After Dusk
after dusk they are shown to the horses' pickets by one of Oreius' commanders – a tall and strong hamadryad named Acros – and a snow-haired faun with a crippled leg.
"how old were you when you learnt to ride?" Acros asks them both.
"nine," Peter says. "for sport, you understand, not fighting. our school isn't the biggest or poshest in London, but we're lucky enough to have a swimming pool and Harrow don't!"
he added this last bit with the most lower-middle-class pride he could muster
Arcos is confused. "you learnt to ride in this pool?"
Edmund laughs. "no, no. Harrow don't have a pool, so we let them use our pool and in return they let us use their polo field. and it's not just the field, it's the rooms, it's the instructors – there's this old guy, Mr Coates, who once saw the Duke of Gloucester –"
"Ed," Peter cuts his brother off. "so polo is this sport, played on horses. and because i signed up for it, we were taught how to play, how to ride. and then when Edmund started school, he did too."
"you are comfortable with dumb horses then?"
"yes," says Peter.
"for true horses will be less trouble then," Arcos says. "far more intelligent, far more communication. it is not a matter of controlling the mount, as they do in the south-lands. you work with your horse, you understand, you are equal partners."
Edmund nodded.
"yes," Peter says. "i understand."
the pickets are between a gap in the cliffs, two rows of a dozen stalls facing each other across a wide path running to the end. the stalls are covered with tarpaulin canvas to keep the rain off, but there are no ropes or bridles or bolted doors. the horses are free to come and go as they please.
they walk down to the three endmost stalls, and the faun indicated the first for them.
a handsome brown gelding turns to look up from his manger.
"Lord Edmund, this is Philli-hinny-hoo-phraa," Acros introduces them.
"uhm," Edmund gulps; he walks forwards cautiously, unsure of where to place his hands. "Hello, good to meet you?"
"likewise," said the gelding.
"Philli-hinny…?"
"are you going to be one of those who can't pronounce it?"
"can i–?" he starts, but is interrupted.
"can you shorten it?" the horse sighs. "yes, I suppose, if you must."
"Philli? Philip?"
Peter laughs suddenly.
"what's funny?" he asks Peter.
"don't you pay attention in Greek, Ed?" says Peter. "Philip – it means 'horse-lover'."
the faun starts at this, but doesn't speak. just leads them into the next stall. it contains a white charger of almost twenty hands.
Peter stops dead, and Edmund runs into the back of him.
"i…'" Peter stutters.
"your Majesty," the charger says, bowing his neck
"there's no way i can –" Peter begins, corrects himself, and says again. "i'm sorry, i wouldn't know where to begin. you're too –"
"there's no way you could manage Narrah?" Acros smiles. "no, we thought not. we just had to be sure. you are what, sire – five foot eight? five nine?"
"at a push," Peter shrugs.
"we had no idea whether to expect a man of thirty or a boy of thirteen," explains Narrah.
"so," Acros leads them into the third and final stall.
and there, bright as day, with a twirling horn is the most beautiful sight either of them have ever seen.
"this, sire, is Liusa," says Acros. "she doesn't talk, never has, but she can hear you and understand you as well as any of us."
the unicorn again also bows her neck.
"reach out," Acros says, hushed. "palm out and flat, to the front of her nose, then you can touch her neck. she's waited for you, as High King-to-be. if you claim her, you are bonded for life."
Edmund gasps.
"she is still a good steed then," Peter asks, touching Liusa, claiming her.
"yes, sire," Acros replies. "i taught her myself, and i knew her mother who reared her."
"good," Peter says. "we'll need experience. more than anything else."