Oh dear, I've done it again. I'm SOOOOO behind schedule! So sorry about that. Anyway, if anyone is still interested here is the next chapter :-)

NarniaGirl: This chapter may provide answers to some of your questions, but will likely raise others! The date at the beginning of the chapter is important since it indicates that the events of this chapter are occurring prior to the events of last chapter; that is pretty important! Glad to hear that this is your favourite story! Hopefully you are still interested and reading after my abysmally long delay in posting!

Aslan's Daughter: Here is a bit of another character perspective...though poor Peridan doesn't know what is going on either...I imagine there will be interesting theories after reading this chapter though! Sorry for the delay in updating!

Guest: Glad you are still invested in this story! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well :-)

13th. of Greenroof, 1012Eighthday

Peridan was utterly miserable. He had thought himself miserable before, had considered himself to be more than usually unlucky for years, but now he realised that his prior runs of bad luck brooked no comparison to his current one. How has it come to this? To wandering the streets of this cursed city, alone, hungry, exhausted, and lost?

He found himself silently cursing the mad determination he had made to find King Edmund and could not think of anyone less suited to the task. Even the most arrogant and indolent of the Archenlandish courtiers would probably have stood a better chance—they at least had nearly inexhaustible supplies of gold they could use to bribe people for information or silence. Peridan had no such resources, but he had searched. He had even returned to the shabby inn where they had encountered the Tarkaan, though he had some difficulty retracing his steps, and found to his dismay that no trace of Obridesh remained—even his shabby clothes and the pile of filthy pewter bowls had been cleared away. The innkeeper, naturally, denied any knowledge of the both the Tarkaan's whereabouts and his existence, and Peridan had too little gold to convince him to talk.

He had also learned that, despite his disguise—the dye and dust that darkened his skin and the turban that hid his fair hair—he did not make a very good Calormen. There was nothing he could do about his light coloured eyes, and however hard he tried he could not seem to match the lilting accents and bizarre colloquialisms that so distinguished the speech of the Southern peoples. He had managed to pilfer weapons and Calormene shoes from a drunken guard who was sleeping in the gutter, but he was still regarded with suspicion and, on several occasions, open hostility.

He leaned wearily against the corner of a building, stepping out of the way of a large donkey cart, and closed his aching eyes. He briefly considered sitting down on the filthy street, dropping his head forward into his hands, and waiting to die of starvation—or perhaps for someone to trample him. Trampling is likely preferably, he thought distractedly, leaning his head back against the clay bricks of the building. I've heard starvation takes a frustratingly long time. Perhaps I'll simply sit down and cry.

He knew he was being pathetically morbid, childish even—sitting down to cry was a slightly less extreme version of sitting down to die but no less appealing and infinitely more childish—but the sun was scorching, beating down on him and only adding to his headache. The Calormene mail he wore was heavy, clumsy, and had obviously been made for someone much less broad across the shoulders, presumably King Edmund. The dye that stained his skin did seem to protect his face and neck from burning and blistering, though it did nothing to protect him from the unrelenting heat.

At least the sun was low in the sky, almost dipping below the distant western horizon, and Peridan could hear, very far away in the temples at the centre of the city, the sound of chanting. He wondered what it meant, wishing yet again that he had thought to familiarise himself with at least a few of the customs in this strange, foreign place before he had found himself stranded here. Of course, he had never planned on being stranded anywhere, had never planned on being alone, and certainly had not planned for his life to be such a useless waste.

Moping will do you no good, he reminded himself, remembering his father's voice—all those years ago—telling him the same thing. That had been the last time he remembered crying. He scrubbed a hand across his face, refusing to cry now, and pushed himself away from the wall. Sitting in the dust like a beggar would do no good and it seemed better, more purposeful, if he continued walking—even if he had no idea what he intended to do or where he planned to go.

He chose a direction at random and trudged down until, rounding a corner, he found himself very suddenly face to face with King Edmund. The King, however, seemed not to see Peridan and before he could speak King Edmund's eyes had slid past his face as if he were invisible and he had continued on his way, walking quickly and giving the impression of some eminent and imperative purpose. Peridan stared after his retreating back, his mouth half open to call out, but some feeling of unidentifiable foreboding stopped the words in his throat. He had not thought his disguise effective enough to fool King Edmund, but the King had not even spared him a second glance as he passed.

King Edmund who, last Peridan had seen him, was a prisoner of Tarkaan Obridesh. King Edmund, who was walking freely, without guards, through the streets of Tashbaan as if he did not have a care in the world. Peridan wavered for a moment, undecided and wanting desperately to call out, to end his fruitless wandering and confusion, but the foreboding was too strong. He closed his mouth, squared his shoulders, and hurried through the crowd after the King's retreating back.

He stayed well back, watching warily, half expecting that he would be caught—King Edmund struck him as the sort of man who would know when he was being followed, even in a crowd. It seemed that he needn't have worried however—the king did not turn once, did not seem concerned or watchful. He walked with the ease of a man who knew these streets, understood the people, and needed to have no fear of anything.

Peridan was not sure what it was that filled him with foreboding. King Edmund was an accomplished spy, why shouldn't he be comfortable in Tashbaan? Perhaps he even knew he was being followed, knew it was Peridan, and was therefore unconcerned.

Peridan hurriedly turned another corner, still keeping his distance, and found himself in an open courtyard that seemed to be a type of market, or meeting place. There were a few people hurrying back and forth—slaves carrying parcels and enormous pitchers of water, merchants selling their wares at stalls with brightly coloured canopies, and even a groom brushing the coat of an enormous black horse. There were palm trees scattered through the courtyard, and a fountain was bubbling merrily in the centre of it. Standing beside the fountain, leaning nonchalantly against a nearby pillar and scanning the bustling people intently was King Edmund.

Peridan ducked behind a nearby palm tree, still not certain what imperative sense of danger made him avoid being seen but choosing to listen. The King was very finely dressed, in the Calormene fashion though he was bareheaded rather than wearing the traditional turban of the South, and he seemed to be as at ease here as he had been in the street. He also seemed to be waiting for someone, his eyes still scanning the people intently as if he was looking for a familiar face in the conclusion.

Peridan did not have to wait long to see who he was meeting. A tall figure entered the courtyard from the other side, sweeping across the flagstones with quick, eager steps. King Edmund straightened, stepping away from the pillar, and clasped the newcomer's hand enthusiastically. With a shock, Peridan recognised Obridesh Tarkaan, though now he was not dressed in shabby clothes and stumbling drunkenly. He moved with confidence, authority, and, Peridan thought, no small amount of arrogance. His clothes were fine, his beard was combed and streaked with crimson dye, and Peridan saw a flash of gold at his wrists and on the hilt of his curving scimitar.

King Edmund was still clasping his hand and Peridan thought he was smiling—the Tarkaan's other hand was on his shoulder. Peridan crept closer, heart hammering in terror, and strained his ears to hear their low voices.

"And to you," King Edmund was saying in the musical, lilting accent of a native, high-borne Calormen. "Though I must confess to some confusion as to the place of our meeting. The message you left for me held no explanation of your bizarre behaviour."

The Tarkaan stepped away, dropping his hand from King Edmund's shoulder, and sat on the edge of the fountain with an audible sigh. "You know now of my bargain with my Lord Tash, though I have not told you the precise details."

The King nodded, moving to sit next to Obridesh. He seemed utterly at ease in the presence of a man he had previously appeared to despise, displaying none of the tension Peridan had observed in his manner before. This was the ease of long acquaintance and Peridan felt a terrible chill, despite the warmth rising from the sun baked flagstones beneath his feet.

What if it was all a trick? What if the meeting with the Tarkaan in the inn had not been chance, but some carefully constructed detail that had led to the King's seemingly opportunistic search of Obridesh's rooms and his subsequent capture. He was quite obviously not a prisoner, and Peridan shuddered as a terrible suspicion coalesced in his mind. What if King Edmund is in league with the Calormenes and whatever plots they have hatched?

He had heard rumours, whispers years ago when the Kings and Queens had first retaken Narnia, that the younger of the kings was a traitor. But that had been gossip, quickly dismissed and discredited even more by the complete trust the other three seemed to have in their brother. But what if they were wrong? What if we have all been deceived?

It hardly bore thinking of, but Peridan could not shake the doubt now that it had become firmly seated in his mind. He remembered King Edmund's surprise at seeing Obridesh in the inn, the momentary and uncharacteristic flicker of lost control as he had cursed aloud. He remembered how Obridesh had failed to harm the King, save for a cut across his hand, even though King Edmund had been initially defenceless, and he remembered how King Edmund had thrown his knife in the street, leaving himself weaponless and more easily captured. The disparate details merged together, forming a clear image of horror. King Edmund the Just, knight of Narnia and self-proclaimed follower of Aslan had betrayed everything he claimed to hold dear.

Peridan clenched his fists, wanting desperately to leap forward, seize King Edmund and demand he return to Narnia to face the justice of his brother and the court, but he knew it would be useless. The Tarkaan was armed, and though Peridan could see no weapons at King Edmund's belt he highly doubted the King would be defenceless. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain where he was, listening.

"You truly believe your agreement will stand, oh brother of my heart?" King Edmund was asking, his voice tinged with incredulity.

"It must," the Tarkaan said sharply. "I have not yet fully upheld my side of the bargain and if Lord Tash fails in his I will do no more for him, though he damns me. If he fails in his promise I will tear down his temples and hurl them into the sea with my own hands." He sounded angry, tension visible in the line of his shoulders and the grim set of his jaw.

King Edmund put a hand on his shoulder with the same, unsettling air of familiarity that Peridan had previously noted. "Peace. Remember your mother and what became of her when she stood against the dark god. Remember what happens to those who dare to defy Tash—you know as well as I that no mortal may deny him his desires and live." He sounded vaguely scornful as if, even while acknowledging the power of the Calormene god, he was not particularly impressed by it.

The Tarkaan laughed lightly, almost mocking in his tone as he spoke. "At least my god is visible to me, unlike your precious Lion. What has Aslan ever done to show you His power? When has He appeared to you, and how has He ever helped you? Tash may exact a terrible price for his favour and blessings, but he at least appears when summoned."

"Do not speak of that which you do not understand," King Edmund cut in, his voice steely. "Aslan has seen me through many dangers and demanded nothing in return save for my belief." He drew his hand back from where it had rested on the Tarkaan's shoulder and scowled at him.

Obridesh sighed, seeming half exasperated and half regretful, and when he spoke again his voice was low enough that Peridan risked slipping forward a few more paces to the next palm tree so he could hear the words.

"Forgive me," the Tarkaan said, running a hand across his face in a weary gesture. "I have grown cynical since last we spoke of such things. I meant no offence to you, or to your god."

The King nodded gravely, appearing appeased. "You have suffered much, and much has been demanded of you. Much which I believe you have yet to tell me." The statement seemed rather pointed to Peridan—a thinly veiled demand for information which seemed to hang heavily in the air between the King and Tarkaan.

Obridesh sighed again, rising slowly with an air of great reluctance. "Walk with me and I will tell you what truth I may, but do not press me for things I cannot yet reveal, I beg you."

King Edmund regarded him for a moment and Peridan found himself hoping, desperately and futilely, that this was the trick, that the King would suddenly draw a blade and order the Tarkaan to reveal the truth of all his schemes and by doing so would shatter the strange illusion of friendship between them. But the moment passed and King Edmund only nodded, following the Tarkaan.

Peridan stood frozen, staring after them and knowing he should follow but unable to muster the courage. His hands were shaking as he gripped the unfamiliar hilt of the scimitar at his side. Of all the things he had expected, dreaded, and feared would come of this visit to Tashbaan he had never imagined this.

"Brother of my heart," King Edmund had said to the Tarkaan. What could have forged such a bond between them, worse what secrets might have King Edmund shared with someone he spoke to with such fondness? What terrible danger might an unsuspecting Narnia now lie in as the result of a trusted and much-loved King's treachery?

I have to follow. Shaking hands or no it was his duty, his obligation to protect the country he so desperately wished to belong to. He hurried across the courtyard, after the two figures which had disappeared through the far archway, and burst out, back onto the street, scanning the masses of people for the two tall figures. He silently cursed the cowardice that had made him hesitate and then cursed aloud as a great, dark shadow dropped from the sky and landed heavily upon his shoulder.

"Well met, Peridan of Archenland," a sonorous voice croaked next to his ear as Sallowpad settled his wings into place. "Have you not heard the saying "Those who spy upon their King may find themselves relieved of their heads"?"

Peridan, once he had recovered from his initial shock at the Raven's sudden reappearance, did his best to melt back into the shadow of a tall building and turned his head to glare at the Bird. "Have you not heard that Kings who betray their countries deserve no deference or respect?" Sallowpad said nothing and Peridan narrowed his eyes in realisation. "You saw and heard, didn't you? You know what he has done."

"I know no such thing." Sallowpad regarded him coldly with his beady eyes, talons tightening on Peridan's shoulder, painful despite the Calormene mail he wore. "I did see," the Raven amended at last, sounding regretful. "But you must not imagine that you understand. The King is loyal to Narnia regardless of any evidence to the contrary."

The Raven was regarding him with such an icy, stubborn gaze that Peridan thought it better not to argue the point, though his own certainty had not been shaken by Sallowpad's words. He was no fool, he knew what he had seen, and it was not loyalty to Narnia. "What you have me do?" he asked wearily. "I cannot do nothing." However much I wish that I could. He doubted that the High King would welcome him anymore warmly with news of his brother's betrayal than he would have with news of his capture.

"You could do nothing," Sallowpad offered helpfully, tilting his head to one side curiously. "But even you are not quite so useless. Perhaps it would help if I told you where his majesty came from to meet the with Tarkaan?"

"You were following him?" Peridan asked incredulously. Sallowpad had made it sound as if he trusted the king completely, and yet he had been shadowing his steps. Perhaps he isn't as certain as he seems. "I thought those who spy on kings are in danger of finding themselves headless." As soon as he had spoken Peridan found that he was rather surprised by the boldness of his own words, but Sallowpad was no courtier and Peridan supposed he did not owe the Raven any particular deference.

Sallowpad ruffled his feathers, wings flaring slightly as if for balance. "I am a Raven," he said solemnly, as if that explained everything. It did not, but Peridan correctly assumed it was the only response he was going to receive.

"Will you show me then? Where King Edmund came from?"

In answer, Sallowpad flared his inky wings and launched himself up, into the darkening sky. Peridan glanced around swiftly, fervently hoping no one had seen him talking to a bird, and much to his relief it seemed that no one had. Casting a final, angry look at the street down which King Edmund and the Tarkaan had disappeared he turned and followed the Raven.

Sallowpad led him swiftly through the maze of streets, occasionally circling back or alighting on balcony railings when Peridan began to fall behind. The streets seemed to all be leading in a vaguely uphill direction, the polished stones sloping upward towards the city centre where palaces and temples loomed forbiddingly against the sky. Peridan supposed that the two largest, and highest in elevation, must be the Tisroc's palace and the great temple of Tash and hurried on after Sallowpad with a shudder. He could not imagine living his life in the shadow of a temple where human blood covered the central altar as often as the blood of other creatures.

Peridan did not put much stock in superstition of any kind and tended to dismiss the various gods of the Calormene pantheon, and the Narnians' Aslan too for that matter, as nothing more than myths, but those of Calormene disturbed him nonetheless. The Narnians at least did not sacrifice children to their god.

At least the air in this part of the city was a good deal clearer and less oppressive than it had been in the lower town and held the faint scents of orange blossoms and jasmine which drifted from the rich nobles' palace gardens. The clay and mud buildings too had given way to marble columns and latticed balconies and he heard laughter drifting down from a few well-lit windows and once caught a glimpse of a splendidly dressed Tarkaan leaning against a balcony railing with a rather scantily clad young woman next to him. Peridan felt his face flush and he hurried on. Calormene fashions had always struck him as far too extreme.

As he turned the next corner he found himself in front of a splendid palace, set back from the road slightly and ringed with a high fence of wrought iron which was decorated with gold vines and a set with a heavy gate that opened into a small courtyard leading up to a shining marble portico. The windows of the palace were mostly dark, though he could see a glimmer of light from a few of the lower rooms that warned the place was not entirely deserted.

Sallowpad perched on the heavy gate and tilted his head towards the front doors. "The palace of Tarkaan Areesh," he croaked, sounding disdainful rather than concerned. "Must trusted advisor of the Tisroc, may the vultures devour his eyes."

"I—" Peridan stared at the grandeur before him. "I thought he was out of favour."

Sallowpad ruffled his wings in a motion vaguely reminiscent of a shrug. "It would seem that he is out of favour no longer. "He returned home two days ago, I followed after seeing what became of King Edmund in the street. No one else arrived or left until the Tarkaan this morning and King Edmund shortly after midday."

Peridan stared at him. "You saw what happened in the street and you did not aid him, or try to find me?"

Sallowpad fairly cackled with laughter. "The king's affairs are his own. If he wishes to find himself captured who am I to interfere? I am a watcher, a shadow, not a guard. And as for you," he turned his head until he regarded Peridan only with one, half closed eye. "You are no concern of mine."

With that he flared his wings and launched himself skyward once more, though Peridan thought he could still see the vague outline of the Bird, circling high above, no doubt still watching intently. Quite obviously he was going to be of no further help.

I can't stay in sight on the street. Peridan glared up at the shadow circling and silently cursed the whole unpleasant business that had brought him here. The guards in this part of the city he had noted were much more finely dressed than he was himself, and he knew he would soon draw attention if he remained lurking in front of the Tarkaan's gate for no apparent reason. He supposed that Sallowpad, had he been inclined to be helpful, could have advised him of some hiding place but being helpful did not seem to be an attribute of Ravens.

Only then did it occur to him that he meant to stay here, waiting and listening, until the king returned. What he planned to do then he was not sure, but he had some vague, half-formed idea of leaping from some hiding place and confronting the fellow.

And what then? Drag him back to Cair Paravel? He knew full well he had as little chance of accomplishing that as he had of meeting the Calormene gods face to face. King Edmund was well known for his nearly uncanny ability to escape from far more carefully planned traps and Peridan had no doubt that he was more likely to end up with his throat slit than to succeed in making the king go somewhere he did not want to.

Still, dying in an attempt to protect Narnia seemed far more honourable than spending his life begging on the streets of Tashbaan. And perhaps if Sallowpad sees his king slit my throat he will be less inclined to trust him and carry some report of his questionable activities back to the High King.

He looked around quickly, searching for some obscured hiding place and eventually settled on a cluster of orange trees that grew close to one side of the gate. He slipped behind them, trying to blend into the shadows and pinching the bridge of his nose frantically to stifle a series of violent sneezes as pollen showered down around him. He would have far preferred the trees to be covered in fruit rather than blossoms since he could not seem to remember the last time he had eaten, but wishing did little good.

He leaned back against the bars of the fence and peered up at the sky, or what little he could see of it through the trees. The stars were out, the only sign that Sallowpad was still watching was the occasional flash of shadow between him and the far-off lights, and Peridan shook his head in frustration. The Raven could just as easily be complicit in whatever plot he had stumbled across and perhaps he was waiting to alert King Edmund of the trap.

Peridan sighed and shifted, feeling his muscles start to cramp as the night wore on. It was growing cold as well, Tashbaan was close enough to the desert to be subject to the vast fluctuations in temperature between day and night, and he found himself wishing he had a cloak. The moon was up now, shedding a faint silver light over the street and forcing Peridan to flatten himself further back into the shadow of the trees, hoping his own shadow would be hidden by the others.

Still, no one came. It was possible, he supposed, that Sallowpad had led him wrong, or that King Edmund had completed his business and would not be returning, or, worse still, that he had come in by some other gate. He was about to give up and find some other corner to skulk off to for the night when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching swiftly from the same direction he had come earlier. There was only one set, as far as he could tell, and the late-night wanderer seemed to be in something of a hurry.

He peered cautiously from between the branches, stifling another sneeze, and saw King Edmund hurrying up the street, casting furtively glances over his shoulder as if he expected to be followed. Peridan clenched his shaking right hand around the hilt of his stolen scimitar with enough force to make his knuckles ache and for the embossed metal grip to dig into his palm.

A few more steps. The king paused at the gate, fumbling with something, and Peridan burst from the shadows of the trees, sneezing as he drew his scimitar. He knew he couldn't appear particularly intimidating as he sneezed again and nearly dropped the weapon, but the king started nearly comically and dropped the thing he had been fumbling with, which seemed to be a key. It clattered against the stones of the street and skittered away into the shadows.

"What's this?" the king asked, still speaking in the musical accent of the Calormene, and appearing far more fearful than seemed natural. "My brother will not look kindly upon your actions, nor will The Guard deal lightly with one of their own turning common thief."

"Your brother?" Peridan's hands were shaking, but he hoped that King Edmund couldn't tell in the darkness.

The king put one hand on the gate and took a step back, eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the details of Peridan's face in the shadows. That struck Peridan as rather strange, surely King Edmund must have seen through his disguise by now.

He gritted his teeth and raised the scimitar, pressing the sharp edge of the blade against the king's throat. It was treason to draw steel on one of the four in anything other than friendly sparing, and Peridan was painfully aware of that fact, but he did not know what else he could reasonably have done.

"Your brother?" he repeated, rather proud of how steady his voice was. "Your brother will kill you himself if you have turned traitor." He doubted that this was true—he did not know the High King well, but he could not imagine him raising a hand against any of his family, no matter their crimes, but perhaps the threat would carry some weight regardless.

It seemed to, and King Edmund took another cautious step back. "Traitor?" his voice was almost curious, and he appeared surprised. Peridan realised he must have underestimated the man's skill as an actor. There was no hint, in either his face or voice, that he had any idea what Peridan was referring to. "By your speech, soldier, you are no Calormene, why should you care if I have turned traitor?"

Peridan's hand shook and he heard King Edmund draw in a hissing breath as the scimitar scratched against the skin of his throat but that was less concerning than his words. Calormene? Why is he speaking as if I am accusing him of being a traitor to Calormen and not Narnia?

"Who are you?" the king demanded, obviously growing weary of the confrontation.

Think! I have to think. It made no sense, the man before him was unmistakably King Edmund but there was something strange and unfamiliar in his expression and voice. He seemed uncertain, frightened even, and had made no move to attack. There was no trace now of the sardonic defiance and mocking demeanor he had displayed when facing Obridesh in the inn and later in the streets of the lower town. It was King Edmund, but it was as if his personality had been stripped away with the traits that had so characterised him utterly absent.

He still showed no sign of recognising Peridan, though Peridan knew that he should have, even through the disguise and in the dim light. King Edmund was not a man who could be so easily fooled, trapped, and held at sword point. Peridan felt the blade in his hand waver and drop in confusion—caution and danger forgotten. There was something wrong here, some strange power beyond his comprehension at work.

"I—" before he could do more than stammer and take half a step back he saw King Edmund's eyes widen in surprise and felt a terrible blow to the back of his head. His vision flashed red for a moment, and then the paving stones of the street were rising to meet him, and someone was laughing, though the sound seemed strangely distant.

Anyone know what's going on yet? I would love to hear (read?) your theories! Leave me a review if you can and let me know if anyone is still reading :-). I will do my best to update, and will hopefully succeed this time. Thanks for all your kind words!

Cheers,

A