The white-robed man leaned back in his chair. His eyes widened with fear, and the furrows along his naked face deepened. He held Faraji's letter over the table, not knowing whether to read it or lay it aside. His eyes glanced across the room, as though he were looking for something to say.

If you had ever met the Marehafa, you would know that silencing him was no small feat. Salman Tarik was the supreme legislator of Erizad; his life revolved around the writing and speaking of choice words. In all that time, he had never been at a loss for the right ones, but as he read Faraji's letter for the third time, every word was stolen out of his head.

The cheetah Kalil continued to stand on all four paws. For a long, thick silence, the cat looked him in the face, waiting for him to reply. A long moment passed before the man laid the letter on the table; by the sharpness returning to his eyes, he seemed to gather his words again.

The man leaned forward in the chair, his white robes rustling. "Kalil, I have no intention of ignoring this letter, but I cannot act on it, either. Before you came here, Reza received a letter telling Faraji to go to Narnia, and that letter was revealed to be a fraud. Someone deceived Reza once—someone might be deceiving him again."

"Agreed, mehan, but I see no harm in allowing the Mareshah to continue his investigation."

"As a soldier who trusts his commander, you would say that. But from my point of view, Reza should not even be investigating. He was put on notice, and by leaving Palár without permission from the Assembly, he has broken the law."

"I understand, mehan, but he would never have broken the law if Moro hadn't put him on notice. For reasons beyond either of us, Moro has done everything in his power to stop Reza from doing his job. And surely you feel that Moro acted improperly—"

"Do not presume to tell me what I feel, Kalil. My allegiance is to the law, not to my feelings."

Kalil said nothing, but his gaze did not falter.

"Even so, you are right. What Moro did was spiteful, as was everything else he has done—spying on Reza, disobeying his orders, and conspiring to have forty children unlawfully executed. But this time, Moro acted within the parameters of the law. He had every right to put Reza on notice, and a majority of the Assembly agreed."

"What will you do? Will you arrest him and disrupt his investigation?"

"I would, if it were anyone else," said Salman. "But Reza is the finest Mareshah I have seen in my lifetime, and Faraji is one of our finest jamiras. We cannot afford to lose Reza at a time like this. We will settle things when he returns—but I cannot promise him a reprieve."

Kalil bowed his head in resignation. "Fair enough, mehan."

A crescent moon frowned over their heads as Reza and his horse rode into Rasul. The town was dimly lit by scattered lanterns and what little light the moon beamed through the thin clouds. Walking through Rasul felt like walking through a cemetery. Ninety people and animals died from the Red Death less than a month ago; their absence was thick enough to be felt, and the blackness of night and shadow seemed heavier than it would be in any other town.

The horse nickered a little, and Reza felt it in his own limbs. "Do you smell anything, Emir?"

The horse shook his mane. "Nay, mehan. I am only grieved by what has happened here. Six of my brethren died in the stables; I can only think of them crying out in pain."

As Emir plodded up to the house and came to a stop, Reza swung himself out of the saddle. He knew he had not been too late. A single candle sat in the windowsill, lighting the walls inside the mudbrick house. "Forgive me, old friend, but I cannot take you in with me. I doubt you would fit under the ceiling."

"I should think not," said Emir in a low voice. "I will wait here. In case there is another attempt on your life, I want to be ready to leave."

Reza thanked him with a nod. With a nervous sigh, he strode up to the door, and he pulled down the metal knocker with three clangs.

The voice from inside was muffled and weak, as if from crying. "I'm not taking any patients this evening."

"It's all right, mehan. I'm not a patient."

A pause, then the sound of footfalls muffled by the walls. The footfalls drew closer, the metal latch clattered, and the door groaned open, revealing a weary bearded man. His face was furrowed and shadowed by the candlelight, and his dark eyes stared coldly at Reza.

"So it is true," he said. "The Mareshah of Palár was killed and brought back to life."

"So everyone has told me—though I can scarcely believe it myself. But that is not why I am here. Dr. Sharaz, I need your help."

"Whatever you need, you can ask the Lion who raised you back to life. After all, it was your son whom he brought back from the dead. Good evening."

Reza's face fell. "Mehan, wait—"

But Ali gave no reply. The door slammed shut, and a moment later, the candle in the window went out.

Reza balled his hand into a fist and knocked on the door. "Mehan, our country may be in danger. Thousands of lives might be at risk. All I ask is that you tell me: Do the balik carry the Red Death?"

Once again, there was quiet, then the scraping of a freshly struck match as light filled the window once more. The door groaned open, and Ali's face started to soften. "How do you know this?"

"Faraji wrote to me. Is there any truth to what he said?"

Ali let out a sigh. His shoulders fell, as though a great weight seemed to fall from them. "My friend, you must understand that I couldn't tell anyone. The Sarazen would have arrested me and put me behind the jail to be executed. But after five years, I kept discovering the same things: Every outbreak had started with the migration of the balik into our waters, or with a water supply that smelled of death. I leaked the information wherever I could, but I could not disclose my identity."

"Mehan, I understand your situation. But the punishments for blasphemy have been abolished. You can stand before the Assembly and tell them what you know."

"But I cannot stand before them unless—"

"Unless I make you a Mareshah. I know."

Ali was still for a moment. "Reza, I am an old man. I would be an old man in a Council of warriors."

"You would be the Mareshah of Rasul. Everyone would listen to you. The Assembly needs to listen to you. It's not just about the Red Death—it's about the future of this country. We are about to vote for a new Sarazen, and every man worthy of the title has been rejected, often by a single vote. If Moro nominates a man who follows in his pawprints, there will be executions of children for misdemeanor offenses, there will be executions of anyone who believes in the true Aslan, and any investigation into the Red Death will be thwarted."

"I am well aware of the situation. But if you think I am able to effect any change for the better, you are mistaken. No one would heed me; no one would have any reason to. I was no great warrior in my youth. I am an old doctor in the smallest town of Erizad."

"Mehan, you know the Red Death—you know it better than anyone. You can testify before the Assembly. We may have a way to prevent the Red Death from killing any more of us, but the Assembly will never know of it unless you tell them. You have done the research; you have the experience. With all due respect, if you have a better reason than your excuses, I want to know it now."

Reza waited for Ali to chastise him for being so improper. Speaking so forcefully to an elder was a gross misdemeanor under the old laws. Instead, Ali's face softened, and tears started to fill his eyes.

"I do not deserve to be called Mareshah," he said weakly. "Tarin made the choice that I should have made. He took the Narnian into Calormen. He pulled the body out of the river. Because of what he did, he was exposed to the Red Death. He was not supposed to die while he was still in the prime of his youth. I let him take the risk that I should have taken; for that, I can never forgive myself."

"My friend, you did nothing wrong. You had to stay in Rasul; no one knows more about the Red Death than you. It was right for Tarin to go on that mission—he was the Mareshah, not you. But if you insist on calling that a mistake, then take it from a man who has made even greater mistakes than yours. I was cruel to Faraji. I was harsh to my wife. I have used a whip on my children. I executed my own people for believing in a Lion—the same Lion who turned out to be the real Aslan. And yet, he has given me another chance, and you can give yourself another chance. We may not be able to change the past, but we can do something about the future."

A pause, and Ali showed half a smile. "You are nothing if not persistent. One wonders why you haven't been made a legislator in the Assembly." With a sigh, he said, "Very well. I will testify to what the Narnian has discovered, and I will present my findings before the Assembly—but on one condition."

"Name it."

"When we arrive in Palár, and I am sworn in as Mareshah, you will allow me to present you as a candidate for the next Sarazen."

This time, it was Reza's turn to look aghast. "My friend—"

Ali lifted his hand. "If I am without excuse, Reza, so are you."

"Being a Mareshah is one thing. I have no desire to rule Erizad."

"But you have a desire to protect your people and to seek the truth. That is more than can be said for anyone else. Reza, I have been reading the reports out of Palár. I know the kind of men that have been considered. Even the best of them have only half your experience or courage, and few have any interest in seeking the truth. Reza, it is not arrogant of you to say what we both know is true: Your time has come."

Reza stared blankly into the starry sky. For a long while, nothing was said. He muttered something under his breath, a prayer that Aslan would give him peace. At once, before the last words left his lips, a wave of Lion strength crashed over him, and in its wake was a measure of peace.

"All right, mehan," he said. "But only if I can swear you in as the Mareshah of Rasul." Reza held out his hand, and Ali clasped it with a firm shake.

"Agreed."

The newborn sun rose above the limb of the earth as Reza and Ali walked the pillared corridors of Andur. Ali walked stiffly in his new blue uniform—the uniform of a Mareshah. It was a perfect fit, but the man inside it felt unworthy to wear it. And yet, as they drew closer to the yawning two-story doorway to the famed Aslan Hall, Ali seemed to relax a little.

Just then, Kalil trotted up to them and bade them a good morning, but not without mentioning how tired they looked.

"Sleep was not a luxury we could afford," said Reza. "We had to leave just as quickly as I arrived. With the Order of Aslan about, we expected to find trouble along the way."

"Did you?"

Reza sighed. "More than we expected. From what I heard, you had trouble, as well."

Kalil nodded. "The Order of Aslan attacked a row of houses along the thoroughfare. There were two fatalities among the followers of the Lion, but all thirteen rioters were killed."

Ali sighed. "Is this because Reza felt he had to leave, Kalil? Did this happen because he was away from his post?"

The cheetah paused. "None of us can be certain of that."

Nothing more was said of the matter. Reza, Ali, and Kalil streamed into the great hall with the rest of the dignitaries. All along Aslan Hall sat three rings of tables, terraced like the rows in a stadium. Along the outermost and highest ring sat the Hafas, the legislators of Erizad (most of them men, but with a few beasts among them); along the middle ring sat the Mareshahs, the highest law enforcement officers in their cities of birth (and no beasts among them, per the law); and along the lowest and smallest ring sat the jamiras—the cheetahs and tigers and panthers that served with their Mareshahs. All the men and beasts raised their right hands and paws, and Salman took his stand behind his table.

"As the leaders of Erizad," said Salman, "we will execute justice and establish law."

"By the Man's sword and shield," said the Councils. (Reza, Ali and Kalil said with voices clear and strong, "By the Lion's mane.")

"As the leaders of Erizad, we will resolve to be fair in our rulings and solemn in our proceedings."

"By the Man's sword and shield."

"And as the leaders of Erizad, we will uphold the laws that were given to us by the Man Aslan. We will speak the truth under penalty of perjury."

"By the Man's sword and shield."

Salman nodded. "Be seated."

As men and beasts lowered themselves behind their tables, Salman let out a breath and panned the room. "The purpose of this Assembly is to appoint a new Sarazen—an arduous task that has been made more difficult by recent events. Two weeks ago, a great cat—this so-called Lion—came to Erizad and called himself the true Aslan. In response, the Order of Aslan was born, and they have attacked the followers of this Lion. But what you don't know is that we may now be facing an emergency—one that requires us to appoint our next Sarazen with even greater diligence and care."

Salman paused, and he interlaced his fingers. "Recently, Faraji received word of a conspiracy against Erizad—a plot to spread the Red Death into every city. If Faraji is right, this conspiracy is being planned by Calormenes operating within our borders and without the knowledge or consent of their leaders. Moreover, the Narnian horse that stopped the outbreak in Rasul has made an extraordinary claim: Instead of it being the curse of Aslan, as we had all been taught, the Red Death may be a disease that is carried and spread by the balik."

More murmurs swept through the crowd. Some men and beasts stared in disbelief. Others nodded, as though the idea made great sense. Moro's mouth was hanging open; Reza wondered if the cat was incredulous or trying to hold back a laugh.

Salman waited for the crowd to settle. "Whomever we appoint to be our Sarazen will have a great deal of trouble on his hands. With all that said, it is time for us to inquire of our candidates—to choose the best man for the position. Hussein Bakhiri is the only living progeny of our late Sarazen. Dr. Ibrahim Massoud is distinguished professor of Aslan studies at the University of Palár. But before we inquire of them, it seems we will consider a third man. I will ask Dr. Ali Sharaz—our newly appointed Mareshah of Rasul—to present this candidate before the Assembly."

Ali nodded and rose, and on cue, all eyes turned toward him. The Assembly's eyes were dark and weary; even the cheetahs and tigers and panthers seemed unable to hide their exhaustion. Two weeks, and scores of maladroit men had passed through, and none of them seemed to be any better than the previous man.

"Gentlemen of Erizad, and Talking Beasts of the Far South: I stand before you as a man who has spent his life seeking the truth. Difficult claims have come before us, and few men are willing to investigate them, to see if they have any merit. The sorts of claims we have just heard demand an investigation, not leadership that thoughtlessly blames Aslan on every disaster. We need leadership that faces a problem with composure and equanimity. We need a leader with the intelligence, strength, and courage to seek the truth. The man I present to you has all those qualities and more—and I don't need to remind you of his credentials and his many accolades in the service to his country. I appoint Reza Munir, the Mareshah of Palár, as a candidate for Sarazen."

The weary looks on half the faces of the Assembly grew lighter and stronger, and by the time Ali had taken his seat, the mood of half the room had changed. All eyes were on Reza now, and half were shining with looks of approval.

Salman kept his composure and rose from his seat. "The motion is to allow the Mareshah to stand before the Assembly and be questioned for the title of Sarazen. I will ask all in favor to raise their hands."

At once, paws and hands rose up along all three rings. To the surprise of none, Moro sat on his haunches and glared at Reza.

Salman turned to the cheetah. "Will you agree, Moro, that we have a majority in favor?"

Moro paused, his face warping into a grimace. "Agreed," he droned. "The vote is twenty-nine in favor and twenty-three against."

Salman brought down his gavel. "The motion is carried. Reza, you will stand before the Councils to make your case. However, in the interest of fairness, we will inquire of our other candidates first."

Reza nodded. "Understood."

"Very well. Then I will ask the Sarazen's grandson, Hussein Bakhiri, to take his stand—"

"I protest that!"

At once, all eyes turned to the far end of the room. Hussein sprang to his feet, his coat rustling and whipping. The man wore the gold-trimmed blue uniform of an Erizadi soldier, but no one looked at the homely-faced young man with any respect. "I should not need to take my stand. I demand that you dispense of these proceedings and appoint me now!"

Salman swung the gavel again. "That was out of order," he said. "Now take your stand and let us proceed."

"I will not take my stand! Need I remind you of Chapter XII, Section 1 of the Code of Aslan? 'Whenever the reigning Sarazen dies or is otherwise relieved of his command, his chosen successor shall ascend the throne.' I am that successor. It was written in my grandfather's will!"

Moro chuckled. "If you blush any harder, you might burst a blood vessel. And even if there weren't any better men than you in line, we can't appoint you to be Sarazen yet. There's been a complication."

Hussein glowered at him. "What complication?"

"You. You care nothing about the law unless it does something for you. You have no experience in battle and even less knowledge of Aslan. You have two women living in your house, and neither of them is your wife. Out of all the men who've been considered—all forty-six incompetents we've questioned in the last two weeks—we could hardly do worse than you."

Hussein's anger flashed across his face. "Do you see how he talks to me?!"

"I do," said Salman, "but he's right. Your competency has been called into question, and justifiably so."

"I am just as competent as any man, if not more. I have been chosen by the Man Aslan to lead this country; there is no greater qualification than that. If you do not put a stop to these proceedings, then by the Man's sword and shield, I will personally put an end to them."

Moro let out a sigh. "And this, gentlemen, is why we have Section 2."

Hussein glowered at him. "Section 2?"

"Yes, it's right after Section 1."

"I know where it is, you little beast," said Hussein. "And if you knew the history of that section, you would know it doesn't apply to me. The Sarazen of that day was killed before he wrote his will; Section 2 was written to stop his sons from killing each other over the throne."

Salman lifted a hand. "The wording is clear, Hussein: Section 2 is not limited to the Sarazen's immediate family."

"Indeed," said Moro, "and we have every right to consider superior candidates—especially when there is such a desperate need for them."

Hussein crumpled his hands into fists. "This is an outrage!"

Salman cracked his gavel again. "With all due respect, Hussein, you are out of order. We are abiding by the terms of the law, and we are responding to the extraordinary nature of recent events. We will seek out the man whom Aslan has chosen to lead—and perhaps you are that man. But you must go through the same process as everyone else—which means I will ask you to take your stand and present your case before the Assembly."

Hussein's glare was so toxic, it could make your blood turn to poison, but he gathered himself and forced a pleasant smile onto his face (which, to everyone's astonishment, made him look even more angry). "All right, then," he said softly.

"Choosing me is a matter of sense. I am of royal blood. I am the only descendant of my grandfather. But what of our other candidates? Consider Reza, who clings to the idea that Aslan is a giant cat. The man should have been executed for this blasphemy. Now consider Dr. Massoud, a professor who knows nothing about military matters. If Calormenes were to attack, the first thing he would consult is his books, while everyone around him dies. My friends, it is only right that you choose me. It is only proper. It is the way of the Man Aslan. And if you disregard his way, he will doom this country to the Red Death, for rejecting me as your sovereign. Consider that, and heed it, as it could mean our lives. Thank you."

"And thank you," said Moro with a roll of his eyes. "Mehan, Reza thinks the Red Death is preventable. Suppose, for the sake of discussion, that we accept his absurd idea. If you were to be appointed Sarazen, would you stop the Red Death from spreading?"

A pause. Hussein's eyes grew wide at that. His lips rose and fell, as if trying to get back the words that were stolen from his mouth. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"What, am I speaking another language?" said the cheetah. "If you were Sarazen, would you stop the Red Death from spreading?"

Hussein's face went red. "Well, yes—er, no. I mean—i-if I felt that in the moment it were...w-what difference would it make what I would do? I wouldn't know unless I were appointed Sarazen and the burden fell on me!"

"Spoken like someone with no experience."

"Why should I have to give an answer? I would know what to do when I am faced with it. Besides, does a man need to know everything? I would give orders, and my Mareshahs would take them."

"I rest my case. Even a small child would rule this country better than you. You have no understanding, you have no credentials, and you have no right to lead Erizad."

Hussein's eyes flashed with anger. "I am the chosen of the Man Aslan. It is my right to be Sarazen!"

"I think we have heard enough," said Moro through a yawn.

"Sustained," said Salman. "Unless there are no further questions, Hussein, you may be seated."

Hussein glared at him but said no more. As he strode out of the center of the room, a man with flowing white robes entered the rings of tables. The white cloth that crowned his head like a veil signified that he was a learnèd man, as if his arrogant gaze did not persuade everyone else already.

"As you all know," said the man, affectionately laying a hand on his chest, "I am Dr. Ibrahim Massoud—a most distinguished professor of Aslan studies at the University of Palár."

Moro let out a bored sigh and started to groom his paw. The doctor glowered at the cheetah, as if the cat were a distracted student, but he forced a smile back onto his face.

"When I was but a small child, my parents prophesied that I was born for divine service. Why, even before I could talk, I had the giftings of a prophet. I could read the stars and know what Aslan was telling us. I could listen to animals and know their thoughts better than they could understand their own. I was blessed as a newborn with the gift of knowledge—knowledge of the great Man Aslan, who pours out terrible wrath upon the insolent and rebellious of his world—and my prophecies came true, even as I was learning my letters and numbers. Upon my coming of age, the Man Aslan spoke to me with his own voice: 'Ibrahim, you are to be a great scholar—the greatest of your time.' And, quite fittingly, so I was. My dissertation, 'On the wrath of Aslan as expressed in nature,' was defended with success. Not only did it earn me the title of assistant professor, but it also earned me the Silver Shield for excellence in research. As a married man and, soon enough, a father of four grown children, I became renowned across the Southern Wastes. My interpretations of dreams and visions of our great Man Aslan have made me renowned near and far. Men and women, children and animals, Calormenes and Erizadi far and wide have sought my counsel, because I am a man of great wisdom and intellect, of great piety and understanding. But why, you ask? Why should a lowly and humble professor such as I be lifted to the rank of Sarazen—?"

"Thank you very much, Professor," droned Moro.

The man forced a smile onto his face. "Excuse me, noble cat. I am not through."

"You are quite through. We know everything there is to know. You have no degree in law, you have never led an army, and you are good for nothing except blustering at length."

The man turned red in the face. "I will not be spoken to that way, and certainly not by the likes of a beast."

"Objection sustained," said Salman. "Moro, you will avoid your insolent remarks, knowing that another one of them will find you in contempt."

The cheetah glared at him, then turned to the professor. "I understand that Reza was one of your students. He thinks the Red Death is not the judgment of Aslan, but an illness spread by fish. What do you say to that?"

Massoud gave a condescending laugh. "Reza? The poor fool is terrified of the Man's wrath. He would do anything to coax himself that Aslan is a Lion."

"And Reza thinks that by prohibiting the sale of the balik, he can reverse the judgment of Aslan. Is he right?"

Massoud scoffed. "That question is so utterly beneath all of us, you should be ashamed to even ask it. The Red Death is the Man's way of shedding our blood for our sins. If that is what he wants to do, what sort of prohibition can stop him?"

The cheetah gave a dull blink. "Well, I happen to agree with you. But, by law, I'm supposed to let the Council of Mareshahs question you."

The professor gave him a curt nod and turned to face the Mareshahs. Moro went back to grooming his paw, and this time the cheetah was out of the professor's eyeline. The professor's smile was short-lived; Reza stood up from his seat and looked the professor in the face.

"Dr. Massoud, you said the balik is Aslan's instrument of judgment upon us. What evidence do you have of this?"

The professor paused. "I will not answer a fool, and I will certainly not answer his folly. Is there anyone in this Council who has a valid question for me?"

No one replied.

Salman turned to the professor. "Dr. Massoud, it seems there are no further questions. You may be seated. Now I will ask Reza to take his stand and present his case."

On cue, Reza strode from behind his table. As the wind from Dr. Massoud's exit breezed all around him, Reza drew in a calming breath. All eyes were on Reza now; even Moro had stopped grooming himself, but only to glare at him. Standing in the center of the room made Reza wonder if the eyes of the world were on him. But then he saw the Lion, the true Aslan, standing before him in a sweet and golden memory, and the thought filled him with Lion strength...

Reza blinked back tears. "You should have left me dead," he said, forcing a sob from breaking forth. "You should have spared my son and left me dead."

"I still have work for you to do," said Aslan. "Nothing you have done will ever change that."

"But I was a coward and a fool—a damned fool!" Reza blinked again, and this time the tears broke free. "You know what I did!"

"I know who you truly are, Son of Adam," said the Lion. "You are the man whom I have chosen to bring truth and justice to your people, a nation that has long forgotten the meanings of the words. Your time has come, Reza; you must be strong and brave, and take the adventure that awaits you."

The memory faded away as the Assembly slipped back into focus, but the wave of Lion strength broke over him. In its wake was a measure of peace.

"In our language, the word 'Sarazen' means 'supreme leader of men.' But the limitations of human and animal languages do not fully express the meaning of the title. A Sarazen must be a warrior and statesman and ambassador; he must also possess courage and strength that continue when everyone else around him has failed. But that courage is not limited to the fields of battle; it extends to the pursuit of justice and truth—a pursuit that has taken us into unfamiliar and uncomfortable lands. We are faced with evidence that challenges our beliefs. Our discomfort is profound, and rightly so. To follow the evidence to its conclusion may be one of the greatest challenges our generation has to face, because it means facing our fears of the Man Aslan and the Red Death. But as Sarazen, I will lead us in the pursuit of that truth, and I will continue to defend this country and lead the Mareshahs and their jamiras in the pursuit of justice and truth. Thank you."

Reza lowered himself into his chair. When he lifted his head and glanced about the room, he saw men and beasts smiling and giving him their nods of approval. Others glared at him, with Moro's stare the darkest of them all.

Salman cleared his throat. "If there are any questions for the Mareshah, you may ask them now."

Moro gave it no reply, but continued to glare at Reza. "A fortnight ago, we had something of a row, did we not?"

Reza smirked. "If you mean the time you disobeyed a direct order from me and you attempted to execute forty children? Yes, you could say we had a row."

"Does the Assembly know you tried to have me killed?"

"Yes, and they know you disobeyed my direct orders."

Moro smirked. "You don't seem to have a high regard for the Talking Beasts of Erizad. Trying to kill me was a low point in your career. But then there's the matter of Faraji. You sent him on a worthless quest because some impostor wrote a letter, promising medicine for your son."

"I had no reason to suspect anything."

"There was your mistake. Unfortunately, it was the most recent. Twelve years ago, you rescued him from Calormen. From my point of view, it looks as though you stole him from his family—assuming he had any at all."

"I was in Tehishbaan, rescuing slaves," said Reza. "Faraji was not my priority. When I rode into the town square, I saw him and another cheetah surrounded by two pikemen. When I drew closer, I heard one of the cheetahs say, 'Farewell, brother.' I knew the other one had to be rescued."

"That, or you wanted a trophy for your work. You were—what? twenty-one, twenty-two?—a young and promising soldier who desperately wanted to be Mareshah."

"That was not the story," said Reza. "Their parents were Saheeb and Zareenah, the cheetah aristocrats who served the Tarkaan of Zalindreh. The two of them were responsible for sending Faraji and his brother to war against Narnia and the North. Beresh was only twenty, but he was responsible for high-profile assassinations and murders in Archenland and Narnia. If Faraji hadn't been killed by him, he would have lived a life of crime and conquest. I felt compelled to take him away from that situation."

"How magnanimous of you," said Moro. "I suppose I should get to know Faraji when he comes back. After all, it would be delightful to meet such a courageous cheetah—one who was tricked into going North and suffered from the Red Death because of you."

Murmurs and gasps rippled through the assembly. Reza turned to Ali, who bowed his head in sorrow.

"Is that true?" said Reza. "Was Faraji in Rasul?"

"He told me not to tell you, my friend," said Ali. "He said you had parted on unfriendly terms, and he didn't want you to know where he was."

Moro chuckled. "Well, Reza, it seems we know all there is to know. You are irrational and selfish in all your dealings. You took Faraji from his family in Calormen. You treated him with contempt and hate. At the same time, you treated your own family with contempt and hate—using a whip on your children, treating your wife harshly. Now the Lion has come—this so-called true Aslan who supposedly rose you back to life—and you swoon over him as you would over a Calormene temptress with too little to wear. What's more, you believe in impossible ideas—ideas about the Red Death that are blasphemy against the Man Aslan. You fancy yourself to be a Mareshah, when you can't even seem to lead your own family. Your boys start fights at school in the name of the Lion. Your wife insults me and challenges me to my face. She speaks of matters she cannot understand, all because you have stopped training her to keep her mouth shut. You are a traitor to the Man Aslan, and you are an embarrassment to every man who calls himself Mareshah. You violated the terms of your notice by leaving Palár without our permission, and for what? A stubborn, small-town doctor who claims the same outrageous lies as you? I daresay that we might do better with that crotchety old professor who blusters, because at least he doesn't have a history of ineffective and foolish leadership."

Reza paused and lowered his head. One would think he was praying, but instead he was fighting the tears that had started to well up in his eyes. Memories flooded his head—of how he had rescued Faraji and forced the cat in his duress to pledge allegiance to Erizad, of how he had whipped and beaten Faraji to put an ounce of sense into such a violent Calormene skull, how he had been tricked by a letter that sent Faraji north, and how he had whipped his boys in his fits of anger and slapped his own wife in a loss of his temper.

When Reza composed himself, strength was back on his face. "Yes…I received a letter that claimed to be from the High King of Narnia. Yes, I sent Faraji on a mission that exposed him to the Red Death. Yes, I tried to put some sense into his head: He attacked the Narnian horse and forced him to arrange an escape, and I could not let that go undisciplined. And yes, at times I was harsh with my family. But we know why I did what I did—it is the same reason any father or commander has done it in the last century: fear. I was afraid of Aslan, because I was taught to be afraid of Aslan. I lived in that fear, and I acted out of it. For that, I must bear the burden of my shame. But now, the true Aslan is here in our country, and by his power and wisdom, he is helping us set things right—not just in Erizad, but in me. I am not the man I was, because the true Aslan has changed me. I was dead, and now I am alive.

"Moro said that I am ignorant of my history, but what I am about to tell you is based in fact. We know who started the myth of the Man Aslan—it was Teimuraz, the Sarazen of a hundred years ago, who saw Calormenes dismember and behead his people. He responded by creating the myth of the Man Aslan—to frighten his people away from anyone would do them harm. He meant well, but his lies have grown out of control. Our own people are terrified of a Man who doesn't even exist. Now that we have a chance to rise above our fears, I am going to take it. We know the true Aslan, the Great Lion who has been among us, and in two weeks we have learned more of the true Aslan than we did in two decades of education, because we did not learn about him—we are now learning from him. We know how he rules. We know what he cares about. We know our history, and we know what the Red Death does. If you do not choose me to be your Sarazen, then choose someone who knows the truth and is willing to act on it. It is better to know the truth and change our ways than it is to remain steadfast in error."

Murmurs fell across the hall, and Hussein let out a cynical scoff. "So these are your superior candidates," he said to Salman. "A crotchety old professor and a Mareshah who believes Aslan is a Lion. If this is the best you and the Assembly can do, I should be sorely disappointed."

"Finally, something we have in common," said Moro dully.

Hussein's eyebrows rose. "Well, I'm glad you're starting to see it my way."

"I am doing no such thing. As terrible as Reza and Dr. Massoud would be, they would be a far better sight than you. The only way I would ever appoint you to be my Sarazen is if the space between my ears were replaced by a coconut."

Hussein's face warped into a scowl. "I have had enough of you!"

"And I have had enough of this charade. Forty-nine men have passed through this Assembly, and all of you have been fools. You have no experience, no wits, no comprehension of the law. I daresay that if we molded every one of you into one Sarazen, you still wouldn't know how to lead children in a dance."

Hussein leapt to his feet. "I PROTEST!"

"You can protest all you want, son of man—it will do you no good!"

"That's enough!" said Salman. "Moro, I find you in contempt—"

"I am not finished," said Moro. "I have contempt against everyone in this Assembly, and I haven't even begun to complain of you."

Salman fell still.

"You and the Hafas have been in power for two weeks now, and things are getting worse. Riots are breaking out in every city. Blasphemy is being committed against the Man of Narnia. And now the Mareshah of Palár loses control of his own city—small wonder, as he can't keep his own children from getting into fights at school. But no matter how foolish the Mareshah is, it is the Hafas who ought to be enforcing the laws. Instead, you waffle over who should be the next Sarazen. You subject the Assembly to an endless parade of mediocre men. Worse, you strike down the death penalty for blasphemy, and you refuse to execute the followers of the Lion and all other manner of traitor. You have infuriated Aslan so intensely that he has allowed the Red Death to threaten us, but instead of enforcing the law, the Order of Aslan is doing your job. This country does not need ineptitude. It needs its Sarazen—a supreme authority worthy of the name. I served under Mustafa for a year, and before that, I served the Mareshah of Arkanaz. I have fought for this country. I know the law better than any of these fools we've questioned. In this extraordinary and disgraceful absence of competent men, I nominate myself as a candidate for the next Sarazen."

At once, half the Assembly rose out of their seats. Cheers of approval and roars of anger burst from man and beast alike.

"I object!" said Hussein. "I will not be usurped by a beast!"

"And I refuse to bow before a cat and kiss his paws," said Dr. Massoud. "Salman, I demand that you throw him out of the Assembly now!"

Salman's face had flushed with anger, and he didn't know who ought to receive the full force of it. He glanced back and forth, from Moro to the professor. And then, without warning, he let out a weighty and angry sigh.

"Overruled."

Whatever noise the Councils had made before was nothing compared to the explosion of noise that filled the hall now. It seemed the whole world rose up to protest. Only Reza, Ali, and Kalil sat calmly at their tables, sharing looks of dread.

Salman cracked his gavel, and at last the hall fell silent. "As distasteful as this may be to you, it is only fair. Moro has served under two of the most powerful commanders in Erizad, and he knows the law just as well as any man in here."

Moro nodded. "Well, then, I move that we dispense with the rest of the candidates, and we let the Assembly vote between Reza and myself for the title of Sarazen."

All hands and paws were raised now—all but Hussein's. "Mark my words, you little beast. No political maneuvering will take me away from my destiny. By the Man's sword and shield, I will be the next Sarazen of this country."

Moro seemed to laugh at him with his eyes, then turned to the rest of the Councils. "Gentlemen, I implore you to take heed. The wrath of the Man Aslan is at the door. If we fail to appoint a Sarazen worthy of the name, the Man will pour out the Red Death upon us. We cannot challenge his judgments and expect to walk away from it alive. The Red Death will fall upon this country if he so wishes it. It is upon us to heed his wrath and fury, and beg him to spare our lives, which he will not do if we appoint Reza to assume the throne."

Reza brushed it away with a shake of his head, then glanced across the hall. "Moro wishes to rule you with fear, but I implore you to listen to the truth. We have the power to save lives from the Red Death, and he will not even consider it. If Calormenes are plotting to release the Red Death all over the country, he will not do anything to stop it or even investigate it to see if it's true. Gentlemen, we are talking about appointing a beast who will not spread knowledge but suppress it. We are talking about kneeling before a cat who will command and not lead. Moro has tried to execute children for petty offenses, he is talking about reinstating the punishments for blasphemy and calling for the execution of innocents, and now that a credible threat has been leveled against us, he won't even regard it. We must give ourselves to the pursuit of truth and justice, we must throw ourselves into the effort that is needed to free ourselves of these old fears, we must do better than appointing a leader who will manipulate his people with fear, and we have to do it now."

Cheers and applause broke out among taunts and growls, and Salman sighed and rose from his chair. Once more, he brought down his gavel with a sharp slam. "Before this Assembly falls out of order, we need to dispense with the debate. We can continue this pretense of law and order, but eventually we'll need to make a choice. Erizad has fallen into chaos and fear unlike any we have seen before, and we need a leader to ascend the throne and bring calm to this country now—before another drop of blood is shed by the Order of Aslan, or by the Man himself."

Silence filled the hall, and men and beasts lowered themselves back into their seats. Salman followed suit, and he lowered the gavel onto the table. "All those in favor of Reza, will you please raise your hands."

One by one, hands and paws rose into the air.

"And those in favor of Moro, I will ask you to raise your hands."

Hands and paws fell, while the rest rose to take their place.

Salman paused. "Moro, it seems that the vote is tied, is it not?"

The cheetah nodded. "The tally is twenty-six in favor and twenty-six against, with no abstentions."

Murmurs filled the hall, and Salman sighed and bowed his head. "By the Code of Aslan, it is up to me to cast the deciding vote."

His eyes glanced about the room. All faces had turned toward him now. He lowered his head and softly let out a trembling breath. The man seemed to be buying every last second he could. When he lifted his head, the silence grew even thicker.

"I have been sitting in this chair for twenty-five years, and never in my career have I been presented with a decision like this. Appointing Moro means bowing before a cheetah who lives by the old ways, and appointing Reza means bowing before a man who goes against our most cherished beliefs. Were this any other time in our history, I would not hesitate to appoint Reza to be our Sarazen. Unfortunately, we do not live in any other time. Here and now, Reza has put us in an ever more precarious position. If Aslan is indeed a Man, that Man will pour out the Red Death upon this country. As Marehafa of Erizad, I cannot let that happen."

With that, he picked up the gavel, and he took in a heavy breath.

"By the Man's sword and shield...I hereby appoint Moro to be the Sarazen of Erizad."

As the gavel fell, the room burst out in cheers and outcries. Hussein and Dr. Massoud leapt to their feet, shouting over each other to demand the motion be rejected. Some men and beasts shouted insults at Moro, while others cheered and roared in approval, and others sat and stared with open mouths, not knowing what to say.

Moro lifted his spotted head all the higher and aimed his haughty gaze at Reza. The Mareshah gave it no acknowledgement, but continued to sit with his hands folded atop the table.

As Moro stood on all fours, the room fell still. Looks of admiration and shock and anger turned toward him en masse.

"I want to congratulate those of you who have made the best and only choice. Rest assured that I will not wait until my coronation to reward your choice. By the power and wrath of the Man Aslan, I will bring justice and order to Erizad. I will punish all wickedness that all have wrought against him. In the name of the Man Aslan, I will make Erizad the great jewel of his crown, and his people will once again be worthy to call themselves the Chosen of Aslan."

He turned his smug gaze on Reza. "To that end, I will purge this country of everyone and everything who has blasphemed the Great Man—starting with you. It was terrible enough for you to try assassinating me, worse that you speak evil against the Man Aslan. In accordance with Chapter I, Section 1 of the Code of Aslan, I place you under arrest for high treason and conspiracy against the Man Aslan."

Reza kept his calm gaze on Moro, but his heart slammed in his chest. He had spent years in military training, preparing for days when he would resist interrogation and assassination attempts, but nothing could ever prepare anyone for the real things. Reza felt the calm in his heart threatening to turn to chaos; the words that leapt to mind went unspoken, except in the depths of his heart. Help me, Aslan.

Moro swung to two guards at the front door. "Take him away."

Reza rose to his feet. There would be no waiting for the guards to take him; he would go to them, to take the misadventure that awaited him. The guards stared at him as though he were a stranger, and they gripped his arms with all their strength. Reza matched them footfall for footfall as they led him out of the hall. Behind them, Salman stood behind his table; his head bowed, as if he had already begun to regret his choice. Moro stood atop his table, and his spotted tail flicked to and fro.