A/n: This story takes place after the events of The Horse and His Boy. All canon material belongs to C.S. Lewis; the rest is mine.

The cheetah loped onto the porch and let out a sigh of delight. What better time of day than now? The family was gone for the afternoon, his errands were over, and the cat kept vigil on the porch while the city of Palár sweated all along the road below. It was the proper thing to do.

Faraji knelt down to an alabaster bowl that sat between his forepaws, and he lowered his head just enough to lap up the water and to watch all the passersby on the road. Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He lifted his head, water dripping from his chin, as a man ascended the stairs. His skin was sun-baked, his arms shaped with hard muscle, and a thin beard lined his jaw and chin.

Faraji fidgeted a little at the sight of him. The man always seemed to be looking for a corner in which to hide. He stood tall with a stoic look on his face—the same look everyone else had in Erizad—but his eyes kept trailing back to the letter in his hands. It was a small card with a wax seal that looked to have melted in the sun.

Faraji cleared his throat, and the man fidgeted. He gathered himself and raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute. "Good afternoon, Faraji. I have a letter of urgent business for the Mareshah."

"I can see that, Adan. I'm not blind."

The man diverted his gaze from Faraji's glare. "Shall I open it for you?"

"Is my name on it?"

" . . . No, but—"

"Clip it to my necklace. I will deliver it to the Mareshah when he returns."

"But the seal belongs to—"

"I don't care whose seal it is, Adan. We have no excuse opening my master's mail—and I almost got caught opening it the last time."

The man knelt onto the step and clipped the sealed letter to the golden band hanging from the leather necklace. "Faraji, I know you hear things. Promise me you'll tell me if anything is wrong."

"I don't make promises." Faraji gazed out at the horizon, paying no further attention to the man. "Send my regards to your cheetah. Safa owes me that book he promised me. And I ask that you stop being so curious, lest my master and his wife render your services unnecessary. Good afternoon."

The man squinted at him in curiosity. "What book?"

Faraji's voice rose to a growl. "Good afternoon."

The man let out a sigh as he turned and walked down the stairs. As he disappeared around one of the sandstone buildings, the cheetah lifted his head and gazed into the road below, letting a smirk lift his whiskers. It was good to be in control: Not even a fly would loop over his head without his permission.

And then he thought about the letter. The seal was enough to make his heart beat faster. Etched in the clay was what looked like a spray of fire or a bush with ears and a face (what kind of bush would have a face, that was anyone's guess). Five letters with this seal showed up; whenever they did, the Mareshah's face would fall. He thought trouble was on the way, and though it never seemed to come, it was surely a warning of greater trouble.

Not that Erizad was a stranger to it.

Calormene refugees settled the low desert five centuries ago—men, women and talking beasts who fled the army and slave trade of the Tisroc (may he drop dead, and the sooner the better). Calormen had always vowed to level Erizad, including the city of Palár and the citadel of Andur to the southeast, but they never succeeded. Erizad knew how to take care of itself, and Calormen remembered it vividly when their forces were cut down by the thousands. But tidings from the North? Those were another thing. If the Erizadi felt any twinge of curiosity about matters of the North, they were always rid of it. Terrible things happened up there, and rumors were never far from the truth.

I refuse to open my master's mail, Faraji said to himself. But the longer he's gone, the more I'm tempted.

The Mareshah brushed a hand through his short black hair and let out a sigh. The whole letter was burnt into his memory by now, and the wrinkles in his shaven face deepened with a growing frown. Three months ago, he took back the citadel of Andur from the Calormenes, and he had lost 700 men in the many-moon campaign. Now a letter had come from the North—another sorrow to add to his list.

His wife took the letter in hand and read each handwritten line to herself. As she reached the end of the letter, her whisper rose into a startled murmur. "Reza, you can't ask him to do it."

"We have no choice, Nazira. I've spent two years looking for medicine, and to no avail. If we don't send Faraji to retrieve the only medicine that has a chance of working, Rafik will surely die."

"You cannot let them order you about. You are a Mareshah. You are a master of soldiers."

"I'm also a father. I must do something to help my son. As it is, I am not disposable. I have to send someone who is."

At that, the sound of pawfalls echoed in the hall. The Mareshah sat upright in his chair, squaring his shoulders and interlacing his fingers, as Faraji rounded the corner. "Is there anything I can do for you, mehan?"

"One thing at a time," the Mareshah said. "Did the boys enjoy their story?"

A smile lifted the cheetah's whiskers. "Navid fell asleep in the middle of it. I suppose I should take it as a compliment." After a pause, his smile and whiskers fell. "I don't know that my tale helped Rafik. He was still in a lot of pain."

"His own body is at war," the Mareshah said. "All you can do is comfort him. But if all goes well, you might never need to comfort him again."

Faraji lifted his head. "Then you found the medicine he needs."

"We have. The man who owns it is willing to part with it—only if you go north to bring it back here."

The cat's smile fell. "Could he not have delivered it to us?"

"Of course, and why he didn't is beyond me. I'm sorry, Faraji, but we have no choice in the matter. Omar's treatments have had no effect—and the letter asked for you specifically."

"Why me?"

Reza shook his head. "Unknown. You will meet a Narnian horse named Philip early tomorrow morning; he will accompany you all the way to Cair Paravel."

Faraji's head darted up, his ears standing upright. His eyes widened in the dim light, and his jaw lowered in horror, lips quivering. The sound of his heart slamming against his chest pulsed in his ears. "The medicine is in Narnia?"

Reza nodded slowly. "High King Peter sent the letter. It seems he wants to give you medicine in return for your services."

Faraji gave a low shudder. "Upon my honor, I would rather die than go there."

"Would you rather disobey me and face your punishment?"

"No, mehan! Poor thanks that would be to the man who saved my life. Even so, there are greater things to fear than your anger."

The Mareshah sighed and lowered his head. "I know," he said. "Anyone wanting to visit Narnia would be a fool. As it is, you are not the one who's dying. Rafik needs you. I need you to complete this task—knowing full well what will happen to you if you do not succeed."

Faraji trembled at him, but a sigh fell from his chest. "Very well, mehan," he said. "I will go. It . . . It is the proper thing to do."

Faraji tossed to his left and let out a grunt. He gnawed at the leather straps along his side, but the itch didn't go away—it just moved elsewhere. The bags strapped to his sides carried all he needed—a map, the letter, the book, canteens of water to sustain him until he got to River Lune—and the leather bags kept tickling his fur and making him growl in frustration. He had worn them all evening to get used to them; better to start earlier than now, since they wouldn't fall from his sides for weeks.

Faraji lay at the top of the stairs, watching the dome of stars turn over his head. He was too restless to sleep. He hoped the Mareshah and the family were all awake and afraid for him. They all said they would worry for him and await his safe return, but he was just a servant—less than a servant, just a beast with duties. He would be replaced soon enough.

Stop it, Faraji. Self-pity is not becoming. You are a Mareshah's jamira. Act like one and stop being so improper.

The cheetah's ears swiveled, and a clop-clop-clop echoed down the barren street. The moon-cast shadow of a horse rounded the corner, and the horse itself pranced into view. The cheetah trotted down the stairs, and his leather bags tensed and slackened against his muscled sides.

The horse trotted up to him and came to a stop. "Whinny-inny. Good morning, spotted one! My name is Philip, the proud steed of King Edmund the Just of Narnia."

Faraji scoffed. "Proud you are, Narnian. That's how you compensate for being a fool in a nation of fools."

Philip stared open-mouthed at him. "I say, your arrogance is not becoming."

"I do not speak humbly to my enemies," said Faraji. "Only the people of Erizad know the true Aslan, and all who pervert the truth are to be treated as enemies. But no matter. I am the jamira of Mareshah Reza Munir. I am also a teacher of writing and numbers to children, a lauded and distinguished scholar of Narnian literature, and a recipient of the Red Diamond for excellence in battle. My master and friends call me Faraji; you, however may address me as mehan. It is a title of respect."

"I know what mehan means, and only Aslan himself is worthy of the title. Now, then, let us be off to Narnia and the North! Pip pip!"

Faraji glowered at him but said nothing.

He turned back to look at the house once more. Peace be upon you, mehan, he said to himself. If I come back alive, I will hold you accountable for letting me travel with this bloviating fool. Be sure of it.

The cheetah and his horse trotted down the street. The cold sand stiffened his shanks and felt harder on Faraji's paws, and the frown on his muzzle deepened into a scowl.

"You've never been to Narnia, have you?" said Philip.

"What does that matter?"

"As long as you and I are traveling together, we might as well get to know each other."

"There are worse fates, I suppose," said Faraji under his breath. "No, I've never been, and I'm not looking forward to it."

"What? Of all the people in the world who would long for cooler breezes, surely it would be the people of this waterless beach. Why would you not look forward to Narnia?"

"That is none of your concern. Now, if you don't have anything interesting to talk about, may we talk about something that interests me?"

"Hrmmpff." The horse shook his head, his mane reflecting the moonlight. "Very well, although I don't think sun and sand would interest me."

"Don't worry. This is a question that even you can answer: Why does Peter insist on summoning me north instead of sending the medicine to us?"

"You may be in Erizad, but you must still address the High King of Narnia by his title. To answer your question, His Majesty has not explained it to me. I was asked only to take you to Narnia."

"I should like a word with that barbarian."

"You will have to wait, spotted one. He is still in Anvard. But lest you forget, His Majesty may have sent me to you, but we all are summoned by someone greater than King Peter, even greater than I," the horse said. "We have been summoned by the great king of kings, Aslan himself."

Faraji sighed. "Delightful."

"How can you speak with such indifference? Does not the name fill you with wonder? Do you not bow at the sound of his name?"

"Of course I do. Five times a day, I do. That changes nothing. Aslan is just a man—a silly and foolish man."

"A man? Aslan—a man?" The horse threw back his head. "Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! A man, he says!"

Faraji's ears swiveled. "Are you choking, or do I amuse you?"

"Whinny-inny—! My apologies, spotted one, but how could you not know what Aslan is? He is not silly and foolish. Nor is he a man beast that he should fall and die. He is a lion—the Great Lion."

"'The Great' what?"

Philip threw back his head once more. "Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA!"

"Confound it, Narnian, do you wish to wake up the whole of Erizad?"

"Oh—I am sorry, my friend. It's peculiar to me, that's all. Someone who reveres the Great Lion but knows so little of him."

"Then enlighten me with your wisdom. It shouldn't take you long. Why should I think grand thoughts of him? What does he look like?"

"What does he look like? He—oh! He is too wonderful to express in words. Every time I see him, it is better than the time before. He is beautiful and terrifying. I tremble, yet I am happy. I'm meat to be devoured and a prince to be served. I feel his fury at me and his love for me. And it all shines at me like the rays of the midday sun. Oh, forgive me for rambling, but you understand, surely?"

"Not at all."

"What? I say, O cheetah with many spots and titles, you know so little of what is so. But just wait until you get to Narnia. When you meet him—"

"I have no interest in meeting him. My master's boy is dying, and the only medicine that can help him is being held by the Lord of Narnia."

Philip snorted. "How jolly, the way you talk of him."

"Life is not always 'jolly.' We do as we're told, or we suffer the consequences. That is the way of the world."

"Spotted one, I have never met a creature like you. The Great Lion is the one who has sent you to Narnia, and you care nothing for him at all?"

"All I care about is my master's son. I will render whatever services are needed so long as I can retrieve the medicine and bring it home. After that, I want nothing more to do with you or any of your kind, or any of the Kings and Queens of Cair Paravel, or Aslan himself. Now since we will be traveling together for an extended period of time, we might as well walk on—and quietly!"

"Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! Well, I am glad we have had this conversation, spotted one."

"Oh?"

"I have heard tales of your people, but now that I have met you, I don't find you to be so formidable, after all."

Faraji glowered at him. Don't test me, Narnian.

The two walked on in silence, down the winding sand road whose cold hardened their hooves and paws, and the city gates appeared around a corner. Two tall men with blue uniforms stood on either side of the gate, spears pointing skyward in their hands.

They walked on without a word as the gates creaked open, and Faraji thanked the guards with a nod of his head. A few miles down the road, as open sands stretched into the starry sky, Faraji said, "Do you need a map?"

"No, for I am guided by the Great Lion—that, and my experience in traveling through Calormen," Philip said. "It is a long road, but we will be sped along by the Lion; we must strive to enjoy it—and hope we find some good companions with whom we can share our adventures, eh? Ah, but I do long for the fields of Narnia. Have you ever been blessed enough to roll in the grass? I should fancy a good long roll, after spending so many weeks walking through this waterless beach..."

Faraji said nothing as Philip rambled. The horse's words faded into the background as Faraji retreated into the sanctuary of his thoughts, and the cheetah turned his head to the northwest. The lake is the only water for miles around. Once I arrive, I can take shelter in the caves.

A half-hour passed, and the horse was still rambling. "…and so I will make sure to let you in on my errands. If we share the burdens of our work, we can share each other's glories and offer up our tribute to the Great Lion."

Faraji swung his head over his shoulder, staring back at Palár. The city wall was a black blot on the dawn-lit horizon. They won't hear it...not from this distance.

With an arrogant smile he returned to the horse. His voice lowered to a growl, and his muscular shoulders flexed. "By all means, offer up your own tribute. Until then, you have a new mission."

Philip snorted. "What are you talking about?"

"You will take me to Lake Lune."

"I will not. Your mission is to go to Narnia. My mission is to take you there. By the Lion's mane, I will not let anything deter us from that mission—not even you."

Faraji's jaw lowered slightly, baring his fangs. "Yes, you will."

The cheetah snarled and leapt into the air.

Faraji's fangs gleamed like crescent moons in the blue dawn. Philip screamed and slipped in the sand; he scrambled to his hooves and came face-to-face with two paws full of claws. Faraji's claws sank into the horse's neck muscles, drawing blood at every tip.

The horse screeched and reared up on his hind legs, flailing side to side. Faraji flung through the air like a tattered flag. Tendons and joints popped as the cheetah wriggled and thrashed his hind legs, trying to sink his claws into the horse's side. When he got his grip, Philip screamed and toppled backward. The sandy road shook with a thunderous crash as he landed on his side. He kicked and screamed until his voice cracked, and Faraji roared again and clamped his fanged jaws around the horse's neck.

"WHINNY-INNY-INNY! OH, HELP, ASLAN! HELP!"

"He can't help you, Narnian!" roared Faraji. "Take me to Lake Lune!"

"WHINNY-INNY-INNY-EE-EE-OW-OW-OW!"

"Take me there NOW!"

"INNY-INNY-EE-OW-OW—ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT!" Faraji pulled out his claws and loosed his grip on Philip's neck, spitting a wad of blood and hair. Beads of fresh blood glistened in the morning blue light, and a cloud of foam lined the horse's mouth. Faraji's chest heaved up and down as he gathered his breath and wriggled into the saddle. He kept his claws unsheathed, pressing the tips against the horse's shoulders.

"Take me there…and I will let you go…or I will give you something to be afraid of."

Philip forced his wobbly legs to stand, his voice trembling in unison with his legs. "You haven't heard the end of this."

"Perhaps," Faraji said. "But if you turn me in, or if you force me to go with you to Narnia, remember this: A dead horse will not talk—he will just fill my stomach. Now go! Yah! YAH!"

The horse whinnied and broke off the path, rushing to a gallop over the dunes.