Chapter 6--Campfires and Scavenger Hunts

A/N: If you've come this far in the story, thanks for reading! Forgot to say in the last chapters: I don't own Narnia or its characters or its stories. Heck, I don't even own a Narnia poster.

OoOoOoOoOoO

"It was your royal father's," Oreius stated, pressing a sheathed sword into Victoria's hands. "It's high time Rhindon saw the light of day again, in the hands of its master's heir."

Victoria carefully drew Rhindon out and gasped. She hadn't expected a well-used sword, at least twenty-two years old, to still have such a brilliant shine. Early sunlight from the windows of the Great Hall bounced and glistened on the steel blade. Runic letters carved down the blade declared, "When Aslan shakes his mane, we shall have spring again."

Lord Arran, who stood near the doors, politely commented, "It's a lovely sword, Majesty. May you bear it well."

Victoria glanced blankly at him as she pushed Rhindon back into its red and golden sheath. "I shall, Lord Arran." She smiled warmly at Oreius. "Thank you for finding it."

Oreius bowed his head.

"Now, arouse my commanders," Victoria ordered. "We're ready to begin the march."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Back in England, Peter sat at the brekfast table, glaring daggers at a slice of buttered toast that he had no appetite for.

"Professor Kirke saw her too?" Edmund's astonished voice sounded near his elbow.

"He told me that he dreamt Victoria was rushing into a battle, dressed in mail and a red cloak, sword drawn. And the Lion stood by and roared something like, 'Ware pirde, Daughter of Eve, it shall be your undoing.'"

"Well, then what did he say?"

"Nothing much," Peter mumbled. "He talked to himself for a minute about magic rings, then he only said, 'If the dream means she is in danger, and Aslan wills you to help her, he will send you to Narnia his own way, and in his own time--when you're not looking for it.' Then he sent me back to bed."

"Did you sleep well after that?" Susan asked concernedly from the other side of the table.

"Yeah," Peter lied.

An uncomfortable silence pressed down on the Pevensie children until Lucy, around a mouthful of boiled egg, commanded, "All of you look at what I found this morning." She pulled from her sweater pocket an antique pair of opera glasses and held it out over the table.

"Lucy, don't just pick things up and put them in your pocket; this isn't our house," Susan chided, taking the opera glasses and examining them.

"Where did you find those? Susan, lemme see!" Edmund reached across the table and grabbed Lucy's prize. "That makes the fourth interesting object I've found this morning."

Peter pulled the opera glasses out of Edmund's hands "You mean you're running about, keeping count of anything interesting you find?" he questioned, his anxiety giving way briefly.

"Yes. So far, not including that thing, I've got a pistol, a compass with little jewels in it, and a suit of armour."

"Oh, I'm not on the list anywhere?" Susan asked with mock disappointment. Lucy giggled.

"I think we should have a scavenger hunt," Edmund declared, ignoring Susan's joke.

"Oh, yes!" Lucy agreed loudly, upsetting her water glass.

"That's fine with me," Susan added, righting Lucy's water glass.

Peter shrugged as he laid the opera glasses on the table. "Okay. What are we scavenging for?"

"Anything interesting."

"That's too general," Susan protested.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "All right, anything interesting and shiny. When I say 'one, two, three and away', we'll split up and hunt, then we'll bring it all back here at tea time and decide which is most interesting."

"Who decides?" Lucy demanded.

"I, because I'm the most interesting person here!" Edmund replied grandly, pushing his plate away and standing.

"We'll vote," Peter chuckled, shaking his head. Edmund deflated.

"Well, let's go!" Lucy cried, hopping away from the table abruptly; her glass tipped and water crashed on the floor.

"Oh, Lucy!" Susan cried, but the child had already run. Snatching up a napkin, Susan knelt on the floor and started to mop the water. "You boys go ahead, I'll join later."

"The parlour's mine!" Edmund shouted as he disappeared down the hall.

Peter left the breakfast table, cracking a wry grin at Susan. "So much for 'one, two, three and away'."

OoOoOoOoOoO

Victoria had never felt so exhausted, nor so grateful for a hot meal and a fire.

The march to Glasswater had taken the better part of two days. A Gryphon who flew ahead of Victoria's train guessed that from Glasswater, it would be about five more days until they reached Calormen's desert-ridden borders. And then...what? Victoria had never fought before; even depending on Oreius's advice, she felt her stomach grow hot with fear whenever she thought of Calormen.

For now, the troops camped by the quiet shore of Glasswater. Under sharp starlight, fauns, centaurs, beasts, and humans huddled around fires, hoping for relief from the cold. Near a pavilion in the center of the camp, Victoria held council around a fire with Oreius, Sallowpad the Raven, Anwyn the Dryad, and Lord Arran.

"The army grows weary, Your Majesty." Oreius gazed stoically at the flickering fire. "I fear their morale is dropping."

"I was afraid of that," Victoria sighed, setting her plate down on the chilly grass.

"Poorly organized march," Lord Arran muttered, just loud enough for Victoria to hear. "Ten thousand soldeirs, sixteen miles a day, ridiculous--"

"My lord," Oreius snapped warningly.

"Well, do you have any better ideas?" Sallowpad croaked, turning his head to focus a glittery black eye on Lord Arran.

Lord Arran flung his plate down in the grass and stalked away, growling, "Nobody appreciates my input. Nobody ever did."

Victoria hunched her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. "What is wrong with that man?" she sighed.

"It began almost thirty years ago." Anwyn, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "Lord Arran was once advisor to the late Governor of the Lone Islands, while the White Witch still gripped Narnia in the Hundred Years' Winter."

"The late governor?" Victoria questioned, leaning forward. "The one before Governor Dalmas?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anwyn sipped water from her goblet. "At the time, though Narnia owned the Islands, they lived independently of the White Witch. But she grew dissatisfied with that; she feared that the Islands would eventually rebel against her. So she launched a series of attacks on them." Anwyn gazed up at the stars. "Lord Arran knew that the Governor would do nothing to resist the White Witch without urging. So he tried, in every manner, to urge the Governor to take action."

"Well, did the Governor listen?" Victoria demanded.

"No," Anwyn replied. "The White Witch assassinated him. Lord Arran found himself in prison and he stayed there until your royal father liberated him and allowed him to live in Narnia. But since then, I suppose he now feels guilty of the Governor's murder. This is most likely why Arran feels his opinion is undervalued."

After a long silence, Victoria cleared her throat. "Well, do you think I should listen to him, then?"

"Absolutely not," Anwyn replied firmly. "Even though his heart was once loyal and pure, I can feel that his past, as well as a cancerous greed, squashed the purity."

Another pause, and Victoria whispered, "Thank you, Anwyn." She gazed, with a different heart, at Lord Arran's dumpy form some yards away from the fire.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Peter found no end to "interesting and shiny" objects in the library, so he decided to look at some of the innumerable books until tea time. He just hoped the Macready wasn't thinking about giving a tour today.

After an hour of opening book after book, Peter had accumulated a morass of useless facts: In about 13,000 years, Vega, and not Polaris, will be the Earth's polestar. The first sale of canned rattlesnake meat was in Florida, USA. His name in Greek was Cephas. The list went on. When the useless facts got boring, Peter sat at a rolltop desk, elbow on the desk and chin on hand, enjoying the quiet of the library.

A moth flitted by his face, and he halfheartedly waved a hand at it, then watched intently as it spiraled past shelves and a floor length mirror.

Why didn't I see that mirror before? Peter scrunched his eyebrows. I suppose because it's covered in a foot of dust like everything else here.

Peter abandoned the rolltop desk and stood before the mirror, which was indeed so dusty that it reflected nothing. He reached out, wiped some of the dirt away, and brushed his hand off on his pants.

He froze. His mouth dropped open.

The mirror's smooth surface, where Peter had touched it, did not reflect him and the library, but a starry sky.

What? How? Peter glanced at the tall, lead glass windows to his left. It's not even noon... Frantic, hewhipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned the rest of the mirror. Then he stepped away from it, short of breath with amazement. He unconsciously let his grimy handkerchief fall to the carpet.

He knew what was in the mirror.

A quiet beach, bordered by grass, under pristine starlight.

Glasswater.

Narnia.

Peter again approached the mirror, tentatively reaching towards the glass. But instead of feeling its cold smoothness under his fingertips, he felt as though he'd reached into water. And he could see his hand through the glass. Startled, he jerked his hand away, but after a moment, he impulsively plunged his whole arm into the glass. The glass wavered and shimmered, like rippling, disturbed water as his arm penetrated it and appeared through the glass, in that image of Narnia.

Now Peter bolted into the mirror, pushing his whole body through the fluid glass.

A metallic wind tore at him as he stepped through the mirror, and Peter thought icy swords were slashing into his flesh. Unnatural cold jolted his nerves and froze his lungs. Peter squeezed his eyelids shut in agony...and suddenly the pain ceased and the deathly cold resolved itself into the normal chill of a night in late autumn night.

Peter's knees gave way and he collapsed on rough grass, exhausted by the excruciating walk through the mirror. Before him, Glasswater shone beneath the harvest moon. A number of yards away, he thought he saw the glow of campfires.

I'm back. I'm here. I'm in Narnia, was the last thought that his mind offered before succumbing to unconsciousness.