I'm super proud of myself; I actually got this chapter up in under a week! Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed; you guys really are the best!
NarniaGirl: Glad I kept you on the edge of your seat-thank you for not throwing things at me! As for Peter's reaction...I'm really glad you thought it was fitting! I fought with that section for a very long time! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well :-)
Aslan's Daughter: I'm glad you like the suspense and attention to detail. It is always great to hear what you think :-)
11th. of Greenroof, 1012—Sixthday
When Peridan at last found himself collapsing into the shelter of a derelict doorway he quite correctly concluded that he had never been so exhausted. He felt as though he must have been running for hours, and the moon, hanging high in the sky above the distant temple spires immediately confirmed that suspicion. The city was quiet now, with no sign of guards pursuing him, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief as he slumped back against the slightly unsteady door frame of the abandoned house, pulling his knees up to his chest as he attempted to steady his breathing and calm the racing of his heart.
Exhausted, distraught, and dangerously close to abject panic he struggled to organise his jumbled thoughts and take stock of his current, unfavourable situation. He had kept possession of the canvas pack, despite its weight, but he highly doubted any of its contents would prove particularly helpful—considering that he was both hopelessly lost and being hunted by what likely constituted a full garrison of guards.
What I really need is a map, he reflected dejectedly. Though I don't know where I could go even if I knew where I am. There's no use going back to Narnia or Archenland now—not when last I saw King Edmund he was on his knees with a sword at his throat. He dropped his forehead down to rest on his knees and drew a long, shaky breath—suddenly overcome with the utterly undignified urge to cry.
I can't go back. He could picture the scene if he did go back as clearly as if it were before him—superimposed over the dingy shadows of the street: the great hall at Cair Paravel lined with grim-faced guards—stern Centaurs, towering Narnian giants, burly, heavily armed Satyrs, and a host of other Creatures he did not yet know the names of. The three remaining Narnian sovereigns would be there too—Queen Lucy with her eyes red and swollen from weeping, Queen Susan silent and majestically composed, and the High King furious as a raging Lion, preparing to strike off his head for his failure.
Peridan was never afterwards sure when the terrified imagining left the realm of lucid thought and became a nightmare, but when next he was consciously aware he found that his eyes had drifted shut and he was a good deal stiffer and colder than he remembered being what seemed mere moments before. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing leaden eyelids open to find it was still night but the moon was no longer visible above the spires—he must have slept for hours and wondered dazedly what had woken him now.
The tramp of booted feet startled him badly a moment later, and he froze in the shadows of the doorway as the thud of marching footsteps against the uneven paving stones grew steadily closer, filling him with dread. There was no time to run, nowhere to go even if he could have run, and he shrank back—trying to fade into the darkness behind him, barely breathing and hoping desperately that his presence would remain undetected.
Nothing he had experienced as King Lune's advisor could have prepared him to be hunted through the streets of an unfamiliar city, and he was unsurprised to find that his hands were shaking badly. Politics he understood, he could navigate the murky waters of royal courts with varying degrees of success, but violence such as he had witnessed earlier in King Edmund's confrontation with the guards was utterly foreign to him, and his heart nearly stopped in terror when the footsteps paused—directly in front of his terribly insufficient hiding place—threatening a similar confrontation now.
Peering cautiously around the doorframe he could see that these were not the same guards he and King Edmund had fallen foul of so many hours earlier—there were only two this time, and they were far merrier—nearly having reached the stage of intoxication which would leave them stumbling and babbling like fools. He waited, barely breathing and silently preparing to meet his own, violent death, but the two soldiers had their backs to him as they passed a large earthenware jug back and forth between them. Peridan smelled the sharp tang of strong wine and wrinkled his nose in involuntary disgust.
He was surprised by their condition, such behaviour would certainly not have been tolerated in King Lune's court, and he greatly doubted—regardless of the somewhat lax disciplinary procedure he had witnessed at Cair Paravel—that the High King would have tolerated such debauchery and carelessness in duty either.
Thoroughly miserable, he shifted back infinitesimally, further from the drunken Calormenes, and wished he were anywhere else—wished too that the Calormenes would find some other abandoned alleyway to increase their level of intoxication in, thus leaving him to mope in peace. That particular circumstance, however, was rendered even more unlikely when the taller of the two soldiers spoke in a voice whose volume was doubtless greatly magnified by the amount of wine he had consumed. Peridan could only hope the noise did not draw other, less inept and stumbling guards to the street.
"What think you, oh noble comrade, of this Narnian dog we are tasked with finding?" The soldier's words were punctuated by a series of hiccups which unbalanced him further and left him leaning clumsily against the long spear he carried.
His companion half turned, moonlight glinting off the spike of his helmet and the round shield strapped to his forearm, and regarded the speaker critically for a moment before laughing merrily—but at his words or his rapidly increasing state of intoxication Peridan could not tell.
"What ought I to think of him? They say he is the High King of Narnia, but hath not one of the poets also truly said "the faithful of Tash ought not concern themselves with the affairs of demons and sorcerers, but rather swiftly strike off their heads lest they too become corrupted"?" He paused briefly to take another long drink from the jug, though he seemed to be the less intoxicated of the two and shook his head as if to clear it.
"High King," he continued, less steadily. "What need has any country of more than one king? The Tisroc, may he live forever, is plague enough upon us—I would not wish for another king and two babbling queens beside. These Northern fools would do well to rebel and strike off the head of this so-called High King themselves."
His companion hiccupped again and waved his hand in a deprecating fashion. "Well spoken, oh faithful one, but you speak of things you do not know. Do not forget that I have seen this High King fight and you have not. It pleased our gracious lord, the Tarkaan Obridesh, that I should accompany him to Redhaven as part of his personal guard this spring past." Here he paused, turning expectantly towards his companion as if expecting some expression of appreciation for the favour he had gained and Peridan heard his snort of annoyance when his fellow offered no such response.
The pause lasted for so long that he began to wonder if the guard would continue his tale at all or if he was doomed to huddle in the doorway forever while the drunken Calormenes unwittingly blocked his escape. It was a terrible thought, and he found himself drawing in a deep, relieved breath when the soldier continued speaking at last.
"It so pleased the gods that we were present for the yearly tournament and there I did witness such feats of arms performed by the barbarian king as made me tremble in fear at the mere thought of facing him in battle. Even after he was wounded in the melee he fought with all the ferocity of a rabid beast and emerged victorious." The note of awe in the Calormene's voice might have been heartening, had Peridan not been painfully aware that it was himself, and not the High King, who was trapped in Tashbaan. He entertained no illusions that he shared any characteristics, beyond the colour of his hair, with King Edmund's far-famed brother.
The other soldier clapped the speaker heartily on the shoulder, nearly knocking the other fellow off his increasingly unsteady feet, and laughed in a manner which was not at all pleasant. "I have also heard, oh weak of heart, how he stood idly by while his beloved brother was taken prisoner and then took to his heels as if the Inexorable himself was giving chase."
There was something about the conversation that trouble Peridan greatly, some confusion of the facts he had yet to identify, but which he sensed was of utmost importance. Regardless, the Calormene's words stung his already battered pride—more so because they were undeniably true—and distracted him from the unidentified source of his confusion. True shame had become an unfamiliar sensation for him, used as he was to hanging his head and playing the fool to elevate his status, but it was the only name he could give to the feeling which swept over him when he was faced with the depth of his own failure.
I fled like a coward, he thought, feeling his cheeks burn with shame. It counts for nothing that I was under orders, only a coward would have behaved as I did. I fancy myself a Narnian, but would stand idly by and allow my sovereign lord to fall into enemy hands. Whatever illusions he had previously held concerning his own intelligence and bravery were gone now, stripped away by the harsh reality of his current situation, and Peridan found that he was lost—not merely in a physical sense, but helplessly devoid of his own sense of identity as well. If only I had never left Archenland.
The soldiers were speaking again, and Peridan forced himself to focus, pushing aside his despair and self-loathing however briefly.
"They say also," the taller man was saying, leaning conspiratorially closer to his companion, though the volume of his voice had barely lessened and Peridan could still clearly hear his words. "They say the High King is a demon who can transform himself into the likeness of a fierce and terrible lion."
His companion laughed, swaying drunkenly in his mirth, and Peridan found that despite his consternation he too was smiling. It was simply too ridiculous to be taken seriously. The Calormenes had obviously gotten the idea from the Narnian myth of Aslan—the great Lion who was reported to appear at times of great trouble—neglecting to take into account that the myths of Aslan predated the High King's rise to power by centuries.
Peridan himself did not give much credence to such tales—he had never seen Aslan personally and gave little credit to fanciful reports from others. The four Narnian monarchs however obviously believed in His existence, even claiming that He spoke with them often and appeared in Cair Paravel—however infrequently—and Peridan knew it was not his place to contradict them. He could not be certain that Aslan did not exist anymore than he could be certain the He did, but the one thing Peridan could say with utter certainty was that the High King—despite his fierceness in battle—was not a demon, and could not transform into a wild beast at will.
"They say also," countered the other soldier when he had regained both breath and balance sufficiently to speak. "That the younger, this King Edmund, can vanish in a swirl of mist, yet manifestly he cannot—else he would not now be chained in our lord's dungeons."
The wave of relief Peridan felt upon hearing these words was nearly enough to banish the shame of his failure. If these two can be relied upon for any level of accuracy, then the King may yet be alive—his death need not yet fall upon my conscience. What he planned to do about that revelation however, Peridan could not begin to imagine. If he was alive King Edmund would doubtless be heavily guarded and Peridan was alone, nearly unarmed, and had no idea how to even reach the Tarkaan's palace—he did not even know where he currently was.
The guards seemed to have tired of standing in the dark, or perhaps they had merely exhausted their supply of wine, and Peridan breathed a sigh of relief as they moved on at last, still talking in loud voices and laughing merrily. He emerged slowly from the doorway, stretching his cramped muscles, and attempted to take stock of his situation more thoroughly.
The Eastern sky was beginning to brighten, heralding the arrival of dawn, and the air was still and somehow stifling despite the predawn chill—it seemed to hang over the city like a pall of choking dust. The Sea was to the East, he remembered that much about Tashbaan, and knew he would likely be able to follow the reek of rotting fish back to the docks now that he was certain of the direction.
But what then? What could he do when he reached the docks? It was clear that he could not return to Narnia—or even Archenland once news of King Edmund's capture reached King Lune. There were no ships departing for the Lone Islands, but surely there would be any number leaving for Galma or another of the Seven Isles, and he still had the pack and the gold it contained. King Edmund had told him there was little in Tashbaan which could not be bought for the right price, and if he kept his head down and gave no one cause for suspicion Peridan was nearly certain he could book passage out of Tashbaan.
And then? Live my life as an exile with the blood of a King forever staining my hands? A King…that was it—the source of his earlier confusion and the strangeness of the Calormenes' conversation. They are still looking for the High King, not a nameless Northerner with fair hair.
It made no sense—King Edmund had been taken by Obridesh who, while he might not know Peridan's true identity, had not mistaken him for a Narnian King. The soldiers were in the Tarkaan's employ, that was clear from their remarks, yet they were ignorant of their quarry's insignificance and at least one of them was frightened by the idea of facing the supposed High King in battle.
The only explanation he could think of for the Tarkaan's failure to share his information was hardly comforting. Whatever plan Obridesh had constructed was close enough to completion that he feared no interference, and it was simply of no importance to him who his men believed Peridan to be.
There's nothing I can do. He could use the gold in the pack, he could run and never look back, he could leave behind the dream of a home to call his own which had sustained him through all the long years of struggling to the top of King Lune's court, he could abandon his king to die at the hands of a greedy Calormene, and betray his ancestral homeland, the country he hoped to call his own, through his cowardice.
A coward of a king? He knew himself to be a coward, too accustomed to hiding from danger in the shadows to imagine how he could face it head on, but he had been mistaken for a king, a man whose bravery and strength was famed through every known kingdom. But which ought I to choose? The mere question was ridiculous, impossible to answer, a choice he had never considered having to make, and yet he could not bear the thought of opening choosing cowardice and weakness.
But what if there was another choice—something I haven't thought of yet, a third option that would grant me safe passage through the streets of Tashbaan, perhaps even through the gates of Tarkaan Obridesh's palace? He knew King Edmund was a man who would not be unprepared for his plans to go awry—he would have had another plan, a disguise even, should he be recognised before leaving the city. Obviously, he had not expected to be captured, but regardless Peridan trusted his ability to plan for at least certain contingencies.
He cast his mind back, remembering seeing the King rummaging through the heavy canvas pack the first day aboard The Bolt of Tash, throwing aside Calormene mail and a length of white cloth which could presumably serve as a turban, as he searched for the knife Peridan now carried. He had thought the collection of items to be rather bizarre at the time—he now recognised them as the beginnings of a very serviceable disguise. The mail would hide the Northern design of his tunic, the turban would disguise his fair hair, but neither would do anything to darken the pale shade of his skin to a less remarkable colour, unless…
He slipped the pack gratefully from his aching shoulders and rummaged through it—far more carefully than King Edmund was wont to do. The street was still very dark, lit neither by lamp or moon, and it took several minutes of clumsy fumbling before his fingers brushed against the large, earthenware jug which lurked near the bottom of the pack, wrapped in woolen fabric to protect it from breaking.
It was this jug which had puzzled him most among the myriad of strange items King Edmund had deemed necessary for their mission. At first glance, and to someone utterly unacquainted with the King's personality and habits, it would have appeared to be a jug of wine—not unlike the one Peridan had observed in the hands of the Calormene soldiers. But Peridan, however distant he kept himself from the personal affairs of his monarchs, was not uninformed about their habits or personalities. He might easily have suspected the High king of considering wine a necessity on a long journey, but King Edmund was not someone he could easily imagine drinking an excess of anything save for coffee.
He uncorked the jug cautiously, the strong scent of the liquid immediately making his eyes water. The jug's contents were clearly not alcoholic and the smell, though strong, was not entirely unpleasant which reassured him somewhat that the liquid was neither poison nor acid. Still, he gritted his teeth in anticipation of some disaster as he carefully poured a few drops of the liquid out into the palm of his hand. It was thick, almost slimy in consistency, very dark in colour, and when he wiped his hand on the edge of his cloak the skin of his palm remained stained a light brown.
He had heard rumours of such a substance being used by the few humans in King Edmund's employ and hoped that most of them were true. If they were, then he had only to cover any exposed skin with the substance and he would be indistinguishable from a native borne Calormen—it was also rumoured that the only way to remove the dye was vigorous scrubbing with a mixture of ashes and strong soap—which would allow him to sustain the disguise even if it rained.
Grimacing at the increasingly overwhelming smell—which was similar to crushed pine needles—he poured more of the thick liquid into the palm of his hand and rubbed it vigorously into the skin of his face and neck, hoping he was being thorough enough to pass a cursory examination. When the sun rose, he would appear to be merely another Calormene soldier—as long as no one observed him closely enough to realise he carried no weapons. But, if there was one thing he had learned to excel at it was keeping his head down and drawing as little attention to himself as possible—not everyone in King Lune's court had been kind to him and evasion was an invaluable tactic.
Still, I'll have to find weapons eventually, and a map of the city, or better yet someone greedy enough to help me without asking questions. His hands shook as he struggled to wrap the white cloth around his head in a passable approximation of the Calormene's turbans. It was insane—the thought that he, an incompetent fighter and reluctant participant in whatever political plot he had stumbled into, was the only one who stood a chance of saving his King's life.
And if I can't? But he was reluctantly forced to admit that he knew the answer to that question. Failure would likely mean death—either at the hands of Calormene soldiers or his own High King.
"Don't fail", he remembered his father telling him as he lay frail and dying from the terrible sickness that had swept through Archenland nearly six winters before. He had been speaking of Peridan's personal crusade to reclaim their lost home, and the words returned to Peridan now as a reminder of everything he stood to lose. He was the last of his line, the last of a once proud Narnian house, and if he failed now there would be no one left. The legacy passed down through the generations would end with him, and he would die an unremarked failure with no one left to mourn his passing.
He clenched his fists, forcing his hands to stop shaking, and shouldered the pack once more as he turned his face to the rising sun with a newfound determination. "I won't fail father—I can still make this right, and I will."
Hopefully this provides some insight into Peridan's character-he is very difficult for me to write, but hopefully I'm getting better at it :-)
Cheers,
A
Oh, remember when I said the dates at the beginnings of the chapters would be important? Look closely, especially at the date on this and the previous chapter...
