CHAPTER EIGHT: EDGE OF THE WORLD
The next several days went by in a whirlwind of preparation.
Erlian was thoroughly busied rallying as many soldiers as he could from the far reaches of the country and redoubling the sentries along the border, and the uncertainty which had plagued his aura before Elise's arrival collapsed into earnest conviction.
The knowledge that the giants would attack again was almost more of a relief than a burden to the city, if only for the certainty of what must be done. It was one thing to worry over the likelihood of a war; it was quite another to face it head on, and the latter was something Tirian thought Narnians did better than anyone.
And so it was that after everything that could be done had been done, the attitude of the Cair shifted from one of preparation to celebration.
It might have seemed strange to outsiders, but when there was nothing left to do but wait, it was feasting and dancing that filled the minds of Narnian creatures, not dreading the inevitable which would come just as certainly whether one dreaded it or not.
Silver and crystal glittered across the great hall, wine glinting in Tirian's glass as he raised it to a toast and his father's clear voice rang beside him at the head table.
"Today we honor those fallen. Our own Narnians and those of distant lands. May Aslan be Good Lord to all who have met their fate, and may he still guide us to victory against the newest in a long line of foes never to prevail against our fair shores."
The hall erupted with cheers, echoing powerfully off towering marble walls and sending a thrill through Tirian's blood as his eyes fell to Hosha at a lower table and they made a small toasting motion to each other before drinking along with the rest of the room and sitting down.
All fell to feasting and talking, and he watched Hosha lean in to say something to Elise, wishing briefly that he was down with them rather than at the head table. But there was also something he liked about observing from a distance, catching Mal's smile at something Gareth said, imagining what Hosha would brag about next.
They had all been suitably distracted the past few days with Elise around the house, always attached to Mal at the hip and taking great interest in every story the boys could conjure about Narnia.
It quickly became clear that she was very talkative, as long as the subject of her home was well avoided, and she happily discussed hunting and bowmanship with the boys, as well as some of the things that more interested Mal, like clothes or shopping.
He also realized as Lady Shadoht showed her around the city and explained Narnian customs that there could have been no better person to look after her, certainly none better than she whose story of escape was not so different from Elise's own, though their circumstances were different.
He'd always known it, but hearing again how Shadoht had taken Mal as a mere infant and escaped to Narnia in the earliest days of the last war struck a certain ache in his heart, followed as always by Gareth's story of love at first sight the day he rescued her from the battlefield, and Hosha's interjection of "and that's how I happened," which earned him a swat to the back of the head from Mal and a giggle from Elise.
Tirian was only snapped out of the memory by his father's voice, deep in conversation with Lord Bran seated on the King's other side.
"We have the element of surprise no longer."
He glanced over at them, but they seemed to have forgotten he was there, wrapped up again in the looming confrontation even as the rest of the hall jingled with crystalware and laughter.
"Yes," said Bran, "And skirmishes are not full battle. The only question left to us is where they will come."
"We are fortunate they had no chance to scout further."
"The same point of entry, you think, then?"
"I would prefer it far from the city, but the forest at least is defensible."
Tirian listened to all this, forgetting the rest of the room, fork resting idly against the edge of his plate.
"But we have seen what they can do, even to trees," said Bran, near murmuring now. "The path of destruction in the northern forest is beyond what we have seen in our day."
Tirian's brow furrowed. For a moment he didn't understand. They'd fought in the Moors, not in the— But then his mind flew back to the forest, to their escape on that very first night, the terrible snapping of branches and groaning of roots torn straight up from the ground.
Erlian hummed his agreement. "Even so, we cannot plan where they will appear. The trees will not run from a fight."
Tirian's stomach sank. Why had his father never mentioned the trees? He supposed he'd known, in a way, but his thoughts of that night were only ever of their victory.
Suddenly he felt incredibly foolish.
He looked down at his plate, no longer hungry, stomach churning with some emotion he couldn't place.
And then his father's voice returned, but this time it was in his mind. "It's my fault for sending sixteen year olds on a mission like this."
His eyes snapped up as a chime of alarm resounded through his chest.
The moment the feast dispersed to further merriment in the ballroom, Tirian ran after his father, catching up before he could disappear off into his own quarters or another meeting hall.
"Father, I will be allowed to ride with the army, won't I?"
Erlian turned, a fond smile crossing his face, but something about it sent Tirian's heart plummeting even before he spoke. "No, Tirian, you will remain here in the city."
Tirian opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out.
His father looked as if he'd been expecting this question. "You've almost died twice already, I will not allow you the chance to succeed a third time."
"But— I— it's not— I'm not trying to die!"
"Yes, and that is what makes it all the more concerning," chuckled Erlian, but his mirth did nothing to ease the desperation surging in Tirian's chest.
"You don't understand, I have to, I— I owe it to them, I'm supposed to fight, I know it! Please, just give me one more chance."
"You're not in trouble, Tirian, I just can't afford to think about you out there. You're not ready."
"Not ready? Father, I've killed two of them, and I can do it again!"
"It's not about that."
Tirian stammered wordlessly, unable to fathom what else it could possibly be about. Wasn't the point of war to defeat the enemy? "But… but I have to."
Erlian's expression softened. He put both hands on Tirian's shoulders. "I know, I understand. It may be hard to believe, but I was your age once, and I was just as untamed, just as wild in my passions, that voice inside that knows everything."
Tirian hung his head. There was no point in arguing now, nothing he could say would make his case any better.
"I didn't listen to my father, either. But you'll see, one day. There is a kind of wildness that cannot be tamed, Tirian, except by something wilder."
Tirian sighed. He didn't understand, and he didn't want to.
Erlian nicked his chin with the crook of his finger. "You'll live, I promise. Hosha will be staying behind, too, I already heard from Gareth."
That didn't make it any better. Perhaps he wasn't being singled out, but somehow it was different. Erlian always let Tirian do more.
"I have work to do," said the King, "Go on, enjoy the dance. I'm sure your friends are missing you."
Tirian gave a forced smile as he walked off, but his heart was in his boots.
He didn't want to see his friends. He didn't want to see anyone. He needed to fight, he was supposed to fight, how could his father not see that? He needed to finish what he started. He needed this not to be his fault.
The cheerful atmosphere bubbling around him only clashed with the weight inside, like lead in his veins, grating against the music and the pealing laughter. But he couldn't bring himself to leave. Somehow going out alone somewhere would only be worse.
He lowered himself to a stone bench encircling one of the pillars, leaning his head back against the smooth marble and gazing off into a forest no one else could see.
On the periphery of his vision amongst the rest of the crowd, Hosha walked Elise through the steps to a simple Narnian dance, the girl's giggle just reaching his ears, the boy's curls bouncing out of his eyes with a shake and a grin.
Fauns and satyrs and dryads twirled in complicated wild patterns around them as other creatures spun to and fro to their own rhythms, but Tirian could not find it in himself to appreciate the beauty in their chaos.
A few minutes later, a girl's voice interrupted his misery. "I suppose you're not going either, then?"
He looked up.
To his surprise, it was Mal.
"What? How did you know?" He shifted a little, making room for her on the bench as she sat daintily beside him.
"Father told Hosha the same thing this morning. I think he was expecting it."
Tirian leaned back again and glanced at Hosha, the boy's white smile flashing like he hadn't a care in the world. "I wasn't. I mean, I'm the Prince, it's only right I should go. It's my kingdom, my people I should be protecting."
Mal looked at him thoughtfully. "It does make sense, though, you know. You're just kids."
Tirian sucked on his lower lip and shot her a dry look. "You're not helping."
"Neither is this," she said, gesturing vaguely to his posture, his demeanor. "You might at least try to act like a Prince, if you're so determined to be treated like one."
He bit back a sharp retort, clenched his jaw, and reluctantly sat up a little straighter.
"And don't worry too much, I'm sure there will be plenty of wars to fight when you're older."
Tirian raised his eyebrows. "Well, somebody's optimistic for Narnia's future."
"I'm only being realistic." She leaned back and gazed around the room, dark eyes sharp as ever, hair curled into thick waves for the occasion, the glittering stones in her long earrings matching the emerald green of her dress.
A moment later she stood and turned to him. "Dance with me."
"What?"
"Come on, dance with me. Or are you just going to sit here feeling sorry for yourself all day?"
"Well, I was planning—"
But she grabbed his hand and tugged until he reluctantly hauled himself out of his seat and allowed her to lead him out amongst the other dancers.
"You know," he said, "This is why I don't come to you for advice."
"Why? I got you to stop sulking."
"By force."
"And?"
He gave her a dry smile. "And for the record, I'm still sulking."
She turned and wrapped her arms loosely around his waist, a glint of triumph in her eyes.
High flutes warbled over a shower of strings and the thump of a dwarfish drum, and though it was not quite so wild as it would have been in the forest on a moonlit night, it carried its own kind of magic in the towering white halls of the Cair.
"If we're doing this," he said, "I'm leading."
"After you, my Prince."
So he grabbed her hands and pulled her into a dance, feet remembering their steps from dozens of nights in well-worn clearings, the rhythm as natural as breathing, and Mal caught on quickly, separating and meeting again and twirling to face each other, joining arms, hands, all a swish of hair and skirts, and for a while Tirian managed to be thoroughly distracted.
He couldn't sulk nearly as much over the next few days as he wanted to, either, as July crashed in full force and the days became too bright and too warm to wallow for long.
They were not permitted to wander very far from the Cair, but they took Elise swimming in Glasswater, ran through green fields where Jewel breezed past them in the time it took to blink, and dug their toes into the sand as the bubbling tide plunged them underwater up to their knees.
But at last the morning came when Tirian awoke to the palace all astir, and caught word from the first courtier he met that a sentry had returned with news that the giant army was on the march just west of Ettinsmoor.
Erlian was already in the courtyard when he raced down, hair unbrushed, to find his father dressed all in silver mail and plate armor he hadn't seen since he was a very small boy hiding in Shadoht's skirts to wave the men off. His father's hair had been golden then, but he was still the image of a warrior, broad-chested and tall, and striding in high greaves through the assembling troops side by side with Gareth.
The yard was quickly filling with men and beasts, almost all of whom were seasoned soldiers who had seen at least one battle.
"You're leaving now?" he asked as he bounded up beside his father, heart pounding.
Gareth turned to follow whatever order he'd just been given.
"Yes," said Erlian, not in a dismissive tone but in one that said a dozen urgent matters were rushing through his head at once, "We must meet them as close to the border as we can, keep them out of Narnia altogether."
A page ran up to the King. "The Raven has been sent, Sire, the troops at Beaversdam will meet you above the river."
"Thank you," he said, and the page darted off again.
Tirian gazed around with his brows drawn as Erlian pulled on his gloves, and when the King looked up again his air of concentration broke for a smile.
"We'll be back tomorrow if all goes well, don't worry."
Tirian looked back. "I'm not worried."
His father ruffled his hair and pulled him into a short hug before breaking away to the saddled chargers Gareth brought clopping up behind them, mounting his massive grey stallion with the ease of a grace he still carried even in full armor.
Tirian couldn't help but gaze on with the same admiration that had filled his childhood body to buzzing.
"Don't do anything stupid until I get back," called Erlian over his shoulder, and Tirian shot a grin after him.
"You might want to hurry, then."
He stood back as he watched the soldiers ride through the gate and out into the shadow of the city in the clear morning light.
Hosha appeared at his side and leaned his chin dejectedly on Tirian's shoulder. "We would have been so cool," he muttered, and Tirian smiled just a little, watching until every last mounted soldier was out of sight and the four-footed ones followed behind.
Their absence left a hollow feeling in the city, nearly all of the men gone, as well as most of the larger creatures, save for a few like Jewel who had also been deemed too young or inexperienced.
That was what Tirian didn't miss—and in fact had almost forgotten—about the last war; that pressure as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, even as the bustle in their streets continued as usual.
Hosha distracted himself easily enough, teaching a Narnian game to Elise with a collection of shiny squared-off stones, but Tirian couldn't focus. All day he could only pace or stare at the wall or glance out the window for no reason, and seven times he missed what one of the others said and had to ask them to repeat it, until Mal swatted him over the head with her knitting and said if he couldn't pay attention long enough to carry on one conversation then perhaps he should go someplace else.
The only one who seemed to share his nerves was Elise, though she didn't say much, and tried very hard to learn the rules Hosha was explaining to her.
If anything, the next day was worse.
It wasn't that Tirian was worried, exactly, but being left behind was its own demon, and not knowing what was happening out there in the mountains was about to drive him mad.
It was afternoon on the second day when Mal snapped at him again.
"Will you stop pacing? You're going to wear a path in the stone."
They had settled themselves in the central courtyard since it was now too stuffy for sitting indoors. Hosha hung upside down from a low stone wall while Tirian paced back and forth in front of him, the girls sitting cross-legged on the ground and playing some kind of game with string which Elise knew and the rest of them didn't.
"I'm going crazy," he said, taking another turn on the pavers.
"Yeah, well, you're making the rest of us crazy," said Hosha, and shoved him as he passed.
Mal looked up, the glaring sunlight splashing over her face so that her skin shone almost red. "What do you think it's like being me? Stuck here in the city every time you two idiots decide to go do something dangerous?"
"You could always come with us," suggested Tirian.
"Ew, no," said Hosha, sitting up to perch on top of the wall. "Why do you think I leave?"
Mal tossed a pebble at him and struck his boot.
He tucked his feet up under himself with a glower.
"I mean it, though," said Tirian, "Why don't you come? You're a good archer, I've seen you shoot."
"At the ranges," she said, "It's not the same."
"And I'm better," said Hosha.
Tirian shot him a dry smile. "I've seen you shoot, too. Anyway, Elise could probably blow you both out of the water."
The girl's fiery red curls shifted as she looked up to smile at him, and he realized again that she'd barely said a word all day, which by now was very out of character for her.
He didn't have to guess at what she was thinking about, and he couldn't blame her. If he was nervous, she must be petrified.
"You could be like our Queen Lucy," he said suddenly in an attempt to cheer her up.
Elise quirked a thin brow, but the wonder had already come back into her eyes. "Who?"
"Don't you mean Queen Susan?" asked Hosha.
"No," said Tirian, "I mean— well, sure, Susan had the magic bow, but she never rode into battles. Lucy was the real archer if you ask me." He turned back to Elise. "They're very famous Narnian Queens, from our Golden Age. The legends say they came through a doorway from another world, and saved the whole country from a witch."
Elise's grey eyes went wide with interest.
"I don't know," said Hosha, "Doesn't having a magic bow automatically make you a better archer?"
"Not if you don't use it," said Tirian.
"Good point. Mal can be Susan, then."
Mal pursed her lips. "I'll take that as a compliment, thanks."
"Please don't."
Tirian laughed. He hadn't even noticed when he'd stopped pacing. "Hey," he said to Elise, "You even look kind of like Queen Lucy. Their statues are in the throne room, you can see it for yourself sometime. The red hair and all that."
She grinned.
Hosha hopped down from the wall and landed next to Tirian. "I don't get it, why would Queen Susan stay home if she could shoot so well? That's kinda dumb, if you ask me."
Mal cocked her head and squinted up at him. "Maybe because she didn't want to."
Tirian laughed. "I think you lost that one, Hosh."
Hosha turned on him and started to say something when a loud, clear horn rang through the air and they all snapped to look at each other.
"They're back," said Tirian, and Mal and Elise shot to their feet just as the thunder of galloping hooves filled the street behind them.
Before Tirian could even move, a horse and rider charged into the courtyard, and he recognized Gareth at once.
The lord spotted them and shouted something, but Tirian couldn't understand it through the noise of the hooves. He only picked out the word healers before another procession came into view: a stretcher carried between four massive centaurs.
Tirian's stomach dropped.
And he knew almost before he saw—but then he saw, quite unmistakably, the grey head and golden crown—his father.
