Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: PROVERBS 13:12
Prince Shahrivar did not slow his horse until he saw one of his messengers hurrying to catch him. The other slaves the Prince had bought were far behind them now, safely in the custody of the Prince's servants. But Shahrivar had decided to take charge of Peter himself, obviously just to make it easier for him to taunt his prisoner with the loss of his kingdom, his freedom and eventually his life.
From time to time, the Calormene had spurred his horse, forcing Peter to run behind or be dragged and strangled by the rope around his neck. Now Peter stood panting in the dusty road, dripping sweat, his hands braced on his thighs as he struggled to catch his breath. He couldn't hear what the messenger said, but, with something smugly pleased in his expression, the Prince dismissed the man and then urged his thoroughbred over to Peter's side.
"Would you care to hear the news I have been brought, High King?"
Still panting, Peter looked up. "News?"
"News, High King, of the King Edmund."
Peter licked his dry lips. Be safe. Brother, be safe.
"That dog of a slave trader told me who bought the Just King." The Prince took up some of the slack in the rope that was tied to his saddle, the rope that was around Peter's neck. "I merely sent my servant to the Tarkaan, telling him I required the boy at once."
Peter's breath hitched, and he swallowed hard. "Where is he?"
"It seems, High King, that the boy attempted to escape after you were taken away. Of course, he was quickly brought back and punished for his effrontery."
Edmund, you promised. You promised you wouldn't do anything stupid.
"And then?"
"As you well know, High King, the Tarkaan has little patience with those who wrong him. I am told he immediately sent the boy to the slave market to be sold again. And I believe, at least for the present, I shall leave him where he is."
There was something in Shahrivar's expression, something mocking and cold and pleased, that thrust Peter through with dread.
"Who bought him? Where is he?"
"Where, High King?" The Prince's smile widened. "Where he will have the privilege of . . . amusing some of my noble countrymen. He was purchased by a man called Tahir."
Peter froze. Tahir. Aslan, no, not Tahir. Not Tahir.
"No," he breathed, grasping the rope that bound him with both hands, twisting it until it cut into his skin. "No."
"You needn't worry for him there, High King. I am certain he will be a great favorite, being so young and so pleasing to the eye." Shahrivar still smiled. "And so unsullied."
Peter twisted the rope tighter, his insides twisting with it.
The Prince's smile turned into a smirk. "Not that he will long be so."
With a strangled cry, Peter leapt on the man, dragging him from his skittish mount, pulling him into the dusty road. In an instant, Peter had the rope looped around the Calormene's neck, pulling it taut, holding it with brute force to keep the prancing horse from bolting and strangling them both, but still keeping it tight enough to make the Prince's eyes bulge in his red face.
"Be still," Peter growled. "Still!"
The prince continued to squirm, and Peter tightened the rope more, giving Shahrivar a rough shake.
"Your men are coming. Order them to stay back, or you die this instant."
"And your brother," the Prince gasped, "dies the instant after."
Peter flinched, and the Prince's expression was once more smug and cunning.
"Did you think, High King, that I would leave him there with the noble Tahir without orders that, should anything happen to me, he be immediately executed?"
Peter shook his head, words failing him. When Shahrivar shoved his hands away from his throat, Peter let him. When the Prince's men reached them and pulled him away from their master, forcing him to his knees at Shahrivar's feet, Peter did not resist.
The Prince smiled down upon him. "So now we have an understanding, do we not, High King?"
Peter still could not speak. The Prince's words hardly registered in his mind. The only thing he could think of was Edmund pleading with him, that first day at the slave market, pleading with Peter to keep him from going to Tahir. Don't let them. You can't let them take me– take me there. Please, Peter.
Peter could again see the fear in those dark, sightless eyes, the white terror in his already pale face as he had begged Peter for death rather than that vilest of servitude. And now– No. He couldn't be there. Aslan, Aslan, no. Please, I beg you–
Peter blinked, realizing all at once that the rope had been unknotted and taken from around his raw neck. His shackles had been unlocked and removed. He looked at the Prince, bewildered.
"Go if you like, High King." Shahrivar gestured to his horse. "Take my mount. Go back to your own kingdom, what is left of it. No one will stop you."
Peter stood, wary and trembling. "You–"
"Go where you will, High King." The Prince smiled. "But the moment you leave, I will send someone to end the life of your young brother."
Peter swiped his sleeve over his upper lip, blotting the sudden sweat. Edmund had wanted to die. Rather than go to Tahir, Edmund had begged for death. Would it be what he wanted now? Peter's stomach heaved at the thought of his brother in such a place, but, oh, Aslan, could he coldly walk away from Shahrivar now, knowing Edmund's death would be the result? He balled his fingers into fists, his whole body quivering with the urge to strike the Prince. A terrible fury burned in his blood, but he forced it back and pressed his trembling lips into a hard line.
"What do you want?"
There was a gleam of pleasure in the Prince's dark eyes. "As I said, High King, I merely wish you to help save Narnia, so you may then surrender her to me."
"You told me your father has already arranged for Narnia to be destroyed."
Shahrivar chuckled. "She need not be. If your sisters are wise enough to submit themselves and your kingdom to Calormen before it is too late, then Narnia can be saved. And, under my rule and that of the Tisroc (may he live forever), she shall flourish as never before."
"And all her people will be enslaved."
The Prince shrugged. "They shall be taught to serve the inexorable, the immovable Tash."
"My people would rather die than betray Aslan."
"Progress, High King, always comes at a price."
Peter's fists tightened, but he forced himself to stay calm. "And the Aned Tahwen? The silver plague?"
"There is but one way to destroy the Aned Tahwen, High King, and that cure is as rare as they are. But come, and you shall help find it. Enough of it to destroy all the Aned Tahwen."
Peter looked at him warily. "And then?"
Prince Shahrivar smiled. "Then, High King, we shall see just how badly you wish to live."
OOOOO
Edmund lay still. Eyes closed. Thinking. It was all real, wasn't it? Somehow, after he had leapt from the ship, he had been brought to shore at Cair Paravel. Oreius had found him and brought him home. The healers had tended to his injuries. There had been brief, sharp agony when they had put his dislocated shoulder back into place. Then there had been savory broth and wine that had filled and warmed him inside. There had been his sisters' soft hands and sweet voices, their joyous tears and tender embraces. And there had been their questions about Peter. Peter wasn't home. Peter wasn't safe. That part had been real, too real.
Edmund shifted a little in the bed, his own bed here at home, and he realized his shoulder no longer hurt him. He touched his fingers to the side of his head. The throbbing, bruised spot there seemed to be gone. The cordial. Of course Lucy would have wanted to use her cordial. Little wonder his injuries had been healed. But yet there was one injury he hadn't looked into yet.
Oh, Aslan, let it be–
He opened his eyes, and then tears welled into them. The blackness was as unrelieved as before. For whatever reason, the cordial didn't work on whatever had made him blind. Perhaps because the actual injury that had caused it was long healed. Oh, Aslan. No remedy. He was blind. Now and forever.
Those tears caught in his throat now, and he tried to swallow them down. Someone, please, someone be there. He needed to know he wasn't alone. Please–
"Lucy?" His voice was thin and small in the large chamber. "Is someone there? Please?"
There was a startled breath in the direction of the chair by his bed side, and then two small hands were holding his.
"I'm here, Ed. I'm right here."
The tears came in earnest now, and he curled over against her, breathing in the sweet, wild smell he remembered so well.
"I– I can't see, Lu. Did you give me the cordial already?"
She made a low cry and cradled him close. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Yes. I gave you some while you were sleeping. How is your shoulder?"
"It's fine."
He caught a hard breath and then let it out. That was it then. The cordial was his last hope. He was blind. Forever. No remedy. He pressed closer to her.
"What about your head?" she asked. "Let me see."
He heard her fumble about on the little table beside his bed, and then he heard the sound of flint on steel. There was a spark of yellow and orange and then a little flame. That flame became a glow at the end of a long, white taper, and above that, touched with that same glow, was Lucy's sweet, worried face.
He blinked and for a moment forgot to breathe. "Lucy? Is it– Is it the middle of the night?"
Her eyes met his, and then they too filled with tears. "Can you see? Can you see me?"
Laughing and sobbing and shaking, he put both hands to her shoulders, to her face, to her soft hair, and then he pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her. Blue eyes, pink cheeks, golden hair. Dear Lucy. Sweet Aslan.
"Yes, Lu. Oh, yes. Yes."
Author's Note: Gentle Reader, do let me know what you thought of this chapter and what you think is coming up. The story is almost over. Are you happy or sad about that? Thanks to OldFashionedGirl95 for giving this a look before I posted.
– WD
