They found them just beyond Glasswater Creek, about to cross the border into Archenland, ten ragged-looking sailors, trudging through the dirt and wincing at the bright light of the sun, many of them rather worn, salt having dried their clothes to their body in hardened ridges and no doubt making movement uncomfortable.
All Calormene. Sailors, by the look of them. Or, at the very least, recently aboard a ship.
Needless to say, the High King was hardly sympathetic with their plight, as he neared them, an army of Narnian soldiers behind him. "Ho, there," he called out, and the Calormene sailors stopped them, their idea of pretending not to see the Narnians lost as their High King called out.
The sailors turned as one, bowing and scraping awkwardly toward the High King, still seated upon his horse, yet fingering the hilt to his famous sword. Rhindon, it was called in Narnia. Golden Terror, it was known as in Calormen.
"Your Majesty, O Golden One, you do us much honor with your presence," the shipwrecked sailors said as one, bowing and scraping once again.
The High King did not dignify this with a response. "You are Calormene sailors, and yet we do not recall seeing your faces at the Cair, explaining your presence in our little country."
The men gulped. One, particularly more courageous than the rest, stepped forward and, after giving the High King another bow, answered, "Your Graciousness, we are but mere humble Calormene sailors, abandoned in Narnia by unfortunate circumstances. We mean Your Majesty no disrespect by our presence in this lovely country, and only hope that you allow us to continue on our way in leaving it."
The High King lifted a skeptical brow. "And would it not be easier to leave our precious country with all haste by the ship with which you are familiar, rather than trudging through the mountains without resources?"
The man who had spoken before nodded at this. "Your words are most sensible, O Wise One," the High King flinched at the title which was no doubt used more in conjunction with his little brother, "And we would have done so, had our poor ship not been set upon by an enemy in our country's colors, and sunken just off the coast, where the Ocean meets this lovely Creek. We few were fortunate to escape the wreck with our lives, as others aboard were not so fortunate."
The High King, however compassionate he was rumored to be toward those in need, did not appear at all moved by the sailors' tale. "And what was the name of this ship, which you abandoned when it wrecked?"
The man gulped, disconcerted by his careless demeanor. "The Riveiosa, Your Grace."
Then, at last, did the Calormene sailors get a reaction out of the High King of Narnia. First he flinched, and then paled, and then reddened with an anger that set fear into their hearts.
"And where is it that you think you are travelling toward, plowing across our country as you do?"
The men were suitably repentant as they told their tale; their ship, the Riveiosa, had been attacked by another Calormene ship, though, when questioned on this, they could not explain why, and had sunk just off the coast of the Creek where they had found themselves run ashore, grateful for their very lives and falling into the creek on driftwood from the ship. Their master, Amin Tarkaan, had gone down with the ship, as several of them had seen his demise themselves, but were too worried for their own survival to pay it much heed at the time.
And then Peter leapt down from Philip, rushing forward and holding one of them at sword point before Oreius murmured something to the High King and he relented, if only for a moment.
"You had on board with you a captive, did you not?" one of the Narnians demanded then, and the sailors stiffened, as one.
"No, Your Graciousness, you must be mistaken," the man who had previously spoken said then, though his eyes betrayed him. The other men behind him nodded furtively. "There was no captive aboard our ship. She was a mere merchant vessel, not a war ship."
The High King paused at this, face paling as if this thought had not yet occurred to him and yet, now that it had, he didn't know what to do. He glanced back toward his general, and then at the sailors once more. As he did, the light caught on a flash of metal, and he spun, only to be greeted with the steel of a much weaker blade, as one of the sailors rushed forward to attack him.
One of his soldiers stepped forward, but the High King had merely to lift a hand, and he fell back once more; giving the High King this obvious outlet for his anger without question.
The blade of the sailor, brittle and old, snapped before the superior force of Rhindon, and the sailor gasped as it fell in two from his hands, falling to his knees before the High King in expectance of swift retribution.
The High King merely glared at him, before turning his attention to the rest.
"The next time one of you lies to us, or attempts to harm our royal personage as you undoubtedly harmed our brother's, We shall not be so forgiving," the High King snapped at the sailors, who stepped back as one.
"Where is our royal brother, King Edmund the Just?" the High King demanded icily, eyes filled with a familiar fire that boded ill for these sailors, even as he stepped forward once more, brandishing that familiar blade. "Where is he?"
The men glanced at each other nervously, and then looked with supplication toward the army behind the High King, but none of these bothered to come forward for their defense, standing still and silent as they waited, along with their High King, for news of the Just.
One of the men, but not the same as before, nervous, but perhaps less so than his compatriots, stepped forward then. "King Edmund the Just was aboard the Riveiosa, Your Majesty. We all saw him, kept captive by our master, Amin Tarkaan."
"And?" the High King practically hissed.
"We...The Tarkaan wished to give him to the Tisroc, may he live forever, when we returned to Calormen. He kept him below deck at all times, and none of us saw him beyond that, while he was aboard the ship."
The High King visibly faltered at this revelation, before stepping forward, hand on his sword shaking. "Where is my brother?" he demanded, letting the royal 'we' slip in his desperation.
The man who had become a new spokesman for the group glanced back at his companions before murmuring nervously, "Your lordship, we were only following the orders of our lord, the Tarkaan, when your brother the young King was brought aboard our ship. We could do nothing else, and beg that you allow us sanctuary, here."
The High King sneered then, a look that better befitted the Tisroc than the Golden King of the North. "If you continue to refuse to tell us what became of him after your ship wrecked, you may rest assured that we will kill every last one of you."
The Narnians behind the King, when the Calormenes looked to them once more, only smiled coldly.
One of the men gulped, stepping forward, to the obvious horror of his shipmates. "Your Highness, the slave rowers were chained below, in the hold. The boy king was in a blocked off quarter, behind them, to ensure that he did not try to escape the Tarkaan."
The High King's face paled. "And, I take it, chained, as the slaves would have been?" His heart bled for these slaves, chained like animals below deck with no hope of freedom during the wreck of the ship, but his sole thoughts were of his brother.
The man nodded.
"And none of these slaves were freed from their chains, nor was my brother, when the ship went down?" he demanded, tone turning hot and angry once more, and the sailors shifted from foot to foot.
"Your Majesty..." the first spokesman tried, voice full of fear. "To do so would have endangered our own chances of escape."
Something behind the High King's eyes shifted; his normally open blue eyes hardened, and his grip on Rhindon tightened. "I see," he said coldly, in a voice that suggested otherwise.
"So, you have abandoned your master, Amin Tarkaan, and my brother, King Edmund, to the seas," the High King finally said, in a bland voice.
The Calormenes glanced nervously from him to the soldiers. "O Forgiving One, it was not our doing. This, this other ship..." they trailed off then, perhaps realizing that the High King was not interested in whatever tales they might weave, at this point.
"My brother is dead," he said softly. "And none of you bothered to help him, for fear of your own necks."
"Forgive me for saying so and thus sounding heartless in this, your time of grief, O Great One, but King Edmund the Just is not our King, and we were under no obligation to rescue him, rather than ourselves," the Calormenes all gaped at the one who had said this, realizing then that their lives were most certainly forfeit.
The High King's eyes blazed. "So you are cowards and willful murderers," he said, in a deceptively calm voice. "Very well. I have recently become acquainted with Calormene law, friends, and the punishment for such crimes in Tashbaan is far greater than the punishment for such crimes in Narnia. We are slightly more forgiving, here. Had you wished to be tried by Narnians, we might have merely sent you back to Calormene in disgrace." He smiled; it was a cold smile. "But then, you have just identified yourselves as loyal only to Calormen, have you not? And I would be remiss in not treating Calormen citizens in the same way that they should expect to be treated by the Tisroc himself."
The sailors exchanged glances, and then, as one, fell to their knees before the High King. "Your Gracious Majesty..." one of them tried, only to trail off when a sword fell at his feet.
It had been tossed, carelessly, by one of the soldiers standing behind the High King, at his command, and sat there for several moments longer before the Calormenes understood its purpose.
"Your Majesty..." another tried, only to be faced with another sword. And another. And another.
"You have the right to defend yourself," the High King told them, voice cold as ice. "If I were you, I would pick up a sword."
A soft, damp cloth padded against Edmund's forehead, and he moaned, leaning into the touch and reflecting that it had been so long since such a kind hand had touched him, had offered even the barest moment of comfort.
For a moment, he thought perhaps that this hand belonged to Susan, that he was back in Cair, safe and sound. That all this had been some horrible dream, but it was over now.
The pain hit him then. Terrible, aching pain that spread from his leg through his whole body quickly, and Edmund bit back a cry as it shuddered through him.
And then the voice attached to it purred, "Oh, you poor dear," and he opened his eyes, knowing that it didn't belong to Susan and choking down a bit of uneasiness when he realized it wasn't a hand, at all.
The rim of a cup was pressed against Edmund's lips, and he drank the foul substance within without thinking. It burned down his throat and then through his limbs, before settling comfortably in his stomach.
And, in an instant, the pain had faded.
A paw gently pushed him back into bed. "You're safe now, dear. Try to stay calm."
Edmund glanced around wildly, taking in his surroundings.
He was in a small hole in the ground, a burrow that had been made with painstaking care, if the roots fashioned into a thatched ceiling and the warm fireplace in the corner were any indication.
Beyond the small room that he now found himself in, Edmund thought he heard talking, a child's voice whispering excitedly.
He glanced back at his caretaker in some confusion.
She was a cat, a lovely spotted Wildcat with flashing green eyes, rather than the tame creatures which made their homes around Cair Paravel and had tea with Lucy whenever they could find the chance. Tall, with matted dark fur and claws that were disturbingly long, but the kind smile she sent Edmund more than made up for it.
They were not near Cair, if she was a Wildcat. Wildcats preferred the mountain regions, not the sea, and she would have made her burrow far from other animals, where she and her brood could rest unbothered.
"I have to..." he struggled to sit up once more, only to be pushed down again. "I need..."
"It's all right, dear," the Wildcat said gently, rubbing her paw across his forehead. "It's all right. You were injured quite badly when my Tony found you. Rest now."
And he did, pretending for a moment that this was Susan's voice, and that all was right with the world.
And perhaps it was, in that moment.
When he woke again, Edmund felt remarkably more lucid than the first time, and managed to pull himself into a sitting position before the Cat who had been caring for him returned to the little bedroom. She gasped in surprise at the sight of him, before setting down the bowl of hot water in her paws and moving to his side.
"Don't try to sit up just yet, dear," the Cat lectured, and Edmund sighed, falling back onto the pillows and wondering if this would never end. Why didn't Lucy simply bring out her cordial and heal him?
He groaned, as a sudden wave of pain and nausea rolled through him, and then a soft paw was pressing against his forehead, warm and cool and oh so soothing. He leaned into it, letting out a soft noise that he would deny later, and closing his eyes once more, willing the pain in his leg away.
He remembered now, as this cat paw touched him. Remembered the shipwreck, the bounty hunter, his leg injury, the dove. Everything.
Edmund's eyes shot open, and he glanced up suspiciously at his rescuer, this Cat.
She gave him a reassuring smile. "Feeling a little better, I take it?"
He merely groaned in response.
The Cat chuckled, softly. "You had quite the injury, Your Majesty. I was afraid, late last night, that you..." she shook herself. "Well, but there is no use focusing on what might have been. Are you up to taking some tea?"
Edmund blinked, suddenly finding himself very hungry, but he could do nothing more than nod, at the suggestion.
The Cat smiled. "Good, well that's good, at least. Wait here, and I'll go and fetch my Mr. Nantes to help you walk to the table."
He would have protested that he could walk to the table in the other room just fine, in that moment, if the Cat, Mrs. Nantes, he supposed, did not scurry from the room before he had the chance to do so.
When she was gone, he peeled off the ragged blanket covering him, shivered as the air made contact with his skin, and then glanced down at his injured leg.
Mrs. Nantes had placed a leaf overtop the area where the arrow had entered his body, and this Edmund peeled off as well, with it coming a fair amount of pus and blood and something else that Lucy would have likely been able to identify as a healing poultice, but which he could not.
It looked horrid, and, after only a moment of looking, Edmund was overcome with the urge to gag. The wound had festered, in the nights since he'd received it, despite his saviors' best efforts, and now stood out awkwardly against his skin, a myriad of colors that it should not have been.
A new Cat entered the room, Mr. Nantes, Edmund assumed, and he quickly replaced the poultice covered leaf before he could receive a lecture for it; an act ingrained in him over many years, by both Susan and Lucy's fussing.
Mr. Nantes was not so pretty as his wife, but, despite his gruff nature, was gentle enough in helping Edmund into the hall and yet another room in the burrow, allowing Edmund to lean heavily on him, though the young king knew that he must have been heavy for the Cat.
Eventually, step by careful step, they made it to the kitchen, where Mrs. Nantes was carefully preparing tea over a boiling stove, and the little kitten that Edmund vaguely remembered seeing, before he had collapsed in front of it, sat on the table, glancing up excitedly as Edmund entered.
"King Edmund!" he squealed, dashing forward and tipping over the small bowl of cream at the table.
"Tony!" Mrs. Nantes cried, spinning around and setting the bowl upright before sopping up the bit of cream which had spilled from it. Edmund had a feeling that she did this before Tony could lap it up with his tongue, as he looked very willing to do so. "What have I told you about standing on the table? Get down at once."
Tony, a dejected look in his eyes, slunk down from the table and settled himself on one of the cushions surrounding it, just as Mr. Nantes helped Edmund down beside the little kitten, atop a comfortable cushion, and Edmund propped his injured leg up on the one next to him. It hurt, he noted then, with only a fraction of the pain he'd felt before.
Tony turned to Edmund with wide, curious eyes. "Is it true that, at Cair Par-a-vel, the Cats drink out of silver bowls?" he asked then, and Edmund had to admit, this had not been the question he was expecting, even as he pretended not to notice Tony slinking closer and closer to him in curiosity, nearly falling off his own cushion as he did so.
With it came several more, at a dizzying pace, before Mrs. Nantes finally rescued him by bringing forth the tea and small cakes, setting them on the table and sitting across from Edmund, beside Mr. Nantes, who was giving little Tony a disapproving look, for all of his questions.
Edmund did not think he would ever be so pleased to have tea with a family of cats as he was in that instant. Aslan knew that Susan and Lucy had dragged him to enough tea parties for a lifetime, and yet he smiled as Mrs. Nantes placed a small china cup in front of him and asked whether he preferred milk or sugar.
He rather hoped that she had not seen fit to give him a spit bath, at that.
Mrs. Nantes leaned forward, paws gripping the tea pot tightly as she poured some more chamomile into Edmund's cup with a glittering smile.
"Oh, that's enough, thank you," Edmund said, just before the cup might have overflowed, his thoughts hardly on the situation at hand.
Her son, about the size of Edmund's hand, curled up at his side and let out a long purr, and Edmund couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up within him at the sound, Mr. and Mrs. Nantes quickly following when they realized that their young King was not offended by it.
"Tell me, Your Majesty, what are you doing so far from home?" Mrs. Nantes asked, voice dripping with sympathy even as she licked at her own cup of tea.
Mr. Nantes was gone now, gathering more wood for the fire, and Edmund had to amuse himself with only Mrs. Nantes' company, for, though she was a sweet creature, she could not seem to satisfy herself with finding out as much as she could about the young king, and, though he could see no harm in it, Edmund was rapidly growing tired of the questions that he was unsure if he should answer without knowing what was happening in Cair even now.
Leaving this kind family to return to Cair might prove itself awry if they announced to the countryside with the same fervor that Mrs. Nantes used in pouring tea that the ghost of King Edmund the Just had visited them for tea and biscuits just that afternoon.
Of course, he wouldn't get far on this leg, at any rate. He would have to wait a little while, at least until his leg healed enough to walk.
Perhaps he could send a message to his siblings, through the trees, to let them know he was all right.
Well, alive.
"I...was travelling for a bit," he said, reasonably assured that the news of his death had not yet reached this family of cats. After all, they had not seemed too shocked to see him, as they might have been if they were just mourning his passing.
"And what of the news that the White Witch was resurrected?" Mr. Nantes demanded then, bowing even as he re-entered the hovel and nearly dropping his firewood in the process. "Is there truth in that?"
Edmund swallowed. "There is." Mr. and Mrs. Nantes gasped at these words, nearly waking their slumbering son, who let out a soft noise of distress before burrowing into Edmund's side once again, silent and calm as before.
Edmund felt a moment of jealousy then, that little Tony could find such solace in slumber when he had not been able to for five years now.
"But she was vanquished," he assured them, feeling almost guilty at the looks of relief on their faces, and hoping that they would not ask him how it was so, for he had no desire to lie to them, and did not know the truth himself. Only that Susan and his siblings were back at Cair, the snow was gone, and a lightness now filled the air which had been gone while the White Witch lived amongst them.
But fortunately, they did not ask, perhaps seeing the haunted look in their young king's eyes and mistaking it as answer enough.
He had a sneaking suspicion as to the truth himself, as the dream he'd had, the one that might not have entirely been a dream, though he wasn't sure of that now, filtered through his mind. Of Aslan, and that dove.
For surely the death of the White Witch meant that Aslan had returned to Narnia once more, and vanquished her himself. Surely the Calormene ship that had crashed into the Riveiosa, allowing Edmund to escape his captors, had done so at the hand of Aslan. And was even now residing at Cair Paravel, with all three of siblings.
And he didn't understand why that knowledge hurt, until the slight bit of jealousy he felt toward little Tony's slumber hit him.
That he was here, injured and washed ashore, while Aslan had not yet come. While Peter had not yet come, at the very least, when surely Aslan knew where he was.
He brushed these morbid thoughts aside, suddenly aware that Mrs. Nantes had asked him a question which he had yet to answer.
"Sorry?" he asked, blushing a little at the look on Mrs. Nantes' face, as she glanced from him to little Tony, as if suddenly realizing how young their King was.
"Perhaps you should rest for now, Your Majesty," she said, not unkindly. "And let our questions until another time."
He blinked, finding her suggestion particularly appealing, and then, "But where shall I sleep?"
She smiled. "Have you forgotten already where your bed was, Your Majesty?"
Edmund blushed. "Well, I do not wish to impose-"
"Nonsense!" Mr. Nantes erupted then, sputtering some of the tea that Mrs. Nantes had poured for him. "We are Cats, Your Grace, and sleep just as comfortably in a pile with each other than in a bed. But you are a Man, and must sleep in a bed. Please."
Edmund gulped, aware that, at any other time, he would have refused once again out of principle, not wishing to steal these kindly creatures from their bed, but suddenly overcome with fatigue once more.
He stood to his feet, trying not to wake little Tony, and limped back to the bed, Mr. Nantes supporting him on one side.
Peter wiped off his gloved hand on the piece of cloth the cheetah beside him, Rahna, offered, without looking her in the eye, having no desire to meet with her accusing stare.
He dismissed her with a nod, ad Rahna practically fled the tent. He could not say he did not prefer the silence, in that moment.
He knew that what he had done was not right; that, though the Calormenes had stolen away his brother, using to their advantage the fact that all of Narnia thought him dead, it was not these sailors that he should be angry with.
The distinct fear that Aslan, that Edmund, would have been unhappy with him, had he known what Peter had just done, in a fit of anger, rested at the pit of his stomach, and Peter brushed a line of sweat from his forehead.
Edmund. This was all for Edmund, he reminded himself.
Edmund, who was now lying at the bottom of the sea, dead.
Somehow, this realization that his brother was truly dead hurt worse than the first time, when Peter had thought him dead upon the Stone Table. Perhaps it was because, this time, Edmund was truly dead.
His stomach hurt with the knowledge, bile never far from his tongue, and he felt that his heart would ache until the day he died.
Edmund was dead. Even Aslan, having returned to Narnia once more, or, at least, returned to Lucy once more, had not managed to bring him home.
No, Peter had thought himself capable of such a task, but only now realized how foolish he'd been.
Peter sighed, wiping his face on the bloody cloth before he could think better of it.
He did not know what to do. Edmund was dead, and marching on Calormen now seemed pointless, as he had told Oreius before retiring to his tent.
Half of him wanted to continue on, to bring such pain to Calormen as he now felt, for the death of Edmund. The other half was far too tired, and merely wanted to return home before another one of his siblings was forever lost.
Behind him, he could hear the distinct sounds of someone entering the tent. They said nothing, however, as if waiting for Peter's permission to do so, and suddenly Peter felt so tired. More so than he had ever thought anyone capable of feeling. He didn't bother turning around when he spoke.
"If you are here to lecture me on my actions against the Calormene sailors, General, you can leave now," Peter said coldly, instantly regretting the harsh words but unable to take them back in the next instant. "I don't care to hear them."
There was a snort from behind him. "I could go and fetch Oreius to do so, if His Majesty prefers," Philip said, in an oddly light voice, considering what had just happened.
Peter turned around with some surprise, the rag still in his hands. Still stained with blood. "What are you doing in here?"
Philip's long mane flapped through the small tent, nearly hitting Peter as it did so, and Peter got the impression that the Horse was shrugging, in his own way. "I came to see how you were. Oreius did not think that his...company would be wanted, just now."
Peter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering just when his own subjects had become scared of him.
"I'm fine, Philip," he muttered.
"Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but you do not look it," Philip observed quietly.
Peter resisted the urge to let out another sigh, instead turning again to the Horse. "Were you always this contrary around my brother?" he demanded tiredly.
The Horse shrugged. "Your brother is...was not so hardheaded as you, Your Majesty, but yes, when it is needed."
Peter guffawed, not certain whether to be amused or offended.
Philip let out a long sigh. "I am not going to lecture you on what happened earlier, Your Majesty. You are the High King of Narnia, and I merely your brother's Horse. But I will tell you something you already know. Killing those men did not bring Edmund back."
"I know that," Peter whispered, voice hoarse, and he suddenly found himself unable to meet Philip's eyes. "I know that, but what should I have done? Nothing, so that Edmund was never avenged? Should I simply go back to Cair Paravel now, and let my brother lie in the sea?"
Philip tossed his mane in irritation. "What did Aslan say?"
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. "I do not know. Lucy told us nothing but what she announced in front of everyone, in front of that Wolf."
"He gave no advice for how to find King Edmund?" Philip asked incredulously.
Peter snorted hopelessly. "Perhaps he already knew we would be too late," he muttered.
"Then I would give you some advice of my own. Punish those who were responsible, my liege."
"The Witch is already dead," Peter bit out, "and still I don't feel sated."
Philip raised his eyes to meet Peter's, then. "I was not referring to the White Witch, Your Majesty. We rode out to make war on Calormen, for stealing away our Just King. We cannot get him back now, but we can punish Calormen for ever daring to take him in the first place." His eyes narrowed. "For your sisters' sakes, should they ever try such a thing again."
Peter was silent for only a moment. Then, "Call the War Council together again."
The War Council was already assembled, as Peter soon learned, and waiting in the tent meant for Oreius. Philip led him there, and Peter was a little ashamed to see the way his own subjects, members of his military, seemed to stiffen at the sight of him. All save for Oreius, who only gave him a look that seemed to convey all of the disappointment that Lucy and Edmund would have expressed.
Peter sank into an empty chair, the only one in the tent, and pinched the bridge of his nose again, suddenly feeling very tired. "We will not retreat now. Calormen has stolen our royal brother from us, and, even if there is no getting him back, we will not see his sacrifice forgotten so easily."
The creatures around him nodded, finding this new plan, if not sensible, then at least agreeable, to some extent.
"But who was that other ship, the ones the...sailors claimed attacked the Riveiosa during the storm?" Philip asked suddenly, and something about the way he said it made Peter think he had been waiting some time to do so.
"Who else knew that Edmund was on board, and that the Riveiosa was returning to Calormen with him?" Glenstorm demanded shortly. "This is Calormen's doing."
"No Calormene ship would have attacked another, this near to Narnian shores," Peter said dismissively.
Oreius raised a skeptical brow. "Unless the Tisroc had plans to make it appear as though the Narnians had done so, giving him an excuse for war."
"Or..." Eslania the Eagle offered tentatively, and then stopped as all eyes turned toward her. She blushed as Peter made a motion for her to continue. "If he was trying to clean up a mess. The Calormenes know well the..." she glanced nervously at Peter again, "the rage of the High King, whenever his brother is harmed. Perhaps the Tisroc learned that King Edmund was being brought back to Calormen and wished to avoid the embarrassment of another defeat, and did not think we already knew that King Edmund was...aboard the ship."
"Nonsense," Oreius said coolly. "The Tisroc is a proud monarch, and would not so openly admit fear of a small country like Narnia."
But Philip continued staring at Eslania, so hard she looked uncomfortable beneath that gaze, before finally saying, "No, he wouldn't openly admit fear of Narnia, which would give him just another reason to dispose of...any evidence as quickly as he could, if Eslania is correct." He glanced back at Peter, but the High King was no longer listening.
He stood pacing in the middle of the tent, running a shaking hand over greasy blond hair, before finally spinning back to them. His eyes were cold and dead and far too tired as he said, "Don't you see? It doesn't matter now. The Calormenes have slithered out of this as they do everything, with very little harm, and I will not allow them to get away with it again, not this time."