Recollect

It was said of Prince Rabadash of Calormen, even when he was a little boy, that he never wanted anything by halves, and even then he always got what he wanted. The Calormene tarkaans in his retinue, who were always fond of old maxims, were amused to see this particular old maxim being proved true yet again. The Prince had taken it upon himself to visit the barbarian country of Narnia, and barbarian country or no, the Prince had declared the greatest tournament the world had ever seen would be awaiting him there.

The Prince was right, of course. The Prince would always obtain his heart's desire, the lords whispered sagely amongst themselves. Tash save the benighted fool who ever dared to cross him!

The magnificence of the promised tournament seemed to almost impress Rabadash, who tried very hard to be unimpressed by everything. It seemed that half the world had appeared at Cair Paravel, for the great tourney and festival that the High King of Narnia held in honor for His Calormene Majesty. Beneath the ivory turrets and towers of the magnificent castle, lay a vast green lawn where thronged a crowd that caused much unease and amazement to the otherwise sophisticated tarkaans, when they first set eyes upon it. These men from the southern desert were used to very many strange things; like giant rocs who flew through the sky and nested in valleys of diamonds, and cannibals, and cyclopes, and strange men in the distant mountains who had heads in their stomachs, and worshipped gods with the heads of dogs. Yet even they had never seen a sight so fantastic, in all their born days.

There were people, of course. There were the townspeople of Beruna and Chippingford jostling to get into the stands to get the best seat, and there were knights in glittering armor upon prancing horses, with their faithful squires and pages, as well as ladies with chaplets of flowers upon their flowing hair. Yet the men and women seemed outnumbered by the preternatural; like proud centaurs, mischievous satyrs, little fauns, graceful dryads, stout dwarves, burly, rough-faced giants and the fantastic talking beasts for which this little northern country was famous- owls, mice, badgers, bears, all large, sleek creatures with the gleam of intelligence in their round eyes. And amidst these motley Narnian crowd there stood the Calormenes, trying not to gape. Indeed, the pale gentlefolk and talking beasts found them equally as peculiar, and stared with great curiosity at the swarthy and handsome tarkaans, with their oiled beards, bejeweled turbans, flowing brocade robes, and slippers with pointed toes.

Now, the reason for the Calormene presence in Narnia was hardly a secret, to even the youngest cub of the youngest talking bear in the most deserted part of Ettinsmoor. It seemed that the whole world knew how Rabadash, the Prince of the Calormenes and the son of the Tisroc (may he live forever, as the Calormenes were fond of saying) had come to Narnia to pay court Queen Susan the Gentle, one of the four familial sovereigns of that country. It had been said that a political alliance between the Queen and the ruling dynasty of the Tisroc of Calormen would be only a good thing for relations between the two countries, although it was also said- except not quite as loudly- that the High King Peter had reservations about the wisdom of such a scheme, given the ambitions of the current Tisroc. But, be that as it may, Prince Rabadash proved a gallant knight, and made a brave sight upon the tilting-field. Queen Susan did not seem insensible to his charms either, it was whispered. It was noted especially with great interest by the Calormene lords that she had the most interesting habit of gazing fixedly at him, as if he were the only thing in the world she seemed to see.

On that opening day of the tournament, the prince rode up to the queen, before he took his place in the lists. She sat with her brothers, King Peter and King Edmund, and her sister, Queen Lucy, upon thrones in the center of the grandstands, upon a garlanded dais. Queen Susan was one of the most celebrated beauties of the world, and it was easy to see why. The regal damsel was in the full bloom of her youth. Her dainty oval face was pale, and her long dreamy eyes were blue. Her black hair, falling in thick plaits down her back, was interlaced with jewels, while a golden circlet gleamed upon her brow, and a dress of rose silk fit her lissome form like a sheath. It was true, as envious girls and admiring men whispered upon themselves, that it was exactly as the troubadours sang: that as King Peter was the scepter, King Edmund was the book, and Queen Lucy was the light, Queen Susan herself was both the rose and the lily of Narnia. Indeed, to the people and creatures in the stands, these four monarchs were not merely mortal crowned heads, to be set aside when younger blood came along. They were holy beings, more like fairies than to sons of Adam and daughters of Eve.

Yet all eyes were not preoccupied by the charms of Queen Susan. Prince Rabadash himself made a glorious sight, in his gilded southern armor and spiked helmet, wrapped with a turban of peacock-blue silk, upon a magnificent black charger of the finest desert stock. He was tall for a Calormene- even taller than most Narnians, who prided themselves on their lofty stature- and was slender as a willow branch, with dark olive skin, a fine-boned face, a sensuous mouth, a long, narrow nose as curved as a scimitar, and restless eyes that peered out of his face, as bright and sharp as chips of obsidian. For all his slim build, there was a pleasing width to his shoulders, and he sat astride and gripped the reins of his steed with an easy confidence that spoke of years being trained in the saddle.

Although the Narnian gentlemen scowled and muttered under their breath, many of their ladies giggled at the sight of him. "My, isn't he a pretty gentleman," one of Susan's attendants- a plump girl with her bosom almost bursting from her neckline- whispered to her friend. "I know her Majesty is not like us- and never thinks of such things- but for all that he is a Calormene, I should love to find myself alone in the woods with him sometime!"

"You are shameless, Clarinda!" said her companion, elbowing her, but the shameless Clarinda merely laughed and continued ogling the foreign prince.

It did not surprise them in the least to see their queen remove the veil from her hair, and press it upon the Calormene, who grinned, his teeth brilliantly white against the bronze of his face. When he kissed the veil, and pressed it to his forehead, and to his heart, Susan's ladies-in-waiting all sighed in unison. He tied it then to his lance, and declared, loudly, with his rich, sibilant southern accent all the more marked: "My queen, I shall treasure this favor you bestow upon me more than jewels and spices of Tashbaan. I shall cherish this until the hour my breath leaves my body, since this has touched your fair person, which is more sacred to me than my life."

At such stirring words, King Edmund, on the other side of the dais, leaned over to his older brother, the High King, and murmured very softly in his ear.

"That Calormene prince is very smooth with words," he muttered, "yet I fain would not trust him, brother. You know how those southerners love to charm with their intricate locutions, but their intentions are not always as pure as they would like you to believe."

King Peter said nothing- he merely stroked his beard, and looked suspiciously at Prince Rabadash.

"I wonder if our sister truly has considered the implications of her gift to the Tisroc's son," Edmund continued.

"I truly doubt it, my brother," replied the High King, and shot a narrow look at his sister, the fair Queen Susan.

The queen who was the subject of so much gossip and speculation, sat upon her golden throne, insensible to all of it. All she could look at was Prince Rabadash, who rode into the tilting-field, against the stalwart Sir Triamond. She sat upon the throne, in her jewels and silks, concentrating entirely on the dark-faced prince. Part of her had never become quite used to the fact that she had become such an irresistible lodestone for men. She kept marveling over the fact that he had rode up from the north, like a wolf upon the fold, for the simple reason of gaining her hand in marriage. Who couldn't be flattered by such single-mindedness?

Yet although he was attractive and exotic, and her heart did indeed beat faster when she looked at him, she wasn't quite sure just why she was staring at Rabadash in such a fixed way. That strange feeling had come over her again- although perhaps she shouldn't call it strange, as she felt it every day- almost every hour- even every minute. It was that disconnected feeling. Whenever she felt this way, she felt compelled to cling to something, anything, just so she didn't drift away, like a piece of eiderdown.

All of this- the tourney, the pageantry, the festivities, the diplomatic negotiations with Calormen- seemed unreal to her. But then, when she really thought about it, so had the past fourteen years. It was a strange thing, she thought, staring into the distance, as the knights clashed with a fearsome clamor of arms upon the field, to be nearly six and twenty years, but to feel that she had lived her entire life in a dream. She barely remembered last week, less so last month. Last year might have well have been a century ago, it was so shrouded in fog. Was this a normal thing? It seemed as if she had lived a life that was no more real, no more solid, than glittering shifting shapes.

Occasionally, though, the vague doings of her life did crystallize into images, like a series of illuminations, although she would be hard pressed to place them in chronological order. Now, see: there was Susan, upon a pretty white palfrey, at the head of a parade. Susan, being serenaded by minstrels. Susan, at a tournament, sitting upon a throne. Susan, being courted by a southern prince…

She continued staring at Rabadash, who now rode like a demon against another knight. She vaguely recognized the other knight to be a certain Sir Mardian, who was apparently attempting to avenge the indignity of Sir Triamond, who had since been overthrown, his lance shattered. The clarions sounded, and the stands cheered, but she scarce paid attention, so lost was she in her thoughts.

She had met Calormenes before. She did not hold them in such distrust as her brother Edmund; she found them to be a most interesting, colorful people, with their fanciful clothing and ornate etiquette. When she first met this son of the Tisroc, only a few days ago, he behaved much as she imagined a southern prince would. The richness of his robes were unsurpassed, his manners were studied, perfect; he murmured the most charming compliments, even though they sounded like things he had said to a thousand other women. And he was beautiful, in that alien way- with his neatly trimmed mustache and beard of night-black hair against supple olivine skin, his smell of sandalwood and spiced oils, and his voice, lilting and sinuous and smooth. Sometimes, when she felt his eyes upon her- those uptilted eyes as dark as volcanic glass- she found it hard to even breathe.

There was something not very comfortable about Rabadash. There was something in his gaze, his manner- a combination of boldness, insolence, arrogance and thinly concealed desire- that seemed to slice across her skin like a knife. It was not the most pleasant feeling. But, in an odd way- it seemed to wake her up- and shake her out of the fog she had grown so used to. Being near him seemed to conjure up all sorts of strange images. They were images she could scarcely understand- and they frightened her, if she thought too much about them. Such as sitting in a darkened room, with pictures formed of light playing upon a sheet of canvas. Or lying in a room, leafing through a book with writing too smooth and even to be ever written by human hands, while strange shrill mechanical sounds emerged from the streets outside…

But even more than that; this prince actually reminded her of someone. Yet she could not place who. It was not as if she had never had seen any Calormenes before, but this wasn't that… it was something that had happened before.

"Before Narnia?" Lucy would say in amusement, whenever she brought up the subject to her. "But my sister, there was never any time 'before Narnia.' We have always lived here."

No we haven't! Susan wanted to cry, but she never could actually say anything- her tongue always tied in knots. We've come from somewhere else- but she could never recollect what that else happened to be. Sometimes, in dreams, images of that other place, that before-place, came to her- in colors of gray, brown, and rusty black. It was a very dingy, dreary sort of place, she knew, and she knew she should be happy to be here, in a land where the sky was a brilliant blue, the castles were as white as ivory, and the land was as green as chrysoprase and emerald. She lived a life that was filled with music, with beauty, with jewels and flowers and laughter. But-

There was always that else, and until she remembered what that could be, it was as if she walked always with a pebble in her shoe. Most of the time she could ignore it, but at other times, it became absolutely excruciating.

If she could only recollect, she told herself as she squeezed her eyes shut, than she wouldn't feel that she might be going slowly insane…