"And then, so quickly that no one (unless they knew, as Peter did) could quite see how it happened, Edmund flashed his sword round with a peculiar twist, the Dwarf's sword flew out of his grip, and Trumpkin was wringing his empty hand as you do after a 'sting' from a cricket-bat."
Prince Caspian, Chapter Eight.
Chapter the Thirty-Eighth: King Edmund's Twist
27 Fairdawn 2076
The first day of the swordsmanship competition dawned bright and fair. The tournament did not need to begin as early as the previous days, and first light found Lyra preparing for the day at a leisurely pace.
"It looks like a fine day, my lady," Eloise remarked as she brushed and arranged the princess's hair. "Perhaps the plum linen today?" She suggested.
"Very well," Lyra agreed with an absentminded tone. Eloise smiled knowingly.
"Sir Galen seems to be doing well."
"Mm-hm," Lyra answered as Eloise helped her don the dress over her chemise.
"I daresay he looks quite handsome in that armor," the middle-aged servant was on the verge of a giggle. "With your standard on his shield, no less."
This time, Lyra only responded with a hard glance and a raised eyebrow. Eloise coughed to suppress the giggle and tugged at the dress's lacing.
"And so polite, too, how he offers you his arm so readily."
"You offer your opinion quite readily," the princess chided, but her tone carried no venom.
"Perhaps I do, my lady," Eloise admitted with a chuckle. She finished helping the princess dress for the day, with her satin-trimmed green velvet cloak and leather gloves. Despite the bright sun, a spring day in the Seven Isles was likely to be cool. "Do you need anything else, my lady?"
The princess shook her head and thanked her faithful servant. Bidding her goodbye, she stepped out of her room and greeted the lieutenant of the marine guard that awaited her. As they walked, she smiled to herself. Eloise knew her far too well, and Lyra would not give her maid the satisfaction of confirming that she had indeed been thinking of the young Narnian knight and the gallant arm he offered at every opportunity. She smiled to herself again. She knew he did not believe she required such frequent support, and for that reason she loved the kind gesture all the more. The lieutenant's voice broke into her reverie, and she realized they were nearing the tournament field. Contentedly, the Archen princess took her place in the royal box.
"You seem in good spirits this morning, young master," Ethan remarked as he tightened the straps of Galen's sparring armor.
"Indeed so," the young knight cheerfully responded as he tested the feel of the lighter armor. It was a welcome change from the heavy jousting armor. "I look forward to today's challenge with relish."
The squire smiled paternally at his eagerness, then helped his charge straighten the Archen green tabard under the sword-belt. With a word of thanks and a confident smile, Galen took up his shield, and they both made their way to the tournament field. There, the Narnian took his place among the assembly of competitors.
After a moment, Sir Pelinor stood and raised a hand to silence the crowd of spectators.
"My fellow knights," he addressed the competitors, "Today's round of eight matches will decide which half of you advance to tomorrow morning's quarterfinals. Each match is a duel with sword and shield without time limit. The match ends at the yield or incapacity of one of the combatants. The knight's code of honor applies fully, and I admonish you all that His Majesty the King and Her Highness the Princess Lyra do not condone unnecessary bloodshed in this contest of friends and allies. No knight who yields in good faith will be dishonored, and no knight who takes blood unjustly will go unpunished. May Aslan choose the victor! The Round of Eight begins."
Cheers swept the stands as the herald announced the first match. According to the schedule circulated earlier that morning, Galen would fight in the third match against Sir Therian of Muil. Until then, Galen withdrew to the portion of the stands reserved for competitors. Sir Therian, a pleasant young knight of about twenty-five, offered him a friendly nod as he took his seat as well. Returning the courtesy, Galen turned his attention to the duel about to begin.
As soon as the drums rolled, the two knights engaged each other eagerly. The crowds' shouts quickly drowned the peals of steel on steel as the competitors felt each other out. Sir Ewing, who held sixteenth place, seemed anxious to prove his mettle. Too anxious, Galen mused. Within a few minutes, Ewing over-weighted a thrust, and his opponent (a seasoned knight with an eagle on his shield, whose name Galen did not recall) dodged it. Unbalanced, Ewing stumbled, then his opponent followed up smartly. Ewing found himself flat on the ground with a sword point at his back.
"Yield?" The eagle-crested knight asked through his helmet.
"I yield," Sir Ewing responded with resignation. The victor withdrew his sword and offered his hand. Ewing rolled over and accepted his opponent's aid in rising. Bowing first to the king and then to each other, they both withdrew to the applause of all. On the wall, the purple shield with its white star came down, while the eagle advanced a row.
The next match passed quickly as well, as Sir Liam made fast work of his unfortunate opponent. With a thrill of anticipation, Galen descended to the field, where Ethan awaited him. After the young knight donned his helmet, the squire took his scabbard, offering the sword hilt. Galen took the hilt and drew his sword, then turned to take his place at the center of the field. Sir Therian stood likewise, and each held their sword in salute. Galen's heart pounded as the drum rolled, and the din of spectators' shouts filled the air. He parried his opponent's first exploratory strike, then felt his nervousness melt away into a sharp battle-focus. Smiling under his helmet, the Narnian let his body move with its well-trained memory and instinct. A hard blow landed on his shield, but he followed up with an aggressive series of blows that pushed Therian to the right side of the field. The Seven Islander made a well-timed rejoinder, but his clumsy footwork betrayed him. Galen seized the opening, sliding under the shield to bring the sword point to bear sharply against his opponent's chest. Sir Therian stopped cold.
"The field is yours, good sir, with my compliments," the Seven Islander graciously conceded, and the crowd cheered uproariously as Galen lowered his sword and the two opponents grasped hands. Removing his helmet, Galen strode to the center of the field and bowed to the royal box, where Lyra met his confident gaze with approval. As he returned to the competitors' section, Galen noted with a smile that the lily-crowned Gryphon had moved up a row on the wall.
The last duel of the morning went long, as the two evenly matched swordsmen battled fiercely for a place in the next round. But at last it ended with the fifteenth place knight, Sir Gelhad, advancing over the fourteenth-place knight, Sir Weiran.
After Sir Pelinor announced the midday adjournment, Galen caught Lyra's eye as she descended from the royal box.
"My lady," he bowed with a twinkle in his eye.
"Congratulations, my friend, on advancing to the quarterfinal," she returned his smile. "I hope you will accept my apologies for lunch today—I am afraid I have business with the king."
"Certainly, my lady," he responded warmly and returned to his tent to shed his armor at last. With his competition done for the day, the young knight could relax. He found a bite or two to eat in the competitor's tent, then made his way to the fair ground. It was fortuitous that the princess was occupied, the Narnian noted to himself with a impish smile. He had business of his own to conclude.
Later, Galen returned to the stands in time to watch the afternoon matches diligently. Any one of the victors could be his competitor on the morrow.
That evening, after they had seen the children home, Galen and Lyra walked slowly about the castle garden. The sun was setting behind the mountain, gilding the peak in gold. An early rising moon gave its light in the pale twilight to the East. The marines kept discretely to the garden's edges, and here and there a servant lit the lanterns. As usual, Lyra's hand rested comfortably on her friend's arm as they walked.
"You seem quiet tonight, my lady," Galen observed.
"I suppose I am," she murmured, her soft smile tinged with a slight melancholy. "This day left me with many thoughts."
"Tell me, Lyra," concern colored the Narnian's voice, and he unconsciously covered the hand on his arm comfortingly with his own.
"I think often of the night we left Terebinthia," she began, her voice quiet and thoughtful, "the night my uncle died."
Galen waited for her to continue as they walked steadily along the garden path.
"I am grateful for the kindness you showed me that night," she paused, still looking off absentmindedly. "But I have wondered for some time now—when I ordered you to leave me, what made you stay?" At last her eyes met his with inquisitive intensity.
Galen's countenance carried a hint of melancholy as he paused, considering his reply.
"My own experience, I suppose, my lady," he answered at last. She glanced at him quizzically. "I know something of the grief you endured," he continued to explain. "When my father died, he spent his last breaths knighting me and entrusting me with the guardianship of the Stone Knife. It is a strange thing to bear profound responsibility amid profound grief."
He felt the princess stop sharply, and he paused, looking up to find her gaze intense upon him. Thoughtfully, he glanced off to the horizon.
"And I did as you did—trying my utmost to bury my sorrow beneath my duty; afraid to mourn, lest it be taken for weakness. There was a night, not unlike that night in Terebinthia, when I pushed my mother away so she would not see my tears. And she left me alone, as I demanded. But the loneliness that followed made those tears all the more bitter."
Looking down, the Narnian took a deliberate breath, almost a sigh.
"The night your uncle died, you bore your duty well amid your grief. As princess, your strength gave strength to your subjects," Galen met Lyra's gaze steadily now, and he could see tears pooling in her eyes. "But I am not your subject, our traveling subterfuge notwithstanding," he continued, smiling gently. "You owed me no duty that night. So I did my best to comfort you as I dearly wished to have been comforted myself those years ago, when I, too, wept by the light of a midnight moon."
As Galen finished speaking, the princess looked down, mastering herself.
"Thank you," she murmured at last, pressing his hand with her own and meeting his kindly gaze with profound gratitude. Inclining his head, he tucked the hand back into the crook of his arm, and they resumed their leisurely pace around the garden in the fading light.
28 Fairdawn 2076
"Galen! Galen!" The children's piping voices lead the cheering crowd as the young knight blocked a heavy blow from his opponent. The Narnian countered his strike, then spun under the other quarterfinalist's blade and took a fresh position. Galen panted for a moment under his helmet. The prolonged duel had already lasted over half an hour. His opponent, Sir Cole, was a burly knight from the Northern Frontier, and he gasped for breath as well. The princess's nimble champion had kept his heavier opponent dancing a quick pace all throughout this last of the quarterfinals.
The strategy was beginning to tell, and he would not let Cole rest long. Galen aggressively reengaged, inspired with fresh energy. He slashed across his opponent's right side, and Cole parried. Galen danced out of range, inviting him to waste more energy in pursuit. But Cole would not be baited this time and took up a defensive posture instead. The time-keeper's drum marked forty-five minutes. How could the children's voices not tire yet?
The Narnian refocused, smiling ruefully under his helmet and reengaging, feinting, then thrusting. Cole dodged the thrust and struck out with his shield. The shield hit home, and Galen fell on his back, his helmet thrown across the field. Cole thrust his sword down towards the young knight, who rolled under the blade. Before Cole could recalculate, Galen spun his legs from his position on the ground and aimed a precise kick behind Cole's knees. The Seven Islander fell hard to the ground. In a flash, the Narnian's blade pressed against his opponent's neck.
"Yield?" He demanded, his voice broken with ragged breaths. With a grunt and a nod, Sir Cole conceded. Galen rose and shifted his sword to his left hand, offering his right to his opponent. The Seven Islander grasped it and struggled to his feet. The crowd cheered wildly as Galen saluted the royal box and the lily-crowned gryphon gained the last remaining place on the wall's semifinal row. Exhausted and dusty, the young knight withdrew from the field and returned to his tent.
In the stands, Lyra smiled knowingly as she applauded, taking some pride in her champion achieving victory by a trick he learned from her. Beside her, Prince Robin shouted in unrestrained triumph.
"Your champion is a masterful swordsman, my lady," King Richard complimented. "A credit to Archenland."
"You are most kind, your majesty," she inclined her head, warmth coloring her cheeks. As soon as Sir Pelinor announced the midday break, she stood and curtsied to her host. "By your leave, your majesty, I will see you this afternoon," she spoke deferentially. He nodded, and she departed with her marine guard in tow.
A short walk brought them to Galen's tent, where the marine lieutenant's bellowing voice announced her. In reply, the squire pulled open the tent flap and bowed. Galen was toweling off his dripping hair when the princess entered, his armor already traded for a soft tunic.
"My lady," he bowed, disheveled but grinning.
"Congratulations, my friend! I seem to recall your winning maneuver," Lyra spoke with twinkling eyes.
"I might have picked it up from a certain Archen warrior of our mutual acquaintance," he returned with equal mirth, inviting her to sit.
"Needless to say, the children are immensely pleased," the princess continued, accepting the silver cup Ethan tactfully offered.
"That is a fair consolation for the whole of my aching body," he returned good naturedly, putting his boots up on the chaise with exaggerated effort.
"Is that a whine, my good knight?" She teased, and in return he only laughed, leaning back comfortably.
"I trust my countryman is treating you well, good squire," Lyra turned to Ethan, who was setting out a light luncheon for the two on the table between them.
"None better, your highness," he replied warmly. "It is a pleasure to serve you and your champion."
"We are grateful for your service, my friend," Galen added, inclining his head sincerely.
Ethan merely smiled in return, then poured the tea before retiring.
"I must rather selfishly admit that I am glad you did not have business with the king today," Galen spoke as they ate, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"If you think you will thus bait me to reveal royal secrets, you are very much mistaken, my friend," Lyra smiled wisely and raised an eyebrow as she raised her teacup to her lips.
"Fair enough," the young knight laughed, and the two friends continued to pass the noon hour pleasantly. It passed quickly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sir Pelinor addressed the crowd after the trumpets' echoes subsided. "Three matches remain before you will know the victor of the Tournament!"
The crowd cheered loudly, waving their brightly colored flags.
"I present to you your semi-finalists—Sir Liam of Cranaugh, Sir Tristan of Muil, Sir Reginald of West Brenn, and Sir Galen of Archenland."
Each knight acknowledged the crowd as Sir Pelinor introduced him, receiving the raucous applause of his respective supporters. Galen smiled broadly as the village children jumped and waved. If he had no supporters at all save them, he would be happy.
"Sir Tristan and Sir Galen have the first match."
Liam and Reginald withdrew to the stands as Tristan and Galen took their places on the field and stood at salute.
Beside Lyra, Prince Robin shifted in his seat, barely containing the shout he would let loose the moment the starting drum rolled. The princess smiled fondly, but a stab of anticipation shivered through her heart as she turned her eyes to the field. Sir Pelinor's hand flashed down, and the drums rolled the beginning of the match.
Instantly, Robin let loose a lusty cheer, drowned in the rising din. Lyra smiled as she watched Galen attack aggressively. Some knights hesitated at the beginning of a match; not so her champion. But the princess did not cheer and shout for him. She watched keenly and would never admit that in her ears her beating heart rivaled even Robin's shouts.
This match, Galen wasted no time, keeping Tristan busy parrying blows at a furious pace. But the young knight from Muil held his own. Lyra shifted in her seat as the Seven Islander rallied and Galen ducked around his sharp swing.
"Nervous, my lady?" King Richard chuckled, but the princess merely lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow, defiantly refusing to acknowledge his fatherly teasing. At this, the king laughed all the more.
Just as the drums rolled fifteen minutes, a sharp series of strikes sent Sir Tristan tumbling. The threatening pressure of the Narnian's sword kept him from rising, and the Seven Islander had no option but to yield.
"Sir Galen takes the match!" Sir Pelinor declared, and Lyra channeled the relief that flooded through her into dignified applause.
With a triumphant smile and bow to the royal box, Galen returned to the stands to watch the remaining semifinal. As Lyra's standard ascended to the final row on the wall, she caught her knight's eye with a congratulatory glance. Prince Robin effervescently chattered as Sir Liam and Sir Reginald took their places on the field and prepared for their match.
"Whom do you pick to join Galen in the final, Prince Robin?" Lyra asked with a twinkle in her eye.
"Sir Liam, I think," he answered after thinking a moment.
"You're not sure?" She teased.
"Sir Reginald is well regarded in the West Brenn garrison, my lady," King Richard added.
"We will soon see," Lyra turned to face the field as Sir Pelinor nodded to the drummer, who sounded the beginning of the match.
The young prince's indecision was well warranted; the two knights matched each other stroke for stroke at length. The cheering rose to a spectacular pitch as both knights' supporters urged them on to victory. The swords flashed rapidly in the early afternoon sun, Liam slashing, Reginald blocking with his shield and returning the blow, and Liam counter-striking again.
Suddenly, the crowd gasped as Sir Liam stumbled and dropped his sword, clutching his side with his shield hand. Blood seeping through the chain mail proved that one of Sir Reginald's precise thrusts struck home just under his sword arm. Immediately, Sir Reginald stepped back, allowing Sir Liam a moment to retrieve his sword. The crowd murmured as Liam did so, then drew himself up into a defensive stance.
"Sir Liam won't yield," Sir Pelinor commented softly, "at least, not while he can still stand."
A sharp clash of steel verified the seasoned knight's words as Liam reengaged. Reginald parried and returned the strike, focusing expertly on strikes that engaged Liam's sword arm with repeated parries, instead of wasting strikes towards the shield. Liam compensated by angling his shield toward his opponent and bringing the pointed edges into play. As the crowd resumed its fevered cheering, Lyra shifted uneasily in her seat. She could see the section of reddened chain mail expanding down the Redhaven knight's side. Time did not favor him, she knew.
Sir Reginald knew it too. Nevertheless, he struck Liam's shield forcefully with his own several times, trying to hasten the end of the match. At last, Sir Liam sank to the ground, panting with exertion despite his valiant effort. Sir Reginald did not take advantage of his prone opponent's vulnerability, but tugged off his helmet and raised his eyes to Sir Pelinor. A hush fell over the crowd.
In turn, Pelinor stood and motioned to the tournament drummer. Obediently, the drummer struck a somber roll. After a measured pause, the drum rolled again, then thrice more. Silence hung over the field and stands as the Sir Pelinor held up his hand.
"Sir Reginald takes the field."
As the crowd cheered uproariously, Sir Reginald immediately threw down his arms and knelt at his prone opponent's side. Bellowing for a medic, he removed Sir Liam's helmet and pressed his hand firmly against the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding. Only after a field medic hastily bound up the wound over the chain mail and squires bore his vanquished opponent away on a stretcher did Sir Reginald stand and bow deeply to the royal box.
"His majesty commends your gallantry, Sir Reginald," Sir Pelinor's voice carried across the field. "The final round commences in two hours."
"Your pardon, Sir Galen," a servant bowed as the young knight left the stands.
"Yes?"
"His majesty's compliments. King Richard requests your presence at the royal pavilion in an hour and a half."
"Tell his majesty I will be honored," Galen nodded, and the servant withdrew.
At the appointed time, Galen made his way to the king's pavilion. Sir Reginald approached the pavilion as well, and the opponents greeted each other with courteous bows. Galen noticed that several Archen marines stood guard near the pavilion. As they reached the threshold, Sir Alinor emerged, limping and under guard. He met their glances coldly, then proceeded down the path with the soldiers. Galen puzzled over this strange meeting as they approached the servant attending the pavilion entrance.
"One moment, please, my lords," the servant requested after the two knights identified themselves. As they stepped aside, a scribe and the court physician exited the pavilion, followed by Sir Pelinor, then Princess Lyra and the lieutenant of her marine guard. The princess acknowledged the two knights' bows with a nod, answering Galen's inquiring glance with a knowing but unrevealing glance.
Now, the servant ushered him and Sir Reginald into the sunlit pavilion. The king awaited them, seated at the head of a well-appointed table, and the Narnian returned his focus to the ruler of the Seven Isles.
"Welcome, gentlemen," the king greeted warmly.
"Your majesty," they both returned, bowing.
"Please, join me," he gestured to the comfortable chairs surrounding the table. They sat, and servants promptly poured the king and knights small glasses of wine. "It is my custom," the king continued, "to share a drink with the contenders before the final round of a tournament. I congratulate you on your victories thus far—to your health, gentlemen," he lifted his glass and drank the toast.
With murmured thanks, Galen and Reginald joined the toast. The Narnian sipped only lightly; he remembered the reception's heady wine two nights previous, and he hardly wanted to fight a duel under similar influence.
"Sir Reginald," King Richard turned to the champion of West Brenn, "you will be happy, doubtless, to know that the court physician reports Sir Liam's life is no longer in danger."
"Happy news indeed, my king," the knight responded, relief flooding his countenance. "Victory bought at the price of my own cousin's life would be more bitter than defeat."
"I am glad to hear that," the king responded gravely. "In fact, it is that subject I wish to discuss with you. To reach the final round, you have both demonstrated great skill. But I expect a tournament finalist's honor to exceed his skill. Victory without honor is not victory at all, and bloodlust is not a quality of gentlemen."
The king paused, looking down at his glass in deliberate thought, then critically met each knight's eye in turn.
"Sir Reginald, I am familiar with your record and it is consistent with your conduct upon the field today. I trust I have no reason to believe you will not acquit yourself with equal gallantry in the final."
"Thank you, your majesty," the Seven Islander bowed his head gratefully. "I will endeavor to justify your faith in me."
"Sir Galen," King Richard turned to the Narnian, "I have not yet had the pleasure of knowing you well. But I know well the lady whose favor you wear. The Princess Lyra would not entrust her standard to any knight of middling character. As her representative, I trust that you will protect her honor by comporting yourself well."
"Upon my word, your majesty," the young knight replied gravely, meeting the king's unwavering eye.
"Very well." The king stood, and Galen and Reginald scrambled to their feet.
"To Honor and Victory," King Richard raised his glass high.
"Honor and Victory," the finalists echoed.
Galen returned to his tent before the final round. Although his heart thumped rapidly, he deliberately swallowed his anticipation. He took up his sword carefully, running his eye solemnly along the naked blade, reading anew the weighty words inscribed there—the motto of his chivalric order.
"Courage in Faith, Mercy in Strength. Perseverance in Duty, for Aslan's Glory," he murmured the motto aloud. Taking a deep breath, the young knight dropped to a knee, supporting himself on the sword hilt and bowing his head.
"Aslan, I dare to ask your blessing in this last contest, that I may give all my strength and skill in your service, and in service of the princess, my dear friend. I thank you for these halcyon days and pray that I remember to treasure them during whatever days of trial await in the Eastern seas. May victory today be in your Paws, and likewise success in the quest that lies ahead."
As the Narnian rose, his lady entered the tent.
"Are you ready for the final round, my friend?" She asked quietly.
"I am," he answered solemnly. Galen felt his heart flutter, but not from anticipating the match. Ah, he thought silently as his countenance softened into a smile, if she only knew how he drowned in her eyes when they reflected against that bright blue dress. The matching ribbon fluttered against his armor as an errant puff of wind stirred the tent.
"May Aslan protect and strengthen you, my champion," she spoke in soft, even tones that carried remarkable power behind them. As he bowed low, she kissed his brow in the time-honored tradition of Archen monarchs. "The blessings of all Archenland go with you."
"Thank you, your highness," the young knight responded earnestly, using the formal address from which his friend had long exempted him.
The princess inclined her head in acknowledgment, then turned on her heel and exited the tent. Alone once more, Galen took a steadying breath. He could hear the trumpets' clear tones echoing from the field, warning all that the final match would begin soon.
To battle, one more time.
"Sir Reginald of West Brenn, Sir Galen of Archenland," Sir Pelinor addressed the final competitors over the softly murmuring crowd. "Welcome to the final round. Let battle commence!"
The drums rolled loudly, and both knights took their stances.
"Galen! Galen!" The children's voices resounded promptly and emphatically.
"Reginald! Reginald!" Voices across the field competed.
Dropping his sword from its salute, Galen attacked fiercely. Ringing steel echoed sharply through the air. As they traded strikes and parries, the Narnian proceeded to feel out his opponent. Sir Reginald demonstrated seasoned experience and a keen eye. He expected no less from the knight who could defeat Sir Liam. The two competitors fought in equipoise for some time, their swordplay developing an almost melodic rhythm. Throughout the stands, the spectators cheered more loudly by the minute.
Parry, strike, dodge, thrust—Galen moved instinctively, the deafening din of cheers fading as his mind focused sharply. Suddenly, Reginald broke the rhythm by unexpectedly thrusting his shield against Galen's helmet. The Narnian raised his own shield just in time to deflect the blow, then turned his focus quickly to parry the thrust Reginald aimed under his raised shield—the true objective.
Rhythm was dangerous, the young knight chided himself, as he countered with an attack of his own. This time, faced with an old centaurian sequence, the Seven Islander lost ground. But then he tenaciously held the ground that remained to him. Sir Reginald had watched the previous rounds too and used his observations well. Another sharply aimed blow with his shield threw Galen's helmet off. But Galen had learned from his previous bouts and did not let the blow fell him. Instead, he moved with the blow's momentum and channeled it into a strike.
The drum marked the half hour, and for a moment the competitors paused. Deliberately, Sir Reginald removed his own helmet and tossed it aside. The crowd cheered wildly, and Galen nodded his regards to his opponent. It would seem Reginald's gallantry extended beyond just his own family.
With a smile, Galen reengaged fiercely, focusing on his opponent's shield. After a few minutes, he caught the corner under the edge of his own shield, and a hard, leveraged shove snapped the leather lacing and threw the shield from his opponent's arm. Sir Reginald's shield dropped to the field with a hollow crash, and the Seven Islander covered the vulnerability with an aggressive slash. In the natural pause that followed, the princess's champion demonstrated equal courtesy to his opponent by releasing his own shield and letting it fall to the side. Sir Reginald nodded his regards this time.
Now the Narnian truly came into his element. His centaur sword-master taught him enough with sword and shield but devoted far more time to sword alone or in concert with other weapons—a shield proved unwieldy to the stealth required of Narnians in hiding. In contrast, in the service of a regular army Sir Reginald was accustomed to the shield's weighty counterbalance. Galen felt his opponent's unease and capitalized on it, using his own comfortable agility to attack from a wide variety of angles. His strikes came harder and faster.
In the stands, Lyra smiled slyly as she began to guess her champion's endgame. Beside her, Prince Robin shouted with abandon. Then, the princess's quick eyes caught what she anticipated—a peculiar twist of her champion's sword caught the Seven Islander unprepared, and his sword flew from his grasp, leaving his wrist stinging. Galen's blade promptly pressed to his opponent's chest.
"The tournament is yours, my friend. I yield," Sir Reginald bowed as much as the Narnian's blade would allow.
With a warm smile, Galen dropped his blade and offered his hand.
"Congratulations, Sir Galen," Reginald accepted his hand with equal warmth. "For the princess's sake, I am almost happy to lose to you. Almost," the Seven Islander ruefully chuckled.
Galen expressed his thanks as his ear resumed processing the deafening din of the cheering throng. The deep drums rolled out the match's end, and the knights approached the royal box, bowing. At Sir Pelinor's raised hand, the trumpets sounded to quiet the crowd.
"His majesty's compliments on a match well fought. I proclaim Sir Galen of Archenland, champion of the Princess Lyra, victor of the Tournament," Sir Pelinor announced, and the crowd cheered anew as the lily-crowned gryphon ascended to the victor's place on the wall. "Come forth."
Galen made his way to the royal box as Sir Reginald retired from the field. Upon reaching the royal box, the young knight knelt before King Richard and Princess Lyra. With a dignified smile, his lady stood. He could feel his heart pounding.
"Sir Galen," she spoke resonantly and proudly, "it is our honor, on behalf of his majesty King Richard, his highness Prince Robin, and ourself, to present to you the prize of the tournament."
She paused, taking up the victor's medallion and settling its golden ribbon around the young knight's neck.
"Go in victory, with Aslan's blessings," Lyra concluded, looking down on her champion with warmth and pride in her eyes. The crowd took the opportunity to cheer anew.
Standing, Galen bowed deeply, then gratefully took his leave as the king quieted the spectators and began his closing speech to conclude the tournament.
Evening found Galen waiting alone in the wide foyer to the castle's Great Hall. Its marble floors and walls shimmered in the moonlight that streamed in from the long, narrow windows behind him. Lamps lit the walls at intervals, illuminating festoons of festive ribbon winding around the pillars. At last free of his armor, the princess's champion stood attired in a fine velvet tunic of Archen green and, in Seven Islander style, a matching ceremonial cape trimmed in gold hung from his shoulders. The victor's medallion glinted on his chest, with the bright blue ribbon of Lyra's favor tied in a neat bow above it. The strains of music mingled with many voices dimly echoed from within the Great Hall. Soon, King Richard's court would welcome him as the champion of the Tournament, but for now Galen savored this moment of peace.
At length, he heard steps echo in the corridor. Looking up, the young knight's eyes met his lady's. Were she clothed in the plainest raiment imaginable, he mused, her confident bearing and firm gaze would betray her for a princess. But in her gown of shimmering Archen green she stole his breath away, and he found he did not rue it.
"Your highness," he greeted warmly, bowing and raising the hand she offered him to his lips.
"My champion," she greeted in her turn, her eyes twinkling as she curtsied. Glancing down at the ribbon, she smiled broadly. "You still wear my favor." The sparkle in her eyes held something more than it had even a moment ago.
"Always, my lady," Galen answered resolutely. "For as long as you grant it to me."
Lyra returned a heartfelt smile, then took the arm the young knight offered. The footmen opened the Great Hall's double doors, and the sounds within stilled as the chamberlain announced them. The two friends entered with comfortable strides—tonight, not even the staring eyes of a hundred courtiers could unsettle the happy Narnian.
"Friends," King Richard addressed the crowd from his place of honor at the head of the hall, "it is my pleasure to present to you the Princess Lyra and her knight Sir Galen of Archenland—your Tournament champion!"
Galen and Lyra bowed (or curtsied) in unison, respectfully acknowledging the king and his applauding courtiers. As the knight and princess made their way into the hall, musicians took up a merry tune. They accepted many bows, curtsies, and congratulations before reaching their seats beside King Richard and Prince Robin. The banquet began, filled with troubadours' ballads, acrobats' skillful feats, and jesters' tricks, and it quickly become one of the most pleasant evenings Galen could recall.
"Tell us, Sir Galen," the king inquired almost mischievously as they were enjoying dessert, "what was that trick of swordplay that won you the tournament? I've never seen its like."
"Indeed, do tell us, sir—my knights are tormenting me with inquiries I cannot answer," Sir Pelinor added with equal parts levity and professional curiosity.
"It is called King Edmund's Twist, your majesty," Galen responded, meeting Lyra's mirthful glance with a twinkling eye, "and it has never failed me."
"I do not doubt that," the commanding general of the Seven Isles complimented.
"King Edmund's?" The king puzzled. "It is not Archen?"
"Nay, your majesty, it hails from Narnia, in her happier days." The young knight smiled. "There are still a few swordmasters who remember it."
"You were fortunate to find such a mentor," the king remarked.
"Indeed, your majesty."
"Well, good sir, we will not question you further," the king chuckled. "The musicians are returning, and as Tournament champion, you have the honor of claiming the first dance."
At this Galen smiled broadly. "Thank you, your majesty," he spoke as he stood promptly and turned to the princess. "Would you do me the honor, my lady?"
The festivities finally began to wind down some time after midnight. As the candles burned low, the two friends made their farewells and withdrew from the Great Hall. Neither, however, was quite ready to retire, and at Lyra's suggestion they took a turn about the wide terrace that overlooked the sea. The ever-present marines guarded its ends but otherwise left the friends to walk in peace.
"A heavenly night," Lyra sighed contentedly, breathing the chill air deeply after the Great Hall's near-stifling warmth.
"Indeed, so," Galen answered, marveling in the innumerable stars reflecting in the surface of the bay far below. From above the castle, the moon's pale light washed the flagstones with a milky pallor. "Although I see now why the fashion of the Seven Isles puts such emphasis on cloaks!"
The princess laughed, pulling her cloak more closely around her. They walked in contented silence for a moment.
"I'm sure you were curious about my absences these past two days," Lyra spoke at last, her countenance becoming serious. "I am sorry that I could not say more, but I did not wish to distract you from the tournament, and the king's court expects certain discretion in pending matters."
"What happened, my lady?"
"King Richard, with Sir Pelinor and I, as the presiding officials of the Tournament, convened a court of inquiry during the breaks in the sword competition. That inquiry proved that Sir Alinor cheated in the tournament by substituting combat lance heads for the competition lance heads. A field squire was in league with him and confessed," The princess spoke gravely.
"I must thank you again for your warning, my lady," Galen shook his head in amazement. "What will become of him?"
"His actions unnecessarily endangered the lives of valuable knights—yourself included," she glanced up at him. "King Richard does not tolerate cheating, bribery, or wanton disregard of life in his knights; he stripped Alinor of his knighthood, and of his freedom until those he wounded are healed."
The Narnian fell silent as he digested this news, thanking Aslan that he was not among the wounded she referenced. They continued to walk along the terrace parapet for a few moments. This time, Galen broke the silence.
"I wish to tell you, my lady, how great an honor it has been to serve as your champion and to wear your favor into battle," the young knight spoke earnestly, placing his other hand gently over the delicate fingers still resting on his shield arm. "I am grateful to Aslan that I did not disgrace the confidence you placed in me," Galen looked at the princess with solemn eyes. She met his gaze with a thoughtful smile, then looked out over the sea as they continued to walk along the parapet.
"You are as gallant as ever, my friend, but I think you should know that I would have been proud for you to wear my favor even if you did not win the tournament; indeed, even if you had ranked last of all."
Galen looked at her curiously.
"It is well known that I do not give my favor lightly," she explained, "and I imagine some believe that this is because I am loathe to lose. But this is not the reason," she paused, shaking her head and looking out over the bay as they stopped beside the rail. "Nay," she met his eye anew, "I guard my favor as I guard my heart."
Galen returned her gaze intently, pondering all she said and feeling its weight. Lyra looked down and smiled nervously.
"So, you see, it is not the strength of a knight's arm that earns my favor, but the strength of his character. Until this week, the only knight to wear my favor in competition was my brother."
"Why, Lyra?" Galen queried with wonder and puzzlement. "What do you see in me that you would bestow so precious a thing?"
At his question, the Archen princess laughed freely.
"Your question answers itself!" She smiled broadly, her eyes twinkling merrily. "Any other knight would have the arrogance to presume himself worthy. But you—having done more valiant deeds than any and having been at my side as a true and faithful friend—you ask me why," Lyra marveled. "This is why you have my respect," she paused, glancing down with a moment's hesitance, then met his gaze earnestly. "This is why you have my love."
Her words undid the young knight, and he stared in wide-eyed stupefaction, his heart caught in his throat. But at his silence the lady wavered.
"I pray you will forgive my forwardness if I mistake your regard for me," she glanced away, color rising to her cheeks as she withdrew her hand from his arm and stepped back.
"Nay, Lyra, you do not mistake it!" Galen recovered himself and fervently grasped her hand. "Your conquest of my heart began the day we met— the moment you mercilessly checked my stubborn refusal to accept your medical care," he spoke earnestly but with a slight levity, and they both laughed at the memory of that first meeting. "My dear and constant friend, how could I fail to love you?" He smiled with wonder in his eyes. "I treasure all that your favor means and requite it with all that I am."
Lyra smiled wordlessly and averted her eyes with a soft chuckle of relief. When she met her champion's gaze anew, his eyes held a tenderness he only now revealed to her.
"Would her highness be angry if a humble knight dared to kiss her?"
"Only if he tarries further," she replied with laughter in her eyes.
Authoress's Note: Many thanks for sticking with me through the long chapter! I hope you enjoyed it. I must also apologize for any typos that slipped through; sometimes it is the difference between updating and not.