Work Text:
Magnificent
“No,” Peter said, staring down his well-meaning but over-protective advisors. “I’ll go.”
There was a pause while everyone looked at one another, and Peter could hear clearly what they did not say, but he kept his expression calm and resolute. Then Oreius bowed. “I will assemble an escort, sire.”
“A small guard, General,” Peter ordered. “I won’t look afraid of my own people.” My people. He’d said it without thinking, as was happening more and more often, but of course the problem was not everyone saw it that way. A shocking number of Narnians had been trapped in the Witch’s castle. Enough to turn the tide of battle, for which Peter was grateful. And of course he could not have wished that endless prison on anyone. No, the trouble was the sort of people Jadis had turned to stone; most of them were — or had been — leaders of Narnia-that-was, accustomed to having their words heeded and their decisions respected. They weren’t comfortable bending to the wishes of four human children.
It wasn’t even as simple as the world moving on without them. The Winter had changed some things radically. These leaders had woken to a world that literally had no place for them; the villages and clans they had once belonged to were gone. For those that had survived, it was no easier. Some had settled into advisory roles. One had even taken up her old place, her successor stepping aside willingly. But in some cases multiple generations had been prisoned in stone, as each took of the mantle of defiance — and suffered its consequences.
It had been thrilling, at first, to realize so many who remembered Narnia in summer had survived. Here were dozens of people who could tell them how things were supposed to be, from experience and not half-remembered stories. No one had thought it would be a problem; Narnians were quite practical, on the whole, and flexible. What no one had realized was that those were traits born of the Winter.
First it had been the location of the court. The old kings, Frank’s line, had ruled from somewhere more central — Peter wasn’t exactly sure where, as the Witch had torn it stone from stone — and Cair Paravel had been only a lesser court, an outpost to watch the seas. For ages there had been complaints that it was too far from most Narnians, that Applegard was the proper capital. He and Susan had finally hit on an argument that silenced even the most adamant — for the time being, at least. They’d pointed out that, thanks to Jadis’s vengeance, there was nothing like a suitable structure in the old court’s location. Even the sprawl of the town at the palace’s feet was gone, and the farms to support it half-ruined. Building even enough to house a small, informal court would surely drain resources needed desperately by Narnians all across the land, picking up the pieces of a long winter.
Then it had been the matter of four rulers. This was evidently unheard of; Narnia didn’t even have a tradition of royal spouses wielding much power. People kept insisting one of them had to be the real sovereign; usually Peter, as High King, but a small, dedicated faction preferred Lucy. And none of them were ever content with a ‘lesser’ ruler handling their particular matter; if they didn’t insist on seeing Peter straight off they’d appeal decisions to him. Only Narnia’s half-mythical founders, Frank and Helen, had ever shared power, and although the lays were very pretty they said nothing of how the reign had been accomplished.
Lucy, of all people, had hit upon a solution. “Aslan crowned each of us to a direction,” she pointed out. “Why not say that’s what we have responsibility for?”
And that had at least quieted the grumbling, which was all one could really hope for, Peter decided. Being king seemed to involve a lot of making sure everyone was equally unhappy, and no one quite unhappy enough to fight about it. Which was why he was riding out now, to meet with a lot of the most unhappy sort, and see if he couldn’t jolly them back to only grumbling a little. In some ways it was very like refereeing younger siblings, but he didn’t share that observation with either the subjects or the siblings.
They were arguing when he arrived. That was expected. Some of them had weapons, which was not, and made his escort exceedingly nervous. Peter chose to pretend he didn’t see them, because sometimes blindness was the best option. He let them argue and shout; he argued back when they shut up long enough to let him. They’d all been here before, and gotten nowhere. ‘Just a child’, they said of him, behind his back and sometimes to his face as well. Which would have been true, except that Aslan had made him king and being a child was no longer an option. He’d given it up for Narnia’s sake; because Narnia came first, with all her wonderful, enchanting, argumentative, infuriating denizens, every one of them.
“Enough!” Peter cried, silencing three arguments and something that bid fair to become a brawl. He strode out into the center of the gathering, a child among adults but a king among his people. “I have sworn to be a good king to all of you,” he declared, and his voice did not crack even a little. “And this I will do; in spite of you if I must. But I should rather do it with you, if you will have me.”
He was not certain who was more surprised when, one by one, they began to kneel.
Gentle
After a hundred years without, it was scarcely a hundred hours before Narnia saw more humans. A single fishing boat drew up on the shore far south, beyond the Glasswater. Of course they were observed. The merfolk knew before they came in sight of land. The Gulls watched them land, and an Osprey carried word to Cair Paravel.
“They have done no harm,” she reported to a half-hopeful, half-appalled court. “They harmed no creature, nor did they cut any living wood. Only they gathered the drift to cook some of their catch, mended a net, and set off again. I do not think they knew themselves observed.”
“Perhaps they do not know what shore they came to,” said Tumnus. “It has been long indeed since any boat could come here.”
“But where are they from?” Susan wondered.
“Likely Galma, my queen,” answered the Raven Sallowpad. He was very wise in the world for he had been an explorer in his youth, before the Winter. Jadis has turned him to stone but Aslan had restored him in the clearing of her castle. “It lies nearly due east of here, and on a clear morning it may be sighted against the rising sun. In the days before the Winter a Bird might fly there easily enough.”
“Galma,” Peter mused. “I have seen that name in the histories. It was Narnian once?”
“Indeed, your majesty. It is a duchy and swore fealty to the court at Applegard until the last of Frank’s line was killed.”
“Then we should welcome them,” Susan decided, “for they might wish to be Narnian again. And if not, they are still neighbors and we should be friendly.”
“P’rhaps they won’t return at all,” Lucy said, “if it was an accident.”
“Even so.” Susan was resolved. Here was their first opportunity to meet other people and to learn something of the world beyond the Winter. “Let a watch be kept on the coast, and word brought at once if they return.” She was quite certain they would, if only the same way. “In the meantime, let us put our minds to meeting them properly. We should make a good showing.”
They did not come at once, although the sea Birds and merfolk brought tales of sighting boats in the waters between Narnia and Galma. Susan began to consider whether someone might travel to that island, the dark speck in the dawn. No one in Narnia knew how to build anything sea-worthy; only rafts and barges and such craft as plied the broad backs of rivers. But a Bird might go, as Sallowpad described, and some of the merfolk. Ambassadors, Susan mused, and combed through the library for documents about such things.
But at the beginning of Meadowdance (or May, as near as any of the English children could reckon), a second vessel landed. This one pulled in much closer to the Cair, in a sheltered cove not half a day’s ride. There had been some discussion of whether it would be more proper to have the visitors brought to Cair — Susan thought it would make them feel like prisoners, but Sallowpad and others who remembered the old court were adamant that royalty received guests. Come the time, though, everyone was far too excited to wait.
And it was everyone. Susan had planned a small party, herself, some advisors, some guards (Peter insisted), and perhaps Peter, if he wanted to come. But with the news of strangers rippling from one end of Cair to the other, Edmund and Lucy insisted on accompanying the party as well. Oreius promptly tripled the guard lest harm come to one of the sovereigns. Lucy invited Tumnus along — and a string of others that seemed wholly random to Susan but which she probably had reasons for, however odd. Peter brought along Oreius and a handful of other captains, and a knot of cartographers for good measure, all of them eager for news of the world beyond Narnia. Edmund at least limited his guests, bringing only the Cair’s librarian, armed with every scrap of information on Galma they’d found, and a strange group consisting of a dryad, a naiad, and a dwarf. These he introduced to Susan in a stolen moment while Oreius was inspecting the much-increased guard, explaining, “They’re trying to recreate our ship-building.”
This sufficiently distracted Susan from the ruin of her careful plans. She could have kissed Edmund for thinking of it. She didn’t, of course; he might be much improved in character but he was still at that touchy age. By the time the soldiers were sorted out, she was deep in conversation with the aspiring ship wrights.
They set out from the Cair, kings, queens, advisors, friends, guards, craftsmen… and Uncle Tom Cobley and all, thought Susan with a secret smile. Such a large party drew attention, of course, and the sovereigns were still a novelty even to the Cair’s neighbors, so before they’d gone a mile the expedition had gained a trail of curiosity seekers bobbing along like ducklings in its wake.
They did make an impressive sight. The four sovereigns were arrayed in their best, crowns in place, and their horses brightly caparisoned. The soldiers’ armor shone almost painfully bright, and they carried an array of banners, including the golden lion on crimson that stood for the throne. Finery among the rest of the party varied; the Animals didn’t wear anything, of course, and the satyrs hardly more. But everyone was in whatever their species considered formal dress. Sallowpad’s feathers had never gleamed so, and Tumnus had brought out the green scarf he’d worn at the coronation. Susan supposed all the additions would make them more properly regal, which could only help.
Before long the cove came in sight, with its pair of boats drawn up on the shore. They were little things, of a shape somewhat familiar to Susan from trips to the seaside, but the spate of excited words from the shipbuilding trio might have been Greek for all she followed it. About the only part she caught was ‘lateen rig’ which she remembered from her own reading meant triangular sails. Why one couldn’t simply say ‘triangle’ was a mystery best left to sailors.
Assuming, correctly, they would never notice her departure, Susan left the three to their discussion. She rode forward to join Peter, who cast her a smile. It was a good smile; most of the Narnians with them probably couldn’t tell he was nervous. “Ready for this?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, judging he needed his nerves soothed more than she needed hers aired. Pretending one wasn’t nervous worked wonders, she’d found. Looking to her left, she signaled the heralds into position. Peter caught Oreius’s eye and that was enough to form up the honor guard.
In glittering procession they descended to the beach. The sailors had seen them coming, naturally, long before they reached the sands. There had been a bad moment when Susan thought it would all be for naught, as a handful of them started pushing the boats toward the water. But upon sighting the merfolk who’d come to watch, they paused, and appeared to relax. Now they were all standing together, except for a pair with each boat, and sorting themselves into proper order to meet the Narnians.
It took all Susan’s willpower to hold the steady pace of the procession. She wanted to set her heels to her horse and fly ahead, eager to meet these visitors. And if she felt that way, it was a wonder Lucy hadn’t done so already. Susan made a mental note to praise and thank her little sister later. Possibly also Tumnus; he had a typical faun’s sense of dignity and sometimes succeeded in moderating Lucy’s impetuousness. First impressions were so important; they simply couldn’t seem like ordinary children if they wanted to be taken seriously in future.
The procession drew to a halt two spear lengths from the sailors. From here Susan could see their faces clearly, reading apprehension and confusion. Oh dear, she thought, perhaps we should have sent that advance party after all…
The heralds tapped their staves against the ground. The puffs of sand lacked the gravity the gesture had on harder surfaces, but it still looked properly formal. “Their royal majesties, Queen Lucy, King Edmund, Queen Susan, and High King Peter,” the senior herald called out. “Sovereigns of Narnia, Defenders of the Realm, Lords and Ladies of Cair Paravel.” Their exact titles were still being argued. Having four co-rulers complicated things enough, but there was also the matter of Narnia’s precise possessions. Some had wanted the old Imperial title from the Lone Islands used for this meeting, but Peter was reluctant to claim the title. Susan didn’t blame him; she could still hear that odious little dwarf proclaiming Jadis ‘empress of the Lone Islands’ and she wanted no part of anything the Witch had done. But the Narnians insisted the title was far older, and theirs by right, although they admitted there was no way to tell whether the Islands still bent the knee to Narnia. Susan had declared they would use the simplest, clearest titles and worry about the rest later.
Even that shorter recitation had plenty of effect. The sailors turned pale, and several reached for the long knives at their belts. Others drew in tighter together; Susan could hear whispers pass between them, but the words ran together incomprehensibly. They looked longingly at the boats, and warily at the soldiers.
This wasn’t at all the reaction she’d envisioned. When Peter stepped forward, flanked by two centaurs in their glittering armor, three of them ran for the water. Two drew their knives, and the soldiers pulled their own weapons, closing ranks around the sovereigns. Their first diplomatic meeting looked about to go up in flames.
“Wait, stop!” Susan cried. She wriggled through a gap in the soldiers’ line, abandoning her cloak in the process. Out in front, alone, she paused long enough to remove her crown and hand it to the nearest soldier, a deeply confused satyr. Then she started toward the sailors, who watched her warily but were at least no longer running.
“I’m Susan,” she said, putting out her hand to the nearest. Perhaps other humans would recognize a handshake? “Welcome to Narnia.”
Slowly, carefully, the sailor took her hand. Susan smiled.
Just
He’d been a fool. A naive fool, and now half a dozen good Narnians were dead. The feeling twisting in his gut was all too familiar. It was almost physically painful to meet anyone’s eyes. More than anything, Edmund wanted to stay in his tent and not come out again until Peter arrived. Anything was better than facing down one he’d called friend.
He could barely make himself believe it, though they’d taken Phlaris nearly red-handed. The soldiers had been ready to strike him down on the spot, until Edmund intervened. “He will have a hearing.”
“Majesty,” Oreius said to him, drawing him aside for privacy, “I know you counted him a good companion—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Edmund insisted. “He should have a chance to tell his side of it regardless.”
But Phlaris had stood before him with head high and eyes blazing, and spoken boldly of the evils of kings, the dangers of courts, the viciousness of humans. He had presented no defense; had not even seemed remorseful. The whole time he spoke, Edmund remembered hours in the Cair, talking, debating, laughing. Phlaris had taken him to his first wood-dance, and shown him how to recognize a waking Tree. Had all of it, from the very first, been a lie? How blind had he been, and was he destined always to put his trust in the wrong people?
By the time they led Phlaris away, bound and under guard, there was no one listening who doubted his guilt. The witnesses and evidence had very nearly been superfluous; the satyr had condemned himself by his own tongue. Everyone looked at Edmund, who suddenly felt very small and very cold. “I must — consider, before I pronounce judgment,” he declared, and fled to his tent as quickly as dignity allowed.
And there he’d sat, wishing very hard for his elder siblings to turn up and take matters out of his hands. Some time ago the flap had rustled, and a single clip of a hoof announced his uninvited guest, but Edmund did not turn. He knew who had entered; only Oreius would dare intrude on one of the kings. He waited for the centaur to speak.
It was a long wait, but at last Oreius said, “There can be no question now.”
“No,” Edmund agreed dully.
"He killed the sentries. Meant to leave us unguarded, an invitation to the Fell.”
“Yes.” Not that he’d said as much; there hadn’t been anything so explicit as a confession in all his long speeches. But the intent was clear.
“Meant to kill you.”
Edmund said nothing. He still couldn’t reconcile his friend to the haughty prisoner who had scorned him for an interfering foreigner, with no place in Narnia.
The general said, “It is treason.”
And Edmund answered, “I know.”
One punishment for traitors, he had said to Oreius on the last day of his own personal winter, on the way, he had thought, to Aslan’s justice and his own death. He’d been right about the first, at least.
“Majesty, he must be sentenced,” Oreius now pressed gently.
“I can’t.” Edmund stared at the tent wall without seeing it. He didn’t dare look at his general.
A pause. “You may delegate the execution.” Oreius could speak very softly for a being his size. It was soothing. “It takes a certain strength to perform cleanly, and you are young. No one would think it off. I will do it, if you wish.”
“It’s not that.” He was a little nervous about his ability to strike a clean blow, but he hadn’t really got that far yet. “It’s just —” He sighted explosively, twisting to look up at the centaur. “Oreius, who am I to condemn a traitor?”
The general gazed back at him impassively. “A king of Narnia.”
Edmund’s churning stomach settled. He drew a slow, deep breath and stood. “Assemble the troops, General.”
Oreius bowed. “My king.”
Valiant
Shaken awake, Lucy did not quite know where she was for a moment. Then she remembered the centaur village. “What is it? What’s going on?” People were rushing to and fro in the village, the clatter of hooves loud in the pre-dawn air. She saw weapons and armor, and a little thrill of fear zinged through her, making her reach quickly for her belt with its dagger and cordial.
“Don’t worry, my queen,” Maiana soothed, handing Lucy her boots. “We would never allow any harm to come to you.”
“But what’s happening? Are we under attack?” Belt fastened, boots on, she stamped her feet to get them settled firmly and tucked the laces into the tops so they wouldn’t snag and pull loose.
“It looks like a small band. Nothing we can’t handle.”
“I thought we were too far south for Fell,” Lucy said, her brow puckered. Peter had been adamant about her visits being well clear of any threats.
“Not Fell,” Maiana said, clearly startled by the idea. “Just the Highwater clan. Nothing to concern you, my queen, truly.”
“Highwater clan?” Lucy echoed, shocked. “Other Narnians?”
“Yes, of course.” Theris joined them, wearing a leather breastplate and with a sword strapped to his human back. “Highwater is greedy and raid at the blink of an eye. They always have been, but its worse since the Winter. They lost most of the clan elders, so the young colts are making all the decisions… Well. They wouldn’t harm you, majesty. We just need to get you into shelter; there’ll be arrows and fire, and we don’t want to risk you to an accident.”
“I’ll take you,” Maiana offered. “It shouldn’t be long; Highwater doesn’t have the stamina for a long fight.”
“But—” Lucy began, still trying to wrap her mind around Narnians going to war with each other. Theris picked her up easily (she hated being little, but then she’d seen centaurs pick up Peter without trouble) and set her on Maiana’s back, at which point she realized the centauride had meant ‘take’ quite literally. “You don’t —” She blushed, well aware that centaurs were not ridden like horses. Even a Horse wouldn’t be ridden except in dire need (unless he was Philip, who liked Edmund well enough to allow it now and then).
“It’s quite all right, majesty,” Maiana said. “This will be faster.”
“Heels down and back straight,” Theris advised, and Lucy obediently adjusted herself. “Very good. We’ll let you know as soon as it’s safe.”
Lucy was absolutely not sulking. She was just sitting quietly in the corner of the great-house, where all of the village’s children had been brought. Apparently it was sacrosanct by convention — convention! It happened often enough to have rules! — and therefore safe. A few adults were present to watch them; mothers with infants, mostly, and some of the very old or the ill. Many of the children were sleeping, dawn barely beginning to light the sky. Those too excited to sleep were listening to stories at the far side of the hall. Lucy had been invited to join them, naturally, but while she didn’t like to be rude, she had too much on her mind to listen.
How could they all be so calm about it? As if it were nothing noteworthy at all to be attacked by one’s own countrymen! Oh, she knew Narnians quarreled; no one could be around Black Dwarves and Red for any length of time and not know how well Narnians quarreled. But this was something else again — and they were all centaurs, so what was the problem?
The walls of the great-house were thick, but the shuttered windows let in the sounds Lucy had become too familiar with: metal clashing, arrows whistling, cries and curses. People were getting hurt out there — her people. Maybe some of them were even dying. And for what?
Her fingers traced the sunburst pattern stamped into the leather cover of her cordial. No one had asked her what should be done. They’d just bundled her off with the children. And maybe she was a child, but she was also a queen. Shouldn’t that come first? Peter and Susan worked themselves into exhaustion. Edmund was only a year older, but he rode with the army. And Aslan hadn’t said anything about age when he’d crowned them, all alike.
Abruptly decided, she rose. One of the minders glanced at her, but Lucy just smiled and drifted toward the back of the hall, where the latrines were, and they quickly lost interest. There were windows back there, too, letting light and air into the privies; they were small, but so was Lucy. It was only the work of a moment to wriggle through one, and then she was out.
Outside the noise was worse, and now she could see the fighting as well as hear it. For a moment she shrank back against the great-house, wishing to be back inside. Then her eye fell on Theris, staggering sideways with an arrow in his flank, and a hot bubbly feeling welled up inside her. Squaring her shoulders, she marched forward more regally than she had ever managed in court. She was only wearing her nightgown, without even a dressing gown over it, but the good thing about being human in Narnia was that you didn’t need a crown or robes to be recognized as a queen.
Lucy filled her lungs, trying hard to remember what the heralds had told her about being heard far off. From the belly… She was only little, but she would make them listen to her.
In the middle of a battlefield, arrows flying overhead and warriors twice her size surrounding her, Lucy lifted her head and commanded her people. “Stop this at once!”