The sky turned purple over his head. The clouds turned black, shrouding the yellow moon behind their cloak. Faraji cried out for the sun to rise, but the words left his mouth just as the world spun around him. Lightning carved across the clouds; the thunder was like the roar of a great cat. Before them on the moonlit street, a line of men knelt before their own graves.

"WHAT?!" said Faraji. "No! Please, not again!"

Before him stood the Mareshah, his face twenty years older and his voice twenty years younger. "For your crimes committed against the Man Aslan, these men will die before your eyes."

"No, mehan! Please—NO!"

Arrows fell from on high, their tails burning like comets. One by one the men lurched forward, toppling into their graves. Faraji's gaze turned blurry and wet; he heard and felt himself crying, tasting the salty tears on his tongue.

"NO!"

Faraji saw the last of the men fall into a grave as flames burst all around, encompassing the cheetah in a golden crown. Before him stood the greatest of fears—a man dressed in all black, his face covered in a metal mask. He held a spear in his meaty hands; its serrated tip hovered over the cheetah's head.

"My lord...have mercy..."

"MERCY?!" The voice was like a screaming eagle and scraping rocks. "I AM ASLAN!"

A surge of pain cracked across his skull as the spear plunged into his head—

Faraji woke with a cry.

He scrambled to all fours and swung his head to and fro. His limbs prickled and trembled, as if lightning had coursed through them. His heart banged against his muscled chest, which was wet with sweat. He looked up and down the gully, but no man of any sort was there. His mouth hung open, gathering the sweet air of the desert night. A moon frowned over his head and bathed the steep sides of the gully in a wan light.

"Spotted one?" The horse was lying on the other side of the gully. "Are you all right?"

A moment's silence filled the air. To his left, his parents and sister and the Tarkheena were coming to, staring at him with their wide eyes. Saheeb and Zareenah let out sighs with the slightest hint of a growl, but Lasaraleen and Nazeen stared at him in worry.

Faraji sighed and shook the sand away, and he padded over to Philip. The horse lay on the other side of the gully, a courtesy for all, since the large beast had a propensity to snore. Now, the horse was wide awake, and a great glassy eye shone in the low moonlight.

"Was it another nightmare?"

Faraji gave a slow nod. "It was worse than the last one." As he lowered himself onto his haunches, his breath trembled, and he sniffled softly. "When you first met my master, what was your impression of him?"

Philip nickered. "Considering that he shot an arrow at you, I would think him capable of execution."

Faraji nodded. "He is. When I first arrived in Erizad, that was the first thing I saw. He wanted to make me his jamira, but I would not go willingly...so he had to break my will. He took me to the outskirts of Palár—he had already ordered three prisoners to dig their own graves—and when I arrived…he and his men put them to death. I saw them, Narnian! I saw the men crumpling into their own graves!"

Philip's mouth fell open. "By the Lion…"

"But that wasn't the worst of it. He told me that if I disobeyed him, I would be fortunate to receive such a fate. He said that if I ever committed a capital offense, he would pray for Aslan to kill me."

The horse was silent.

"Narnian, I don't know if I can go through with this. How can I risk going to Narnia when the real Aslan might very well kill me?"

"Spotted one, these are only dreams, with no ounce of truth to them. But you won't believe me unless you see the Lion with your own eyes."

Faraji sobbed and swung away.

"Spotted one, be still!" said Philip. "I know you're frightened, but I implore you to believe me. There is nothing to be afraid of—I swear it. He doesn't want to kill you. He wants to forgive you and put all to right. For now, you have to do the hard thing and face your fears—not to overcome them, but to convince yourself that they are not real."

"Do you truly believe they are lies?"

"On my honor."

Faraji shook his head. "Well, if your Aslan is so concerned about me, why does he not visit me now?"

Philip was still. "I don't know," he said in his softest voice yet. "I know this: The best thing to do is complete the journey—and do it with all the courage you have in you."

"Why? What good will it do?"

Philip gave a soft neigh. "Why, you would meet the true Aslan. Nothing would compare with that. And I will tell you something else: This journey may help more than just you. In the halls of Cair Paravel, there may be medicine for your people."

At that, Faraji's head darted up. "Are you certain?"

"I am not merely certain—I know this for a fact. Queen Lucy owns a cordial filled with the most powerful of medicines. It has the power to heal any wound, even pull someone from the edge of death. I know that a wound and a disease are two different things, but the cordial may not make a distinction. What if this is the purpose of your journey—to acquire this medicine and stop the Red Death from spreading?"

"Then I must go on," said the cheetah. "I cannot very well give in to my fears now—not when I might be able to help my people. If I must work for the medicine—"

"Work for it? Spotted one, this is one of those times when you need to stop being proper. This is not about charity. Your people are facing a national emergency. Saving their lives will be more important than paying off a debt. And as someone who witnessed the outbreak in Rasul, I can persuade my master of the rightness of your quest. They will give it to you—I will see to it."

Faraji sniffled again, and a smile lifted his teary face. It looked rather miserable, as it was halfway between a deep sob and a light chuckle, but of all the faces Philip had seen on the cat's face, it was the warmest and kindest he had yet seen. "You...You would do that...for me?"

"Of course I would. And I will not hear any more jaw about your mistakes. Anything that has passed between us is done and forgotten. As far as I'm concerned, you and I are friends."

At that, a sob broke through, but a joyful one. Faraji bowed his head and ducked away (it was not proper for an Erizadi to show such emotion before anyone less than family). When he lifted his head, strength filled his face. "When we first met, I was cold and callous toward you. My people had taught me to fear and hate Narnians. Well, they were wrong, as they have been wrong about a great many things. You have been kinder to me than ever I deserved, and I could not think of anyone better to join me in this quest."

Philip bowed his head and gave a soft whinny. "Well, I daresay I could not find a warrior more powerful or courageous than you. I have seen many a great battle in my life, but what you did in Tashbaan was beyond my imagination. The centaurs of Narnia could learn some tricks from you. And whether you admit it or not, Faraji, what you are doing now is a demonstration of your courage. There is a kind of courage that fights the enemies before you—obviously, you have that—but there is another courage that is needed to face the nightmares of your life, to face the unknown and the misunderstood. You think yourself a coward, but I do not. Whatever our fears are, we are courageous if we face them...just as you are."

Faraji blinked the tears out of his eyes. His words were soft and trembly as they left his smiling face. "Thank you, Philip."

This time, it was the horse's turn to smile.

The party had left before first light. Saheeb and Zareenah complained about having too little sleep (thanks to Faraji crying out in the middle of the night), while Nazeen kept any words to herself. Lasaraleen said she had just become used to sleeping in the middle of the desert, though five hours of sleep was hardly enough. As for Faraji and Philip, the two had merrily trotted along down the gully. Lasaraleen and the rest of Faraji's family had not kept up with them, but the two hadn't taken any notice.

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "I must know more about your government, spotted one. Why do your people need so many leaders? We Narnians do well with two Kings and Queens."

"And that is what I find confusing," said Faraji with a laugh. "Why not just call them Kings and Queens? What sense is there in letting the eldest of them be the High King? Wouldn't they all do well with equal authority?"

"A country needs a High King in the way a body needs a head. Someone has to make sure the rest operate as a unit; otherwise, nothing would get done. Besides, you're one to talk about confusion," said Philip with a neigh. "Your government consists of Mareshahs, Hafas, a Marehafa, and a Sarazen—oh, and that's not even counting the jamiras. You could spend all day trying to explain it to someone. And you still haven't told me why you need so many leaders. It seems to me that the more laws and lawmakers you have, you have even more ways to get into trouble."

Faraji chuckled. "Quite! It is a burden, indeed, but a necessary one. When Erizad was founded five hundred years ago, we were hardly of a single mind. There were more than a dozen tribes, all of whom wanted power and control. Instead of vesting all authority in the hands of a single man, the first Sarazen chose soldiers and lawmakers from each of the seventeen tribes—to ensure that everyone was represented and defended. These representatives became the first Hafas, or lawmakers—and the soldiers became the first Mareshahs."

"How does a fellow become the Sarazen? I can't imagine one would get it for the asking."

"Not at all," said Faraji through a smile. "The crown was supposed to be a birthright—passed down from the Sarazen to his oldest living progeny. It didn't always go as planned: Many Sarazens and their heirs have been either killed in battle or deemed incompetent to lead."

"Did Mustafa have any children?"

"None that are alive today. His only surviving progeny is his grandson, Hussein."

"Well, I hope he's a decent fellow."

"'Decent'? Hardly! The man was expelled from university for inferior academic performance. The only reason he became a soldier is that Mustafa forced him into it. If he could leave Erizad, he would take his two mistresses to some desolate island and never be heard from again. Trust me, Philip—the Assembly would never appoint him to be the Sarazen. They would look for just about anyone to replace him."

"They can do that?"

"Indeed. Chapter XII, Section 2 of the Code of Aslan allows them to appoint another man."

"Politics upon politics," said Philip. "I do find it fascinating, but I still wonder what good could come from such complexity."

"Those laws were written for a reason: to protect our people. Mine is a rebellious and stubborn nation, and its ancestors were no better."

"Even with all the laws you have, they still rebel? I daresay, if your laws cannot keep people safe and happy, you should wonder if your laws are to blame."

"What? Surely you must be joking. Laws do not keep people safe and happy—they keep them in line. That is what the Man Aslan expects of us. Wasn't it your Aslan who said, 'The law is the highest of virtues'?"

Philip's mouth fell. "Whinny-inny! He never said such a thing. And how is it that your people came to think of Aslan as a man?"

"That I do not know. And I will thank you not to sneer."

"Ignorance is not a curse, unless it be willful—and in that case, the curse is self-inflicted. Your people have lived in willful ignorance of the truth for many years—that is the only explanation. The whole world knows he is a Lion—"

"Yes, the Lion who inspired High King Peter to say: 'Power and wrath are the sword and mace of kings.' And was it not his wife, Queen Susan, who said, 'Power is what makes a woman kneel before her masters'?"

"What? Whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-HA-HA-HA! For one thing, she said no such thing. For another, Queen Susan is not his wife—she is his sister!"

Philip chuckled to himself as Faraji glared straight ahead. "My mistake."

"Whinny-inny...I beg your pardon, Faraji, but you do have the most amusing ideas. In fact, the more you speak of Narnia—whinny-inny-hoo-hoo-ha!"

"You would do well to humble yourself, especially since it is you who may be mistaken. My people are a prosperous and solemn nation, filled with philosophers and thinkers of great stature. We know whereof we speak—"

"Obviously, you don't!"

"And when our laws are obeyed, they produce a grave and thoughtful race, one that has produced some of the finest minds in the—Confound it, Philip, don't start laughing!"

Philip's cheeks bulged. The laugh was trapped inside. After a pause, he swallowed it and lifted his head, pouring all his effort into his merry trot. "Well, then, perhaps they have it right. Perhaps it is good for them to execute people for misdemeanors."

Faraji was silent.

"Come now, spotted one—even you think that is absurd. But I also know that you cannot say what you really think. If you did, it would be tantamount to denying your people."

Faraji's face had fallen into a scowl, but he dared not lift his head. "As one of our poets once said, 'It is better to be grave and sober than to be a happy drunk.'"

"Oh, I daresay you can be happy and sober. Why, if you threw out the Code of Aslan and lived by the ways of the Lion, you would learn how to do that very thing."

The cheetah scoffed. "Right. And I suppose if we did that, we might become the Narnia of the Far South. And then we might end up as you did—with two kings and two queens stolen from Calormen."

Philip's jaw fell. "I beg your pardon?"

"...What?"

"Is that what you were taught? That my masters were kidnapped from Calormen?"

Faraji gawked at him.

"Am I to understand that King Peter, King Edmund, Queen Susan, and Queen Lucy were kidnapped from Calormen?"

"...Yes, and it was by Aslan himself. Surely you would agree to that."

Philip threw back his head. "WHINNY-INNY-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA!"

Faraji sighed. "I suppose not."

"Whinny-inny! My master is not Calormen. If he is, then that makes me—whinny-inny—that makes me a potato! WHINNY-INNY-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA!"

Faraji glared at him. "I will thank you not to laugh."

"WHINNY-INNY-HOO-HOO-HA-HA-HA!"

"ALL RIGHT! ENOUGH!"

"Whinny-inny!—I cry your pardon, but your people have the most amusing stories! When we first met, you told me Aslan was a man. What's more, you had no concept of a Lion. Two days ago, you told me the White Witch was an agent of Aslan. And now—whinny-inny—I find out my sovereign might be a Calormene, forced to take the throne against his will?"

Faraji huffed. "Someday, you will demonstrate your ignorance, and I will be the one to laugh."

"Oh, perhaps, but not today." Philip chuckled and shook his mane, and he continued his merry trot. "Kidnapped by Aslan. Whinny-inny!"

Faraji rolled his eyes—and without warning, his heart went into his throat. Saheeb had cantered up to him, matching him step for step. Faraji started to tense, but Saheeb's face was emotionless and calm. "You seem to have made a new friend."

Faraji nodded. "Proud and verbose he may be, but he is better than I ever deserved." He turned to Saheeb. "What? Do you think I have ignored you completely?"

Saheeb sighed. "That is not the point," he said heavily. "Haroshta, you do not need to go any further north. We can escort Philip back to his master."

"Father, I thought we had settled this. I will give him a hero's escort to his master—I owe him that."

"By Tash," said Saheeb. "Have you forgotten the threat against your people? Mirradin's employers will not simply wait for you to return to Erizad. They will strike as soon as they have the power."

"We sent Reza a letter. We've warned them of what's coming."

"But your people have mercenaries in their midst. If they intercept the letter before it reaches your master, your letter won't be any good. You need to turn around and go back to Erizad now—if only so your people can be warned."

Faraji paused. "Why are you so eager to send me away?"

Saheeb looked at him quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

"We have not spoken in twelve years. Far as you were concerned, I was dead. Now we are all together, and the first thing you want to do is send me back to Erizad. All I want to know is why."

Saheeb gave a sad chuckle. "Haroshta, you know how difficult this is—"

But Faraji gave it no reply. He swung around, looking Saheeb straight in the face. "This is not about the twelve years that passed between us. What is it, Father? And I want the truth."

Saheeb lost all pretense of sadness, and his face grew dark and stern. "I think you know."

Faraji's eyes grew glossy, and he blinked back tears. A wave of sorrow and grief threatened to crash over him, but he drew in a trembly breath and regained himself. "Yes...I know. But as long as I am this far North, I have to make amends."

"These are not the people with whom you can make amends," whispered Saheeb. "Their Kings and Queens are full of power and wrath, always looking for an excuse to use it. And the demon of Narnia—he has done things in the twelve years since you were gone."

"What kinds of things?"

Saheeb shook his head. "It is better if you don't know. Many have died miserable deaths in the clutches of this so-called Lion. And those who survive…they are unrecognizable. I implore you, Haroshta: Do not prolong this journey. Simply leave us at the Gates of Archenland, and leave—just so I know you will be safe."

"But Father, I need medicine for my people. If the Narnians are willing to give it to me—"

"I will personally send a courier to deliver it to you. Please, Haroshta—I beg you to leave. Do not trouble your mother or your sister with the horrors of a Narnian trial. What the Narnians might do to you if their eyes fell upon you—your mother and sister would never recover."

The words went into Faraji's ears, but they went unanswered. The cat was still as a statue, his mouth agape and his tail frozen midway through a curl. "Father…I promised to return Philip…I cannot just—"

"Please, Haroshta…promise me that you will consider it—for our sakes."

Without warning, their ears swiveled. "Whinny-inny!" said Philip. His voice was like an echo, his muscular bulk a speck in the gully. "Do not dawdle, spotted ones. It's Narnia and the North!"

Saheeb gathered his voice. "Forgive us, my friend! We are on the move." As he swung back to Faraji, his face grew severe again. "Please…"

Faraji gave no reply. Inch by inch, he lifted himself onto his trembling legs. As his father's trot rose to a canter, Faraji took every step with all the care of an old man, making sure his legs would not crumple under him.

The sun lifted its cheery face over the limb of the earth as all made their way out of the gully. Before them stood the hills, shining in hues of golden light, with their great and noble heads crowned by trees. Saheeb and Zareenah padded along solemnly, while Nazeen quickened her pace. Lasaraleen smiled along with her and stared at the Winding Arrow, a great white ribbon tumbling left to right.

"Ah, the North," said the horse. "The happy and green North!"

Nazeen smiled and flicked her tail. At her sides, Saheeb and Zareenah glowered at it. Lasaraleen showed a half-hearted smile (her interest was the people and all the royal parties). Faraji sat on his haunches, staring at the towering trunks.

"Spotted one?"

It took a moment to reach his ears, and he aimed his fear-filled face up at the horse.

"Faraji, what is wrong?"

The cheetah let out a shudder. "My people said that the gates to Aslan's courtyard were guarded by great trees. It was through those trunks that captives would be led away to be tortured in the ever-after, never to return to the world of the living."

Saheeb rolled his eyes. "More nonsense. Haroshta, you have come far enough. I think it is time for you to say your farewells."

Philip swung to Saheeb. "I beg your pardon?"

Nazeen swung to face him. "Father, we have not even arrived in Anvard. You cannot just send Haroshta away."

"You know he has his duties."

"His duties are in the North!" said Philip. "Your son is on an errand of the utmost importance. My people might have medicine that can cure the Red Death."

"Then we will send a hawk or an eagle to deliver it! Haroshta, you need to leave now."

"Why are you trying to send him away?" said the horse, stomping a hoof. "Confound it, man! Ever since we left Tashbaan, you have barely deigned to give your son any attention. He has been suffering from nightmares, and not once did you care enough to hear them. He has spoken with me at length about the horrors of his life in Erizad, and you and your wife didn't think it worth your while to listen. What is happening here? What are you not telling us?"

Saheeb's voice dropped to a whisper. "Haroshta, don't listen to him. You don't need to be here. You can escape and avoid Aslan while you still have the chance."

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "Escape from what?"

"Father, what are you talking about?" said Nazeen.

"That is not your concern."

"You kept your royal line from me," said Lasaraleen. "You owe us an explanation."

"I don't owe you anything!" hissed Saheeb, batting a paw against the ground. "Let my son go back to Erizad now."

"But Father," said Nazeen, "we just got him back. Why do you want to send him away?"

Saheeb started to reply, but the voices overlapped and joined in the clamor—until Philip neighed and stomped his hoof, and all was still. "This is not getting us anywhere," he said. "Faraji, this is your choice. What do you want to do?"

But the cheetah gave no reply. He was still and silent, gazing blankly at the trees across the river, when without warning, he felt his heart leap into his throat. He rose to all fours, and his voice broke like a bugle. "SOLDIERS!"

Philip's ears swiveled, and the cheetahs turned at once. Lasaraleen gasped and Philip neighed in fright. Faraji's mouth fell as a ring of horsemen burst across the river; water sprayed into the air and tack jangled, and the steeds surrounded the hill like the peaks of a crown. All held bows and arrows in their hands, and the arrows were aimed at Faraji. A man pulled back the visor of his helmet, then his whole helmet, revealing a curtain of blond hair and an aghast bearded face.

"Philip?"

The horse whickered. "Bergan?"

"Where have you been? By the Lion, we thought you had been killed!"

"I was in Calormen and Erizad. Now would you care to explain this? I daresay we are not being escorted to the royal ball."

"It is not you with whom we have our quarrel," said Bergan. "Are you aware that you are traveling with a Calormene warrior?"

"What? There are no Calormene warriors in this group."

Bergan pointed at Faraji. "Have you forgotten that a cheetah was responsible for killing eighty of our people thirteen years ago? He was Beresh, the prince of the Talking Beasts of Calormen."

Philip's mouth fell. "This isn't Beresh. Good sir, I assure you that you are mistaken!"

Bergan ignored him and nocked an arrow, aiming its tip at Faraji's forehead. "I know you. I know what you did."

"Mehan, I know there is a resemblance between me and Beresh, but I am not he! My brother had a scar above his left paw—I don't!"

Bergan glanced at the spotted foreleg, then scoffed. "Who are you?"

A pause. Saheeb shot a glare of warning at Faraji, but Faraji ignored it. "Until twelve years ago, I was Haroshta—crown prince of the Talking Beasts of Calormen. These are my parents, Saheeb and Zareenah, and my sister, Nazeen. And this is Lasaraleen Tarkheena, friend of Aravis and the caretakers of my family. I am bringing them here to settle them into their new home, and then to Narnia to return Philip to his master."

Bergan nodded. "Then who was Beresh?"

A sad sigh, then—"My brother."

Philip turned to Saheeb. "Your other son killed all those people?"

The cheetah king growled at him. "This is why I did not tell you before."

"Because you knew I would charge you with complicity in a massacre."

"We were not complicit! Beresh was rebellious and insolent. He hated Haroshta for being first in line; more than once, he tried prove he was worthy to take the crown. But, by Tash, I promise you he acted of his own accord. Whatever he did in the North, my queen and I had no part in it."

"We'll see about that," said Bergan. "I did not come here to dispense justice. That matter is above my station. My duty is to escort you to Anvard and place the cheetahs in custody."

"For how long?"

"Until our sovereigns arrive at Anvard later today."

Faraji shuddered. "The Kings and Queens are here?"

"Oh, how delightful!" said Lasaraleen. "Pray tell, my good man—is Aravis with them?"

Bergan raised an eyebrow. "You know Aravis?"

"Know her? She and I were the best of friends. Oh, she will be so happy to see me—but she will be horrified to learn of my misadventures."

"It is a pity about the timing, milady. I believe she is at the castle now, preparing for a luncheon with some of the noblemen's daughters."

"Oh, it is just as well. What is but one luncheon missed? When I am settled in, she and I will host as many as we like."

A smile of amusement flicked up Bergan's face. "I wouldn't prepare for them yet. You and the cheetahs will need to be questioned. Given their history as the cheetah monarchy of Calormen, I cannot let them go North on their own." He turned to the cheetahs. "By the authority vested in me by the Lion Aslan and by King Lune, I am placing you in custody, after which you will stand before the sovereigns of the North. I will ask you to consider yourselves warned, as any attempt to leave our custody will be answered with force."

With that, Bergan ordered his horse, and his steed turned about. The ring of troops clopped forward, their hooves splashing in the shallow water. The cheetahs wove through the ripples, the stones scraping beneath their feet. Amid the trickling of water and scraping of rocks, and the jangling of horses' tack, little else could be heard. Faraji flinched when he felt Saheeb whisper into his ear:

"One word against me or your mother...and I will ruin you."

Faraji turned and glared at Saheeb. The cheetah king turned away, making it clear he had nothing else to say, and all stepped onto the upper bank of the Winding Arrow and crossed into the North.