing unhappier than an unwanted royal marriage.

'I also hope you have come across my other son. We got wind of his defection about a day after you left—it seems that he told his tutor that he had been called to our southern hunting lodge, and it was quite a while before anyone saw fit to inform me that he was not actually there. In the understanding that this letter is quite confidential, my dear girl, I give you permission to box his ears.

'Talk of my sons has given me occasion to mention one other point. It was not merely to assist Cor that I sent you along on this journey—I'm sure your esteemed father would have had my hide if it had. No; I did it in the hopes that you, in your many voyagings across this great land of ours, would find yourself a suitable mate, as well. It is my dearest wish to see all my dear young ones happily situated before I join my fathers in the Lion's hunting hall.

'Ah! I see my parchment is failing me.

'Farewell, and best of luck and health,

'L.'

"Oh, that's really insufferable," Aravis said aloud, too distracted to pay much attention to the package Darrin handed her.

"What is?" Darrin asked.

She tsked in annoyance. "The king has now told me I must marry. Really!"

"He said that?" Corinsaid, looking bewildered.

"Well, no, he didn't command it, but it's highly recommended." She heaved a sigh. "Really."

"If the prospect of finding a husband seems daunting, my lady," Darrin said lightly, "I'm sure you and I might come to a satisfactory arrangement."

Aravis waved her hand, already reaching for the package. "Oh, don't be silly, Darrin; I wouldn't make you do that."

Inside the package was a pair of soft leather gloves, lined on the inside with thick, warm lambswool and finished with pretty embroidery up the wrist. The note was a brief treatise on staying modest and feminine despite the elements, and Aravis had a reflexive urge to throw it in the fire, but it was signed by all her ladies-in-waiting and included a fervent wish for her safe and healthy return, and she suddenly found herself a bit homesick for their lighthearted chatter and constant companionship.

To rid herself of the disturbing emotion, Aravis reached for her last letter. It very thick, and when she opened it, out fell two letters, both addressed to her at Anvard and bearing her father's seal.

She opened the dirtiest one first.

'To the esteemed lady Aravis Tarkheena of Calavar, lady of Anvard, daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, descended in a right line from the god Tash,

'Parvin Tarkheena of Calavar, wife of Kidrash Tarkaan, daughter of Drashtar Tarkaan, writes to her most esteemed stepdaughter at the behest of her husband, the illustrious Kidrash.

'His Eminence the Tarkaan, obeying the will of the god Tash, fell ill on the 2nd day of May of this year. He requests the audience of his most esteemed daughter, to whom he gave life and status.

'In the highest name of the god Tash, and by permission of the Tisroc, may he live forever,

'The author will always be,

'Parvin Tarkheena of Calavar, wife of Kidrash Tarkaan, daughter of Drashtar Tarkaan.'

Aravis noted the date—almost two months ago—and tore open the second letter, her heart settling in her throat.

'To my sister, the esteemed lady Aravis Tarkheena of Calavar, lady of Anvard, only daughter of Kidrash Tarkaan, descended in a right line from the god Tash,

'I, Bindar, now Tarkaan of Calavar, only son of Kidrash Tarkaan, write to my most esteemed sister as required by the estate of our late father, Kidrash Tarkaan.

'Our father obeyed the will of the great god Tash and followed him unto the afterlife on May 30 of this year. Per the law of the Tisroc, may he live forever, I am now Tarkaan of Calavar.

'I write to inform you that your title and dowry are untouchable by the law of the Tisroc, may he live forever. As I, your honored brother, am near the age of majority, I require none of your assistance in matters of household or finance, should you feel compelled to offer it. In return, I extend an invitation to you to return to the house of your birth at any time while I am Tarkaan, provided you inform my steward prior to your departure.

'In the highest name of the god Tash, and by permission of the Tisroc, may he live forever,

'I, your esteemed brother, will always be,

'Bindar Tarkaan of Calavar, son of Kidrash Tarkaan, son of Rishti Tarkaan, son of Kidrash Tarkaan, son of Illsombreh Tisroc, son of Ardeeb Tisroc who was desceneded in a right line from the god Tash.'

Aravis continued to stare at the paper for a moment, struggling to comprehend the words. Dead? But Father had been in perfect health when she left Calavar—aging, yes, and somewhat less of his old self, but his old self nonetheless. Yet here she sat, reading her young brother's stilted letter and picturing him thrust into the role of Tarkaan before his time.

"My lady, are you quite well?"

Darrin's voice in her ear made her jump, and she folded the letter and tossed it onto the table. "Yes. Perfectly well. Erm, Your Ladyship, I'm afraid I find myself quite overwhelmed by your hospitality. Would you be terribly offended if I retire for the evening?"

Arrania stood, and everyone else leapt to their feet. "Of course not, Lady Aravis. It was unkind of me to keep you up so late. Please, make good use of your bedchamber, and do not trouble yourself on my behalf."

Aravis nodded and scooped up her things, fleeing the dining room before anyone could stop her.

A maidservant brought her to her bedchamber; the setting sun had brought a cool breeze through the valley, so a small fire had been lit in the hearth, ad the fresh linens on the bed turned down. Aravis nudged the door shut, and it bounced off the frame, but she took no notice and dumped the two letters and the gloves onto a chair.

Sudden exhaustion settled on her shoulders as she sat down on the edge of the soft bed and sank down with her cheek on a feather pillow. Father—dead? They had never been close; he had, after all, practically sold her to Ahoshta Tarkaan to pay off some gambling debts. (She shuddered at the thought—she tried to think of her life before running away as rarely as possible.) But still. He had been the one constant in her life, a continual source of gruff unpleasantness and unsolicited advice.

Besides, he couldn't have been all that bad, she reasoned drowsily. After all, he argued very little when Lune took her on as lady of Anvard, and he asked her only twice to marry Cor to make it all worthwhile.

And so, Aravis drifted off to sleep, feeling sad and truly homesick for the first time in her life.