Throne of the High King Chapter 5: Chapters 41 through 50, a chronicles of narnia fanfic

Chapter Forty-One

IN the days and weeks that followed, there was much cleaning up to do around Cair Paravel. The enemies and their undead pursuers had disappeared into the northlands, and Sir Baelin, whether dead or alive, never came back. Nonetheless, many of the slain and wounded were strewn about the battlefield, and these had to be tended to—either buried, or burned, or cured and taken prisoner. That was grisly work, but it was wholly necessary and done as quickly as possible. After that, the Narnians turned their attention to Cair Paravel itself, which had fallen into a state of utter ruin down through the centuries of neglect. It would be a long while yet before it was once again the beautiful palace spoken of in myth and legend, but for now, they could at least clear out the rubble and debris and make the castle into a livable, fortified base.

Cavalry patrols consisting of centaurs and horse-mounted elves were sent throughout the countryside to assess the state of things. The land was wild and depopulated, as one might expect of the country which had belonged to Count Serpens; but the lateness of summer brought a warmth and freshness to everything which had not been seen in these parts for a millennium. At last, all of the many soldiers in the rebel army gathered together and insisted that Pete take Count Serpens's old title. At a ceremony in the cleared and cleaned-out hall of the palace, they sat Pete on the High King's Throne and…

"…As Princess of Islands, and the newly elected Chief Bard of the Circle of Seven, by all the authority vested in me do I dub thee Peter, Lord of Cair Paravel and Count of the Eastlands between the Glasswater and the Ettinsmoor." Cliodhna tapped Pete on either shoulder with the Islander cutlass that the human had carried since his adventures at sea. "Arise, Count Peter, Son of Adam, noble liege, and leader of the Narnian Rebellion."

Pete stood, and Cliodhna kissed him on the cheek. Then she moved out of the way and stood next to Diarmuid. Pete faced his people—his followers, his soldiers, his subjects—and said, "My friends, we've come this far, but we've still got a long way to go. Jadis's spell is broken, and her winter is fading away—" Here, Pete was interrupted by cheering. "—but she's still hiding out in a castle of ice, in the far northwest of Narnia! She's on the other side of the country, and we're going to have to fight for every inch, every yard of ground along the way. But, by God, we're not just going to fight—we're going to win! Do you want to win this thing?" He was answered by more cheers and shouts of "yes!" and "fight!" and "win!"

All of Pete's closest friends and officers stood next to him near the throne. (All except for Falon, that is, who still felt that he had been denied his just revenge by Sir Baelin's escape. The half-breed was off somewhere sulking.) Phineas leaned over to Pete and asked, "Where did that speech come from?"

"My old high school football coach," Pete whispered back. "The guy knew how to rile up a crowd like you wouldn't believe."

The sea-people decided to take their leave after Pete's entitlement ceremony. Captain Diarmuid and all his buccaneers, Princess Cliodhna, Meulsine, the rest of the bards, and Grand Admiral Pwyll and his soldiers decided that it was high time that they returned to Narrowhaven. Diarmuid and Cliodhna especially felt that they had to go back to the Lone Isles and face down Queen Morrigan in person—but they weren't afraid, because they had the loyalty of the grand admiral, and Pwyll most definitely had the navy's support before the queen did. There were many more tearful goodbyes on all sides, made all the more wrenching by the further adventures that they had shared since first setting out, but it was indeed time for a parting of the ways. Pete and the Narnians were gearing up for a land war, and the merrow navy wouldn't be of much help to them. But Pwll promised to keep the ships sailing between the Islands and Cair Paravel, to keep Pete's people generously supplied; and he also vowed to sink any ship caught flying the colors of Jadis in his waters.

As for Diarmuid, that rakish merman once again promised Pete that he would give up his life of piracy and care for Cliodhna first, "Though I cannot say that me men will all be happy when the Dawn Treader becomes little more than a royal pleasure-yacht," he said. "After the first ten or twenty years of good pay and easy work, it'll likely grow tiresome to them."

Cliodhna didn't have much to say to Peter anymore, but she kissed him in a sisterly fashion and said, "Let our two kingdoms always be friends and allies, darling Peter. Goodbye."

Last of all, Melusine approached the newly created Count of the Eastlands, bowed respectfully, and said, "We mourn Oghma's passing, my lord, but we do not blame you for it. None of us knew what would happen when we fought the demon Serpens. Oghma gave his life to save the soul of a man who is still innocent, despite what he has said to you. If you can find Sir Baelin and save him from himself, Lord Peter, then Master Oghma will not have died in vain."

After that, Captain Diarmuid, Princess Cliodhna, and the other six Bards boarded the Dawn Treader, and they followed the Royal Navy out to sea on a course that would take them past Galma once again. Then they would turn southeasterly to the Seven Isles, and then straight east again for the distant Lone Islands and home.

August came and went, and the September days shortened and cooled. The leaves turned yellow and orange and red, and so did Cynthia's hair. Of course she and Phineas shared a room in Cair Paravel, which was more nicely furnished these days, if a bit crowded. It had to quarter the rebel army, after all; so many rooms that would normally be turned to other purposes, such as the grand ballroom, were pressed into duty as barracks. Despite Pete's frequent teasing, Phineas and Cynthia in fact discussed the prospect of marriage often; they simply kept such conversations to themselves. They both agreed that they wanted to marry; but they also felt that it would be best to wait until the war was over.

Lumpkin and Brenawen were still more or less happy together, but the demands on their time were many and daunting. All of the Red Dwarves in the rebel army—those from Narnia, from Terebinthia, and from Pyrstead—looked to Lumpkin as their de facto leader, and to Brenawen as their top military commander. Their primary concern, though, was to keep the army armed. They forged guns, bullets, blades, mail, and everything else the soldiers needed to fight. Count Peter insisted that when they went into battle again, the rebels would be well-equipped, so that Jadis wouldn't know what hit her.

To that end, Pete called a council of war in mid-September so that he could confer with his officers and advisors: General Penelope; Colonels Phineas, Brenawen, and Falon; and Lumpkin and Cynthia. The seven of them, taken together, were the leaders of the rebel movement in the Eastlands—and now they had to decide what to do about furthering their goal.

"And unless anybody has any better ideas," said Pete, when he finished summing up their situation, "I think it's pretty obvious where we need to go next: west, to Beruna."

"The centaurs who live there have stayed loyal to Aslan," said Phineas.

"And there are rumors flying about that a huge lion has been seen going among them," added Cynthia. "Some of the birds who scout for us have reported seeing Aslan for themselves."

"If Aslan is in Beruna, then our course is decided," said Penelope with despondence in her voice. "We must go there and meet him."

"Okay then," said Pete, clapping his hands together. "Short council-meeting, just the way I like them. Class is dismissed; there's punch and pie in the lounge. Or, there would be, if we had a lounge. And I'm not sure how we would make punch in this universe. But… I guess, what I'm really trying to say is, does anybody else want pie?"

Sad to say, speeches like this were how Pete usually ended important meetings. It was a lucky thing that his friends had developed a certain patience for his verbal antics.

Phineas and Cynthia left quickly. After that, Brenawen dragged Lumpkin out of the council-chamber, despite the fact that the Red Dwarf obviously wanted pie too. Then Falon stood, shook his head at Pete's irreverence, and left. Penelope sat alone at the foot of the table, opposite Pete.

Pete kicked back in his chair, put his feet up on the table, and said, "Something on your mind, General?"

"Yes, my lord. As you know, Beruna was once my homeland, and unless things have changed greatly there—which they never do—I won't be welcome."

"Well," said Pete, "you're the commander of all my troops, so if they want to welcome me, they're just going to have to put up with you. They don't have a choice."

"My lord, I was thinking that perhaps it would be best—in order to keep negotiations with my people running smoothly and free from distractions—if I were to stay behind with the forces we leave here to guard Cair Paravel." Penelope stared unflinchingly at Pete and waited for him to consider her request.

"Now I'm thinking I shouldn't give you a choice either," said Pete. "Sooner or later, you've got to face these people and prove that you can go home again. It's either that, or you run away from your family for the rest of your life and never set hoof in Beruna again."

"Perhaps, after the war—"

"Perhaps during the war," said Pete. "I need you there with me, Penny. I can't fight the White Witch without you."

"Yes, you can," said Penelope. "I'm not that important."

"You're my general. If that's not important, what qualifies in your book?"

Penelope sucked in a breath and choked back a sniffle. "I… understand, Count Peter. I will… obey your directions."

Pete saw that Penelope—stubborn, unflappable Penelope—was literally on the verge of tears. He wondered what could possibly have her so emotional all of the sudden. "Penny, is there something you're not telling me? Something about Beruna?"

The centauress shook her head. "I've already told you everything, my lord."

"Then what's got your barding all in a bunch?"

Penelope glared at Pete, not least because of the vaguely insulting tone that his words had taken lately. "It's something centaurs don't discuss with outsiders," she growled.

Pete sat up in his chair and met Penelope's glare in kind. "Outsiders," he said. "That's… wow. Okay. You want your privacy? That's fine by me. But you're still coming to Beruna."

Penelope bowed her head. "As you wish, my lord."

A handful of days before the start of autumn (and the end of Pete's tenth month in Narnia), the army of Cair Paravel set out west for Beruna. They followed the course of the Rush River as it wound upward and inland. After two weeks, the passed south of the Owlwood. After three weeks, they marched between green, dome-shaped hills and came into a broad, gently-rolling valley. And here, they found another encampment—a vast and sprawling expanse of tents, many times larger than the camp that Pete and the others had encountered on the banks of the Glasswater. Here, it seemed, they had at last found the true strength of Narnia, for there were so many animals and fauns and centaurs and other creatures in this place that their number was quite beyond counting. The tents flew banners of red and yellow, and they carried the symbol of the golden lion. Aslan was here.

When Penelope gave the order, the army from Cair Paravel came to a halt. Pete gathered his companions and went down into the valley.

The animals on the outskirts of the camp—so many species that it bewildered the brain to try and note them all—saw Pete coming first, and they all fell silent at once. The roars, growls, chirps, and twitters ceased, and the crowd of animals parted to make way for Pete and his entourage. Then the fauns and the centaurs and the nymphs and the dwarves all did the same, bowing low when Pete passed by. Several of them greeted Pete with a subdued whisper of, "Your Majesty."

"I am never going to get used to the bowing and kowtowing," Pete whispered to his friends.

"They mean to honor Aslan by way of honoring you," said Phineas. "Would you deny them this?"

"I don't get what they need me for, if Aslan's already around here somewhere," said Pete.

The parting of the crowds made a rather obvious path across the field, and it led straight to a large tent in the center of the multitude. It didn't take much guessing to figure out that they were supposed to go there. So they followed the path laid out for them, and just as they came to the tent, there emerged from it a great lion. Just as Pete had been told, this lion dwarfed any other that he had ever seen. His eyes were somehow fierce and kind at the same time, and when he spoke, it was with low, rumbling voice that Pete recognized. This lion sounded just like the Yellow Wizard that Pete had met on the southern slope of Mount Pire. There was no question: this, indeed, was Aslan.

All of the Narnians in the camp bowed down again at the sight of Aslan, and this time, Pete's friends joined them. The human alone remained standing. "Peter," said Aslan, "you've come at last. We have much to discuss. Walk with me."

"Alone?" said Pete.

"Yes. What I have to say is only meant for a child of Adam's blood."

As Pete followed Aslan alone into a nearby grove of trees, several of the Narnians overheard the human utter a very odd phrase: "Am I going to have to explain to everyone in this universe who Charles Darwin was?" Whatever that meant, it must have been very funny, because it made Aslan laugh.

"I'm serious," said Pete. "This whole medieval superstition thing you've got going on in this world? I can understand it, because this world is medieval. But still, the only reason I've come as far as I have is because of science. And I'm not even a scientist!"

"There is great value to your philosophy," said Aslan. "Human science is very good for describing nature and building tools. It's rather inadequate for dealing with magic, though. How would your Charles Darwin explain fauns? Or centaurs?"

"You've got a point there," said Pete, "but they don't really count. They're chimeras; they're spliced together from species that already did evolve, on Earth. I don't know how in the world they got here… but it's a pretty good bet that horses and human beings were already around for a very long time before the first centaur ever lived."

"A long time on Earth, perhaps," said Aslan, "but time flows differently in this world."

"Aha!" said Pete. "Time is relative. We humans already figured that one out with science, thanks to Dr. Einstein."

Aslan chuckled softly, a low rumble that sounded like a lion's purr. "And you've learned from your friends in this world that it was once called Dünya. Do you still presume that it is round? That it is a planetary orb, hurtling through space on its own inertia and the sun's gravitation?"

"Sure," said Pete. "I haven't seen anything to make me think otherwise."

"How do you know that in this universe, the world isn't a flat disc and the center of everything? How do you know that the stars aren't a race of people who march across the sky and rearrange their formations to foretell future events?"

"I've seen a few clues that suggest otherwise," said Pete. "Plus, all the same laws of physics that apply back home seem to apply here. Same air, same gravity, same sunlight, same starlight. I bet if I measured a star's parallax from here, it would be light-years distant. And I bet, if I dug down into the rocks under the surface of this planet, and looked at the strata, I would find fossils. I don't know for sure, but it's a good deduction. I'm a detective, Aslan. Or, I used to be, in the real world. Observations, facts, deductions… agnostic until the evidence is in. That's just how I think, and it's not going to change."

"If I wanted someone who thought like a Narnian, I wouldn't have needed to bring you here," said Aslan.

"Then you're really the one who brought me here?" asked Pete. "To Narnia? To Dünya? And… you brought the others, too? Digory Kirke, and Sir Baelin?"

The lion sighed. "On Earth, Sir Baelin was a good and moral man, and perhaps the most merciful knight whoever lived. But on Dünya, he stumbled and fell all too quickly. And young Digory… I had such high hopes for him, but when he was tested, he gave into despair. As for you, Peter… you have come dangerously close your end as well."

"I have come pretty close to dying on more than one occasion since I got here," said Pete.

"That's not what I meant," said Aslan. "I haven't come here to bandy words and discuss philosophy, Peter. We have weightier matters to discuss."

"Like what?"

"At this very moment, your wedded wife sails to a distant island in the arms of another man," said Aslan. "This is something that the Witch can use against us."

Chapter Forty-Two

"I DON'T get it," said Pete. "Clio's got to be a thousand miles away by now. How can Jadis possibly use her to get at us?"

"It's not the princess that concerns Jadis," said Aslan. "It's you. When you married Cliodhna, you spoke sacred vows in my name. And when you left her, you broke those vows."

Pete scowled. "Cliodhna and Diarmuid were in love before they ever met me. They deserve to be together. I did the right thing by getting out of their way."

"You don't understand," said Aslan. "You broke vows made in my name! This is a betrayal. You have directly betrayed me."

"I'm sorry!" said Pete. "But it wasn't exactly the best of situations! Neither of us wanted to get married, but we didn't really have a choice!"

Aslan growled, and Pete shut himself up. (In fact, Pete winced and shut his eyes while the lion spoke.) "Listen carefully," said Aslan. "The Deep Magic of this world demands that traitors be given over to the witches! It's not the marriage that matters; it's the betrayal. Because of that, Jadis could claim you as hers. So I need you to hear me, Peter Pevensie! …I forgive you."

Pete opened one eye and squinted at Aslan oddly. "Excuse me?"

"I forgive you," repeated Aslan. "You are absolved of your betrayal."

"Then… you don't mind that Clio and I got divorced?"

"Mind? Of course I mind," said Aslan. "But I also understand. That's why I can forgive you your trespass."

"Okay then," said Pete, breathing a sigh of relief. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Know that in the future, when you speak a sacred oath and mention me, you must be absolutely sincere."

"Sure," said Pete. "Your universe, your rules. I'll play nice."

"Good," said Aslan. "Let us return to the camp, then. Beruna is occupied by Jadis's soldiers, and we have much planning to do before we can liberate it."

Pete's friends hadn't been idle while he and Aslan had walked off to discuss things in private. Quite the contrary, they talked excitedly amongst themselves at the prospect of their dear leader and the mighty Aslan himself discussing the progress of the war. With Aslan and Peter working together, they believed, Jadis was surely done for!

But Penelope had other matters on her mind. This valley was just a short distance from the fords in the river where the town of Beruna sat—the homeland of centaurs in Narnia. In the days before the witches, it was said, centaurs roamed these plains and valleys freely. Then Jadis and her ilk had invaded, and the centaurs had built themselves a walled city, Beruna, for defense. For more than nine hundred years, Beruna had been synonymous with the centaur race.

Many of Penelope's people were among the army in Aslan's camp. Penelope recognized them, and she knew that they recognized her. The looks on their faces when they saw her… she couldn't bear them. They were judging her, she knew: judging her for disobeying her father, for leaving her husband, for serving the White Witch. Honorable centaurs simply didn't do the things that she had done. Hers were unconscionable crimes. Guilt weighed down heavily on Peter's chosen general.

And then another face appeared in the crowd, and this one looked at Penelope not with contempt or pity, but with wonder and curiosity. He was a male centaur, large and muscular, and quite handsome, only a year or two older than Penelope. He was Oreius… Penelope's mate.

Or, at least, he would have been if Penelope hadn't run away.

Oreius approached and bowed his head. "Lady Penelope. It has been… a long time."

"Oreius. It hasn't been long enough."

The centaur tilted his head and said, "Your father Creon and I have kept our promises to one another. He treats me as a son-in-law, in spite of your absence."

"I'm glad that you've found each other," said Penelope. "You seem to be getting along well without me."

"That's not true," said Oreius. "You are my wife; by our laws, I cannot take another."

"You could if you ran away, as I did."

"I have a duty here," said Oreius. "I am now the chief general of all Aslan's troops."

Penelope's eyes widened. "What happened to my father?"

"Creon was wounded in the last battle. Aslan breathed upon him and saved his life, but he is now too old to lead. He gave his position to me, as a father would pass it down to his son."

"Then… my father is here?" asked Penelope. Her voice twitched only slightly.

"He is," said Oreius. "And he knows that you've been fighting alongside the Son of Adam these past few months. He is prepared to reconcile with you and forgive everything."

"That's a problem," said Penelope, "because before that could happen, I would have to reconcile with you."

"My feelings for you haven't changed," said Oreius. "I had hoped—"

"You were wrong," said Penelope. "I've never loved you, and I never will."

"It matters but little," said Oreius. "You are here now, and by rights you belong to me. Sooner or later, you will accept this and return to our people's ways."

Penelope shot Oreius one of her best "please go ahead and burst into flames now" stares. "Where's my father?" she demanded.

"Creon is in the small tent on the southwest edge of the camp. Penelope, my wife, I wish that you—"

"Bite me," said Penelope, getting one of Pete's human sayings right for once. She went away, leaving Oreius dismayed and confused.

Pete and Aslan returned to the camp, only to encounter Penelope leaving quickly in a huff. "Aslan," said Pete, "I'd like to introduce you to Penelope, the general in command of my army."

Penelope looked at Aslan in shock. Then she remembered herself and bowed. "My lord."

"Child of the plains," said Aslan, "you seem distressed by something."

"I've only just learned that my father was wounded," said Penelope. "Thank you for curing him."

"I have cured his body, but not his spirit," said Aslan. "He was once a great leader, but now he has given his duties over to your husband, Orieus."

Pete's eyes bugged when he heard that. "Your… husband? You never told me that you'd actually married the guy!"

"Later," hissed Penelope.

Aslan turned to Pete and said, "Oreius is a trustworthy commander. General Penelope will report to him in the future."

"I'd really rather have Penny in charge," said Pete. "We've been through a lot together, and I trust her decisions."

"I've already chosen a commander," said Aslan. "It's Oreius."

"So says the lion who talks like Qui-Gon Jinn," muttered Pete.

"It's all right," said Penelope. "I'll do as Aslan says and report to General Oreius."

"As it should be," said Aslan. "Come, Peter. We must meet with the general and discuss the upcoming battle."

Pete asked, "Are you coming, Penny?"

The centauress shook her head. "I have to find my father."

"All right," said Pete. "Catch you on the flip-mode."

Penelope found the tent that she was looking for and pushed her way inside. What Oreius had called a "small" tent wasn't really that small by human standards, for it had been made to house a centaur. Creon rested on a bed of straw by the wall opposite the door. He was white in hair and beard, and bent with age. It was clear that his strength had left him long ago. Penelope was distraught by the very sight of him: she remembered her father strong and hale.

"Father," she said.

Creon looked up. "Penelope. It's good that you've come." The old centaur stretched and righted himself, tucking his four legs underneath his body so that he could properly sit up.

"Father, I've come here with Lord Peter, the—"

"The Son of Adam, yes, I know. This goes a long way toward your redemption in my eyes, Daughter. I have only one question more." The centaur might have been old, but he still had that fearsome glare that could make a lesser soul wither and break down underneath its weight (just in case the gentle reader was wondering where Penelope got it from).

"Ask me anything but that which I know you must," said Penelope, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

Creon said, "It seems that I owe a great debt, but I find myself unable to pay it. I have promised the young General Oreius the one thing that I can never give to him: an obedient wife."

"I'm sorry, Father," said Penelope. "I cannot allow myself to be given and taken like… like a barrel of oats to be sold in the market!"

"Do you really think that's what I did, my daughter?" said Creon. "I chose for you a husband from among the best of all our kind! Oreius is good, and honorable, and from a well-to-do family! Why can't you simply honor my wishes, when they are for your own good?"

"I do not love him," said Penelope simply.

"What has that to do with mating?" said Creon. "You're not some nymph or fauna, to cast your affections to the wind and hope that your heart lands in the hands of a worthy male! That's not how our people do things!"

Penelope swallowed loudly, for she knew that what she was about to say next was highly improper. "Did you love my mother?" she asked.

Creon stared at his daughter in horror. It was as if she had just plunged a knife into his heart. "Yes," he answered firmly. "Yes, in time we grew to love each other very much. Never question that again."

"Don't worry," said Penelope, rising to leave. "I won't bother you anymore—not with questions or anything else."

That night, Pete wandered alone on the edge of the camp. He had to get away from all of it—from the bowing, the scraping, the "Son of Adam," the "my good lord," the "as you wish," and especially the "Your Royal Majesty." It was starting to wear him down. If he had to tell one more person to stand the hell up and just call him "Pete," he was going to lose it…

"My lord."

"I swear to God, Penny, this is not the time for formalities."

"Pete, then." The centauress was also avoiding the camp. If her people had disapproved of her actions before, now they had twice the reason to shun her. This was her chance to accept her fate and submit to her father and to Oreius, and she was passing it by. She was giving it up for… she didn't know what.

"Rough day?" said the human.

"You might say that," said Penelope.

Pete looked up at the starry sky. He liked these moments between him and Penny. They were comfortable. Quiet. Free from drama. "You didn't tell me that you got married."

"Centaurs don't exactly have weddings," said Penelope. "The females are simply given to the males, and that's it. As far as my people are concerned, I belong to my so-called husband; but I've never let him touch me."

"Oh," said Pete. "In that case, I guess you're not married after all."

"I'm glad you see things my way," said Penelope.

"What can I say? I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. People are married when they say their I-do's, kiss each other, and head for the honeymoon suite."

Penelope trotted up to Pete and looked him in the eyes. "You're better than we are, Peter."

"Who's better?"

"Humans," said Penelope. "Your ways are better."

"Were not all that great," said Pete. "We screw up, we do bad things. And my ways aren't all humans' ways. Just American-type humans, which isn't saying all that much. Lots of people on my world have marriage customs more like yours than mine."

"Well whatever they are, human or American, I like them," said Penelope. "I like you."

"I like you too, Penny. I—hmgph." Pete was cut off by Penelope gripping him around the shoulders and pressing her lips to his. It was sudden and strange and not at all what Pete expected. Seriously, how many different species of women did this make now? Four or five too many, by Pete's estimation. And this… Pete could not foresee this ending well at all. His arms became rigid and his body stiffened in reaction to the surprise of it all.

Penelope certainly sensed Pete's hesitation when she kissed him. She she pushed herself away, wiped off her mouth, and blushed a bright shade of crimson. "I… I'm sorry, my lord, I… I don't know what… I've made a mistake."

Pete let out a heavy breath and said, "Yeah. Mistake. Because… this… couldn't ever work between us." It was weird, Pete thought. All this time together, and he had never even considered Penelope in a romantic light. For obvious reasons.

"No, of—of course it couldn't," stammered Penelope. "It wouldn't be right."

"Because you're a centaur," said Pete, "and I'm… I'm… not a centaur."

"And I'm not a Daughter of Eve. But you are. Human, I mean; not a daughter of… anybody…" It was clear, as Pete and Penelope babbled back and forth to fill the mortified emptiness between them with something like conversation, that they were equally flustered by what had just happened.

"So… we can just ignore this and forget it," said Pete.

"Right. We'll pretend that it never happened," said Penelope.

"Never happened." Pete licked his lips and shuffled his feet and looked every which way except in Penelope's direction. "I'm, uh, I'm gonna… go… get some… air. Uh… see you in the morning."

"Good night," said Penelope. When Pete was out of sight, the centauress put her hands on either side of her head and bit her tongue to keep from screaming. Why had she kissed Peter? He was her liege lord, and a Son of Adam no less! Whereas she was a centaur, a half-beast, and one who was shunned and dishonored by her people! For the first time in her life, Penelope felt completely and truly humiliated.

Chapter Forty-Three

THE centaurs, horses, and other large beasts in Pete's army had helped to pull the cannon all the way from Cair Paravel to the valley outside Beruna, and Pete meant to keep them a part of his battle strategy. Beruna was a walled city, built for defense, which was why Jadis had held it for so long. Far fewer centaurs sided with Jadis than with Aslan, but those who did choose to fight for the White Witch remained inside Beruna for protection. From what Aslan and Oreius said, there were other creatures ensconced behind those walls as well, things more fearsome even than harpies and giants.

"If we've got to breach the walls," Pete said, "that's what guns are good for. We won't need trumpets to bring Jericho a-tumbling down." He was once again in the central tent with Oreius and Aslan, finalizing the plans for tomorrow's attack.

General Oreius lamented, "The walls of Beruna have stood for nearly a thousand years at the heart of centaur civilization. To think that we must destroy them now in order to save Beruna's people."

"They were only built in the first place to defend your people from the witches," said Aslan. "When Jadis is defeated, they will not be missed."

Oreius bowed to Aslan and said, "Very well. We will put Count Peter's 'guns' on the front lines and batter down the walls, making way for the main thrust into the city."

Pete looked over the map of the city that Oreius had sketched. "How accurate is this? Because the streets are really wide, and the buildings seem farther apart that I would've guessed."

"It is a centaur city," Oreius smiled. "We need a bit more space than humans might."

"Oh. Sure," said Pete. "Well, that's good; it'll make it a little easier to fight our way through and take the town. But going from street to street and house to house… it's still going to get bloody."

"There are many strange beasts defending Beruna," said Aslan. "To spare your warriors the worst of their attacks, they should stay behind me at all times."

"Okay," Pete nodded. "Aslan first; then guns; then everybody else."

Pete had a tent of his own, as befit a nobleman in charge of a large segment of the attacking force. On the morning of the battle, two days since they had joined up with Aslan's army, he emerged from this tent in full battle regalia: shining armor of polished steel, a fine suit of half-plate and mail that weighed more heavily on the shoulders than full jousting-plate would, but which allowed for more freedom of movement in the joints. (Lumpkin and Brenawen had personally seen to the forging of this armor back in Cair Paravel, and Pete had to admit that he greatly admired their work.) Pete's cutlass had been discarded in favor of a long sword. Pete knew that he would never have the agility to fight with a pair of swords the way Penelope did, so he focused his training on a single weapon, and he had become a passably fair swordsman in the last several months. Then, of course, he also had strapped to his hip a brace of flintlock pistols, each with a single ball and charge of powder. His revolver had been lost long ago, and he hadn't quite figured out how to make a new sixgun yet, not even with the help of the dwarves; so he had to carry several pistols if he wanted to go into battle without worrying about reloading after each and every shot.

Lumpkin had been waiting outside the tent for Peter, and now that the human had emerged, the dwarf ran up to him and said, "You look very regal in that armor, Count Peter! How does it feel? Not too uneven or top-heavy, I hope. How's the movement in your wrists and elbows?"

"It's fine, Lumpkin," said Pete. "In fact, it's more than fine; it's great. You and Bren did a heck of a job on this."

"What a relief," said the dwarf. "I was worried about the wrists. And the ankles. You can move your feet properly, can't you?"

"My feet are fine too," said Pete, "but now that you mention it, it's a little tight in the neck…"

"In the neck? Oh, dear me! Brenawen did warn me that the mail-coif might be a bit too constrictive! There's still time, my lord—I can have it adjusted, and—"

"Don't worry about it," said Pete. "I'll just have to live with it until after the battle. But, as you can see, I can nod my head, I can turn my head, and I can… ouch!"

"Oh no!" cried Lumpkin. "What's happened?"

"I think I strained something," Pete groaned. "Something in my neck… it popped…"

"Oh no, oh no!" fretted the dwarf. "I've done something terrible! My armor has maimed you, or broken your neck and paralyzed you forever, or—" Lumpkin stopped his ramblings when he saw that Pete was looking down at him and laughing. "My lord…?"

"Psyche!" said Pete. "I'm only kidding, Lumpkin. There's nothing wrong the armor, nothing wrong with my neck. It all fits me just perfectly."

"Nothing wrong…?"

"Nothing at all," said Pete. "So quit fussing. The only thing that's going to hurt me out there is some enemy's weapon. But it'll have to get through this dwarf-armor first, and that's really saying something."

"It's not nice to play jokes on people like that," grumbled the dwarf.

"Aw, quit bellyaching," said Pete. "It's time to get this show on the road."

He and Lumpkin made their way through the camp, and they found Phineas and Cynthia sitting together on a log. Cynthia rested her head on the faun's muscular shoulder, but when she saw Pete, she whispered something to Phineas, and they both stood and nodded their heads to him in greeting.

"Are you guys ready?" asked Pete.

Phineas and Cyntha both had their bows in hand; the nymph fingered her bowstring nervously. "We're ready," she said, "but for some reason, this time, everything feels different."

"It's because we're going into open battle," said Phineas. "And this time, we are the ones attacking a defended position. It will be dangerous for all of us."

"But it's got to be done," said Pete. "Beruna is smack-dab in the middle of Narnia, and it's in between us and the Witch's castle."

Phineas said, "I trust that you, Aslan, and this General Oreius have all come up with a worthy plan?"

"The best we could think of in a day," said Pete. "It's pretty straight-forward, really. Knock down the walls and take the city head-on. We're on a flat, wide-open prairie, so there's not a lot of cover to hide behind. And they certainly know that we're coming, so there's no point in being subtle."

"Still, it's awfully bold," said Phineas. "I would expect something a little more… indirect, coming from you."

"Aslan's not exactly indirect about anything," said Pete, "and he's kind of calling the shots here. Which suits me just fine, by the way."

"But you'd still rather have Penelope in command than Oreius," said Cynthia.

"Definitely," said Pete. "Oreius is… I don't know for sure, because I just don't know him all that well yet, but he doesn't seem very inventive. He's not the type to break with tradition, and in war, that's not such a great thing."

Onward they strolled through the camp, until they found Brenawen and Falon talking together. Brenawen had a stick, and she was scratching maps in the ground. "General Penelope's plan would work just fine if you sent your elves along with her," she was saying to him. "They're lithe and quick enough to fit through."

Pete walked up to the two of them and asked, "What's this about a plan of Penelope's?"

Brenawen looked up at Pete and then pointed to the top of her map. "The walls of Beruna already have two gaps in them," said the dwarf. "The Rush River runs right through the city, north and south. General Penelope says that the channels under the walls are barred and likely to be guarded—"

"Which is why we're taking the direct approach," said Pete. "Those drain-tunnels were the first thing we considered, but Oreius said that they'd be too well-defended to risk our using them to get inside the city."

"Yes, but Penelope thinks that an appropriate diversion—such as, for example, bombarding the city's east gates with your brass guns until there's a hole so big that they'll have to put all their men there to plug it up—should suffice to draw any reserve guards away from the tunnels." Brenawen put her hands on her hips and looked up at Pete with smug triumph on her face.

Pete looked to Falon. "What do you think, big guy?"

"I think the plan has potential," said Falon. "And Brenawen is right. My infantry should form the vanguard, the first legion to the south and the second to the north. Archers should follow us in, since we'll want to be quiet, whereas you'll want to keep your musketeers on the frontline."

The human smacked himself on the forehead. "I can't believe that I didn't think of this. Hang on, everyone… I've got to go talk to Penny."

Pete ran through the camp, asking every centaur he encountered whether they had seen General Penelope anywhere. Most of them said that they hadn't, of course; but eventually, Pete found his way to Oreius and Aslan, who walked among the talking animals and prepared them for their role in the upcoming attack.

"Hey," said Pete. "We need to make a slight addition to the battle plan."

"You've thought of something else?" asked Aslan.

"Not me; Penelope. Take a look." Pete took a stick and sketched an even cruder map in the dirt than Brenawen had. He briefly outlined what he knew.

"It still won't work," said Oreius. "The tunnels are each warded by three rows of thick steel bars. Even if you sent dwarves, with all their skill, they could not cut through in time to matter."

"Then we forget stealth and just bomb the tunnels," said Pete. "Those walls are so thick that a few powderkegs won't dent the stone or collapse the drains, but they will take out the bars!"

"It is a good plan," said Aslan. "It allows us to attack the city from three sides. General Oreius, find Penelope and bring her here."

Oreius looked curiously at Peter, and then left.

"Like I keep telling everybody, there's a reason I put Penny in charge," said Pete.

"You are fond of her," said Aslan.

"Yeah. We're good friends."

Oreius returned, and Penelope followed closely behind. "You asked for me, my lords?" she said.

"General Penelope," said Aslan, "Peter has told me of your battle-plan, and I find that it has merit."

Penelope stared wide-eyed at Pete, for, of course, she had only given her plan to Brenawen. "Bren told you about my idea?"

"Yeah," said Pete. "It's a good idea. We're going with it."

"We're incorporating it into the original plan," corrected Oreius. "Count Peter, I understand that your 'gunpowder' requires fire; but the drain-tunnels in the walls carry the waters of the Rush River through Beruna. Will these 'bombs' of yours work if they're wet?"

"No," said Pete, "but we can paint the kegs with pitch to make them watertight, and put them on rafts. The river won't be a problem."

"Nevertheless, you should hold off your secondary attacks until we've already gained Beruna from the east," said Aslan. "You mustn't attack the city until I have entered it myself."

Penelope bowed to the lion. "As you wish, my lord."

Pete waited until Aslan and Oreius left (but the centaur didn't leave without casting a suspicious glance at Pete and Penelope). Once they were gone, Pete turned to Penny and asked, "Why didn't you come to me with your ideas?"

Penelope held her breath for just a moment. Then she let it out and said, "I don't know, Peter. Perhaps I was… embarrassed about last night."

"Oh. Okay, sure, I can understand that." Then he grinned and said, "You know, being kissed by a centaur is not the weirdest thing that's ever happened to me. I was married to a mermaid for a couple of weeks."

"That was different, my lord. The mer-people are… well, a people. They're the Children of Water, just as you are a child of Adam and Eve. I, on the other hand, am a beast."

"Ah, come on," said Pete. "You know that I don't really believe that."

"It doesn't matter what you believe," said Penelope. "It's just the way things are. We were right to stop ourselves when we did. We should simply… forget that it happened."

"Okay," said Pete. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

"All right then." Pete shrugged. "I've got to go rally the troops. It's almost showtime."

"Of course," said Penelope. Pete started to walk away, but she stopped him. "My lord!"

Pete turned around. "Yeah, Penny?"

"Your armor makes you look very… kingly."

"Thanks," said Pete. He smiled, gave Penelope a thumbs-up and went off to lead his army into battle.

Aslan roared. When that voluminous sound echoed off the hillsides, everybody in the rebel camp knew that it was time to march westward and out of the valley. They had already spent most of the day packing up all of the equipment and materiel that they would need, and now the soldiers and the animals and the carts of supplies formed a wide, slow column that wound its way between the hills and out of the lowland.

They were only a league or so from Beruna, so it wasn't long at all before the town came into view. The centaur city was in the middle of a vast, flat plain, broken only by the sight of the Rush River winding across the countryside. The army of Aslan arrayed itself into discreet units and formed a long line that ran north and south, facing the east side of the city.

It was Peter who gave the command. Centaurs came forward, drawing behind them the wheeled cannon-mounts. Then Red Dwarves joined them, figuring trajectories, sighting in the city walls, angling the guns, and loading them with propellant and projectile. Then, on a signal from the human, all of the dwarves touched sputtering fuses to the breech-hole in the back of the cannon where the powder was exposed. A sound like thunder, a sound to rival Aslan's roar, boomed throughout the countryside… and across the field, cannon-balls crashed into the sod before the walls, into the walls themselves, and into some of the high guard-towers above them. Those shots that struck true took huge chunks out of the stone, leaving large gaps where the bricks had been blown clean away. One lucky shot almost collapsed one of the outer parapets completely.

"I'll bet that got their attention!" Pete shouted to the artillerists. "Now aim all your shots for the gates!"

Thus commenced the bombardment of Beruna's outer walls. The dwarves aimed the great guns and refined their shots, growing more and more accurate with each volley. The next one battered down the great iron doors; and the one after that put an ever-growing hole in the walls themselves. Now the rebels could see that Beruna's defenders, centaurs and hobgoblins and minotaurs for the most part, had abandoned the walls and towers themselves, and they waited on the streets within the city. This was it, thought Pete. The way was open, and it was time to charge. By now, Penelope would be sneaking off to the north and Falon off to the south. He held up his heavy long-sword… and he waited on Aslan's pleasure. To the left of him, General Oreius nodded. To Peter's right, Aslan nodded as well, and then he opened his mouth and roared once again. The cannon-fire ceased.

Pete lowered his sword and yelled at the top of his lungs. He ran forward, sprinting on foot as best as he was able in his armor.

The Narnian rebels charged.

Chapter Forty-Four

ASLAN, Peter, and Oreius spearheaded the deliberate dash for the fallen gates of Beruna. Within the city, some hundreds of centaurs, minotaurs, and hobgoblins stood behind black shields and formed a bristling wall of pikes and lances. Still, the rebels charged, and the centaurs who were with Oreius gradually pulled ahead of the bounding animals and fauns. The enemy shield-wall stood firm, as if waiting to be trampled down by the oncoming charge… and then, just as Aslan and Peter were overtaken by their own centaurs and well within a hundred yards of the broken walls, the soldiers of Jadis stood aside… to allow a swarm of small, knee-high creatures to pass through their line. They were like short goblins, but slender in the middle and even more spindly in the limbs, and with long ears that swept out into tufted points. A cry arose from many of the centaurs and fauns around Peter: "Gremlins!" And that was when things started to go wrong.

Several of the centaurs dropped their shields or lances, and the straps and buckles holding their armor together just broke and fell apart. Peter pulled one of his pistols and shot a gremlin dead, but when he tried it again, the second pistol simply jammed and refused to fire. Behind Pete, the fauns fared even worse with their muskets. Some of the barrels fouled and burst, while others outright exploded, showering lethal shrapnel on their wielders.

The charge of the rebel centaurs was stopped by their confusion, and so Aslan ran ahead of them again. "Behind me!" he commanded. And then he faced the gremlins, and he roared… and all of the tiny creatures were stunned where they stood, as if compelled to stand stock-still in a daze… and their spell of bad luck was broken. Armor stopped malfunctioning, and guns no longer misfired. The lion pounced upon the lot of them and ravenously tore them to pieces with vicious swipes from his claws.

Now Phineas emerged from the mass of rebels and ordered his fauns to form ranks. The front line of musketeers knelt, aimed, and fired on Phineas's command. Within the city, several of the queen's soldiers, mostly hobgoblins and minotaurs, fell dead. Then another row of fauns fired a volley, this time aiming for Black Dwarves and enemy centaurs. "Bayonets!" ordered Phineas.

"Oreius, Peter, to me!" said Aslan. The lion leapt through the breech in the wall, and Pete jogged behind him. Oreius and the rebel centaurs charged into the city after them, and Phineas and his fauns came after that. The charge of Aslan and the centaurs carried them past the front lines of the queen's troops, though many soldiers on both sides were cut down as they flew past each other. Behind them, Pete could see the fauns engaging with these regulars in hand-to-hand mêlée, pikes versus bayonets, while further behind, other fauns reloaded their muskets…

And then Pete found himself in a broad boulevard, a wide street that cut straight through Beruna's heart. All around, centaur fought centaur, soldiers of Aslan against soldiers of Jadis. A squad of hobgoblins appeared, marching out from an alleyway behind a Black Dwarf who seemed to be their commander. The dwarf spotted Pete and gave a cry; but Pete pulled his last loaded flintlock and shot the dwarf between the eyes. Then the hobgoblins were upon him, and Pete fought for his life with two hands on his sword-hilt. He swung hard overhead and cleaved the helmet of one of the hobgoblins; then he swept back, parried a blow from a spear, and riposted off, stabbing another of the monsters in the belly, and ramming his armored shoulder into a third, knocking that one off of his feet. Before he could finish him off, though, the last one swiped at Pete from the left. Pete dodged one swing… and then another… and then he parried one. They traded a few more blows, and then Pete whirled around and slashed his foe across the neck. The last hobgoblin, the one left prone on the ground, tried to scramble away, but Pete caught up to him and delivered a clean coup de grâce.

Pete pressed his way down the boulevard, fighting hobgoblins and dwarves and dodging the charges of centaurs and minotaurs, striking out at those larger foes only when he was able. He couldn't see Oreius; he couldn't see Aslan. Then, he rounded another corner and came to a broad intersection between streets, and he thought he saw the great lion out of the corner of his eye. But, wait, there was another lion, coming down another avenue. And another was directly ahead of Pete, stalking down the main boulevard. Only, these weren't lions—not exactly lions, anyway. They looked more like a sick parody of lions, with mangy fur of dirty yellow, scaly tails with scorpion-stingers on the ends of them, and faces with broad, toothy mouths and button noses where a lion would have a feline muzzle. Pete knew his mythology well enough to recognize these things: manticores.

"Peter!" shouted a familiar voice. It was Aslan. The lion dove in front of the human, and just in time, too, because the nearest manticore opened its mouth and breathed out a jet of flame! Peter felt the heat of the fiery breath singe and scorch him, but Aslan shielded the human from the worst of it… and when the flame subsided, and Pete was able to look again, he saw that Aslan was altogether unscathed.

"Behind me," said Aslan once again.

"You got it," said Pete, panting heavily from the surge of adrenaline.

Upon seeing Aslan, the manticores seemed unsure of what to do. But one of them ran forward, his stinger whipping overhead, and he jabbed it down toward the great lion. Aslan deftly sprang aside, making way for Pete to hack and slice at the tail with his sword. The stinger fell away, oozing greenish poison, and the manticore howled. Then, there were Oreius and the rest of his cavalry; the centaurs charged past, and their sturdy lances made short work of these beasts.

Now the fortress in the center of Beruna was in sight, and the way was clear. Aslan gave the order, and the rebel soldiers formed behind him. They ran to take the bridge that spanned the Rush River.

General Penelope waded up to her withers in the shallow water along the eastern bank of the Rush. Behind her, the second legion of elf soldiers marched with swords at the ready. Since they were heading upriver and against the current, some of the elves held onto the ropes that drew three small rafts, each one piled with powderkegs. They were especially careful not to upset these rafts, since these were the keys with which they would pass into the city. Behind the elves, Cynthia led a company of archers: nymphs, faunas, and centauresses.

The walls above the river were deserted. No sentries could be seen. It seemed that Penelope's intuition had been correct: the direct assault on the east gates had indeed drawn the guards away from this unassuming passage beneath the north wall. The general hoped that upriver, on the south side of the city, Colonel Falon and the first Archenlander legion were enjoying similar good fortune.

They came to the mouth of the drain. It was semi-cylindrical, perhaps fifteen yards wide, with rather less than five yards of clearance between the ceiling and the surface of the water. The steel bars that blocked the way were a foot apart, and several inches thick. "Bring the bomb," said Penelope.

Two elves waded forward in the water, pressing against the current. They placed the raft near the bars in the center of the opening and tied it off. Then Penelope, who had come to understand gunnery and explosives quite well through Pete's instructions, affixed a long fuse to one of the barrels. She waited for everybody else to get well clear, and then she struck a light, held it to the fuse, and ran away with the river's current at her back.

A few seconds later, and the blast rocked the walls and tore the bars open. Twice more they had to repeat this operation, since two more rows of bars warded the tunnel, but each time, Penelope used a longer fuse, so that she would have more time to get clear after lighting it. On the third bombing, she was only barely out of the mouth of the tunnel again before it went off, and the echo left her ears deafened and ringing.

Now the path was clear, and the elves followed the river underneath the walls and into the city. Behind them, archers of different races waded with their bows held ready above the water.

Penelope was the first to exit the tunnel, and when she saw what was waiting for them, she came to a halt and went pale. Behind her, the elves bunched up and wondered what had their commander so worried. The nymphs and other archers in the rear of the column couldn't even see what was going on.

Standing in the river, which only came up to its knees, was a troll. It was chained and muzzled, held firmly in place by a dozen hobgoblins. But when Penelope and the elves came out of the tunnel, it began to huff and snort, and its great boulder-like fists pounded on the surface of the water, sending waves dashing over the rebels. It pulled at its chains and tore their metal bolts out of the ground, and its hobgoblin caretakers were sent flying. The troll scratched at the scaly, rock-textured hide around its face and neck, trying to get the muzzle off… and then it clamped down on the metal strips with its clumsy fingers, and crushed with all its might, and the muzzle was torn away and crumpled up like tinfoil. The hobgoblins scrambled away in fright; and the troll roared in berserk fury.

Penelope had seen a troll only once before: when the creature had pursued them through the dwarf-tunnels under Mount Pire and slain all but half of her old company. Now she was faced with this same force of nature, this same reckless hatred and mindless hunger. The centauress did the only thing she could: she steeled her courage and ordered the elves to charge.

The Archenlanders drew their swords and attacked. Penelope twirled her sabres and led them. From behind, the arrows of the nymphs and others peppered the troll, but those tiny shafts did nothing more than annoy the stone-skinned beast. It swept its claws back and forth, sending elves flying or simply cutting them cleanly into three and four pieces each. And when Penelope came within reach of those claws, the troll suddenly seemed to take on an aspect of intelligence—and malice. It held out one finger, with one claw like a great, curved scimitar, and it speared Penelope through the side of her equine flank. As the blood seeped forth from the wound, Penelope grew woozy and verged on blacking out. But before she did, the troll reared back its head and let out a strange sound, a high-pitched scream. If Pete had been there, he would have said that it sounded like an air-raid siren. But Pete wasn't there, and the only thing that Penelope could liken this noise to was a bird's screech. The triumph of the troll sounded like the cry of a hawk from hell itself.

Outside of Beruna, the Red Dwarves continued to load the cannon and fire upon any squadrons of foemen that tried to exit the city. They did what they could to cover their allies within the walls, but in truth, it was up to Aslan, Pete, and the others now.

And then a shrill cry came from somewhere within the walls, like the screech of a great eagle, only many times louder and higher. For some instinctive reason, it sent shivers down the spines of the dwarves. And then, something happened: within the city, whole buildings burst open, their roofs thrown off and their walls cast down. Six times this happened, at different points around the edge of the town, and as the dust and rubble cleared, where each building once stood, an angry troll now roared and raged. They responded to the signal from their fellow troll by clawing, stomping, and pounding everything in sight. They wreaked more havoc on the city itself than any soldiers—but when anybody other than a hobgoblin was unlucky enough to get in the way of a troll, that unfortunate was doomed. A troll only knew its smaller hobgoblin kin from the other races it called prey; it didn't distinguish between Black Dwarves and Red Dwarves, or centaurs fighting for Jadis and those fighting for Aslan. It just killed and fed.

Brenawen and the other dwarves saw this strange occurrence from outside the city, and the colonel in command of the dwarf artillerists rushed into action. "Aim those guns!" she ordered. "Fire at the trolls—the trolls!" And the dwarves aimed their cannons at the furious beasts that were now cutting swaths of destruction toward the center of the city.

"Oh dear, oh dear," said Lumpkin, who was close at Brenawen's side. "It seems that we're only making them mad."

The trolls moved with surprising speed, so it was a rare thing when a cannonball actually struck one. One of the artillery-teams was extremely lucky: they hit a troll upside the head with one of the cannon-blasts, crushing its temple and causing it to fall over dead. Most of the other shots, though, only bounced off of the shell-like hide on the troll's backs, or careened into a building in the general vicinity of the troll. Eventually, the five remaining trolls noticed that they were being fired upon from outside the city… and, just as Lumpkin had said, it made them very mad.

"Keep firing!" said Brenawen. "If we can draw them out of the city and away from Count Peter, so much the better!"

The Red Dwarves followed Brenawen's instructions and continued to bombard the trolls. These creatures were powerful, but they weren't smart, and it didn't take much at all to provoke them. One of them shrieked and pointed at the dwarven company beyond the city bounds; and then another followed suit, shrieking and pointing. Soon, all five trolls were making for the walls, leaping over them or simply bashing through. They were trying to get to the dwarves.

Then, to the dwarves' shock and horror, a sixth troll appeared, from the river to the north, outside the city—the direction that General Penelope and the second legion of Archenlanders had taken.

The half-dozen trolls sprinted or knuckle-dragged their way over the field. Brenawen kept the dwarves firing the cannons, and one of the trolls was struck in the head, and it fell away. Then another was brought down in a similar fashion, leaving only four.

Many other dwarves weren't manning the heavy guns: they had muskets, and these formed ranks behind Lumpkin and picked their shots like snipers. "Aim for the eyes and the mouth!" said Lumpkin. "They're the trolls' only weak points!"

The cannons were loaded, aimed, and fired again. By concentrating their fire, the dwarves were able to take down a third troll, and a fourth. And now the distance between the trolls and the dwarves was surely closed, and the raging towers of muscle and teeth and claws and stone were upon the gunners.

Lumpkin stood ahead of the other dwarf musketeers and drew his own weapon, something special that he had put together with Peter's help. Pete had once described shotguns to Lumpkin, and the dwarf wondered whether the principle could be applied to the flintlocks that they were capable of smithing. Pete had told him, yes, it could—early shotguns were called blunderbusses. They had a trumpet-shaped flare on the end of the barrel, so that the weapon could be easily loaded with powder, shot, and wadding. This was the gun that Lumpkin drew, a short-barreled, trumpet-muzzled musketoon. He called over his shoulder, "You lads take the one on the left; I've got the one on the right!"

Several nearby dwarves looked as if they were about to protest, but Brenawen said, "My husband is Lumpkin Troll-Slayer! If he says he can take one by himself, believe him!" And so, all of the dwarf musketeers fired their guns at the face of the left troll—and one of the shots was lucky enough to find the troll's eye, which sent that bullet into the creature's brain and killed it at once.

As for Lumpkin, he calmly took careful aim and waited for the troll to close. Then he leveled the blunderbuss and sprayed a cone of hot leaden shot into the monster's face. The troll was now blinded, and it raged and it roared and it swiped its claws, and at last it dove to the ground, feeling around for Lumpkin. Still just as calm as you please, that most unusual of dwarves stepped out of the way, drew his hand-axe, and aimed for one of the chinks in the troll's scaly hide, a soft spot in the neck. He struck… and he hacked… and he chopped… and after six or seven more gruesome blows, the troll finally stopped twitching. Covered in gore and dripping with black troll-ichor, Lumpkin raised up his axe and faced his people. And the Red Dwarves who were present to witness the Battle of Beruna would ever afterward hail Lumpkin and Brenawen as dwarf-king and dwarf-queen, subordinate in rank to none but the High King of Narnia and to Aslan himself.

A centaur who had been horribly burnt by manticore-breath and stung several times lay on the edge of death… and then Aslan's breath fell upon him, and the burns melted away, and the venom vanished from within his veins, and he stood up. He bowed to the lion, retrieved his lance, and rejoined the fight.

Pete caught up to Aslan just as they reached the stone bridge over the river. "That was amazing," said Pete. "How in God's name are you able to do that?"

If a lion could smile, Aslan seemed to smile. "You have all the facts that you need to discern the truth. Use those vaunted powers of deduction you tout, and draw a logical conclusion."

"Well, you're not a shape-shifting lion, I'm pretty sure of that. And I don't think you're really a wizard either. So, you've got to be, like, a good spirit, or a demigod, or an angel in disguise. You're something like that, aren't you?"

"Something like that," said Aslan.

Then, from the south, Falon appeared, holding something large and ugly in his left hand, while the sword he bore in his right still dripped with black blood. When the hybrid came closer, Pete saw what it was: Falon bore a severed troll's head, which he held up by the tuft of scraggy hair on its brow.

"Where did you get that?" asked Pete.

"Took it from the troll," said Falon. "It was guarding the south tunnel. You should hope that General Penelope didn't run into one on the north side of the city as well."

Pete swallowed and had to agree. "I hope not."

"Come," said Aslan. "There is still one thing left to do. The enemy general awaits us in the fortress."

"Then let us invite him to come out," said Oreius with a wicked grin on his face. It was the most emotive that Pete had ever seen the centaur.

They moved up the avenue and approached the gates of the central fortress. Aslan stepped forward and bellowed, "Come forth, unclean spirit and minion of Jadis! Come forth, and meet your judgment!"

The doors to the fortress were made of riveted steel, with iron rings for handles. It would have ordinarily taken four or five centaurs to move one of those doors, but now, a single hand pushed them ajar from within. It was a red had, with sharpened black nails; and it was large, but closer in size to a troll's than a giant's. Then the massive doors swung all the way open, and the ten-foot-tall figure emerged from the shadows within. Now here, Pete realized, was the very figure of a devil from Western myth. His skin was bright red, and he had two great horns, curved like a ram's, on the top of his head. His maw was filled with sharp teeth, and flame flashed in his eyes. From the waist down, he was hairy, and his feet were cloven—like a faun, but a monstrous and aberrant imitation of one. A red tail with a spike on the end whipped back and forth behind him. He spoke: "I am Tartarucles, General of Her Majesty's armies in the Midlands of Narnia. Why do you come here and attack my city without provocation, O Lion of the East?"

"Be silent," Aslan commanded. At once, Tartarucles found that he could no longer speak—though from the look on his face, it was clear that he desperately wished to. Aslan continued, "Surrender. Order your soldiers to lay down their arms and give themselves up. Only when these are your next words will your voice be returned to you."

But the demon wouldn't have this. He gnashed his teeth and held out his claws and lunged bodily at Aslan. The great lion snarled and pounced, and in a move so dexterous and rapid that it could have been a blur to Pete's eyes, he tore out the throat of the demon called Tartarucles. In that one fell exchange, Jadis's general of the Midlands was slain.

With the sudden death of the devilish general, the rest of the forces defending Beruna fell apart. Many surrendered; many fled. Those that were able to escape the town headed for the hills to the north and west, in the direction of Table Hill, where it was said that the White Witch had another army camped.

Centaurs loyal to Aslan were overjoyed to reclaim their ancestral city again. Beruna, they vowed, would be strong and beautiful once more. Aslan would be remembered always, and the White Witch soon forgotten. Creon, who was eldest among the centaurs and therefore their most respected chief, had high praise for Count Peter and General Oreius, who were largely credited with the success of the attack.

Pete wondered at this, for Penelope had played her part as well, and she was Creon's own daughter. That set Pete to wondering where Penelope was… and in one dread moment, he came to fear the worst. In the aftermath of the battle, Pete learned that Penelope's company had been hit hard by a troll. He ran here and there among the loosely aggregated groups of dwarves and fauns, centaurs and beasts. He searched for familiar faces. Then he found Phineas, who was holding a crying Cynthia in his arms.

"Cynthia," said Pete, "what happened? Where's Penelope?"

The nymph looked up from Phineas with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks and shook her head at Peter. "I don't know," she said. "Nobody can find her. She's been lost."

Chapter Forty-Five

PETE felt his heart sink into his chest. This could not be happening! He couldn't lose another person who was so important—so necessary—to his mission in Narnia; to his continued sanity; and to his life. If Penelope were to die, Pete could not see himself carrying on as before. It would simply be too much. Death would seem to lurk around every corner, waiting to take away anybody that he grew close to. Anybody he foolishly allowed himself to care about.

After the battle, Pete had led a search along the banks of the Rush River north of Beruna. He assumed that if Penelope had fallen here and become lost, she would have been swept downstream with the current. Sure enough, they found her washed onto the banks, several hundreds of yards north of the city walls. But she had a grievous wound and one punctured lung, and she was barely alive. A few other centaurs—all of them from her old company, the rebels that had deserted the far western garrison with her—helped Pete to bear Penelope back to the city. Beruna's centaurs, it seemed, still wanted nothing to do with her.

And now Penelope rested comfortably on a bed of straw and linens, beneath a large tent that had been erected solely for the purpose of housing and tending to the wounded. She hadn't regained consciousness. Pete stood watch over her, and he saw her labored breathing, and he knew that he would do anything in his power to save her life.

He exited the tent.

Oreius waited outside. "How is she?" he asked.

"You care? That's really touching," said Pete evenly.

"She is my mate!" said Oreius. "And whether she has ever wanted me or not, I have always…" he paused, looked around, and said to Peter in a conspiratorial tone, "I have always cared about her well-being."

"Then you should go in there and see for yourself," said Pete. "She's in bad shape. I'm going to go find Aslan." Then he put his hand on Oreius's shoulder and said, "Hey, at least you're here. Where's her dad?"

"Creon will not come," said Oreius. "He is our chieftain, and Penelope has rejected our ways. If Creon makes an exception for his daughter, it reflects poorly on his position."

Pete was aghast. "Politics? That's why he won't come and stand by his own daughter? Good Lord, what's the matter with you people?"

Oreius sighed. "You do not understand our ways. To a centaur, honor is everything, and yet my mate has willfully trampled hers under-hoof. I wish…" He looked Pete in the eye and said with dead sincerity, "I wish that she were a better centaur."

Pete said, "You're wrong. She's the best of you." Then he stormed off to find the great lion.

Aslan returned to the medical tent with Pete. He had been out on the battlefield, doing everything in his power to heal the injured and wounded. There were many more here who were also on the brink of death, so it mattered little to Aslan where he worked—eventually, he would get around to everyone and help all that he could.

"In here," said Peter, leading Aslan to Penelope's bedside.

The lion stalked around Peter and looked down on Penelope. He seemed to be deep in thought.

"Can you save her?" asked Pete.

"Yes," said Aslan, "but not for you."

"I don't care what for, as long as you save her."

Aslan nodded. Then he let his breath fall upon the centauress, and her wound began to close.

Pete blinked the tears from his eyes. "Thanks," he said.

"Remember my words," said the lion. Then he continued throughout the tent, healing all of the remaining wounded here, before he went back out onto the battlefield.

Pete was in no mood to ponder riddles. He just stood by Penelope's side, waiting for her to awaken.

In the streets of Beruna, a celebration carried on. Entertainers, musicians, and purveyors of rich foods and drinks went everywhere, and most of the soldiers who fought for Aslan and the rebellion were gladdened by this festivity. It took the edge off of the darkness and ugliness that was so recent in their memories. Still, many a faun or dwarf or centaur could be seen brooding, thinking, or wondering that their fellows could stand to partake in a festival when so many of their comrades-in-arms yet lay dead on the fields outside the broken city-walls.

Creon had ordered the celebration to commemorate Beruna's liberation.

That chieftain of the centaurs, who many now called the Mayor of Beruna, sought out Pete. Four well-armed centaur knights, ostensibly his aides and protectors, followed behind. When Creon learned that the human who called himself Count of the Eastlands was in the medical tent and staying with his daughter, he marched straight there with unshaken purpose.

"Count Peter," he said, entering the large tent along with his escort, "I am told that Aslan has healed my daughter."

"Yes he has," said Pete. "You should be thankful."

"Oh, I am," said Creon. "It means that she will be able to leave with the others when you march for Table Hill on the morrow."

Pete's jaw dropped. He turned to face the elderly centaur and met him eye-to-eye. "If taking General Penelope out of here means getting her away from folks like you, I'm glad to do it. The sooner the better, in fact."

"I could not agree more," said Creon. "I can already tell that you will be a just and wise High King."

"Can you?" said Pete. "What's your problem, anyway?"

"Penelope has denied me my rights as her father, and she has defied tradition once too often," said Creon. "As the daughter of a chieftain, she should have known better. She should have been obedient, like her sisters, and acceded to my will. It was her place to set the best example. Instead, she has become the worst."

Pete stared contemptuously at Creon and said, "Get out of my face."

"Ordering me? You aren't king quite yet, Son of Adam," said Creon. But, nevertheless, he signaled to his knights, and the five centaurs left the tent.

Pete stood alone and marveled at what had just happened. "Holy crap on a cracker," he whispered. It was all too much.

And so Pete waited on into the night. Brenawen and Lumpkin came to visit in the evening, and they sat with Penelope and talked with Pete for an hour or so before they left. Falon came as well, but he only exchanged a few brief words with Pete, paid his due respects to the wounded general, and took his leave. Then the human was alone again, and eventually, even the nurses caring for the other wounded departed. Now Pete was all by himself, if you didn't count the sleeping and comatose patients that filled his surroundings.

Sometime after midnight, Penelope stirred. Then she awakened, blinked her eyes open, and saw Pete smiling down upon her. He came forward excitedly and said, "Penny! You're okay."

"Peter," she murmured. "I don't feel okay."

"You'll live, though. Aslan healed you."

The centauress smiled. "Aslan. It comforts me to know that he's with us."

Seconds passed by in silence. Penelope closed her eyes and rested back on the mat of straw. Then she opened her eyes again and said to Pete, "You're still here?"

"Didn't want to leave your side," said Pete.

"That's silly," said the centauress. "You just told me I'm going to be fine."

"Yeah… but, I have something else I need to tell you." Pete felt his cheeks grow warm, and he knew that he must have been blushing fiercely. But this was no time to lose courage. "I'm just going to go for broke and spit it out."

"Well? Out with it, then," said Penelope.

"I think I love you."

Penelope looked up at Pete in shock. Then she giggled. "I must be dreaming. Either that, or you're playing a very cruel joke."

"I'm completely serious," said Pete.

Penelope shook her head. "We've been over this, Peter. It couldn't work. We're too different."

"What, you mean that whole person/beast thing again? Excuse me if I don't buy into the received line of bigotry that you Narnians are so obsessed with, but it's going to be a cold day in hell before I believe that you're somehow 'lesser' than me."

Penelope fought to turn over on her side, grunted from the exertion, and propped her human torso up with her arms. "You deny that the difference between us is very great?"

"You know that I do."

"That's very noble," said Penelope, "but answer me this: if I were a talking horse, rather than a centaur, would we be having this conversation?"

"Hell no," said Pete. "But that's moot. You're not a talking horse. You are a centaur. That makes you at least half human, and it's human enough for me." He gently brushed Penelope's hair away from her cheek and caressed the side of her face. "Thank goodness it's the top half, too, because that lets me do this." He leaned down and softly kissed her lips.

Penelope pressed into the kiss and seemed to luxuriate in the sensation for just a moment… but then she pulled away and said, "No. I won't be this for you."

Pete was confused. "Be what?"

"Your second choice," said Penelope. "Would we be having this conversation… if Queen Taraiel were still alive?"

"That's not fair," said Pete. "I don't know where we would be if that were the case."

"Be honest," said Penelope.

"I don't know!" said Pete. "It didn't happen that way, so I don't know!"

"Then… we're done talking," said Penelope. "Please… leave me to rest. I'm going to need my strength tomorrow."

Pete pursed his lips together and fought to keep from exploding. Suddenly, he couldn't remember what he saw in Penelope that was so great. She was stubborn… and prideful… and she obviously didn't want him. "Fine," said Pete bitterly. "You know what? You win. I won't bug you anymore. But I know this much: Tara died. She was an elf, and she could've lived forever, but she died. It probably should've happened the other way around: we would've tried to make it work, but eventually, I'd get old and kick off, and then she'd be alone. Whatever happened, we were on the fast-track to a heartbreak. But, you know what? I would've wanted her to move on, find someone else, and be happy. And I know she'd want the same thing for me. So I moved on, and I put it behind me, and I let her go. Some of us have tomorrow to think about. I'll see you around, General."

Pete didn't look at Penelope again. He just left the tent. So he didn't see the tears that she struggled to hold back, and he never saw her give in and cry once she was alone. Penelope cursed her lot in life and rued the day that she had been born a centaur.

Pete was alone in his private tent. He tossed and turned on top of his bedroll, trying to find a comfortable position. Somehow, sleep continually evaded him. Every time he seemed about to drop off, he saw a face: Taraiel, Cliodhna, Jillian… He really couldn't take it anymore. Relationships and his life were oil and water. They didn't mix. And Pete was really done this time. He wouldn't even try anymore. He just couldn't take the thought of having his heart trampled on again. Narnia certainly didn't need a heartbroken king.

Then Pete heard singing outside the tent. Drunken singing, of the off-key and none-too-pleasant variety. He opened his eyes and strained his ears and tried to recognize the voice, but he couldn't. So he rose from his bed, exited the tent, and looked around.

There was Phineas, stumbling left and right, an empty ale-mug in his hand. It appeared that he was heavily inebriated. "Lor' Pe'er," slurred the faun, "I's real good ta see you!" He stumbled forward (still managing to maintain that uncanny, mountain-goatish balance on his two hooves), threw his arm around Pete, and breathed the scent of spirits into the human's face.

"You're pissed," said Pete. "Smashed. Wasted. High."

"Intoxicated," agreed Phineas with a nod and a grin. "Intoffle-cated. Inflibber-gated… Peter! Something wonderf'l! Something fan… taftic has happened!"

"What's that, buddy?" said Pete, trying to help Phineas sit down on the ground.

The faun rolled back, kicked his hooves up into the air, and said, "Cynthia… my Cynthia… you know my beautiful Cynthia?"

"Sure, pal. What about Cynthia?"

Phineas was about to say something, but then he turned pale and a little green in the face. He twisted to one side and vomited, which caused Pete to wrinkle his nose in disgust. Phineas wiped off his mouth with the side of the ale-mug, stared down confusedly at the puddle of filth, and then smiled and said, "She did that."

"She did what? Puked?"

Phineas grinned dumbly and nodded. "Y'know what that means?"

"Uh… she's drunk too?"

Phineas suddenly became angry and tried to stand up, but he couldn't. So he fell back down again and sat cross-legged. "She'd better not! Can't drink like this when you're wif' child. Not good for the baby."

Pete's eyes widened. "Cynthia… is having a baby? She's pregnant?"

Phineas nodded and offered Pete the spew-soiled mug. "Yes! My buddy, this is cause to celebrate… to celebrate, and… and… have a drink or two! Or ten!"

"I think you're all done celebrating," said Pete. "Come on, Finny, ol' pal, let's get you put to bed." As Pete helped Phineas to rise, he added, "By the way… congratulations, 'dad.'"

Chapter Forty-Six

TABLE Hill was an unusual feature of Narnia's geography. On the western edge of the central pains, this lone hill rose from the ground like a gigantic upside-down bowl. At the top of the hill, a ring of stones—a henge, really—surrounded a flat slab of stone, an ancient altar of sorts that dated back to the Elder Days. This was the Stone Table, an artifact that was said to be inscribed with incantations of the Deep Magic itself. Not pleas and requests to the Deep Magic, like the bard-songs of the sea-people, but true invocations that summoned the very Power of Narnia.

Jadis had kept the Stone Table well-guarded for nine-hundred years. It used to be that a path of solid ice and packed snow, ideal for sleighs and sleds, ran between Table Hill and Jadis's own icy palace in the northwest. An army could travel between the two locations in a week. But no more: for Pete had sat in the throne, and the spell of endless winter was gone. It was only the height of autumn yet, and the first frost of the next natural winter hadn't formed. With green grass and brown leaves carpeting the land, Jadis's army wasn't likely going anywhere. They waited at Table Hill: the White Witch's last bastion of military strength in Narnia.

Aslan led his people in a great convoy through the wilderness. The army had everything they needed to transfer their camp to a new location. Many had remained behind in Beruna: the wounded who weren't hale enough to travel yet; centaurs who wished to see their city restored; and a detachment of dwarves and fauns who waited there in reserve, to help guard the freed city and the surrendered enemy soldiers. For the most part, though, the whole host of loyal Narnians followed Aslan. Victory seemed at hand, and they were eager to see it through to the end.

Phineas, once he had sobered and paid for his binge with a fearsome hangover, had begged Cynthia to remain in Beruna; but the dryad simply wouldn't have it. She set out for Table Hill along with Phineas, Pete, and everybody else. "I'm with child, not dying!" she pronounced. "And I'm not that far along yet!"

"Very well, but you'll not risk anymore scouting or fighting!" Phineas insisted. "You must remain with the camp from this moment forth."

Cynthia tried to protest and argue for her usefulness, but Pete agreed. "It's too dangerous. I can't let you put the kid at risk, Kiddo. Phineas would never forgive me."

Cynthia didn't like it, but she assented to their wishes at last.

"By the way," Pete asked while they marched, "I never asked, can you tell whether the kid will be an ordinary faun or nymph, or some kind of hybrid, like Falon?"

"Oh, it will be a faun, no doubt," said Cynthia. "Whenever a dryad has a child, it always belongs to the father's race." Her condition hadn't even begun to show yet, but she kept her hand on her belly as she spoke of children.

"Uh… okay," said Pete. "Then… where do baby dryads come from?"

Cynthia seemed at a loss to explain. Then, after thinking about it, she said, "Young dryads are only born to hamadryads who mate with a Hidden One."

"What's a Hidden One?" asked Pete.

"They are the males of my race," said Cynthia.

"I didn't think that there were guy nymphs."

"There aren't. But after a certain age—many centuries, I mean—dryads change. We don't grow old and die as you do. We transform—into hamadryads. We become more like trees."

Pete blinked. "You're going to turn into a tree?"

"Someday," said Cynthia. "And I won't really be a tree. I'll just look like one. I'll still be me."

"But… you'll have roots, and bark, and leaves?"

"Yes," said the nymph. "And if a Hidden One comes along, a male tree that speaks and moves—"

"Oh!" said Pete. "Like an ent!"

"Um… I don't know what an 'ent' is," said Cynthia, "but the Hidden Ones are like awakened trees. And if one of them chooses me for a mate, then I will be able to have dryad children."

"So, for now, you and Finny will only have little fauns for kids," said Pete. "They'll all be half kid, and half… well, kid."

"Very amusing," said Phineas with a roll of his eyes. "Though I'm not sure that I appreciate this frank discussion regarding all of the many children that Cynthia will have in the centuries following my eventual demise."

Cynthia giggled and planted a kiss on Phineas's button-nose. "Silly Finny," she said. "As long as I'm still a dryad, you know that I'll only love you. You and our children."

"So," said Pete to Phineas, "are you going to make an honest woman out of her yet, or do you both still mean to wait until the war is over?"

"We'll wed when we return to Cair Paravel," said Cynthia. "Once a crown sits upon your head, Count Peter, then Phineas can put a bridal wreath on mine."

The army of the rebellion made camp on the fields beneath Table Hill. All of the tents were pitched quickly, and the soldiers unpacked the gear and supplies. They needed to be ready for battle on a moment's notice—there was no telling how soon the forces of Jadis would come sweeping out of the enemy camp to attack them.

Yet, the next morning, though the White Witch's camp could be seen across the open field at the foot of the great hill, her soldiers there did not array themselves for an attack. Instead, a small party of furry quadrupeds could be seen making their way out of the opposite camp and coming towards that of Aslan and the rebels. As they neared, Pete could make out fur of gray and white. And then he saw what kinds of animals they were: a pack of wolves, running in escort of a white-furred polar bear. Not long after that, a speck of white and blue and black on the back of the polar bear resolved itself into something else altogether: a woman, riding upon its back.

She was a stately woman, ageless and beautiful, and she rode side-saddle (for the bear had both saddle and bridle). Her hair was dark, like raven-feathers, and she wore a crown of gold. A silver wand rested in the crook her arm, cradled there like a precious babe, while with her other hand she held the reins of the great bear.

"Who the heck is that?" asked Pete.

Aslan circled around the human from behind and said, "That is Jadis, the White Witch herself."

Pete felt his heart thudding in his chest. This was Jadis? Their Enemy, right here, and in the flesh? He was about to stand face-to-face with his long-unseen adversary, a powerful witch who had tried time and again to have Pete killed? He felt sweat forming on his forehead, and his hands shook. Slowly, he reached for one of his pistols.

Aslan growled softly and said, "Do not. She comes here under a truce, and we will not show such duplicity as to break it."

The wolves ran in circles around the queen, slobbering and snapping their jaws. They cleared a path for the polar bear steed, and the rebel Narnians gave Jadis's lackeys a wide berth. The White Witch tugged on her reins, pulling the bear to a rough halt. Then she gracefully leapt out of the saddle, looked directly at Pete, and smiled—poignantly ignoring Aslan all the while. Yes, the queen was beautiful to look at, but she was cold and stern, and her eyes were empty. (Even Jada had had the glimmer of a soul in her, Pete realized now; but Jadis was devoid of anything human, save her womanlike appearance). With a voice that oozed seduction and seemed to promise all the delights and knowledge of the world, she said, "Peter, dear! It's so good to meet you at last! I've heard so much about your heroic deeds and exploits that I feel as if I know you already. Why, we're practically good friends."

Pete nodded approvingly. "Not bad. Have you heard the one about the priest, the midget, and the transvestite who walk into a bar?"

Jadis broadened her smile. "Ah. That must be the famous Pevensie wit that I've heard so much about. I must confess my disappointment; I was expecting to be impressed."

"That's only because I haven't used my best material yet," said Pete. "I must've been thinking about that one joke, where the human from New York screwed over your slave-trading deal with the Terebinthians." Pete snapped his fingers. "Wait, I know! How about the one where he got rid of your vampire, took over Cair Paravel, and sat in the High King's Throne? Somebody, please, stop me if you've heard these before."

Jadis's composure faltered, but only for a millisecond. She cleared her throat, plastered that condescending smile on her face again, and said, "Yes, you did defeat my champion. Cair Paravel, at least, is rightfully yours, O magnificent—"

Pete interrupted again. "You know what's really magnificent? The fact that I haven't shot you, and that it's only because Aslan asked me to be nice and hear you out."

The witch suddenly glared at Aslan, acknowledging him for the first time. She smiled coyly at the lion and purred, "Good kitty."

Aslan growled. "Did you have a point in coming here, witch, or do you mean to banter with empty words until Dünya's sun turns old and red?"

Jadis feigned hurt. "But I do so enjoy these pleasantries," she sighed. "Oh, well. We shall dispense with the sport and move onto business, then. First, I've come with an offer for Peter the Conqueror, rightful Count of the Eastlands."

Pete snorted. "This ought to be good."

"I assure you, it's very good," said Jadis. "My beloved daughter, Princess Jada, Duchess of the Northlands—whose holdings adjoin yours, Peter, via the Ettinsmoor—has locked herself away in her palace. She refuses to see or be seen by anyone. She pines for you, dear Peter, and I believe her to be in love. So I've come to negotiate on her behalf."

"Negotiate what?" said Pete.

"A marriage proposal, of course. Take my daughter's hand, Count Peter, and all this messy war can come to an end. You will have Jada for your wife eternal, and you will be Duke of the Northlands and Crown Prince of all Narnia."

Pete gaped. Then he snickered. Then the snickers became snorts, and the snorts became guffaws, and the guffaws gave chuckles the slip and passed straight onto rip-roarious laughter. "Now that's comedy," chortled Pete. "Congrats, Witchiepoo. You win the Oscar for 'funniest line ever spoken in Narnia by leading villain.' But… I'm going to have to say no to your generous, bullshit offer. Because, jeez, lady, you've got even bigger nads than Queen Morrigan to try and pull that one again! Brownie points for sheer moxie, though."

Jadis stood stock-still and frowned in the face of Pete's mockery. "You refuse, then?"

"Uh, I hate to break this to you, but Jada already tried the 'tempting devil's bargain' routine. Been there, done that, got the frigging t-shirt."

"Very well," said Jadis. "Princess Jada will be ever so disappointed when she hears of this. To the next matter, then. I had hoped that it wouldn't have to come to this…"

"You try my patience, Queen of Narnia," rumbled Aslan.

Unperturbed, Jadis continued, "As you know, the Deep Magic from Before the Dawn of Time grants a special privilege to the race of witches. Traitors, betrayers, and breakers of sacred oaths—they belong to me. They are my prey, to torment and destroy in the name of right and fitting justice."

Aslan growled again, even more deeply this time. "I know the Deep Magic as you never will, witch. So don't even bother accusing the human—the only one he ever slighted was me, and I've already given him absolution for it."

Jadis seemed surprised by this, but she recovered quickly. "As you say. Lumpkin the dwarf, then—"

"Nice try," cut in Pete, "but he only tried to sell me out. Then he turned the tables and saved my ass."

"I refer, of course, to the cause of his exile," said Jadis. "He broke an oath made before his whole people when he taught forbidden knowledge to a Black Dwarf."

Aslan said, "Lumpkin made another oath, one more sacred because it was spoken in my name, when he bound himself to that Black Dwarf in marriage. Past, present, or future, he is held to no promise more important than that—not even a promise to keep old secrets."

When Aslan said this, a cheer rose up from among the Red Dwarves in his army, for they hailed Lumpkin and Brenawen as their rulers, and they wouldn't stand to see their king accused by the witch.

Pete smirked. "Good luck finding one Red Dwarf in this crowd who thinks Lumpkin is a traitor to his people. Anymore bright ideas, Your Majesty?"

Jadis sneered at Peter and said, "Yes, in fact I have." Then she uttered the one name that Pete was praying she wouldn't: "Penelope of Beruna."

"No way," said Pete. "Not a snowball's chance am I gonna let you take Penny for some spooky Deep Magic trick!"

"It's no trick!" said Jadis. As she spoke, Penelope came forth from the rebels' ranks, and Oreius followed closely behind her. The witch continued, "The Deep Magic knows only right and wrong, just and unjust, innocence and guilt. It demands the blood of the guilty—and if does not get what it demands, then all of Dünya must be unmade, and it will perish in fire and water!"

Pete turned to Aslan. "Is this true?"

Aslan nodded. "The witch speaks the truth. The justice of the Deep Magic is perfect and inviolate. It brooks no sin, no matter how venial."

"How can you call that 'perfect,' if it demands the death of good people who make one mistake?" shouted Pete.

Aslan said nothing, but looked at Pete sadly.

Pete sighed. "All right," he said to Jadis, "what do you think Penelope's done?"

"She was a soldier in my army," said Jadis. "She—"

"Got shanghaied by your people," said Pete. "Duress. Doesn't count."

"But when she left Beruna in the first place," said Jadis, "she was yet bound to another. She reneged on an oath to her family, and to this brave warrior." She indicated Oreius, who cast his eyes to the ground.

Penelope shook her head. "There was no oath! I owe my people nothing!"

"Speak, Orieus," said Jadis. "Tell us whether or not you feel betrayed by your wife, who deserted you and fought for me—and who now follows not you, but the Son of Adam."

The centaur looked to Penelope, to Pete, to Aslan.

"Don't you dare," hissed Pete.

Oreius spoke, and his voice was laced with shame. "Jadis speaks the truth. Penelope has betrayed me, and she has betrayed her father. I love her, but so help me, it's the truth."

Pete turned to Aslan and said, "Stop this! Can't you see that it's all just a scam to get at us and mess with our heads? Isn't there anything you can do?"

Aslan nodded. "Yes, something can be done. Another can stand in place of the traitor and pay for her crime."

"What?" said Pete. Then he looked at Penelope… and he knew what he had to do.

Penelope saw the look in Pete's eyes, and she recognized it at once. It was that damned nobility of his, coming to the fore again. "No, Peter!" she said. "Don't you speak one word; don't you take one step! I have done these things. I must pay for them."

"It's not right," said Pete through gritted teeth. "It's not fair."

"Life rarely is," cooed the White Witch. "Come, lady centaur. We must bring you to the Stone Table."

"Wait," said Aslan. The lion turned to Pete and said, "Do you remember what I told you when we first met, when we spoke of your destiny and Queen Jadis?"

Pete nodded. "You said that I wouldn't be the one to kill her."

"Remember that," said Aslan, "and have faith. Jadis," he growled, now facing the witch, "you will not touch the centaur. She is dear to someone who is dear to me, and so another will stand in her place."

"But, who?" asked Jadis. "Who can possibly match the value of a traitor like her in the eyes of the Deep Magic?"

"I will," said Aslan.

Cries of shock and horror and "No!" and "Aslan!" echoed all around. Pete stared at the lion, wishing that he had the courage to step up and take his place; but he knew that no one else there would let him. There had to be a Son of Adam to rule after Jadis.

Penelope was horrified and humbled. She simply couldn't fathom why Aslan would sacrifice himself for her pitiful sake. But, she supposed, if he was doing it for Peter…

The White Witch smiled. "Done."

Chapter Forty-Seven

ASLAN had commanded his people not to follow, and so they remained in the camp. Even Pete couldn't muster the heart to defy this last order of Aslan's. The human knew that if he had asked it of the Narnians, they might have gathered their arms and marched on Table Hill to force Jadis to give Aslan up. But Pete couldn't bring himself to go against Aslan's wishes. So they watched. The view from the rebels' camp wasn't much to speak of. It was impossible to make out the Stone Table itself, or to tell what was going on—but when night fell, they saw the lights of many torches, and they heard eerie noises—chanting, and the beating of drums, and mocking chatter. This cacophony drifted down over the plains, rising to a crescendo at midnight exactly, before it stopped. Silence ruled for a minute—and then the ranks of the Enemy erupted in jubilance and celebration.

And when morning came again, Aslan did not return to them.

If Penelope had been shunned before, she was positively ostracized now. Nobody would speak with her—none of the knights from her company, none of her former traveling companions, not Oreius, not Pete. She was left alone to brood by herself and to wallow in self-imposed misery and self-loathing cowardice. She couldn't understand: why would Aslan give himself up to save her? For Peter's sake, obviously. But she still wasn't worth that much in the grand scheme of things. If her life wasn't worth Peter's, it certainly wasn't worth Aslan's.

When dawn came, and Aslan never reappeared, Pete gathered several of his officers to him: Oreius, Phineas, Falon, Lumpkin, and Brenawen. He hadn't slept all night. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and he scowled more than usual. "I think Aslan's gone," said Pete.

"Impossible," said Falon. "Can't be. He's Aslan."

"Whatever he was, he's not here," said Pete. "We need to deal with Jadis ourselves."

"Where's Penelope?" asked Oreius.

"Don't know," said Pete. "And right now, I don't much care. So, General Oreius, you're going to work with Colonels Falon and Brenawen, and you're going to devise our battle-plan. We've got to take that hill. In the meantime, everybody else who stayed up all night, like yours truly did: take what rest you can. We'll attack as soon as we can—at dusk."

The mood in the camp was beyond somber. With Aslan gone, it seemed as if their hopes for victory had already been dashed. The scouts who had been sent to spy on the enemy camp returned, and their news was dire. This army of Jadis's was composed almost entirely of fearsome monsters: trolls and manticores, harpies and hags, chimerae and cerberi, devils and dragons. Even with Pete's artillery, nobody had much hope of defeating an army like that. But still, they had to try. This was the last battle. All of Jadis's strength was gathered on that hill, and Pete and all his Narnian allies were camped right here. This confrontation would have to decide the fate of Narnia.

At high noon, the witch's camp stirred. Something else came forth from among the enemy: a chariot, drawn by a manticore and a three-headed cerberus dog. Nobody drove the chariot, but something tied with ropes dragged behind it. The Narnians couldn't tell what it was… until it crossed the field at the foot of Table Hill and approached their own camp.

Pete was roused from his restless mid-morning attempt at sleep by a couple of faun soldiers. They took him from his tent and brought him before General Oreius and the other officers. They were gathered on the edge of the camp, watching the chariot draw near. Even from here, Pete could see what it was dragging through the dust: the corpse of a lion.

Pete shut his eyes tightly. It had happened, then. Jadis had killed Aslan to appease the Deep Magic. Pete silently cursed whatever unknown supernatural being it was that had woven such a fell and bloodthirsty power into the fabric of this universe. Aslan had been strict, and strange, and cryptic, and distant… but he had been good. He had cared. He had loved his people enough to sacrifice his own life for one of them. And it had been a half-beast that Aslan had given himself up for: one of the supposed "lesser" races. Perhaps, Pete thought, he had misjudged Aslan and his Emperor. Maybe they cared about all the races of this world, and it was the Narnians themselves who had misinterpreted things. Oh, well. Whatever the truth, it was pointless now. Aslan was dead.

But Penelope… thinking about her left a sour taste in Pete's mouth. Oh, to be sure, he didn't believe for one second that she was guilty of any kind of betrayal. But she had been awfully quick to step aside when Aslan had offered up his own life for hers. And to think, Pete had been prepared to do the same.

Now the chariot came to a halt, and the two monstrous beasts simply stood still and waited. They didn't attack; whether or not they could speak, they didn't say anything. They just waited for the Narnians to approach and retrieve Aslan's body.

Pete nodded, and he and Oreius and Falon and Phineas went out onto the field to go get him.

What they found when they got there made Pete sick to his stomach. Aslan had been shorn of all his fur, and there were marks from whips and blades on his skin. He had been humiliated and tortured before his death.

"He didn't deserve this," said Pete.

"No," agreed Oreius. "He did not."

Pete approached the body to untie it from the chariot. As soon as he undid the knots, the manticore and the cerberus took off at a run and pulled the chariot away from the rebel camp, back toward the witch's ranks. Pete didn't care. He wasn't paying any attention to the monsters or the chariot. He was staring at a scrap of parchment which had been grotesquely pinned to one of Aslan's paws. With shaking hands, he pulled it free. Scrawled on the parchment was a single word: "Predictable."

That afternoon, Penelope finally worked up the courage to go find Peter. The human was standing in front of a great cairn of rocks, which he had ordered piled over Aslan's body to serve as the lion's tomb. The centauress approached Pete from behind and cleared her throat.

Pete glanced back her. "What do you want, General?"

Penelope's voice was weak, almost a whisper. "Actually, I wish to resign my commission. Nobody would follow me as a general now. They all blame me for Aslan's death."

"Yes they do," said Pete. "And I accept your resignation."

Penelope swallowed and choked back a sob. "You blame me as well?"

Pete didn't say anything for a long while. Then he said, "No. No, not really. The witch could've decided to go after any one of us. It could've been me, it could've been Lumpkin, but it just so happened that she played you for the patsy." He held up the parchment scrap which he had taken off of Aslan's body. "Jadis was just toying with all of us. She set us up, and we fell for it."

Penelope shook her head and said, "This is all my fault. I've betrayed my own kind, and Aslan paid the price!"

Pete didn't reply to that. He just stared at the makeshift tomb. Somehow, it didn't seem worthy of the fallen lion.

Finally, Penelope said, "Peter… I saw it in your eyes. When Jadis wanted to take me. You were ready to offer yourself in my place, and… I just want to say…"

"Don't, Penny," said Pete. "Really don't."

"Please, listen," said the centauress. "I've… I've thought a great deal about what you said to me before, after Beruna. And perhaps I was short with you. I might have been wrong to cast aside your feelings so quickly."

Pete just shook his head. "Perhaps? Might have? Maybe you should have thought about that before you shot me out of the saddle!"

"But… I need to tell you, Peter… about how I feel…" Confused and distraught, she leaned in close to Peter and tried to embrace him.

"Oh, that's rich!" said the human, pushing her away. "You stepped on my heart, and now you want a second chance? No; I don't think so. You had your chance, and you blew me off."

"You said that you loved me," said Penelope, letting the tears flow freely now.

"And you were less than enthused," said Pete. "What was the matter? Afraid that a puny little human wouldn't measure up to a male from your own species?"

Penelope was shocked into silence.

"You know, now that I think about it, I can't imagine what must've been going through my head," said Pete. "Because, trust me on this, I wouldn't touch that furry backside of yours with a ten-foot pole."

The centauress wiped her eyes and tried to maintain some of her dignity in the face of Pete's insulting vulgarity; but it was a lost cause. "Tell me," she said, her voice cracking, "why is it that only you, Peter, have the power to hurt me with nothing but your words?"

Pete shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care. But I can see that you need some time to pull yourself together. And who can blame you? Between your father… and your husband… and Aslan giving himself up to die for you… I can see how that would screw somebody up real good."

"I see," said Penelope, nodding and blinking away the tears. "You've made yourself quite clear, Lord Peter. I'm glad that I no longer serve you as an officer. And I shan't risk disgusting you again with my unwanted advances."

"Just so we're clear," said Pete.

When Penelope left him, she seemed on the brink of an emotional breakdown. And Pete really didn't feel a thing.

Evening came, and the Narnians marched to battle. They arrayed themselves in great ranks and columns, and they crossed the open field. At the foot of Table Hill, the soldiers of Jadis lined up in opposition. There were great packs of foul beasts: lion-like manticores and triple-headed hell-dogs. There were whole regiments of trolls, armed with naught but their hide and their claws, for that was all they needed to be fearsome forces of slaughter on the battlefield. Overhead, there flew flocks of harpies and huge, red-scaled dragons that breathed gouts of flaming breath. And down on the ground, here and there among the lesser troops, great horn-headed and red-skinned devils stalked between the columns and barked orders in some guttural, occult tongue.

Jadis herself was not seen among these warriors. Instead, she waited at the top of the hill, standing on the Stone Table in presupposed triumph. Her army was the greater by far: Pete and his forces had no chance. She knew it, and she only needed to wait for the inevitable end.

Pete had learned a tough lesson in Beruna: running into battle on foot while wearing armor was a tiring prospect. So now he sat astride a brown stallion, a talking horse by the name of Phillip. Pete wasn't all that skilled at fighting from horseback, but he figured that Phillip would be smart enough to guide himself, and Pete could just focus on combat. Oreius stood at his side, and he awaited Pete's permission. Penelope was there as well, in spite of the harsh words that had lately passed between them. She might have given up her command, but she wasn't about to shirk the battle. Elsewhere, Phineas and Falon stood among the ranks, and Lumpkin and Brenawen stood ready to command the guns.

Pete nodded to Oreius, and the centaur general shouted the order. He leveled his lance and charged, and the other knights followed him up the hill. Then came the animals and the fauns and the elves and the nymphs, bringing teeth and claws and muskets and swords and bows. Brenawen called for cannon to fire, and thunder rocked the hillside.

The trolls charged into the fray and swept rebel soldiers aside in droves. Manticores breathed fire from the ground, and dragons strafed with flame from the air. Harpies rained down arrows. The devils, Jadis's commanders, charged gleefully into the mêlée and slew without compunction, for they were impervious to ordinary weapons—not because their hide was tough, like the trolls, but because they were infernal creatures with nothing to fear from any mortal attack. Fauns and centaurs, dwarves and nymphs, elves and beasts… many died, and quickly—and this time, many wounded would join them before the night was out, since Aslan would not be there to heal them. Dragons swooped down from the sky and broke apart the brass cannon, sending the dwarven artillerists scurrying for cover. The power of Jadis was overwhelming, and all was surely lost.

But something strange happened when the sun finally dropped all the way down beneath the horizon, and blackest night fell at last.

A lone figure appeared on the northeast corner of the battlefield. He wore black armor, and he carried an iron sword. He walked toward the hill, making directly for the unholy and terrible soldiers of Jadis. He accelerated to a jog, and then to a run, and then he sprinted at the witch's army… and as he ran, he seemed to multiply. Another man appeared next to him, and then another, and then several more… but these weren't armored. Their exposed skins were wrinkled and desiccated, like ancient corpses. Out of the very night itself, cold mist coalesced into the shapes of the undead, those frightful monsters with the semblance of human beings. They crashed into the witch's army's easternmost flank, and they swept through the ranks, killing with ease.

From atop the Stone Table, Jadis could be heard shouting orders in a language that only her devils seemed to understand. As she commanded her officers from afar, the undead brought down manticores and cerberi and trolls without suffering very many casualties at all. Only the dragons and the demons, it seemed, possessed sufficient strength to destroy the soldiers of Sir Baelin—for this, indeed, was the Black Knight who had so suddenly come upon the battle and turned the tide against Jadis.

Responding to the orders of their queen, the devils and the dragons and all the other enemy soldiers turned their attention to the undead. They breathed and burned and hacked and bit, and Sir Baelin's corpse-foe responded in kind, shooting and cutting and draining the very life-force away from those that they touched. As the battle dragged on, the Narnian rebels pressed the fight, but they mattered little by this point: nearly half of the rebels had fallen already, and the soldiers of Jadis and Baelin were intent on destroying each other.

Pete, astride his steed Phillip, kept pace with the centaurs. He made sure that Oreius and Penelope were at his side always. They fought fiercely, beating off the great monsters of Jadis as best they were able; but one by one, the centaur knights who followed them were slain or wounded, and fell away from the charge. At last, they three alone won through the line and found themselves on the slope of Table Hill. Nothing stood between them and Jadis… except Sir Baelin, who was running up the hillside on foot, shouting out the name of the White Witch.

"Jadis!" he cried. "Jadis, I've come for you! Your doom is upon you at last, O fiend! O foul, corrupt thing! Jadis, you witch, I owe you my vengeance!"

"There!" shouted Pete. "Go after him!" He spurred Phillip, which the horse rather resented. But the steed ran after Sir Baelin anyway, bearing Pete as fast as he could manage. Penelope and Oreius followed.

The Black Knight made it to the top of the hill. Jadis stood alone atop the altar to the Deep Magic. "Baelin, my love," she said. "It's been so long. Seven centuries, at least."

"A pox on your false words!" said the knight. "You shall not tempt me again!"

Pete reined Phillip to a halt behind Baelin, and he leapt down from the horse and ran up to him. "Sir Baelin! Wait!"

The Black Knight spun around and saw Peter, Oreius, and Penelope. "Peter!" said Baelin. "Stay back! The White Witch is mine!"

"We can help," said Pete, taking up his sword in two hands. "But if you want last crack at her, be my guest."

Jadis stepped down from the Stone Table, brandishing no weapon but her silver wand. "Oh, Peter, Peter," she said, "you really are a fool. You delivered Aslan into my hands, and I didn't even have to try."

"Don't listen to her!" said Baelin. "Her words are honey and vinegar, and she can make them seem like either as she pleases!" He pointed his own sword threateningly at Jadis, and the witch made no move to approach.

"You killed Aslan!" said Pete. "You did terrible things to him, and you killed him—and he wasn't guilty of anything!"

"Wasn't he?" asked Jadis. "You don't know what kind of creature he was. An agent of his father, the Emperor-across-the-Sea, who demands unwavering faith and loyalty. Yet he remains in the uttermost east, unseen, unwilling to fight or dirty his hands, drinking up the blood of those who die in his name. Those who rebel against him are given to me by his own decree, for the Emperor, dear Peter, is the one who wrote the Deep Magic."

"What?" said Peter, startled.

"Yes," said the witch. "The Emperor in the East is he who demanded the blood of your beloved Penelope, and his thirst could only be slaked by her death—or the death of his one and only son. What kind of vile being is this, that he demands such fidelity, and yet he allows this crime—this sin—to take place?"

Pete stared at the witch, dumbfounded. Everything she said… it made sense… it might be true…

Sir Baelin turned to Peter and slapped him across the cheek. "Do not listen to the witch!" he said. "She has the power to peer into your memories, to play games with your mind! She's probably doing it right now!"

"She was doing it at the camp," said Pete in sudden realization. "You weren't there to parley or negotiate! You were there to get close to me, so that you could read my mind!"

Jadis smiled. "At last, a spark of intelligence shines forth. You should think about what I've told you, Peter. Consider carefully whose side you want to be on: a distant Emperor who cannot be pleased? Who makes impossible demands and sets unreachable goals, all aimed at controlling your lives and denying you your free will? Or will you listen to me? For I live in the real world, and I can see the gray between the black and white, and I am happy to forgive small sins."

"Lying witch!" cried Baelin. "If you will not silence your own tongue, I shall cut it out of your wretched mouth!" The knight lowered his sword, and he charged… and Jadis calmly reached out and touched him with her wand. Sir Baelin cried out in surprise and agony, but there was nothing he could do. Where the witch's wand touched his chest, he petrified, and the spell of stone spread throughout his body. In mere seconds, Sir Baelin was a statue, dead and unmoving.

"No!" cried Pete, charging after Baelin. He held his heavy sword and swung it up over his head, meaning to bring it crashing down on the White Witch. As she had done with Baelin, Jadis waited for Pete to come closer, her wand pointed to touch this second human, the only remaining threat to her power…

"Peter!" cried Penelope. The centauress galloped with all her speed, and she interposed herself between Pete and the witch. If Jadis was surprised by this, she didn't show it. In fact, having seen into Pete's past, she probably expected this very outcome… and so it was with relish that she touched her wand to Penelope of Beruna and petrified the centauress as well.

Pete stopped in his tracks. "Penelope?" he cried. She was a statue, dead and gone for all Pete knew. "Penny… no…"

"Nooo!" came another cry, louder than any yet. Oreius too charged the witch in his fury, and he was a canny warrior. He swung his lance in front of himself with all his might, and the witch held up her wand to guard herself. Then something happened that Jadis never expected: Oreius crashed into the magical device with such force that it shattered into a million tiny crystals, like snowflakes. Deprived of her defense, the witch scrambled away from the furious centaur and clambered back on top of the Stone Table again. The stain from Aslan's dried blood still remained on the surface of the table, underneath the witch's feet.

"Defilers and simpletons!" said the witch. She seethed with fury and no longer pretended at kindliness. "This night, you have sealed your fate! Aslan is dead. Your army is all but destroyed. And I stand here, undefeated! I am eternal! And you, Peter, will never be High King of Narnia! Remember this, and remember what I have revealed to you—for the Emperor-across-the-Sea will not save you, and you will curse his name and Aslan's before I have done with you!"

The witch looked up to the sky, and so did Pete and Oreius. A great red-scaled wyrm beat its wings and soared for the hilltop. Jadis stretched up her hands… and allowed the dragon to catch her in its claws. The enormous beast bore her away through the air, leaving Pete and Oreius alone to morn all the many soldiers—and dear friends—that they had lost.

Chapter Forty-Eight

IN the wake of a battle like the one at Table Hill, the old Pete Pevensie—the regular joe, the NYPD detective, the man who had never really been in love, and who didn't believe in magic—the old Pete might have had a breakdown. He might have fallen to his knees and screamed to the heavens, why, why was he made to experience all this loss and witness all this death? But not the Pete Pevensie who had been tortured and fooled; who had laughed on his deathbed; who had destroyed an island with fire; who had survived skirmish and battle many times over; and who had loved and lost more than anybody ought to. This Pete gazed on the petrified faces of Penelope and Baelin and gave himself over to revenge. All around him, on the hillside, on the field, the dead were beyond count. Soldier of Peter, of Aslan, of Jadis, of Baelin—it mattered not. All were dead.

When Baelin had been petrified, the undead were without a master, and their actions became confused and directionless. Without orders from the mind of a necromancer, they existed in the world of the living without drive or purpose. The White Witch's soldiers might have been able to take advantage of that confusion, but their own mistress had fled not long thereafter. Only the Narnian rebels retained any cohesion, and they rallied for a final push against the devils of Jadis. The White Witch's ranks were broken, and the monsters fled west, into the wilds. As for Baelin's undead, they wandered aimlessly, attacking anybody who came near them, but leaving unmolested all who likewise left them alone. And when the sun came up the next morning, they vanished, never to rise again in this era of the world.

Pete and Oreius picked their way through the remains. It would take a long time to tend to the dead, but there were yet soldiers left alive to do that undesirable work. They searched for a long time before they found Lumpkin and Brenawen: both dwarves were alive and unharmed, though they had lost many of their kin; and nearly all of Pete's guns had been destroyed by dragon-fire. Falon, too, had held his own in battle: the half-elf, half-hobgoblin stood atop a pile of corpses, troll and manticore and even demon. But Phineas was another matter.

The former Marchwarden, the colonel in command of all the fauns, was gravely wounded. So many of his kind were dead all around him, and Phineas had lain among them. He might have been passed over, if he hadn't chanced to groan in his delirium when Pete and the other officers came by searching. Phineas's left leg had been run through, and his side was pierced—but he lived yet, though for how much longer, Pete couldn't predict. With Aslan gone, they had to make do with old-fashioned battlefield surgery to preserve his life. Thankfully, many elves and nymphs were skilled at binding wounds, and Phineas received the first of their attentions. But after him, so many others remained on the field who needed the aid of healers.

This Pete Pevensie was too jaded to sympathize with the fallen. He was alive, and he had work to do.

"How are you holding up, old buddy?" Back at the rebels' campsite, inside one of the officers' tents, Pete stood by while Cynthia tended to Phineas's wounds.

"I'm still weak," whispered the faun. "Must be the loss of blood. But don't worry about me. I won't let myself slip away. I have too much to live for." He cast a doleful look at Cynthia, whose hand once again drifted down to hover over her stomach.

The dryad smiled softly. "More like you're too stubborn to let yourself die," she said. "And thank goodness for that."

"I'm glad you're pulling through," said Pete. "We lost… God, we lost a whole hell of a lot of people out there. By rights, more of us should've died with them."

"But we didn't," said Phineas. "Not all of us. Only… poor Penelope. I can hardly believe it."

"I just keep replaying the last things I said to her, over and over, in my head," said Pete. "They weren't pretty. And now I can't take them back. I'll never get the chance to tell her again…"

"Tell her what?" asked Cynthia.

Pete just frowned and shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She's dead. The damned witch turned her into a stone statue, and she's dead."

"Did she break the statue?" asked Phineas.

Pete said, "No… Penny and… uh, I mean, the statues of Penny and Baelin are still up there on the hill, by the Stone Table."

"Best to leave them there, then," said Phineas. "They should be safe among the standing stones. But if we try to move them, we risk breaking them. And then there will be no lifting the curse laid upon them."

Pete's eyes widened. "Are you saying there's a way to bring them back?"

"Possibly," said Phineas. "That is how these things usually work, after all."

"Aw, Finny, I could kiss you!" said Pete. "But how do we do it? The witch's wand can't help us: Oreius broke it."

"If Aslan were here, he would know," said Cynthia glumly. She hung her head. "But he isn't here. We'll have to find our own way."

"So… you guys don't really have a clue." Pete sighed. "I guess I should've known. But, still, I guess I'd rather keep up hope. If I throw that away, I don't have much left."

"Hope is powerful," said Phineas. "After the battle, it kept me alive long enough to see this morning."

Pete nodded. "All right. I won't give up on this. Hell, you guys already know that. But… during the battle, Jadis turned tail and ran. She probably went back to her castle, and now we don't have enough of an army to take her down."

"What good is an army against magic, anyway?" asked Phineas. "We've seen the witch's power. If somebody is going to destroy her at last, I think we must turn to stealth and guile."

"You're talking assassination," said Pete. "Sneak up on her and take her by surprise."

"Precisely," said the faun. "We ought to—"

"What's this 'we' business?" said Pete. "You're out of commission, and no way is Cynthia coming along while she's got a bun the oven. You two are both staying here. I'll take Falon and the dwarves." And that was Pete's last word on the matter.

Pete didn't assemble his army for a rousing speech or any courageous words of parting. He didn't want any to-do surrounding his departure. Besides, it wasn't really much of an army anymore. And it wouldn't be doing any more fighting, so long as Pete actually managed to pull this crazy scheme off. He quietly told Falon, Lumpkin, and Brenawen to gather supplies and weapons enough for a two-week journey to the White Witch's castle. They didn't know quite what Pete had in mind, but they followed his orders regardless. Then, the next day, he asked them to meet him by the Stone Table.

When the human arrived, Lumpkin and Brenawen were staring forlornly at the petrified Penelope. Falon knelt before Sir Baelin, muttering something to himself. And General Oreius was there as well, waiting to speak with Pete.

"My Lord Peter," said the centaur. "You're leaving us."

"Yes I am," said Pete. "I'm going to try and kill Jadis. I don't care what Aslan said about destiny and all that crap—if I get my chance, I'm going to pull the trigger and put the bitch down."

"I'm coming with you, then," said Oreius. "Like you, I would see Penelope avenged."

"Like me?" said Pete.

Orieus nodded. "I'm not blind. I can tell that you and she—"

"You're wrong," said Pete. "But we can sort all that out when I get back. Assuming I make it back. And assuming there's a way to save Penelope and Baelin."

"You think they can be restored to life?" asked Orieus.

"Anything's possible in this world," said Pete. "Damned if I know for sure, though. Anyway, somebody needs to stay here and keep 'em safe. Make sure the statues don't get broken or shattered. If you really love Penny, you should stick around and watch over her. Besides," Pete added, pointing across the battlefield to the rebel camp, "they still need a general to look up to while I'm gone. So you've got to stay behind and take charge."

Oreius looked over at the two dwarves and the muttering half-breed. "These are the only companions you'll have along with you, then?"

"I'd trust them with my life," said Pete. "I already have, on more than one occasion. This won't be much different."

"Except that now, you must cross a rugged wasteland, crisscrossed with all manner of cracks, chasms, and canyons," said Oreius. "While the witch's winter held, bridges of ice made the way passable. But no more."

"What would you suggest then?" asked Pete.

Oreius smiled. "I've already taken care of it. You'll only need to meet some old friends on the road."

"That's mysterious and not at all helpful," said Pete. He smiled and offered his hand to Oreius, who shook it. "It's been a pleasure fighting at your side, General."

"Likewise, my lord. May Aslan's blessings go with you."

"Yeah, sure," said Pete. "You too."

The centaur said no more and left the four travelers to themselves. He headed down the hillside and made his way back to the camp.

Pete turned to the dwarves. "You guys all ready to go?"

Lumpkin took one last look at the statue of Penelope. The centauress's face was twisted with pain. It was difficult to gaze upon her like this, but it was even harder to look away. "Goodbye, dear friend," he said to the statue, "until we return." Then he looked to his wife and to Peter and nodded.

"We're ready," said Brenawen, fixing a knapsack to her back and handing a similar pack to Peter. "I'm not sure about Falon, though."

Pete went over to where the hybrid knelt. "Hey. You gonna sit there all day and chat with the voices in your head, or can we get a move-on?"

Falon didn't move, but he raised his voice so that Pete could hear him. "I realize now that Serpens is gone. Sir Baelin is hardly to blame for our great loss. He is a hero, and he has suffered much because of Jadis."

"We all have," said Pete. "So let's go get her. What do you say?"

Falon stood, adjusted his sword and his backpack, and said, "I'm ready as well."

"That's the spirit," said Pete. "Good to have you with us, big fella. All right, campers: time to hit the road."

Pete, Lumpkin, Brenawen, and Falon set out from the Stone Table and hiked over the rough western country. There wasn't really a road, per se, so much as a broad and straight pathway through the wilds where the boulders and great conifers had been cleared away by centuries of intermittent travel between Table Hill and Jadis's palace. But before they had traveled a full league, Pete spotted two tiny shapes standing in the path, waiting for the travelers' approach. When they drew closer, Pete could see that they were beavers.

"As I live and breathe," laughed Pete, "Mr. and Mrs. Beaver! It seems like I haven't seen you two in forever."

"Well it has been most of a year," said Mr. Beaver.

Mrs. Beaver gently tapped him with her paw and said, "What he means, Your Majesty, is that it's lovely to see you again, and an honor to be recognized."

"Oh, I'm still not anybody's Majesty yet," said Pete. "I'm just a count at the moment, not a king."

"Your Lordship, then," said Mrs. Beaver. "We've been waiting for you ever since General Oreius sent word to us at the Great Dam."

"How did he do that?" asked Pete.

"Birds," said Mr. Beaver. "Doves and pigeons, mostly. Frightful chatterboxes. Talk your ears right off, they will. Aw, but Lor' Peter, you're a sight for sore eyes. You know that after you left, the White Witch sent soldiers to take back the dam, just like you said she would?"

Pete only vaguely recalled the details from back then, but he nodded. "Yeah. How did you guys get away?"

"Oh, Mr. Beaver was very clever," said Mrs. Beaver. "When you made him Chief Engineer of the Alliance Corps, his pride puffed him up like a woodchuck. But the honor was well deserved, if I do say so myself, because his plan saved us all."

Mr. Beaver explained, "I had all my lads in Gnawing Division weaken the Great Dam in just a few key places, and then we cleared out of there and let Jadis have the blasted place. Of course it wouldn't do much of anything while the river was frozen, but ever since you set foot in Narnia, milord, it's been getting warmer and warmer, just a little bit each day. I reckon the river must've melted and burst the dam a long time before you actually sat in the throne and broke the witch's spell."

"Not bad," said Pete. "Remind me to tell you about the time I blew up Galma."

"Sounds interesting," said Mr. Beaver. "But, as to why we're here: there simply isn't a path that'll take you all the way to the witch's castle on foot. Unless, that is, we come with you to build some bridges."

"We?" said Brenawen. The Black Dwarf looked at the beavers curiously and asked, "How can just the two of you possibly build bridges for us?"

"Oh, it's not just us," said Mr. Beaver. "I brought all the lads—Gnawing and Building Divisions." At this point, he gave a shrill whistle, and a veritable swarm of beavers surged out of the rough country and onto the path.

Falon looked at all of the small animals in confusion and dismay. "Beavers, beavers," he mumbled. "This is a lot of beavers."

"It is a lot of beavers," Pete agreed. "I guess they're coming along with us."

On the very next night, the second since the Battle of Table Hill, something unusual happened at the stroke of midnight exactly. The ground rumbled and quaked, and it cracked open in places and then crashed back together again. It seemed to the beavers as if the very world were coming to an end, and they ran around in a panic.

"What's happening?" cried Mrs. Beaver.

"Earthquake!" said Peter. "We must be on a fault-line!"

"No!" cried Falon. "No, no, no, it's happened at midnight; happened at the Witching Hour! It must be the magic of the witch. The witch, the witch, the White Witch is trying to stop us!"

Pete wasn't sure that he believed that, though, so he decided to ask an expert when the quaking finally stopped. After a minute or so, the tremors subsided, and everything returned to normal. "Lumpkin? Was this a natural quake, or something else?"

"I've never heard of anything like this in the west of Narnia," said Lumpkin. "Groundquakes, when they happen, shake the seacoast and the islands—not these lands."

"Okay," said Pete, "not natural then." He looked around at the whole confused mass of beavers. "Everybody okay? Nobody got hurt, did they?"

"We seem to be fine," said Mrs. Beaver, dusting herself of. "But our path has been barred by an open fissure."

"Only the first of many we're likely to see in this country," said Mr. Beaver. "Lucky thing, the quake did half our job for us already in shaking down some trees. Only…"

"What's the matter?" asked Pete.

"They're pine," said Mr. Beaver in distaste. "I don't like working with pine. The sap is extra sticky, and it gums up my gnawing-teeth."

"I'm sure we'll manage," said Mrs. Beaver. "Remember, we're here to help Count Peter and his friends complete their journey."

"Right you are," said Mr. Beaver. "Don't you worry, Your Lordship! We'll have a solid bridge over this canyon in no time flat. Just you watch; and if I do say so myself, prepare to be amazed!"

Chapter Forty-Nine

WHEN Pete went back to sleep that night after the earthquake, he experienced an unusual dream. He looked up and saw a clear, starry, moonless night, and then he realized that he was standing back on top of Table Hill. He could see the torches from the rebel camp down across the battlefield, and the field still showed all the scars of recent combat. Only, on the hilltop, everything was different. The statues of Penelope and Baelin were gone, and the ring of standing stones had been cast down so that they littered the area like so many boulders. The Stone Table itself had been cracked in two, and the stain of blood was gone from its ruin.

"A lamb was sacrificed on that altar," said a voice.

Pete turned around and saw the form of a lion approach from among the fallen henge-stones. "Aslan," said Pete.

"Peter, you must not morn my passing," said Aslan, "for though Jadis slew my mortal form, I endure in the uttermost east."

Pete grinned. "Struck down, but still more powerful than she could possibly imagine. You must really be Aslan, because you still talk like a Jedi Master."

"Peter, you are about to be tested," said the lion, "but you cannot pass the test without my help."

"I'm listening," said Pete.

Then the ground began to shake beneath their feet, and something wondrous happened: beneath the pieces of the Stone Table, a tree began to grow. In mere seconds, a trunk burst forth from the soft ground, tossing the pieces of the altar away. It grew branches, leaves, and silver apples. The leaves were green and the fruit was fresh, but only for an instant. Then everything turned brown, and the leaves fell away, and the apples dropped from the branches and withered to nothing. The tree-trunk itself turned brown and dead.

"Go to the tree," said Aslan. "Pick up an apple-seed."

Pete did as he was asked. Several of the fallen apples had rotted away, leaving only their seeds behind. Pete picked one up and cradled it in his hand.

"Keep that safe," Aslan instructed. "You will need it soon."

"Okay," said Pete, pocketing the seed. "By the way, what about Penleope and Baelin? The witch turned them to stone. Is there any way to bring them back?"

"Do not concern yourself with the fate of friends left behind," said Aslan. "Focus on the road ahead. Keep heart while in Jadis's country, and remember what is real and what is not. Remember the gift you have been given. And morn your losses no longer."

"But… Aslan, wait! Aslan…!" Pete implored, but the lion said no more.

And that was when Pete woke up. It was morning. Falon, Lumpkin, and Brenawen were already packing the gear, but they hadn't roused Pete yet, because there hadn't been need. The beavers still had plenty of work to do on their log-bridge across the chasm.

On a whim, Pete reached into his pocket. He was shocked to find a tiny apple-seed nestled therein.

The trek through the rough wilderness was slow-going and difficult, and many times they had to wait for the beavers to open up a path over some gorge or gap that couldn't be scaled and would've taken too long to circle around. Having those diligent little builders around was a great boon, and Pete wondered whether they would've been able to make the journey at all without their help. Lumpkin often bemoaned the fact that they were forced to walk all this way; but since the rebel army had had neither griffons nor pegasi to bear them through the air, it was an empty complaint. Eventually, Brenawen asked Lumpkin whether he wouldn't prefer to tunnel through the solid rock all the way to the witch's castle while the rest of them resumed walking in peace and quiet; and that silenced Lumpkin.

Falon was in unusually high spirits as they traveled. Walking among trees, even these rugged evergreens, seemed to calm the hybrid and clear his mind. When he spoke, he was lucid and sensible, and he didn't seem so obsessed with revenge anymore.

The brisk chill of late autumn didn't bother any of the travelers, but they were all aware that the first snows of winter would soon fall again. Narnia's respite from the cold had been all too brief. Now there was a nip in the air, and the travelers' breath was visible in the mornings. Still they hiked on, slowly but surely drawing closer to the northerly realm that sat within the shadow of White Witch's ice-castle.

After many days, the ground began to level out again, and the canyons and pine-trees gave way to scrub and short grass. The terrain ahead was like a steppe or a tundra, wide and open, but also smoother and easier than their road had been so far. It was clear, after this, that the beavers' task was done. There were neither gaps to cross nor trees to make crossings with, and so Pete's party and the beavers parted ways. "But don't you be a stranger!" said Mr. Beaver. "Make sure you stop and visit us on your way back! Without a doubt, Lord Peter, the Mrs. will have something hot waiting for you on the stove when you get there."

"Of course I will," said Mrs. Beaver. "Don't you wait another year to see us again, Your Lordship!" Then she blinked and said, "Oh, dear me! The next time we meet, it will be 'Your Majesty' for certain! I'm not sure that our home is fit to host a king yet—"

"Oh, don't bother about that, Mother," said Mr. Beaver. "We might call this Son of Adam 'Lordship' and 'Majesty,' but if he hasn't put airs on himself yet, I don't suppose that'll change once he's king."

"I certainly hope not," said Pete, "and I'm sure your home is… just lovely. So, yeah, I'll come by for a visit sometime. If we live through this."

Mrs. Beaver shuddered and said, "Keep up hope, Lord Peter, and don't go borrowing trouble now!"

"I won't," said Pete. "And thank you. For everything."

After another short couple of days, they came within sight of Jadis's palace. No living creature met them on the way. They spied neither goblin nor wolf, neither huge troll nor tiny sparrow. If Jadis had spies or soldiers in this place, they were well hidden and never revealed themselves. The palace in the distance was blue-white and all spikes and spires, like a great conglomeration of icicles rising out of the ground. But as they drew closer, all the travelers could see that it was intricately worked and finely detailed, without so much as single crack, flaw, or misplaced snowflake. The closer they got, the more the castle looked as if it were made from crystal rather than ice.

Frosted earth crunched underfoot as the foursome hurried to cross this coverless plain. There was nothing to hide behind and no way to sneak, so they decided on speed as their best defense. "If Jadis is watching," Falon cautioned, "she must know that we're coming by now. If that witch is good at anything, it's seeing what might be hidden from lesser eyes."

"In that case," said Pete, "there's not much point in sneaking in after all." He sighed. "Plan A's not going to work."

"Um, my lord, we didn't actually have a Plan A," said Lumpkin. "We don't have a Plan B, either."

"Yes we do," said Pete. "I just kept them both to myself, because Plan A boiled down to sneaking inside and winging it, and Plan B is improvising everything from the get-go."

Brenawen's face fell into her hands. "We're doomed."

"Yes, we are!" said Falon, grinning toothily. "It's it glorious?" The hybrid did a little dance and started spinning around in circles, as if he were trying to make himself dizzy. All the while, he shouted louder and louder, "Marching into the face of certain death with no hope whatsoever of surviving, surely, our names will be immortalized forever in the songs of the Bards, and before our lifeless corpses have even hit the ground, our souls will be borne to the uttermost east and paradise everlasting—!"

Pete whistled and snapped his fingers in Falon's face, trying to get the creature's attention. "Hey! Yoo-hoo, Daffy Duck, over here! Look at me!" When Falon stopped spinning (and stumbled from the dizziness), Pete said, "How's about we save the freakout for when the wicked witch is ding-dong dead?"

Falon nodded and muttered, "Ding-dong. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong…"

"Truly inspiring," said Lumpkin. "We really are doomed."

"Hey," said Pete, "none of that! We've survived this long. We've done incredible, impossible things. And we can beat Jadis. I know we can… because we're good enough, we're smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like us!"

"Ding-dong!" shouted Falon gleefully.

Lumpkin and Brenawen shared a worried look between them. "You do realize," said Brenawen to her husband, "that we two are the only sane people here?"

They boldly approached the front gates of the ice-castle. Jadis had neither sentries nor guards posted here. No living thing warded these immense doors. That didn't seem to matter, though, because there weren't any discernible means of opening them from the outside.

"What do we do now, O brilliant leader?" said Brenawen.

"We knock," said Pete. He walked up to the doors and made a fist, but before he could rap on the icy surface, they shuddered and slowly creaked open, as if of their own volition. "See?" said Pete. "Ask and ye shall receive."

The doors swung open, and inside stood a crooked little Black Dwarf with a funny, wrinkled face. He croaked one word: "Come."

Pete and the others moved to enter the castle, but the strange dwarf held up his hands to bar the way. "No!" he said. "Only Peter comes. Others must stay."

Pete looked from his friends to the funny dwarf and said, "Who are you, again?"

"Ginarrbrik," said the dwarf. "I am Queen Jadis's butler."

"Okay, Ginarrbrik," said Pete. "You already know who I am, so now that we both know each other, I'm gonna level with you. I ain't going in there alone. Where I go, my friends come with me, if they want to."

"And we want to," said Brenawen. "Just try and stop us."

"Very well," said Ginarrbrik. "But you follow behind. Son of Adam must go first."

Lumpkin caught Peter by the sleeve and said, "My lord, this is such an obvious trap that—"

"—That we have no choice," said Pete, "except to play along. For now."

"As you wish," said Lumpkin. The dwarf drew his blunderbuss and held the gun tightly. "But I won't let us be caught by surprise. And I suggest that you all ready yourselves for absolutely anything. Anything, I say!"

Ginarrbrik motioned for Pete to come inside, and so the human walked past the little butler and into the castle. But before Pete took even three steps, he disappeared! He just vanished, into thin air!

Lumpkin and Brenawen started in surprise, and Falon said, "I was absolutely not ready for that."

They all three rushed into the castle after Pete, but he was nowhere to be found. The human was simply gone! And then, as it so happened, the massive doors swung shut behind them with a deafening slam. Now they were trapped, and they were left alone in the palace's entryway with the grinning Ginarrbrik.

"Where has Lord Peter gone?" demanded Lumpkin. "What have you done with him?"

"Not me," said Ginarrbrik with a cruel laugh. "Queen Jadis. And now you must wait. Peter will either return to you… or he will not."

Chapter Fifty

PETE experienced the sudden sensation of falling. Then he felt as if he were in a fog: cold and wet and clingy. The fog rolled away, and his body dried and warmed, and he realized that he wasn't falling at all: he was lying in a bed, underneath sheets. But not a comfortable bed: something hard and unfriendly. His eyes opened, and his vision cleared, and Pete saw a bright light… and the face of Taraiel the elf, who was hovering over him in a gown of pure white…

Pete started and sat up. "Tara?"

"Whoa," said the woman. "Easy there, Detective. You've been in a coma for nearly a week. You should take it slow."

Pete looked around and tried to get his bearings. He was in a white room… no, wait, a hospital room. And the woman standing nearby… it wasn't a white gown she wore; it was a doctor's coat. But she was a dead ringer for Taraiel. In fact, she looked exactly like the elf-queen who had died so many months ago. Only… her long curls of dark-brown hair hid her ears. Pete couldn't tell whether they were pointed like an elf's, or rounded like a human's. "Where am I, Tara?"

"That's the second time you've called me that," said the woman. "Who's Tara?"

"I'm… sorry?" said Pete. "Do I know you?"

"I'm Dr. Dawkins. I've been taking care of you." She held up a clipboard and read from the medical chart, "It says here that you fell out of a third-story window, in a dead man's attic, in East Flatbush. You hit your head. You're lucky that you didn't come away with a serious concussion."

Pete looked around and blinked. There was sunlight streaming in through a window, and outside, he could see trees, buildings, and a parking lot filled with cars. "Am I back on Earth?"

Dr. Dawkins looked at the chart again and said, "The CAT scan didn't detect any brain-damage. Hmm." She took a pen-light from a pocket and shined it in Pete's eyes.

Pete winced and looked away from the light. "Okay, okay!" said Pete. "I'm all right! I know where I am! I just… got a little disoriented. Woke up from a pretty vivid dream just now."

"Yes, that does happen to coma-patients," said the doctor. "But, just to be sure, where do you think you are now? I want to hear you say it."

"Brooklyn," said Pete. "I'm in Brooklyn, New York."

"Very good. All right, Detective Pevensie. I'm going to run a few more tests, and if I'm satisfied with the results, I'll let you see your visitors. Then, barring any further complications, you'll be released into their custody later today."

"Custody?" said Pete. "Who's here to visit me?"

"Your parents," said Dr. Dawkins. "I hear that they flew in from Albany. You're lucky to have a family that cares so much."

Pete nodded. "That's good. Good one. Almost had me going for a second there." Then, suddenly, he jumped up and stood on the hospital bed. "Hey, Jadis!" he shouted. "Your little girl, the Green Witch, she already tried this bit! Fool me once, shame on me, but fool me twice… ain't gonna happen! Wherever you are, I'm coming to kill you, you bitch!"

Dr. Dawkins became alarmed and rushed to the door. "Orderlies! We've got a live one!"

Quickly, two burly men in white scrubs burst into the room and wrestled Pete down onto the bed. "No!" Pete shouted. "Lemme go!" But one of them produced a syringe of sedative and injected Pete in the arm. Although he screamed and struggled, Pete felt consciousness drift away again…

Pete felt steady movement underneath his body and woke up. He was in the back seat of a car… no, wait. He recognized this particular vehicle from the smell. It was a station wagon—the old Chrysler that his parents had owned when he was a kid. He sat up and groaned. It was the old station wagon—same ugly brown upholstery and everything. And up in the driver's and passenger's seats, there were Chuck and Gracie Pevensie. Only, they had gotten rid of this car years ago…

"Oh, good, he's awake," said Gracie. "Pete, honey, how are you?"

"The folks in the hospital said that you got a little violent," said Chuck. "But I talked 'em into letting you out. I figured you could come with us."

"Where are we going?" asked Pete.

"Where do you want to go?" asked Gracie.

"Doesn't matter," said Pete. "None of this is real."

"Hmph," Chuck snorted. "Look at him. Spends a week in dreamland, and now he thinks he's a philosopher."

"No!" said Pete. "I mean, all of this, you guys, the old car, New York—it's all just an illusion!"

"See what I mean?" said Chuck. "I knew it wasn't worth it to pay his way through college."

Gracie reached into the back seat and felt Pete's forehead. "Oh my. Are you sure you don't want to go back to the hospital?"

Pete batted the hand away. "I'm fine, Mom! Just… tell Dad to stop the car!"

"Hold on," said Chuck, slamming on the breaks. The car screeched to a halt. "Look," said Chuck, pointing out the window. "A bar. Why don't we head inside for a drink?"

"Booze, at this hour?" said Gracie. "And with Pete just out of the hospital?"

"Now, honey," said Chuck, "the doctor told us to ease Pete back into his life. Do normal things. So, inside for a drink."

Pete looked at the two people in the car with him, the two illusions that he knew weren't really his parents. Then he laughed. "Okay!" he said. "I'm game! I'll play along, and then maybe the woman behind the curtain will come out and show herself."

Outside, on the street, traffic backed up; and cars honked angrily; and New Yorkers leaned out of their windows and shouted. But Chuck, Gracie, and Pete left the old station wagon in the middle of the street and went into a bar named "Phil's Place."

The music inside the bar was smooth jazz. Pete hated smooth jazz. Even though it was broad daylight outside, it was dark and smoky inside the bar, and yet only one barfly sat within, knocking back the drinks. Then Pete did a double-take and realized that the barfly wasn't sitting on the bar-stool: he was standing on it. It was Lumpkin, wearing cut-off jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt, and a black bandanna with skulls on it. On the other side of the bar, Phineas wore a bartender's apron (and nothing else) and served the drinks.

"Holy crap on a cracker!" said Pete. "You guys… it's really good to see you here!"

Phineas and Lumpkin both looked up, and Phineas said, "Do I… uh, do I know you, buddy?" He had a thick Brooklyn accent now.

"It's me. It's Pete."

"Well I'm Phil," said the faun, "and this is Mick, who I just met this morning," he added, pointing to the dwarf. Lumpkin… or Mick, or whoever… held up a glass of whiskey and grunted in Pete's direction.

"Okay…" said Pete. "That's… okay… different." He walked over to the bar and sat down. Behind him, Chuck and Gracie went over to the jukebox and started arguing over whether they should put on Madonna or Yanni. Pete slumped down on the bar top and buried his head in his folded arms.

"Hey, now," said "Phil," setting a glass in front of Pete, "you look like you've got some troubles. Why not have this one on the house?"

Pete looked up and stared right past the drink, looking at the bartender. "Hey, uh, this might sound like a crazy question, but… you're a faun, right?"

"A fawn?" repeated Phil. "You mean like Bambi?"

"No," said Pete, shaking his head. "I mean, like, you know that you're a satyr, don't you?"

Phil grinned. "Well, I do like the ladies, but I think I can control myself most of the time."

"No!" Pete shouted. "I'm talking about those horns on your head, and the fur and hooves down there! And this guy," he continued, pointing at Mick, "is a dwarf, and—"

"The politically correct term is 'little person,'" said Mick angrily. "What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"Yeah!" said Phil. "That's not very sensitive! He can't help his condition!"

Over by the jukebox, Pete's parents had decided on something experimental by Yoko Ono, and they danced a poorly-timed waltz to the "music."

Then the front door chimed, and into the bar came Penelope the centaur. Only, instead of her armor or tunic, she wore the top half of a skimpy little red dress, which pushed her cleavage front and center. She clip-clopped up to the bar and said, "Hey, Phil. The usual."

Phil put a martini on the counter and said, "Here ya go, Rosie. By the way, watch out for this guy. He's a jerk." The barkeep made no bones about pointing at Pete.

"Rosie" turned to Pete and said, "Well, hello gorgeous. You're new here!"

"And you're a centaur," grumbled Pete.

"Hmph. Telling a girl that her ass is huge won't help you get into her pants."

"You're not wearing pants."

Rosie smiled flirtatiously and said, "Wouldn't you like to know!"

Pete slumped back down onto the bar.

"Quiet!" said Mick. "Phil, turn up the TV! I want to hear this!"

Pete looked up while the faun turned up the volume on the small TV hanging in the corner of the bar. On the screen, Pete saw Cynthia… and Jadis! They were both wearing ordinary, human clothes—both very executive-chic—and it appeared that Cynthia was interviewing Jadis for a daytime talk-show.

"Hi and welcome back to the Summer Brightly Show. I'm here with the world-famous author, Maggie Weiss, who's promoting her new book, a piece of children's fantasy called 'The Adventures of Pete.' Why don't you tell us more about your book, Maggie?"

"Oh, there's not much to tell, really. Pete—that's the main character—well, he's not very interesting. And he doesn't have much of a personality. And the villain wins at the end."

"That doesn't sound like a very entertaining children's book."

"Of course it is! Children have to learn that life isn't fair, and that sometimes the good guy loses because he's a boring, stupid, useless loser. The sooner we can teach our kids to step on the little guy on their way up to the top, the better!"

Pete stared at the screen and groaned. "I've had enough of this." He got up from the bar and ran outside, leaving his parents behind. He quickly hailed a cab and said, "East Flatbush," before rattling off Digory Kirke's address.

The cab-driver leaned over and faced the back seat—and it was Count Serpens. Not the knight Sir Baelin, but the pale vampire Serpens. "Hop in, pal," he said. "I can have ya there in a jiffy."

Pete climbed into the back of the cab and stared at Serpens's red eyes through the rear-view mirror on the inside of the windshield. The cab-driver noticed Pete's staring and said, "Jeez, buddy, take a Polaroid. It'll last ya longer."

"Sorry," said Pete. "I didn't mean to stare. You just look like someone I know."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," said the driver. He grinned, showing off his fangs. "I have that kind of face."

"This is stupid," said Pete, crossing his arms and looking out the window. "It's like she isn't even trying…"

"Who's not trying?" asked Serpens.

"Jadis," said Pete. "Hell, her daughter did a much better job. She got all the little details right. Had me fooled for weeks. But this… what was I supposed to think? That I saw Tara while I was in the hospital, and my subconscious mind somehow worked her into a crazy coma-dream? That the whole Narnia thing wasn't real, but fauns and centaurs are wandering around downtown Brooklyn?"

"You got a problem with fauns and centaurs?" asked the driver. "You some kinda racist?"

"Who, me?" asked Pete. "Naw. Hell, I don't even mind that you're a vampire."

"I appreciate that. You have no idea how many stereotypes we've gotta put up with."

"How are you driving around the daylight, by the way?"

Serpens grinned again. "Sunscreen."

"I should've figured."

The cab pulled up to the curb at Professor Kirke's house. "Thanks," said Pete. "Wait here."

"No problemo. The meter's running."

Pete went up to the front door of the old house and tired the knob. It was locked. So Pete threw his shoulder into it, and after a few hard shoves, he broke it down. The inside of the house was bare. He ran up to the second floor… and then up to the attic… and there was the wardrobe. He threw it open, pushed the old coats aside… and he saw a flat panel of wood. The wardrobe had a back. "No!" shouted Pete, banging on the back of the wardrobe. "Let me out of here! Let me the fuck out of here, Jadis, you sick, evil cunt! Let me go!"

Pete came out of Kirke's house, careful to not to let anything touch his knuckles. He had pounded on the back of the old wardrobe until his hands were raw and bloody, and now it hurt like holy hell. On the plus side, the yellow cab and "Serpens" were still waiting for him. Pete walked over to the driver's side window.

"Hey, pal," said Serpens, rolling the window down, "you fare's really staring to add up. I'm gonna have to see some cash before we go anywhere else."

Pete didn't say anything. He just balled his fist and slugged Serpens in the face. His knuckles were hamburger, so it really hurt. The vampire went out like a light and slumped over on the steering wheel, which caused the horn to go off. Pete opened the door, pulled Serpens out of the car, and sat behind the wheel. He turned the key, pressed the gas-pedal to the floor, and took off.

As luck would have it, "Rosie" was trotting down the street a few blocks away. Of course, Pete looked at her and saw Penelope, and even though it was all an illusion, she was still a friendly face. "Hey," he said, pulling up to the curb, "want to go for a ride?"

"In a taxicab?" said the centauress.

"It's not my taxi," said Pete.

"Okay," said Rosie. "Where are you headed?"

"I'm just driving," said Pete, "until I figure things out."

"Okay, sure," said Rosie. "It looks like there's room in the back." She opened one of the back doors and crammed herself into the rear of the cab.

"Comfortable?" asked Pete.

"Sure," said Rosie. "But I'd appreciate it if you turned on the radio."

"Okay." Pete turned the dial, and he heard the voice of the White Witch. Or, rather, world-famous author Maggie Weiss, giving an audio rendition of her book.

"And now we come to the chapter where Pete's parents and siblings all die in a train-wreck. I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Especially the tear-jerking dialogue. 'Help us, Pete! Save us! Oh, no, wait, there's nothing you can do!' And… CRASH! They're all dead."

Pete glared at the radio and turned it off.

"Hey!" said Rosie. "I was listening to that!"

"I've been thinking," said Pete, "if I can't get out of here through the wardrobe, what if I tried something a little more drastic?"

"What wardrobe? What are you talking about?"

"They say that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life," said Pete, "but this isn't a dream. I don't know what it is. All I know is, I have to get out of this freaky-deaky funhouse." Pete floored the pedal and gunned the motor.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God!" screamed Rosie, covering her eyes.

Pete pulled into heavy traffic and wove between the cars, accelerating the cab faster and faster.

"Look out!" yelled Rosie.

A solid brick wall loomed ahead. Pete grinned like a madman and steered the car straight for it. "You know, I've always been a fan of Bill Murray movies. Ghostbusters is the best, of course, but Groundhog Day has its moments too."

Rosie fought to open the car-door. "You're insane!"

"Not yet," said Pete. "But I'm getting there!"

CRASH.