A/n: Phew! Six thousand words later, the story continues.

Like the last installment, this was a beast to write. I knew where I wanted it to go, but after the big ending of the last chapter, I worried that I had written myself into a corner from which I couldn't escape. When every outline I wrote kept failing me after the first paragraph, I did what worked for me last time: I wrote this on the fly, letting the characters take it where it needed to go.

Once again, big thanks to treehugger00 for inspiring and influencing not just the last chapter but this one, as well. One line from the PM I received lit a fire of inspiration in me: "Aren't Erizad and her people just as much a part of Aslan's plan as greater Narnia? I would have no one shield my eyes from the wonders of God in all his glory." With that line alone, treehugger00 helped me realize that Erizad is more than just a nation telling a parable. They're a nation that's part of THE story—the story told by the true Aslan—and can be part of the radiance of his glory. That not only influenced this chapter but likely set the stage for something bigger and grander than I ever set out to write.

A murmur rippled through the crowd as the Sarazen stood over the body. Some onlookers wept with their hands over their mouths, while the rest gazed in silence. Their Mareshah was dead, the same man who had fought off Calormenes and won, and he was struck down by the man he had served for the last decade.

Behind the jail, not a single one of Reza's men said a word; all stood as still as they could, with a few daring to lower their mouths in alarm. Before them stood the thousand soldiers in the Sarazen's command, and Reza's men were a ripple in comparison—a ripple daring to challenge the might of an ocean.

With a wet squelch, the Sarazen pulled his arrow free and swung around to face them. "The fury of Aslan threatens to fall upon us if we do not settle the matter. If any of you value your lives, you will bring those children back to the jail—now."

No one made a move.

The Sarazen swung toward Dar to give an order, but the words caught in his mouth. Dar's face had turned red and contorted with a pained grimace. The Sarazen glared at him and said, "Can you not contain yourself, boy?"

Dar blinked away tears, then turned to face the Sarazen. "Reza did not give the order to set those children free," he said, fighting back a sob. "I did."

A wounded look fell across the Sarazen's face, but as quiet filled the courtyard, the commander's face darkened. "Then I suggest you redeem yourself and tell me where they are."

Dar glared at him. "I would give my life for this country, I would die for you if ever it would save my people, but I cannot sanction the murder of children."

There was another pause. A flicker of admiration lit the old man's eyes, but it died like a winking spark.

The Sarazen nocked and loosed another arrow, plunging it into Dar's chest. The soldier stumbled backward and his legs buckled as a look of horror and shock froze his face. He landed on his back, his blank face staring up at the dawn, and he loosed a final gasp.

The courtyard fell silent, not daring to say a word. The last of Reza's men fidgeted and turned away, their stone faces beginning to break, while the Sarazen's men stared with apathy on their faces.

Without warning, a cheetah slinked into view. Moro gazed up at the last of Reza's men with his dull, bored gaze. "Who is third in command?"

A pause…then a man with a mustache and goatee stepped forward, glaring at Moro.

"Ah…Aziz. A bit young, like the rest of these men, but hopefully your seniority comes with a level head. Should you desire it, I hereby promote you to Mareshah of Palar."

"Denied. I would rather not answer to you."

"If you value your life above all else, you will accept your promotion and do what you're told."

A pained grimace flicked across his mustache. "If that's the choice…"

He reached into his quiver and lowered an arrow into his bow—

Aziz flinched and turned to the left. Laying his arm on the young man's arm was a soldier with a short black beard, and dark brown eyes framed by heavy eyebrows and long furrows. The man stood a head above the row of men, and his arms and chest were thick and strong, a strange contrast to the soft tones that graced his words.

"Lower it, Aziz," he said. "You will get us all killed."

"But Abdul, we're talking about children," he whispered through gritted teeth. "Confound it, man, where is your honor?"

"There's no honor in fighting a worthless battle. Look ahead of you. If every one of us fired on the Sarazen and his men, there would be a thousand more of them waiting to kill us."

"What are you suggesting, Abdul—that we send two scores of children to their deaths?"

"We have no choice. Even if we all threatened to fire on the armies of the Sarazen, they would still carry out their mission. It is only proper that we follow our orders now and make peace with them later."

Aziz whipped his arm free and broke out of line. "Orders be damned. If you have to make peace with yourself after committing evil against your people, it is no peace at all."

He nocked an arrow and tightened his bow, aiming the arrowhead at the Sarazen's army. More gasps and murmurs filled the air, and a smile twitched across his face. He swept left and right, peering down the shaft of the arrow.

"Is there anyone who wants to live?" he shouted.

Moro glared at him. "You don't, apparently," he muttered. "Gentlemen?"

With that, a row of the Sarazen's men stepped forward and, like a troupe in the ballet, nocked their arrows in unison.

As Aziz stared at the row of arrows, Moro smirked. "You should listen to Abdul," he said. "You have one arrow and fifty targets."

Aziz tilted the arrow toward Moro. "With you, it makes one more."

"Don't be a fool," said the cheetah. "Even if you killed me, what would that accomplish? With or without you, justice will be served. If you have any sense left between your ears, you will lower that weapon and do as you're told."

There was a pause. Aziz felt the string slacken as his fingers started to tremble. A shudder bubbled out of his mouth, and sweat gleamed in the torchlight. "May the Lord of Narnia forgive me."

Moro squinted in bafflement. The soldiers tensed their bows. Abdul turned to Aziz and said, "What are you doing?"

Aziz gave no reply. He jerked the bow to eye level...he pulled on the fletch of the arrow...and his fingers let go of the string with a thick snap.

Abdul stood frozen in place, his ears deafened by the pounding of his heart. The taste of bile worked its way up into his throat. All the wind had blown out of his lungs, and he gasped to get it back. Standing in the path of the arrow, flying backward and toppling to the street, was the Sarazen.

"NO!"

Abdul's cry was drowned out by the screaming and cheering. Soldiers turned and ran down the empty street, while the front line of men charged into the courtyard. Moro roared and leapt at Aziz with paws full of claws. Aziz flayed and grasped at the air as Moro clawed at his face, wriggling to clamp his jaws around the man's neck.

"SAVE THEM!" cried Aziz. "SAVE THEM!"

Abdul nodded and burst into a run, weaving through soldiers and dodging arrows as the jail rushed past him.

Abdul charged through the empty streets, throwing his head over his shoulder with every turn. No one was coming, but he tensed his hand, readying it to reach for an arrow. The clangs of weapons and the screams of the dying seemed to get louder the farther he went, and the streets grew narrower as he walked deeper into the heart of the city.

He ducked inside a squat sandstone building and leaned against a wall in the narrow doorway. He collected his shaky breath, then turned to his left and followed a stairwell beneath the street. Darkness rose up around him, and his feet echoed in the sewer's dim tunnel. As cold and foul air filled his nose, he gritted his teeth and filled his head with random thoughts, keeping his head from causing his stomach to revolt. He glanced down the corridor, panning left and right, and he made his turn.

The room was supposed to be hidden behind a fake wall in the corridor—Possibly built when a previous Sarazen went mad, he thought to himself—and how it could be big enough for thirty families and the soldiers guarding them, he didn't know. All he knew was that Dar assumed command and did what he thought he must, and he said nothing of the matter.

Abdul stopped. He curled a finger and tapped on the stone wall with a knuckle. The sound was muffled and thick. A few steps down, the sound gave a faint echo. With a huff, he splayed his hands on the wall and bent a knee, pushing back on the other foot, and he groaned as the wall rumbled away. A few gasps filled the empty tunnel, but Abdul pushed a hand forward, then lifted a finger to his lips.

"It's all right," he whispered. "I'm Abdul. I'm a friend."

"What happened?" said the woman, her head covered in a cloak. "What is wrong?"

"Don't ask me of anything, Shahara," he said, forcing a mournful sigh from breaking forth. "We have to leave—now."

A man in a white robe waved his hand. "You will tell us right now. Why is Dar not here?"

"He's dead. Reza's dead, and now the Sarazen is dead. No doubt the rest of Reza's men are dead, too."

"Wait." The man pushed a hand forward. "The man who wants to murder our children is now dead?"

"That man was my Sarazen. No matter how foolhardy and frightened he may be, he was my master, just as he was yours."

"How could you keep this from us?" said Shahara, a smile lifting her face. "Perhaps now, our children will be all right!"

Without warning, a bored voice filled the tunnel. "I wouldn't count on that, woman."

Abdul's stomach flipped as he spun around. "You…"

Moro stared up at him and flicked the tip of his tail. "I thought you were reasonable," said the cheetah. "When you spoke sense into Aziz, I hoped you would carry out your orders. But now that you've run away and taken your stand with these rebels, I don't know what to make of you."

"Moro," said Shahara, "please—they're our sons and daughters. Please let them go free."

He aimed his dull gaze at her, as if laughing at her with his eyes. Then he threw back his head, filled his lungs with a deep breath, and roared:

"THEY'RE HERE!"

The tunnel echoed with the shouting of a man's orders, and the corridor filled with the clomping of boots. Abdul clenched a fist and reached for his dagger. "We're leaving. Get out of my way."

Moro scoffed. "You know what I did to Aziz," he said. "Would you want me to do the same to you—and with these poor children watching?"

There was no reply.

The cat glanced over his shoulder. Along the walls of the corridor, torchlight flickered and long shadows drew near.

"They're here," said Moro. "You'd better hurry if you want to make your move. It's better to have ten seconds to gloat instead of none."

The man's knuckles turned pale from clutching the hilt of the knife, but he loosened his grip and took his stand. The corridor filled with soldiers and torchlight, and a thick silence filled the room.

Abdul smiled coldly. "If any of you want to kill me, get it over with. I would rather die than join this mission."

Moro paused, as if contemplating the offer, and he let out a breath. "That's not the only option," he said. "I still think you can be reasoned with, and should hope the next Sarazen can make use of you—assuming that you can be…persuaded."

"What does that mean?"

The cat tilted his head over his shoulder. "Naji? Hamid? Take him to Andur."

"Yes, mehan," said the two men.

The soldiers wrapped their huge hands around Abdul's upper arms, bracing him in a chokehold that loosed a grunt of pain. As they led him out of the room, Abdul caught a final glance at Moro. "You don't deserve to be called that."

Moro ignored him and faced the battalion that stood before him. All stared at him, awaiting his command. The cheetah craned his head upward and stood tall and strong.

"Do it."

On cue, the soldiers filed into the shelter. Screams and cries of protest filled the tunnel, and the cheetah trotted out of the shelter and down the corridor, the tip of his spotted tail dancing up and down with his every step.

Trails of blood wandered through the flat stones as Aziz lay on his back, his lifeless gaze aimed up at the sky. A knot of soldiers fought alongside his body; some had tried to catch Moro after the cat had bitten into the young man's throat, while others bounded to the cat's rescue. The cheetah had dashed away and left the men to fight while Moro chased after Abdul. Three others had fallen alongside the dead by the time Moro returned; when the cat leapt onto the ceiling of the jail, horror fell across his face. The armies of the Sarazen had turned and fled, leaving knots of soldiers to fight in the courtyard.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" said Moro. "FIGHT BACK! FIGHT FOR JUSTICE! FIGHT IN THE NAME OF ASLAN!"

There was a pause. More soldiers flooded out of the courtyard and headed for Andur, but Moro smiled. He was but one cheetah, a talking head in a sea of voices, but the soldiers who stayed answered with greater vigor. Every punch, kick and stab made its mark. Men and women collapsed side by side, bleeding from beneath their robes; children sobbed as they scattered across the road; beasts filled the air with the low rumbles of their dying breaths.

Without warning, the war cries turned into sobs and pleas of terror. Two rows of bluecoats filed into the courtyard; children kicked and screamed and thrashed in their captors' grip. A wave of men and women poured into the row of soldiers, fists and staffs swinging.

Moro swung toward a cluster of soldiers and said, "NORTH SIDE OF THE JAIL! NOW!"

The commanding officer nodded at Moro, and his blue coat whipped as he spun around to face the mayhem. The soldiers charged out of the courtyard and rounded the corner, and by them Moro slammed a paw on the roof with a grunt of anger. Two cheetahs leapt into his face, bringing down their claws in broad swipes; a tiger and a panther dug their fangs into his heels, while men and beasts charged at the soldiers. All around them, soldiers collapsed under the weight of men and beasts, with ten more bluecoats pushing back into the deluge—

"SOMEONE'S COMING!"

Whatever Moro wanted to say fell into his lungs. The voice that made his ears swivel was high and full of panic. Out of the corner of his eye, Moro saw the man's arm pointing north. Moro swung his head, and the cat's muscular shoulders tensed. A two-story shop blocked his view of the city gates to the north; he loped off the ceiling of the jail and padded into the street, weaving between clusters of fighting soldiers. He swung to the north, following the man's outstretched arm, and the sight made his breath quiver. The shouts and cries of battle faded, even as the battle wore on. His heart banged so loudly that his ears pulsed with noise.

The sun peaked its manèd head above the dunes in the east, throwing shadows from horizon to horizon. To the north, a bright speck shimmered like a star, and the something's feline form slipped into focus as it drew near. Moro felt his chest constrict, trapping his breath in his lungs.

"No…"

The courtyard grew as still as a cave. All had turned to the North now; some stared in horror and dread, while others stared with fear and wonder but not knowing which one to feel. The Someone had grown so large that all stopped to see its shadow, a thin black smudge rippling down the dunes. Just as Moro could make out its face—a wild, golden face like the sun peaking from a cloud, with rivers of wild, golden hair framing a splendid face—the Someone leapt over the bars of the city gate in a majestic arc onto the ground.

The Someone's paws boomed against the street like a giant banging his drum. The glorious beast shone like bronze in a fire, his mane rippling and waving all around his head. His eyes blazed like a pair of morning suns; they were fixed ahead of him, turning aside for nothing. The Someone gave an incredible leap and hurtled over the crowd like an eagle soaring on the wind, and as soon as he landed he bounded around to face them, his tail parading behind him as he swung about in the wide street. The emblem of grace and glory faced them all, and the children looked on him with joy and awe. But the grown-ups and beasts couldn't bear the sight; even the soldiers, who had been trained to not even flinch in the presence of Calormenes, turned their gazes away as their hands and knees shook.

The mighty beast lifted his head, his mane shimmering in the light of the newborn day. "Don't be afraid!" he said. His golden voice was wild and low, like the booming of distant thunder. "I have come as a friend. I have come to answer the prayers of two of your children, and I have come to show the people of Erizad who is the true Aslan."

Moro grimaced and started to speak—but before he could gather his words, a soldier burst between them and aimed an arrow at the creature's forehead. The arrow glanced off as if it had hit a stone, and the regal golden face was as unblemished as before. The man stared up at Aslan as a child would stare at a looming thundercloud, and he turned white and shrunk back.

Moro crouched low as if ready to pounce. He flicked his eyes to the soldier. "Listen here, you coward: This creature is a Calormene trick. They conjured him up and sent him here. They want us to make us think this is Aslan, so that they can make us fall over in a swoon while they capture our cities one by one. If you won't act like a man and slay this monster, then I will. The Sons of Adam may be fooled by this pageantry, but I am not."

Moro leapt like a coiled wire and splayed his claws. His face fell in a horrified gawk as he collided with the Lion's muzzle.

The cheetah went limp and fell like a stone to the ground. Moro started onto his hind feet, but Aslan had picked him up like a kitten in his jaws. He strode calmly across the street, where a burbling fountain lay.

"LET ME GO!" Moro grunted and growled as he thrashed in the Lion's fangèd jaws. "DAMN IT, YOU FOOL, I AM THE JAMIRA OF THE SARAZEN! YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME!"

Aslan opened his jaws, and Moro tumbled into the basin and landed with a splash. He sloshed from side to side, whipping his head above the limb of the fountain, until he scrambled onto all fours. He coughed and spluttered, his agape jaws dripping as his eyes bulged. "How dare you!" he said, slapping a paw with a splash.

The Lion paid him no attention, but turned and padded back to the courtyard of the jail. The only other sound was the sniffling and sobbing of a boy. Navid had found his father and seen the hole in his uniform, and now he knelt over his father's body, until he saw the big cat standing next to him and he rose to his feet.

Aslan sat on his haunches, towering over the boy like an elephant, but the Lion's face was solemn and heavy. Had the Erizadi not been so frightened, they would admit what they were thinking—that Aslan looked so sorry for the boy, he would start shedding tears. Instead, the Lion lowered his head and touched the boy's forehead with his tongue.

"Don't be afraid, child," he said gently. "Ever since you dreamt of me, you and I have been well met."

Navid sniffled. "My brother and father are dead," he said, letting out a sob. "Why didn't you help them?"

"Don't cry, child," said Aslan. "This did not happen on account of you, but so that your people could know the true Aslan."

Behind him, Moro sloshed out of the fountain and gave a wet shudder. "True Aslan, indeed," he said, shaking himself dry. "Navid has every right to mourn for his sins—not just against his father or brother, but against you. That boy should be executed, as should all the rest of those brats who disobeyed your laws."

As the Lion turned to face the crowd, sorrow flooded his face. The adults and beasts were hanging on Moro's every word; even the parents who held their children in their arms seemed to agree with the cheetah.

Aslan stood on all fours and lifted his head. A growl rumbled from the cavern of his belly. "I have endured your people long enough," said the Lion. "You are blinded by your fears and blinded by the fears of your leaders. But here and now, Navid's faith will be answered. Not only is he forgiven of all his sins, but his father and brother will rise again, and this child's family will join him in freedom."

Aslan swung to the left, his mane rippling in the sunlight. "Reza!" he shouted, his voice rising to a roar. "AWAKE!"

The mighty cat's voice boomed up and down the city, echoing like a thunderclap. Navid turned back to face his father's body, waiting for a sign of life—a twitch of the fingers, a flutter of the breath, a pulse of his chest.

Nothing happened.

Navid's eyes welled up with tears. He turned toward Aslan and started to say something, but the Lion stared ahead. When it was clear the Lion would say nothing more, Navid started to turn back. "Papa...wake up..." The words faded as they left his mouth, as something had caught his eye. The stain of blood that had bloomed on his father's uniform had started to fade. Navid blinked and looked harder. Now, the stain had disappeared, as if the man had never bled.

Without warning, there was a gasp. Reza's fingers curled and stretched, and his chest rose and fell as he took in fluttering breaths. A few animals flinched back, glaring at Aslan as if the Lion had done something cruel. A few men and women whispered and murmured, still staring numbly at the man before flicked his eyes side to side, as if he had awoken in a place he never expected. His arms trembled as he pulled himself up and sat upon the ground, surrounded by waves of gasps and mumblings, and as he turned toward Navid, the child burst into a run.

Reza's word was voiceless, as if spoken in a whisper. "Navid!"

The boy fell into his father's arms and laid his head against his father's shoulder, and tears poured down Reza's face. The crowd gasped and murmured, their faces falling with horror and wonder, but all Navid heard was the sobs of his father as he said, "My boy…my boy…"

Moro shook his head, his eyes wide with horror. He muttered voiceless words to himself, not daring to believe what he had seen, and he scrambled out of place and broke into a run.

A long while passed before Reza had wiped his tears and the two said all they could think to say. Reza composed himself enough to gather his breath and dare to lift himself onto his feet. He found the strength to stand, but his knees threatened to buckle (whether it was from the sight of the Lion or from awaking after the sleep of death, he knew not). As he stood on fidgeting legs, he found himself staring straight into the splendid face of the Lion. A measure of strength returned and steadied his frame, and his face twisted with a puzzled grimace.

The Lion seemed to smile at him. "Indeed," he said softly. "We are acquainted, you and I."

Reza scoffed. "Are we?" he said. "When Navid and Rafik told me they had dreams of you, I could not believe they were true."

"Many things you heard are true, but you had always listened to your teachers and leaders. Rest assured that I am not the one who haunted your dreams. Nor am I a man who stands over his people and longs to put them to death. Nor am I the one who summoned Faraji to the North."

A flash lit Reza's eyes, as if something had been confirmed, but his face darkened again. "Then who are you?"

"I was the one who died at the hands of the Witch, to rescue a traitor from his doom, and I was the one for whom death started working backwards. I was the one who chased Shasta and his companions to safety, and who punished Aravis for the crime against her stepmother's slave. I was the Lion—the burning bush with a face, as Faraji called it—who graced the seal of the letter that came to you. And after you stood in the place of a young man who disobeyed the Sarazen's orders, I was the one who commanded death to work backwards."

Reza let out a soft breath. "Why should I believe you?" His voice was low and cold. "I begged you to save my son, and you couldn't lift a finger to help him. For two years I watched and waited, and you kept your distance from me until he was dead. And now you overturn everything I believe in and expect me to believe you instead, to take the word of a stranger?"

"I spoke to you, Reza, but you ignored me. When Rafik began dreaming of me before he fell ill, he tried to tell you, and you ignored him. When Navid began dreaming of me, you ignored him, too. When my messengers told you of me, you charged them with treason and put them to death, per your master's orders."

"And you saw fit to punish me by killing Rafik."

"No," said Aslan. "This was allowed to happen for the sake of your country. It is now that the reversing of death will bring life to a dying land."

The Lion turned to the Mareshah's house. "RAFIK!" he said, joy lifting his voice. "COME FORTH!"

A thick silence filled the streets. All eyes turned toward the house, watching for any sign of life, but nothing came.

"Come, Rafik," said Reza in a whisper. "Come forth..."

A few animals turned to the right. A door had opened far away, followed by the light pattering of feet on the dirt roads. Restless mumblings filled the air once again...and a chorus of gasps and cries of wonder filled the air as the boy turned the corner and broke into a run. Behind him, Nazira stood with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with fright, and Omar slumped against the wall as an incredulous smile lifted his face.

Tears left trails down Reza's face, his trembling lips pulled open to let the word free. "Rafik!"

"Papa!"

Reza knelt down and lifted the boy into his arms, pulling him close as he wept with abandon. All around him he heard rumblings that a Mareshah should not grieve or rejoice so openly, but he gave it no heed. Navid swung to Aslan with the biggest smile he had ever shown, and Aslan loosed a rumbling laugh, full of joy and merriment, and Navid rushed up to him and threw his arms around the Lion's neck.

Nazira and Omar entered the circle as Reza knelt down and set Rafik on his feet. Nazira had been crying and hid her face from the crowd's view, and Omar smiled like a delighted child. "Incredible. Absolutely incredible! Forty years have I tended to the sick and injured, and never have I seen such a thing!" Omar bent knee and bowed his head low as he faced the Lion. "Truly a god has come to us today. What is your name, that we may speak of it in this place?"

Rafik's face burst with joy like the morning sun. "It's Aslan!"

Omar lifted his head, as if startled by a war cry. His face fell, and his eyes darted between the Lion and the boy. "That can't be…" He shook his head. "Aslan is not a beast. He cannot be."

"My friend, do not be as deaf and blind as I was," said Reza. "We cannot pretend to know the Aslan of childhood tales—not when the true Aslan is standing in our midst."

Omar glowered at the Lion. "That is easy for Reza to say, as he and his son were brought back to life. For those of us who have not been so fortunate, how can we know you're the true Aslan? Why have you stayed so far away from us? How can I explain the deaths of the men in this city? Dar, Aziz, and now the Sarazen are all dead. If you are the true Aslan, why have you not raised them?"

A wave of indignant looks rippled across the crowd. Some shouted their protests, and the rest waited for an answer.

The Lion padded forward. "I kept myself from Erizad by consent of your people. For decades, this nation heard the prophets and messengers speak of me, but you refused to listen. As for the soldiers who died here, the prologues of those men are over. It is not so of Reza and his family, whose stories are still being told."

At that, a mighty wave of shouts and protests crashed across the courtyard. Men and women stabbed their fingers at the lion, their cries mingling into an incoherent mass of noise. Even the animals stomped their paws and hooves, roaring and whinnying and howling their fury.

A man broke out of the crowd and pulled a dagger from his belt, aiming its blade at the Lion. "At least when the Sarazen was alive, we knew what to expect of him. I will not be ruled by the fancies of a beast who raises his favorites from the dead and leaves the rest to rot in their graves. This is a country ruled by men, by the Sarazen, and by the Mareshahs of our great cities. Whatever you are, leave! Leave this city and never come back!"

A roar of cheers burst out of the crowd, so great that an outsider might have thought the Calormenes had been conquered. Navid and Rafik stared with sad, gleaming eyes at the crowd. Reza looked wistfully at the crowd, feeling that he should join them. Nazira's eyes flashed with anger at Omar, who said nothing and stood with a sullen glare at the Mareshah.

Reza stared sadly for a moment, then turned to face his family. "Nazira, children, we need to leave."

"Reza," said Aslan. His voice was firm but kind. "I still have a task for you."

"They don't want you here," said Reza. "Why should they want any of us?"

"It doesn't matter," said Aslan. "You are still needed here."

"Why can't you be our Sarazen?" said Rafik. "Why can't you fight him?"

"Indeed," said Reza. "Mustafa lied to his people. The deaths of his sons drove him mad, no doubt because you were the one who carried them out. Even so, I would rather have you rule this country than entrust it to men."

"My son, all the wars and conquests of this world have always given way to other wars. There is a greater strength, a greater magic, that is enough to bend the hearts of the greatest warriors of the world. True peace does not come from swords and arrows, but through the changing of hearts. You have met me, you have seen me face to face, and now you will tell others about me and tell them what has happened. That will do more for your people than if I were to capture Andur."

"What about Faraji?" said Navid. "When is he coming home?"

Rafik gazed up at Aslan with eyes just as wide, then turned to Reza. "Why did he leave, Papa? Where did he go?"

"Two weeks ago, we sent him to retrieve some medicine for you." He turned to Aslan. "Why has he not been summoned home? Has no one told him that this was all a mistake?"

"It was no mistake," said Aslan. "A great treachery will be used for great good—not just for those around him, but for Faraji himself, and for Erizad."

Reza's mouth fell open. "Will he come back alive?"

"I cannot promise that," said Aslan. "No matter what happens to him, the story of your lives will carry on, and that alone is within your power and right to change. I ask all of you to trust me—not just for Faraji's sake, but for the sake of this country."

There was another pause. The Lion was staring straight into Reza's eyes, waiting for the head of the family and the Mareshah of Palár to answer him. Reza felt warmth and strength fill his chest and give strength to his trembly limbs, even as he gazed into the incarnation of power and authority. Indeed, he could not dare argue with him, but the Lion's gaze was so tender, so full of sorrow and hope mingling together, why would he want to argue?

A word fell onto his tongue, and he held it back, pondering its meaning. It seemed so strange to say it to Aslan, as it had been spoken to others who seemed worthy of the word, but now someone else was worthy of it—and it seemed to amuse Reza to say it.

"Yes, mehan."