A/n: One of the most unforgettable writing lessons I ever learned was simple and concise: Write the story as long as it needs to be, and not one word longer. That lesson has stuck in the back of my mind ever since this fanfic began, and now I get to put it to greater use.

Last time, I said I would end this fic in five chapters. I thought that was what I needed. But while I was writing this chapter, I figured out a way to shorten the ending of the whole story. Instead of a five-chapter ending, we're down to two.

The technique I'm employing in this chapter has made all the difference: Instead of focusing on events in one place, I will telescope between Narnia and Erizad. It ended up being easier than I expected: Not only are the events closely related, but everyone's favorite cheetah (and by favorite, I mean the one we all hate the most) ties them all together.

Enjoy!

Faraji stared slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The glorious Lion stood before him, beaming down on him like a joyful sun. It was He—the king of all high kings in Narnia, the true and majestic and real Aslan, and the Lion who had been the greatest of fears.

Faraji thought he should burst into joyful sobs, or start singing and dancing all at once. At first, he wanted to do all that and more. But he didn't. The wonder and glory were like a meteor falling through the atmosphere—it shone brighter than the sun, and then it was gone.

Aslan's smile started to fall, too. "What troubles you, Faraji?"

The cheetah's face started to twist, into the kind of face you make when you are about to cry. "All I want to know is why," he said. "I lived in terror of you for twelve years, and you did nothing to set me straight. Calormenes released the Red Death in Rasul, and you did nothing to stop the outbreak. My parents betrayed me, and you did nothing to help me. What have I done, that you should destroy me? What did the people of Rasul ever do, that you should sentence them to die in agony? Do you even have an answer?"

Aslan blinked tears away from his eyes. "I know, Faraji," he said softly. "I know your grief. I know how it feels to be abandoned and betrayed, to suffer through no fault of your own. But what you are asking is too difficult for you to bear. If I gave you the answers, none of them would bring you any solace."

"Then answer me this: Has my journey been a waste of time? Or am I going to go back to Erizad just to find out that everyone I love is dead?"

"That is not for you to know—not yet," said Aslan. "Men have been driven mad by portents, just as they have been driven mad by the sorrows of the past. There is nothing better or nobler than take the journey that lies before you."

Faraji scoffed. "You refuse to explain the past, and you give me platitudes about the future. For all I know, we could have a happy ending, or this could be the doom of Erizad." A pause, and Faraji blinked tears out of his eyes. "But I might as well go forward with it, just to see how it all ends. I don't want to go to my grave not knowing what might have been. Besides, I'm the only one who knows about this threat, and I might be the only one able to stop it. All right, mehan, I will humor you. I will complete my mission. But whether we have a happy ending, know this: I do not claim any allegiance to you, nor any love of you. All I care about is putting a stop to this insanity, assuming it is within your will."

Aslan nodded. "We will need to make haste," he said. "Even now, your enemies are at the door of my country. Narnia will be in need of your help, as you are now in need of theirs."

King Peter had not gotten any sleep that night. The thunderstorm lasted half the night, and when it left, his stomach started to ache. He had taken a tea made just for this sort of thing, but it made no difference. By the time he had finished the whole pot of tea, he had begun to sweat. Before he knew it, he was vomiting in the infirmary, and the rest of his family and all their friends who attended the feast were joining him there and looking as sick as he was.

"It was something we ate," said Susan. Her face was white and her hair was matted with sweat. "Those cheetahs had something to do with it—I am certain of it."

"We do not know anything yet," said Edmund.

"We know enough," said King Lune. "Those two show up with a gift for us. The next day, everyone who attended the feast winds up with the same illness at the same time."

Peter shook his head, then turned to a tall man beside him. The other man had blond hair and a blond mustache, and a pale face made even paler by nausea. "Darin, is there something else the herbalists can give us?"

"They don't know, Your Highness," said the man. He grunted as his stomach flipped inside him. "They told me this is not like anything they have ever heard tale of. If it were acting any more quickly, they would treat it like a poison."

With a pained grunt, Peter rose up onto wobbly legs. "Whoever is healthy, I want them out of this castle."

"What about Saheeb and Zareenah?"

Peter paused. "Take them to the old fortress. Tell Bergan to keep them under guard."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Peter waited for Darin to leave and pull the door shut before letting out a groan. Now his muscles were starting to ache, and a wave of dizziness sent his head spinning and his ears ringing. He paused, waiting for the world to stop spinning all around him; something strange was making his face prickle and ache.

Lucy stared at him with worry. "Peter?"

All he saw was lips move. When he could hear everything around him, gasps of horror filled his ears.

Peter had no need to ask; he felt it straight away. Two lines of blood oozed out of his nose, and another two dribbled out of his mouth. He held a hand over his face and ducked away, and blood began to trail down his hand and wrist.

The crowd roared at Moro, and the foyer in Andur shook with noise. Men pumped their fists into the air and beasts slammed their paws against the floor. A cheetah and a tiger spat at Moro but said nothing. All the while, Moro stared dully at them, his ears swiveled backward behind his crown, and looking as though he were watching the most boring play ever written.

"You are supposed to be the Sarazen," said a man. "Reza said something about the balik spreading the disease; it was on you to investigate it. You promised there would be answers, and answers are not coming from this house. Do the balik carry the disease or not?"

"You all are believing in the delusions of a lunatic. There is no disease spread by balik. You know as well as I do: The Man Aslan sent the Red Death to curse us for our disobedience."

"What disobedience? What did those people do wrong?"

"I don't know," said Moro dully, "but it must have done something to infuriate the Man. If they hadn't, they wouldn't have died that way."

The crowd roared at him again. "That is nonsense!" said a tiger. "My brother died because he ate the balik. The others who got sick on the day of your coronation—they ate the balik, as well, and all but one of them have died!"

Moro glared at him. "Your point?"

"Are you a fool, or do you just not care? The Red Death and the balik are related. Any competent leader would investigate these events."

A woman nodded. "That was what Reza was doing before he disappeared."

"Well, since you seem to be so fond of such a delusional and blasphemous fool, why don't you take up your concerns with him?"

"Unfortunately, he's not the Sarazen. You are. And if you had a pulse in that empty heart of yours, you would tell your army to investigate. You would ensure that the deaths of our friends and family will not be forgotten. You would finally get out of this house and start to act like the Sarazen, instead of sitting in luxury and being pampered by your servants and acting as though the world revolves around you."

As the crowd shouted and jeered in agreement, Moro turned to Ganesh. "Would you please remove this wench from my house. She keeps polluting the air with her words . . . not to mention that so-called perfume."

At that, the crowd booed. Several men twisted their hands in crude gestures, and the beasts growled and hissed.

"Obviously, we are getting nowhere with you," said the tiger. "Fine—if you want us to leave, we will leave. But mark my words: You have not heard the end of this."

"Oh, I look forward to hearing the rest," said Moro dully. "Guards, please escort them out. Come, Fayed—we have an important meeting in the study."

Ganesh nodded. "Yes, mehan."

Ganesh pulled the door shut and let out a sigh. All was quiet. The story-high bookshelves and all the books therein muffled any noise from elsewhere, and there was no sign of anyone or anything at the front or back doors.

Moro turned about and looked Ganesh in the face. Now, the cheetah's face and voice looked and sounded Calormene—rich, melodious, and grave. "Please tell me you found the weapon."

"Yes, my lord. Abdul gave up the location just before we killed him. All ten barrels are in place, and the blood from those men and animals who died—all thirty vials are mounted on the walls, just as you ordered."

"Good. What about the balik?"

"We recovered a third of it. Some of it went to Anvard; the rest was sent to the other towns in Erizad."

Moro nodded. "We have been preparing for this day for two years. After all the mistakes you and your people made, it seems that everything is in place—"

"I cry your pardon, my lord, but . . . there are two other things."

Moro glared at him. "What?"

"We're still waiting to be paid."

"I thought we settled this, Ganesh. As soon as we convene in Teebeth, all of you will receive your final payments. And whatever was in Rameesh's and Mirradin's coffers will be distributed amongst the rest of you. What else, or do I need to explain it further?"

Ganesh paused. "Reza is still missing."

"So? Now that everything is in place, it doesn't matter. Faraji is the only one who worries me now; he might still be able to bring medicine from Narnia."

"How could he know of our plans?"

"I can't take the chance. He killed Mirradin for a reason; I seriously doubt it was out of spite. Whatever the reason was, I will find out when I meet him."

"Are you going to Anvard, my lord?"

"Unless you can ride the back of an eagle. Your last order is a simple one: Go to the stables, saddle your horse, and get as far away from here as you can."

Ganesh started to turn on his heel and head for the back door. "Yes, my lord—"

There was a bang as the back door swung open. "DON'T MOVE!"

Moro swiveled around, and with a growl he started to crouch. The sound of a dozen pairs of clomping boots filled the hall, and men in blue uniforms emerged from the corridor. And Reza was at the front of the line, nocking an arrow and aiming its tip at Moro's forehead.

"Moro—if that is your name—you are under arrest for treason and murder and for aiding and abetting the Order of Aslan. By the Code of Aslan, Chapter XII, Section 4, the Assembly has stripped you of your rank and confiscated your crown and necklace. You will stand before the Assembly in three days, during which time you will be allowed to have a council to testify on your behalf (as though you needed one). Now slowly . . . step forward."

A pause. Reza half-expected Moro to say something in that dull voice, but no reply came. Moro glowered at him and twitched the tip of his spotted tail, but was in every other way as still as a tree.

Without warning, the cheetah burst into a run.

"HE'S GOING TO THE BACK STAIRS!" said Reza. "CUT HIM OFF!"

Reza barely had time to get the words out. Ganesh whipped a dagger out of his coat and flung it at Reza. The knife flipped end over end, its tip grazing the shoulder of Reza's uniform, but the Mareshah ducked away as the blade clanged against the wall.

Reza kicked at Ganesh, sending him tumbling face first into the floor, and the Mareshah whipped out his own dagger and pinned him by the neck. As Ganesh stopped struggling, Reza glanced upward and muttered a curse under his breath. Moro had disappeared up the stairwell.

Reza turned back to Ganesh. "What's the weapon?"

Ganesh grunted in pain, but he smiled in triumph. "Sleep with the White Witch, demon."

Reza scoffed, then with a mighty grunt he pulled Ganesh to his feet and shoved him against the wall. "What's the weapon?"

Ganesh panted and grimaced, but he said no more.

Reza pushed the blade of the knife against Ganesh's throat. "You are guilty of conspiracy and murder. I have the right to kill you here and now. But if you tell me what the weapon is and where we can find it, I can save your life."

"My life means little to me," said Ganesh. "Tash is my god. Calormen is my nation. The Tisroc (may he live forever) is my master. I will not abandon them, not for my life, and not for the all the riches in the world."

Reza drew in a breath, but he released it as he heard a clamor. Men shouted and barked orders, and arrows began to whistle through the air. Reza balled a hand into a fist and sent Ganesh crumpling to the floor, and he ran for the front doors and burst onto the porch.

Reza was about to shout for a report, but there was no need. Yassir and the rest of the soldiers were firing arrows at a troop of eagles. The birds had taken off from the roof of Andur and had swung north. And on the back of the foremost eagle was Moro.

Reza burst through the line of men and nocked an arrow. The bow string gave a thick snap as it launched the arrow into the sky. The arrow soared in a huge arc before it disappeared amid a billowing cloud, and just as Reza lost sight of it, the eagles scattered.

One bird had suddenly gone limp and started spiraling to the ground, and Moro dropped through the air. The cheetah tumbled once, twice, and fell into the crowd. Men and beasts scattered as Reza and his men charged down the thoroughfare, and as soon as they got close enough to look the passersby in the face, all eyes were on them, wide with horror and shock.

Moro writhed in pain on the ground, and the man who stood beneath him was unconscious. The eagle who carried the cheetah lay dead; the arrow had plunged through its breast. Moro's crown was dented and had tumbled off to one side. A ring of men, women and beasts gathered around him, some wondering if they should help him up, and others watching and waiting for the next thing to happen.

"What is this?" said an elderly man. "You try to assassinate our own Sarazen?"

"Serves him right," said a tiger. "What did he do now?"

"Last night, the Assembly charged him with conspiracy and murder. He is responsible for everything that has happened in the last month, from the outbreak in Rasul to manipulating the Assembly to appoint him Sarazen. He brought Calormenes into this country to spread the Red Death into every city, and he created the Order of Aslan to do his bidding."

Murmurs and cries swept through the crowd.

"That is outrageous," said the elderly man. "He is the rightful Sarazen. What evidence do you have to convict him?"

Moro scoffed. "Enough, old man. . . . I have nothing to deny." Everyone around him fell silent. By now, he had lost his Erizadi accent. At that, he turned to Reza and lifted a pained smile up his muzzle. "You're too late. . . . You can't stop the explosion."

It was as if everything fell into slow motion after that. The black powder . . .

"Yassir, get your men out of there!" said Reza. "GET YOUR MEN OUT OF THERE NOW!"

Just as the words left his lips, Yassir and a row of men toppled backward as a bang shook the ground. A flash lit up the inside of Andur, and a wall burst outward. Stones and dust flew into the air with every blast, and all six floors of Andur fell inward. The crowd screamed and scattered every which way, and Moro disappeared into the din. Reza and his soldiers charged into the crowd, shouting at them to go this way or that way. The dust grew thick all about them, turning the golden sun into a pale gray disk. At that, horses neighed in terror, and tigers and cheetahs shouted something about smelling death in the air.

At once, Reza remembered what Faraji had written in his letter: ". . . a deathly smell in the water and air . . ."

Reza leaned against a wall. Everything around him was covered and hidden in dust.

We have been exposed.

Faraji and Aslan arrived at the gates of Anvard just as the sun dipped below the hills. Soldiers in green and red tunics stood guard; their faces were somber and full of fear. Behind them, a line of men and women streamed into the castle. They were holding towels over their faces, and a few of them were coughing or sobbing.

"By the Lion," said the cheetah. "Darin, what is happening?"

"It has been a nightmare," said the mustached man. "Everyone is bleeding from the nose and mouth."

"We sent an eagle to bring the cordial. What happened?"

"It had no effect. Everyone is sick and getting worse. Now, we're hearing reports that soldiers and their families are falling ill. Everyone who's bleeding or sweating is being told to come here, to isolate them from everyone else."

"What about the herbalists?" said Faraji. "Can they mix the cordial with any of your medicines?"

"We have tried twenty different remedies, we mixed them with the cordial—they did nothing."

Faraji's breath started to tremble, but he composed himself as a smile started to form. "What is Queen Lucy's medicine?"

"Fireflower extract."

"And what else have you tried?"

"Coneflower, garlic—everything we use to treat illnesses."

"They won't work. The Red Death is like a thousand wounds in a hundred different places. You need something that heals wounds, and then use the cordial to enhance its effects."

"We don't have anything like that."

Faraji swung to Aslan, who gave no reply. Instead, the Lion seemed to be waiting for Faraji to answer. Just as the cheetah started to retort, his eyes lit up. "Wait," he muttered, and a smile lifted his face. "I have something, and so do you. My master gave me a medicine before I left Erizad; it's a combination of extracts that heals wounds. If we combine that with the cordial and some goldenrod and yarrow, they won't neutralize each other, and they won't render the cordial inert. All we need is to mix three parts of my medicine with two parts of goldenrod and yarrow."

Darin stared at him.

"I was at university for eight years. I took a course in natural and magical medicines."

Darin chuckled. "There might be hope yet. If you're that knowledgeable, I should think it's worth a try. Where is your medicine?"

Darin had no time to reply. Above them came a swarm of noise. A man cried as though he were being killed, and a body fell to the floor. The hall was filled with shouts of "STOP HIM!" and "HE WENT THAT WAY!" and "WHERE IS SHE?!"

A look of horror fell over Faraji's face. "Damn it, I thought my parents were gone! Why are they back?!"

"I don't know!" said Darin. "Come!"

At that, Faraji charged through the gates, with Darin following close behind. The three entered the courtyard and followed the stone path into the castle, where torches lit the stairwell. Faraji bounded up the stairs as Darin broke left at the second floor. The cheetah swung his head to and fro, then turned a torch-lit corner. As the next hall rushed around to meet him, two familiar figures rushed up to meet him, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

"Philip? Nazeen?"

"Spotted one!"

"Dear brother, are you all right?"

"I will be when this is over. Confound it, what are you both doing here?"

"There was an eagle flying out of the south," said Philip. "When your parents saw it, they came back here. Obviously, given their history, we could not just sit by."

"How are your masters?"

"Spotted one, I thought I would be prepared for this, but I was not. They're all sick with it. Boils have already broken out. They have lost so much blood, it's a wonder they aren't dead already, and they said they have never felt pain like this before."

It's only going to get worse, Faraji thought.

"Your parents—whinny-inny!—I have no doubt they brought the balik here. And it's no wonder they tried to get rid of us: We would have known about it and put a stop to it."

"I'm sorry to say it, but I think you're right. What was the commotion downstairs?"

"Bergan is dead. There was a cheetah I didn't recognize—he wore a necklace with a white crystal—and I heard your father say something about medicine on an upper floor."

"Philip, are you certain you want to do this?"

"My friend, I am not afraid of the Red Death. And I am not afraid of anyone who wants to use it."

"Nor am I," said Nazeen. "Brother, what do you want us to do?"

"Protect me. Somewhere in this castle is my saddle, and in my saddle is a medicine from Erizad. It's used to treat wounds. If we combine it with the cordial and two other medicines, it might be enough to heal everyone. If our parents have helped planned this conspiracy, they probably know about the medicine and are probably here to destroy it. All I need is for you both to accompany me—to ensure that the medicine gets where it needs to go."

"Of course," said Nazeen.

"Whinny-inny!" said Philip. "I was hoping you would ask."

Faraji nodded. "Let's go."

And as he turned around and started away, two bursts of white light filled the hall. Then came crackling and groaning, and the air grew cold and thick like the air of a cemetery. Faraji had already spun around, but he gathered the strength and broken out of his shock to scream "NO!" The horse's hoof hung halfway in the air, and the cheetah had no idea what had happened. Philip and Nazeen had been turned to stone.

Faraji had no time to start sobbing. He crouched and let out a growl. He knew who was padding up to him. He knew who wore that broken piece of the White Witch's wand in his necklace. He knew the large, muscular cheetah who, even with the limp and the bloodied face, looked as cruel and strong and terrible as when they had last seen each other. And when Faraji saw Saheeb and Zareenah flanking him on both sides, Faraji knew.

Of course, you and I know this cheetah to be none other than Moro. But Faraji knew this cheetah by another name:

"Beresh. . ."

And the other cat gave a pained grunt and forced a smile onto his dull face.

"We meet again . . . brother."