--Chapter 7: The Ball: Part 1--

I spent the better part of the day with Corin and Fio. It was curiously relaxing; just allowing myself to sit on the beach or in the gardens and talk about nothing. More relaxing, almost, than a nap.

Almost.

But—alas!—all good things must come to an end. This day of leisure ended for me at three in the afternoon when Susan searched me out to help organize the colossal ball our court was planning for the formal celebration of the arrival of the Galmian party. Only Aslan knows why Susan came to me to help with the ball. Ordinarily I would be the very last person she would go to for assistance in that fashion, but, according to what she said, Peter was busy with matters of state, Lucy was off goodness knows where doing something that doubtlessly held the balance of the kingdom in check, and—most importantly—Su's chief advisor was down with the flu.

The rest of the day was a haze of menus and appetizers and clean goblets for the punch table, but eventually everything was ready. I must admit that when Peter entered the ball room with Susan a few steps behind, the look in his eyes was more than enough to uplift my disgruntled spirits.

The courtiers went to their stations and the musicians began to play. Lucy turned up at the last possible moment, laughingly beautiful, as always; and so it was that we, the two kings and two queens of Narnia, waited in the ballroom to welcome our guests.

We did not have long to wait; as soon as the clock struck seven, the guests streamed through the doors one by one, and then more quickly. I bowed and nodded and smiled and shook hands more times than one should have to in one evening, but at last, when everyone had been announced and was accounted for, the musicians struck up a song, and the first dance began.

Quite frankly, I hated Su's balls, and had always, since I could remember, counted down every minute until the last dance was through and it was time to collapse onto a soft, comfortable bed somewhere where I could be alone at last.

Tonight was no different. Susan had prepared a stiff, uncomfortable, and otherwise loathsome suit for me to wear. It made of red and brown and cream-colored stuff, and Su said it made me look more dashing than a regular dress-tunic would—exactly the opposite of what I really cared about: comfort.

I figured if it was uncomfortable enough to make me hate the entire evening, it wasn't worth wearing, even if I looked like the son of a sultan. I told her so, too. She merely laughed and ordered the servants to remove all my other tunics from my wardrobe so that it was the only thing I had to wear.

And it wasn't as though I could just not attend the ball. If I wasn't there, it might spark a diplomatic incident that would keep us in a war—or at least constant hostility—with the Galmians for ages. In the end, I wore the suit, but that evening I shot Susan a vengeful glare every chance I got.

When the first dance was called, Susan nearly shoved a girl into my arms, a certain Lady Claudia of Galma—one of Iliea's friends, I had no doubt, for she giggled and blushed and batted her eyelashes something terrible.

After three dances I managed to escape from Lady Claudia, kissing her hand as I bowed away to appease her feminine whims and hopefully to keep her from following me around. I then made my way to the punch table, darting looks over my shoulder the whole way for fear she—or Susan—was following me. I reached it at last, sighing in relief as I sank into a chair that rested in the shadows.

After a moment of glorying in my escape, I surveyed the ballroom, eventually catching sight of the three other members of my family. Lucy was easiest to see, chatting contentedly with Cook's nephew…Geoffrey, it was? Peter was on the floor, dancing with Princess Iliea, and wearing his finest court expression—one that masked his real thoughts perfectly. Susan was laughing gaily on the other end of the room, Lord Col on one side and a young man I had never seen before—presumably a noble from the Galmian party—on her other side.

I glanced at the crystal goblets that sat on the punch table. The punch had already been poured, but the wine had not yet arrived. When it did, it would be poured from pitchers carried by servants—trustworthy servants. I couldn't help but wonder if it had already been poisoned. Or if, perhaps, the punch had been poisoned. I locked eyes with Lucy, and she nodded seriously as she met my gaze, as if to reassure me that she had her cordial. I nodded in return and jerked my head at Peter, who was now smiling at Lady Iliea, much to my disgust. He wasn't the least bit worried, and even if he was, he wouldn't show it. Not in public like this.

"Do you not care for dancing, King Edmund?"

I started at the voice of Prince Eric from my right side. From the tone of his voice, I gathered that he shared my feelings about dancing and balls. I grinned and shook my head.

"Susan is the only one of us that really belongs in a ballroom."

"Oh?' Eric raised an eyebrow in interest. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I began, leaning back against the wall and watching my graceful sister as she danced with the strange young nobleman I had noticed before, "Susan feels at home at parties or balls. Peter prefers hunting or fields of combat. Lucy is better off in flowery glades or sailing into the sunset on the Splendor Hyaline; among the charms of nature, she says."

"And you?" Eric asked, crossing his arms and looking remarkably interested.

"Give me a quiet library or sleepy orchard and I could live forever in bliss," I replied, sighing as I cast a weary gaze across the vibrant colors and busy scene before me.

With a laugh, Prince Eric gestured toward his sister, who was just now parting with the High King and sitting down for a rest.

"Iliea would have me dance my shoes thin, but I prefer much the same as you and your brother. I would spend my days hunting or fishing, if my father would allow it so. Not busily among so many people."

"You and I are of the same mind, then," I added with a grin. It was always refreshing to find someone else who wasn't interested in balls and young ladies—and all that rot.

A servant—a boy called Darm—approached with a pitcher of wine. Darm was a bright Narnian boy, an orphan who had been brought to live in the castle the year after I and my siblings assumed the roles of rulers of Narnia. I had met him last year, and had been so impressed with his quick thinking and reasoning that I resolved—though secretly—to make an educated noble out of him. That made him a student of sorts, but he was also a sort of spy for me in the Cair. I had many spies, as was needed in the effort to uphold justice, though up till now it had been nothing more than a game.

This, however, was beginning to look like a dangerous game. I gave him a questioning glance, and he shrugged. I held out my goblet, and as he poured, I whispered, "Is it safe?"

Darm nodded—obviously having heard about the poisoning.

"Yes. Cook had each pitcher tasted separately to be sure. It's quite safe."

I thanked him with a grateful look, and he continued around the ballroom, pouring the red, Narnian wine into the crystal goblets with smooth, even motions. I watched him for a moment more, and then turned back to Prince Eric to talk more of hunting and the sea.

TBC….