The next day is a bright day, and they all rise late from the previous night's revelry. The Kings and Queens of Narnia invite their guests to join them in wandering among the scattered trees at the edge of the wood and enjoying the newly-planted orchard. Susan and the King walk together and talk for a while, but when Peter starts talking to him about the walls of Cair Paravel, and the plans for building towns, Susan excuses herself and goes to stand in the shade of the trees.
"Do you find the sun strong?" a voice asks, and she looks up to see Prince Talmin approaching.
"No, not yet. But I would rather stand under trees than look at the walls of a castle."
"What are they?" he asks, looking up into the branches. She enjoys the way the light and shadows play over his face in the shade.
"This is apple," she says. "Those in the next row over are cherry, and we also planted some plum trees. Do you not have these in Terebinthia?"
He talks to her of the Terebinthian flora, and she listens, picturing in her mind's eye the palms with fronds like wings, pink-orange flowers the size of her hand with long yellow stamens, the towering purple-blossomed trees that lean over the square houses, painted white against the bluegreen sea. Their talk turns to gardens, and he speaks of enormous sunny marigolds, and the royal collection of imported orchids in their imported glass greenhouses. As Peter and the King move on from the walls of Cair Paravel, they follow, rejoining them. Edmund and Lucy are trailing behind but catch up eventually. They had been introducing some Terebinthian lords and ladies to Prettyfoot's pack, a pack of hounds that frequently accompanied the Kings and Queens on their hunts. They both have smudges of dirt on their shoulders from the pack's enthusiastic greetings, and Susan shakes her head but smiles still, knowing her brother and sister couldn't care less.
The party wanders back slowly and retires to the outdoor courtyard, lingering in conversation.
"I admit I am unfamiliar with the Narnian style of combat," the lord Berwyn says, eyeing the sword at Edmund's side.
"It's an older art than I know," says Peter. "Narnian centaurs could tell you, or perhaps King Edmund, who has been learning of the tradition from our General Oreius."
"I really know very little," Edmund says. "Most of my knowledge is practical. I am still young compared to long years of my teacher."
The group of Terebinthians laughs. "Your Majesty, forgive me if I speak not in my place, but you are still young compared to our years. Are you trained primarily in the sword, then?"
"I also practice archery, but Queen Susan far surpasses my skill in that area."
"Have you studied the pole arm?"
"I have not."
"A shame," the old Duke says, shaking his head. "Our soldiers are trained with them from the start. Our knights' skill with the glaive has given them renown as warriors across all lands."
"I had heard of the spears of Terebinthia," Peter says. "Let us see, then, the skill of your knights. I would like to look up on the arts of another land; perhaps we can learn from each other."
The King whispers to a man at his side, who nods and walks away. Soon enough he returns with a knight and his squire. The squire bears his master's weapon, a long pole with a single-edged eighteen-inch blade affixed to the end.
"I would like to see the sharpness of that steel," Peter murmurs to Edmund.
"But not too closely," Edmund says.
The knight takes the glaive and begins a whirling violent dance. The steps are simple, but the movement of his pole is so quick sometimes that it forms a blur, the steel flashing blue in the sun. For a minute he continues, and finishes with a sudden stop of a crescent cut, the blade at mid-waist. The onlookers applaud. Edmund is certainly impressed.
"That was skillfully done," he says. "Tell me, do Terebinthian knights use the sword?"
The King and Prince turn to look at him coolly. "Our training may be broad but it is not limited. We are proficient in the sword as well, though to rely on it is considered weakness." the Prince says. Peter's lips are in a thin line and he unconsciously rests his hand on his scabbard.
"Perhaps His Majesty would like to match his skill against one of our own," suggests King Ardamin. "How many years training have you?"
"But four," Edmund says.
"Sir Anselm, I believe his Majesty and your squire would be fairly matched. Unless you would rather not, King Edmund."
Edmund looks like he would very much like to refuse. At his shoulder, Lucy whispers "Ed, no –" before Susan stops her with a hard hand around her upper arm. Peter says, "We would not wish to slight our guests in any way, and have no qualms about friendly competition. However, I cannot speak for my brother directly. What say you, King Edmund?"
Edmund shoulders are square and he stands firmly, nods.
-
"Combatants, stand ready."
They stand there, a few feet apart, feet planted in broad stances. The sun is to Edmund's left, the squire's right. They have sword and shield, but wear no armor. This will only be a match to disarm. The squire is a little taller than Edmund, but he looks younger to Edmund's eye, and maybe less broad in the shoulders.
"On the count of three, honor your knight-master: one."
Edmund wipes his sleeve across his forehead.
"Two."
The Terebinthian slightly broadens his stance.
"Three."
They circle, initially, to get an idea of the others' style of movement. Edmund makes the first move to test his opponent's defense, a quick thrust that is knocked away, and he retreats. But soon enough Edmund realizes that the sun is in his eyes, and that's when the squire strikes. It is a simple enough blow to block, but if he had moved much more quickly Edmund doesn't think he would have been able to react in time. As it were, he knows the danger now. That doesn't make it any easier to deal with.
When Edmund sees his own shadow directly before him, he moves, taking advantage as the squire did, and this time he follows up on his blow. Still, though, after a few passes they retreat again.
Edmund has no desire to be in this situation, which makes him impatient, and causes him to make his first mistake. He rushes in before the sun is fully in his eyes, hoping to stall his disadvantage. But he misjudges the reach of his opponent's sword and when he briefly leaves his defense open to strike, the squire seizes his opportunity and opens a long, shallow cut diagonally across Edmund's abdomen before the King can leap back in time. He hisses at the initial burning sensation, and he hears as though distant some murmurs in the crowd.
The next blow is Edmund's, and it glances off the squire's shield, opening a cut on his thigh. They strike at each other, steel ringing on steel, and Edmund feels his arms begin to ache. He strikes repeatedly and the squire repels them all, slightly slower each time. It seems that the Terebinthian is the quicker to tire, and Edmund takes his opportunity to push his arms a little faster. Instead of retreating further, however, the squire blocks and shoves upward, and Edmund stumbles back.
Now he is on the defense, and he sees that the squire's fatigue must have been a ruse, for he is striking more quickly now than he blocking. They press hilt to hilt, and Edmund feels the full weight of the squire's extra two inches as their swords press hard against each other.
He is about to break and duck to cut under, but as soon as he takes a deep breath, he feels his right leg kicked out from under him at the same time that the squire shoves down with his sword.
His ankle twists under him and he lands on it in a position that feels nearly broken. He yells wordlessly in pain and frustration. Stupid of him, to get impatient now, he should know –
Someone screams; Edmund has no time to think. Years of intermittent fighting against insurgents, dark creatures of Narnia hiding out in the depths of the forest, have given him the instincts he needs to quickly throw himself to the right and hit the ground in a roll as he hears the clash of steel on the stones where he was sitting. As he rolls, though, the squire hooks his shield behind Edmund's, wrenching his arm away from his body and twisting it back. Edmund cries out at the blinding pain. His forearm feels broken.
He extracts it from the shield straps and screams again, but now his arm is free and he holds it close to his torso. He looks up just in time to roll away again as the squire aims a blow at his head. The sword hits the ground again, and Edmund lashes out with his foot while the Terebinthian is offset by his miss. He falls to the ground, and Edmund pushes himself to one knee, picks up his sword, and has it swinging to point at the squire's neck before he realizes there is another sword already there.
"You have made an attempt on my brother's life." Peter's voice is nearly a snarl, and his face is a sight that shakes even Edmund. "Even in the context of a duel you have overstepped the boundaries of civil conduct."
"Peter," Edmund croaks.
"I would demand satisfaction from you for your offense against our royal family."
"Peter," he says, louder now, his pain fully audible. His brother's eyes flicker up, then back down to focus on the squire's fearful face. "Peter, I'm plenty satisfied, please let it go."
"This young man nearly killed you!"
"He isn't your subject," he hisses. "The Terebinthian King will deal with him."
Lucy is suddenly on him. Susan must have lost hold of her, Edmund thinks, but he is glad to have her tender arms around his waist, no matter how much it hurts his wound.
"Peter, you listen to him. He needs medical attention, so let your pride go just this once."
Peter steps back and pauses for a second before sheathing his sword and joining Lucy at Edmund's side, gazing at him with fearful eyes, a face full of concern.
King Ardamin approaches. Lucy glances at him briefly before turning back to Edmund, furious and attentive. "How could you –" she says, but the pain of Edmund's injuries is full on him now and he can't answer.
"I cannot express the depths of my dismay, that a member of my royal party would so lose his control as to injure your royal person. He will be dismissed immediately and sent back to his home in disgrace. I can only hope that this will not jeopardize our visit, for I do so desire to see the marriage of the futures of our glorious nations."
Peter, crouched by Edmund, briefly turns toward King to squint and frown in the glare of the sun. "Yes, of course. How could your Majesty foresee such an accident? If you will excuse me I must see to my brother." The King bows and exits, followed by the crowd of Terebinthian onlookers.
-
Peter and Lucy gently lift Edmund by his upper arms and set him on his feet. He looks greenish and holds his left arm close to his chest, leaning on Peter as they walk slowly to a nearby room, Lucy leading with her cordial, where they lay him on a couch.
"I'll fetch some salve and bandages," Peter says, striding quickly out.
Lucy immediately sets upon Edmund's prone form. "Oh, Aslan, Edmund, are you okay? Where are you hurt?" She touches his shoulder, waist, ribs, as if to feel where he needs mending. "Do you need my cordial?"
"No, I'll be alright." He pants, wincing. "It's not that serious. My ankle's barely sprained; the cut on my stomach is shallow. My arm will need splinting, though."
"It's broken?"
"I think only a little. Like a stick of green wood."
"Edmund, take the cordial."
"Don't waste it on something as small as this."
"Take it!" She is angry and he sees her eyes are wet.
"You've seen me in worse shape, Lu. This is barely a scratch."
She shakes her head. "You've been beaten pretty badly. What if the Terebinthians think you're weak?" She takes out the little bottle and when Edmund starts to protest she glares at him. "This is for Narnia. Don't deny your people their pride and dignity."
Edmund is tired and knows when he's been beaten. Wordlessly, he opens his mouth to let the drop in, feels its warmth slide down his tongue, down his throat, extend throughout his body. He sighs in relief as the pain subsides, winces briefly at the momentary grinding of bone in his forearm before it sets.
"Lucy," he says in a voice that makes her look up. "Lucy, I don't think we should trust these Terebinthians."
"Are you saying it wasn't an accident? Edmund, how awful – do you really –"
"I don't know. He seemed very scared and quiet when it was over. Usually regicides go down spewing hate and madness. But that's not what I meant. You and Susan, but especially you – I see the way you look at the Prince. You're so young. He'll break your heart."
"I'll fall in love with whomever I want, thank you," she says. "And you don't know what you're saying. He would never take advantage of me."
"Just, be careful."
"I'm not a little girl anymore," she snaps as Peter returns with bandages and salve. "He's cured. He won't need those," she says to him, rising quickly and leaving Edmund and Peter to exchange looks.
"Are you two all right?" Peter says.