There was, naturally, another party. Lucy danced with her brothers, and with Torvus and Bindle (who was surprisingly light on his feet for a Dwarf), and in a great circle with Beech-girls and Elm-girls, circling about a bonfire in the field in front of the castle gates. The music was mostly drumming, by the Dryads and the Centaurs, but some of the Dwarfs and Fauns had flutes and pipes in their packs, which gave the night a sweet, high, wild sound that seemed to spiral up into the stars, so thickly scattered across the black velvet sky.

She woke with her head on Rhea's flank, the morning sun hot on her face, and a Magpie bouncing eagerly at her feet. "Queen! Queen! There are riders coming, queen!" said the Magpie, and then bounced back into the air, presumably to pass the word along.

Lucy rubbed her eyes and looked around. She had not even made it into the castle yesterday, and had slept on a bed of green boughs in the shelter of the castle walls, far enough from the bonfire to avoid being trampled in the darkness. Truth be told, she didn't remember falling asleep, and decided that Peter or Susan must have put her to bed.

She wasn't the only one outdoors, though: there were bundled sleepers across the lawns, and the only waking soul she saw was the yawning gate-guard and the Magpie skimming over the ramparts. "Rhea," Lucy said, and nudged the Wolf. "Someone's coming."

Rhea sat up, blinking. "You're right," she said, cocking an ear. "Horses, I think: I hear their tack jingling. We should wake the High King."

But they found Peter already in the courtyard, buckling on his sword. "I heard," he said, before Lucy had the chance to say anything. "Let's meet them outside." But before they went through the gate again, he stopped Lucy and picked some grass out of her hair. "I hope it's not anyone important," he said, brushing at his own, wrinkled, tunic. "We look like we've been sleeping in ditches."

"Well, we have!" burst out Lucy, laughing, and he grinned back at her, looking not at all like a warrior-king.

The riders came into view just then: a company of about twenty men and women in green, with a Centaur in the rear. "Oh, it's Sir Peridan!" Lucy cried, and ran out through the gates to greet them.

"Your majesty!" cried Sir Peridan, and dismounted with far more grace than Lucy or her siblings had been able to exhibit. Despite the weariness on his face, he dropped to one knee before her and swept off his helmet. "You honor us with your welcome."

Lucy giggled, although she knew Peridan was entirely sincere. He was always sincere: even when she had first met him, standing in the dark road and tumbling words out about the brigands and Peter and Susan and Aslan and Edmund and dragons, he had not laughed or belittled her, but had believed her every word. They had gone on together, Lucy riding behind him through the night, and had rescued Peter and Susan. (Although she had to be fair, and admit that Edmund and the Wyvern had helped too, and the Dwarfs had freed themselves.)

About them, sleeping revelers began to rise, including the Giant Rumblebuffin, who had been prone in a ditch: when he stood up, several of the Archenlanders jumped, and one of the horses, weary as it was, tried to run away. Its rider was dragged some distance, clinging to its bridle, before he was able to bring it under control.

Peter extended a hand and lifted Sir Peridan to his feet. "You are always welcome at Cair Paravel, Sir Peridan, although honestly I don't know how much hospitality we can offer. There wasn't much in the way of supplies when we left..."

"Oh, that doesn't matter, Peter!" said Lucy, and led the way into the castle. "We have plenty of room, after all, and we can always go fishing for supper, like we did before!"

Peridan exchanged a few words with the Archenlander Centaur, and then followed Lucy and Peter into the great hall. "Erm, fishing?" he asked, tentatively. But Susan and Edmund met them then, and in the fuss about getting breakfast out on the east balcony, no one ever answered Peridan's question.

There was a teapot on a small table on the balcony, and just as Lucy sat down on the bench next to it, a small figure in a blue dress approached, carrying a tray. "Panna!" cried Lucy, leaping to her feet again. And then there were hugs and introductions, and Lucy tried to tell Peridan about how Susan had saved Panna's father, but Susan wanted to pour the tea, and Edmund kept handing around the honey-cakes, and Lucy decided she would have to tell the story later. Panna took the empty tray with her and left, announcing that she would be back soon with breakfast; Edmund looked immeasureably cheered at this.

"She's been here for days," announced Susan, with some asperity, and finally began to pour the tea. "She even brought some supplies with her, Lion knows how. We'll have to figure out how to pay for it-and her." Then she looked at Peridan and flushed. "I'm sorry, Sir Peridan, we haven't exactly settled in yet-"

He smiled as he took his tea from her. "The castle has been empty for one hundred years, your majesty: of course there are going to be some complications."

"Speaking of complications." Peter hadn't touched his tea, nor his honey-cake. "Did you see the Princess on the road?"

Peridan nodded, and his earnest smile faded. "She claimed she was headed to Anvard. And as I have no authority over her, I was forced to take her word for it. If she goes astray, well, at least one of the men she took has more loyalty to me than she knows, and I'll hear about it. I do not envy her the reception his majesty her brother will give her in Anvard, though: I received word from him just yesterday, and he was most wroth."

"Well, she deserves to be punished!" said Lucy, affronted. Eluned had been very rude indeed; if Lucy had spoken like that to anyone, she would have been sent to bed without her supper. And she had tried to become queen, even though Aslan had quite clearly crowned them!

Peridan shook his head. "I do not think she will be punished, valiant queen: she is, after all, the king's sister, and he loves her well, despite her wildness. Or maybe because of it," he added, looking thoughtful. "But she will be shamed, for having embarrassed King Lune in Aslan's eyes-and yours, your majesties."

"And for failing?" asked Edmund. He had bits of honey-cake on his lips, but his eyes were narrowed.

"Ed," said Peter warningly, but Peridan raised a hand.

"No, your majesty, it is a fair question. King Edmund," he said, looking at Edmund directly, "I cannot know King Lune's mind, but I can tell you that he has always been an honest and fair-dealing man. Aslan is venerated in Archenland as he is in Narnia, and it is clear to any with eyes to see that the Lion has acted here. I would stake my life on it, as I have staked my honor: King Lune desires only your good will and friendship, and that Narnia and Archenland be brothers in future, as they were in the long years past, ever since Prince Col came south to the mountains."

Edmund looked at Peridan for a long moment, and Lucy saw Susan exchange an uneasy glance with Peter. But then Edmund nodded, still not smiling. "And that's what you came to say, wasn't it? Give a nice speech to smooth over the mess your princess made?"

"Ed!" Susan said, her voice sharp. "That's enough-Sir Peridan is our guest!"

Peter lifted the tea-pot threateningly. "And, it's breakfast. No more politics until after lunch, Ed. And that's an order."

"Or what?" asked Edmund, but he looked satisfied. Lucy sighed and took another bite of her honey-cake; she didn't like this sort of argument, where everything meant more than the words said.

"Or I'll send you out to spar with Rumblebuffin," said Peter, and as Lucy burst into giggles, Panna came back, with a platter full of fruit, grilled fish, and soft white rolls.


After breakfast, Lucy went off to the kitchens to talk with Panna, and Susan disappeared upstairs, saying something about chambers and linens (which struck Edmund as unlikely, but then Susan seemed able to find things in the castle no one else could). This left Edmund, Peter, and Peridan on the sunlit balcony, with the cooling tea and pitiful remnants of the best meal any of them had eaten in weeks.

"King," said Rhea, and Edmund jumped a little: she had been dozing in the sun while they ate, and he'd forgotten she was there. Now she was standing in front of Peter, looking a little uncomfortable. "Do I have your leave to go?"

"Go? Go where?" asked Edmund.

She didn't look at him, but still watching Peter, she said, "My pack has been without me for some time, king. My-I would see my pups again, before the winter comes."

Edmund's jaw dropped. Pups. All this time, and she had never said anything. And they had never asked, either.

Peter was more circumspect, or perhaps he had known, because his expression didn't change. He did, however, kneel down and put his arms around her neck. Rhea sniffed at his hair and licked him once on the neck. "Go," he said, his voice thick. "Take all the time you need for your family, and if they are willing, bring them back with you. May the Lion travel with you."

There was a sound Edmund had never heard from Rhea: it sounded like a whine, and then, in silence, she bowed to both brothers, and disappeared down the stairs. The sound of her nails on the flagstones had died away before Peridan stirred, and said, "That is a most worthy vassal, high king."

"She deserves better than raw meat and a bed by the fire," said Edmund. And then he paused, thinking about that. "You know, we should knight her!"

"Could we?" asked Peter. He looked startled by the notion, as if it hadn't occurred to him that he had that power.

Peridan shrugged. "We have no lady knights in Archenland, but this is Narnia. And if any female deserves the honor, it is she, for the loyal service she has rendered."

Peter nodded, but he didn't sit down again. Instead he went to the railing and looked down into the garden below. "Speaking of loyal service," he said, turning back around and leaning against the railing, "tell me about Telmarine mercenaries."

This was a sudden change of topic. "What are you talking about, Pete?" What did Peter know that he hadn't told Edmund?

Peter ignored Edmund and raised an eyebrow at Peridan, who looked a bit confused. "What do you need to know, your majesty?"

"Who are they? Are they a major power in the region? What can I expect from them in future?" Peter had evidently been thinking about this a great deal, but then he'd spent a lot of time with them. All the same, Edmund was just as glad Susan wasn't here for this conversation: the memory of Asper was still vivid in his mind.

Peridan turned his tea cup around on the table, frowning. "I don't know all the answers to your questions, high king, but I will tell you what I can. Although, forgive me, but I have been on the road for three days with little rest, and if I sit here much longer, I shall fall asleep. Could we walk, while we speak?"

So they went up to the ramparts of the castle, stopping now and then to consider the view or discuss the defensibility of a particular angle. Peridan told them, in fits and starts, of how several years ago Archenland began to suffer from a series of small but vicious attacks in its western territories. "We didn't even know who they were, you see. The villages in western Archenland are poor and isolated, mostly living on their herds in small mountain valleys. The raiders would attack at night, steal or kill the cattle, and burn the halls. Over time, they grew more bold, and last year they attacked the holding of Earl Dann of Shadowvale. The Earl fought them off, with minor losses, but he captured three of them, and thus we learned who they were."

"Telmarines," said Edmund.

"Yes, but we don't know why. We have some trading with Telmar, but we pose no threat to them: we are content within our own borders. And Telmar-you may not know, but the country is fractured and divided. The last king of Telmar died many years ago, before I was born, and since then the various tribes and cantons have each had their own lords and barons, squabbling over small portions of the whole. There is, in truth, no country of Telmar anymore, just Telmarines, all fighting for anything they can get." Peridan sighed and thumped a closed fist against the stone rampart. "It's a shame, for it was a rich land, and many people live there. They could be a great power, even a counterweight to Calormen, if they could but find a single leader to guide them."

"And the mercenaries?" asked Peter, leading them further on, towards the entry to the north tower.

Peridan nodded. He looked as exhausted now as he had claimed, as if the very topic were draining him of vitality. "There are many landless men and women now, as a result of the wars there, and so they hire out their swords to one of a dozen major companies, and twice as many smaller ones. I do not know that I would not do the same, if, Lion forbid, King Lune died and my family lost our lands. What else have I to offer but my strong right arm?"

They followed Peter up three flights of steps onto the top of the tower. The sun was just as bright up here, and from the top, Edmund could see people down in the courtyard. One of them was a Centaur, and he guessed that it was Windcaller, perhaps talking with members of the newly-established castle guard.

He turned back to the others. "So there are Telmarine mercenaries all over, then," he said. "Not just in Telmar, or in Archenland."

"Oh, indeed, King Edmund. There are few great lords from Farallin to Galma who have never hired any Telmarines, and Asper of Rose Island is one of the most renowned. But he has, I admit, a less honorable reputation than some." A look of distaste crossed Peridan's face.

"And if the White Witch offered him Calormene coin to stir up trouble in Archenland, he would have taken it." Peter offered this as a statement, not a question.

"Certainly," said Peridan, promptly. Then his interest turned to astonishment. "Wait-are you saying-your majesty, is that what happened?"

"You didn't know," said Peter, frowning. He was shorter than Peridan, and slighter: he still looked like a boy by comparison. But he had an air of authority about him now, that hadn't been there when they'd all got on the train to go to the country. It didn't seem to occur to Peridan to question him.

Peridan struck his hand on the railing. "Aslan's mane, no! We would never have suspected the Witch. Narnia's borders have been closed since before my grandfather was born, your majesty. No one goes in, and very little comes out-in fact, I don't think anyone outside Narnia had even seen the Witch herself in fifty years."

"But Eluned knew," Peter said, speaking slowly, almost reluctantly. "She knew who had been paying Asper: she said it outright, something about the Telmarines foraging into Narnia because they'd lost their employer. She probably thought it didn't matter: the Witch was gone, and I was-as she thought-just a peasant boy. It didn't matter what she said to me."

Edmund watched as the realization came upon Peridan: what it meant, if what Peter said was true. The fair skin flushed under its summer tan, and then the eyes hardened: it was possible, suddenly, to believe that this earnest young man could lead soldiers into battle. Peridan straightened, and his left hand clenched about the hilt of his sword. "Your majesty," he said, quite formally. "I fear I must take my leave: I have an urgent errand to Anvard, that cannot stay on courtesy."

Peter nodded, then strode forward and clasped Peridan's hand. "Go, with my deepest gratitude and most courteous greetings for your king. Please tell him that I am grieved by this intelligence, and I hope that we may meet soon."

And in a moment, with a flutter of his cloak and a clatter of spurs, Peridan was gone. The sun shone bright across the top of the tower, the turrets casting shadows in such neat lines it looked like a chess board. Edmund looked at the doorway through which Peridan had disappeared, and at the gulls circling above the beach, and then at Peter, who seemed lost in thought.

"What will they do to her?" Edmund asked, finally.

Peter shrugged. "I've no idea. Could be she only just found out, after all. But if she's known for long, well..."

Edmund finished the thought, thinking out loud. "If she's known for long, then she might have been in on it. She was in communication with someone, and thought she stood to gain by it. Maybe she thought the fighting would draw Lune out, and he would get himself killed. Maybe she reckoned destabilizing the country would give her a chance at the throne. Maybe, maybe she didn't think at all." It was an ugly thought: that Eluned had sacrificed her own people, or been willing to have others kill them, just to stir up trouble.

Was it worse than betraying your siblings, and relative strangers, out of petty malice? Or was it just the same? He ought to feel some sympathy for Eluned; Edmund knew that Aslan would expect no less of him. But instead he just felt queasy, as he thought of King Lune, and Lune's young sons, who might never know their aunt now. And of course there were so many others who had died, as well: the Telmarines must have killed many Archenlanders in their raids.

I was different, something inside him whispered. We're not the same. And yet. Aslan had died, and so many others had died during the battle.

A warm hand gripped his shoulder, and Peter shook him gently. "You're not her, Ed. We've got enough burdens of our own without looking out for others to carry."

"Right," said Edmund, a little shakily, and then took a deep breath. It was a beautiful day, and they were home at Cair Paravel, all safe and sound. They were building a nation out of winter's wreckage. And he was, remarkably, after everything, a king. "So, you were saying something about sparring? Think Silversharp can give us an hour?"


She would not have thought that being a queen would have required so many lists. Certainly none of the queens in fairy tales ever seemed to worry about inventories and supply orders and payroll; they just danced and sang and married well. (She hesitated, one hand clutching a stubby bit of charcoal, and then shook her head; time enough to worry about that later. And there was still England, after all.) By contrast with those queens of legend and history, Queen Susan of Narnia spent the first morning after her return to Cair Paravel making lists.

Lists of staff, their types, names, and duties (32 of them so far, if one counted the Talking Mouse who had greeted her in the courtyard and volunteered to serve as the High King's armour-bearer; Susan had promised to consult with Peter and given him the temporary position of footman).

Lists of food requirements, existing supplies, storage needs, and where it all could be obtained (this was mostly dictated by Panna, and added to by Torvus).

Lists of rooms, their capacity, and their furnishings (for where would all these people sleep, and what would they sleep on?).

Lists of clothing, what they had, what they needed, where it could be obtained, did they need to hire a tailor along with an armourer (and Susan wondered what the Humans in other countries wore, other than the tunics and mail she had seen on the Archenlanders and Telmarines).

Lists of local Narnian leaders, their homes, their territories, and their history with the Witch (this was begun by Susan, supplemented by Torvus, and likely to require perpetual updating).

Lists of foreign nations, their inhabitants, and their attributes (whether they were friendly historically, did Narnia trade with them, who were their rulers-this last was necessarily left mostly blank, pending new intelligence).

Paper surrounded her. Susan sat on a tall stool in the castle kitchen, her feet tucked up on the rungs, with papers spread across half the expanse of the enormous oaken table that took up much of the center of the kitchen. At the other end of the table, Panna stood on another stool and punched a small fist down into a crockery bowl of rising bread dough. The room was bright and cheery, lit by the double doors open into the kitchen gardens, and full of the good smells of cookery.

It wasn't Susan's first choice for a place to work: she had flour on her skirt, and Panna was prone to talk to her pots. But there was hardly any furniture in the castle at all, the only other table was on the balcony where they had had breakfast, and the wind would have carried half her papers away.

She was just reviewing the staff lists and wondering (not for the first time) how they were going to feed and clothe all these people, when Torvus came in through the garden doors. "Queen," he said, with a shallow bow, "there are barracks inside the castle's outer walls. Think you the Oathsworn could be lodged there?"

"Could they?" she asked. "I don't see why they shouldn't. But where have you been sleeping since you arrived? You've been here for days, Torvus!"

He shrugged, even in his diffidence looking far more confident than his cousin Tumnus. His hair was darker than Tumnus', and he was taller, and his bare chest (Fauns went naked except in battle, which was something Susan would have to get used to) showed scars from sword, axe, and claw. He was altogether the most formidable Faun Susan had yet met. "It seemed inappropriate to to enter without leave, good queen. We camped in the field, and were quite comfortable."

"Winter's coming, though," pointed out Panna, who was now twisting long ropes of dough into fat braids on the floured table. "It rains along the coast, I hear."

"Then let's make sure that the barracks are fit for our Guard," announced Susan, grateful for a reason to put down her pencil. She realized, when she stood up, that her back was stiff: she hadn't sat in one place for so long since, well, since she'd come to Narnia. Every day since had been full of action and movement, and she never lay awake at night, but dropped into slumber as easily as Lucy did. Leaving her papers stacked on the table, she led the way out of the kitchen.

They emerged from the entry hall into a courtyard crowded with people, the very stones ringing with voices. Susan stopped and stared, and realized that the crowd was not so very large after all: it was most of the Oathsworn, gathered into a rough circle. When she pushed forward between Bindle and the Stag Elmshadow, she saw what they were all looking at.

Peter and Edmund were stripped to the waist, and armed only with light wooden wands, they were sparring with Silversharp the Centaur. She too had set aside her armour and her weapons, and held only a shaft of wood about the height of a man, with no tip or edge. And yet she was easily holding off the persistent attacks of the two boys, inside the confined space formed by the watching soldiers.

Edmund leaped backwards just in time to avoid being kicked in the knee, as Silversharp pivoted to parry a slash from Peter. "Oh!" someone said, and Susan looked to her right and saw Lucy watching with great excitement, her eyes shining. With Lucy stood Sallowpad, on the back of a White Tiger whose name Susan didn't know.

There was a shout of approval, and Susan looked back at the fight to see Peter grinning, and a red stripe across Silversharp's upper arm. "Well done, Pete!" cried Edmund, but almost before he'd got the words out, Silversharp's staff had leaped forward and rapped him in the chest, hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. He might have fallen, but Torvus stepped forward and caught him.

"If that were a spear, lord king, you would be dead," the Centaur mare said dryly. She looked both unruffled and entirely cool, while both Peter and Edmund were sweating heavily and red in the face.

"If that were a spear, weaponsmaster," countered Peter, still gasping for breath, "you'd have had a dozen arrows in you before it left your hand." He gestured at the surrounding crowd, and Bindle cackled.

There was a clatter nearby as another Centaur approached, his hooves noisy on the stones of the courtyard. Windcaller looked about at the Oathsworn gathered around the two kings, and raised his voice. "I do not remember granting liberty this morning, when the gates stand unguarded and the armoury is a jumbled mess. I'm sure if you all desire training so much, that can be arranged." His voice was full of a dry sarcasm that brought a flush even to Susan's cheek, and she was not under his command. The soldiers scattered, and in moments the courtyard was mostly empty, but for the Pevensies, Torvus, and the Centaurs. Sallowpad gave a knowing "clack," and flew up to the battlements.

"Come to see us get humiliated?" Edmund asked Susan, grinning.

She grinned back; whatever had been eating him at breakfast seemed to have resolved itself. "No, true humiliation would be if Silversharp had taken you on while blindfolded. This, I think, is just normal humbling."

"Queen Susan is quite insightful," confirmed Silversharp. "Good kings, I suggest you rest in the heat of the day, and drink plenty of water, and then return in late afternoon. We shall work on your strength and stamina." She nodded gravely to Susan and Lucy, and then paced away, heading for the castle gate. Windcaller followed her.

Peter groaned and dunked his head into a bucket nearby. "Lion's mane, that was embarrassing. She barely needed to move!"

Torvus handed Edmund his shirt, who mopped his face with it, to Susan's exasperation. They desperately needed to get more clothes, or at this rate the boys would be in rags by the end of the week. When Peter had wiped the water from his face and handed the bucket to Edmund, Torvus said, "Silversharp is an excellent soldier, my king, and I do not think she would have agreed to come if she didn't believe you worthy of her instruction."

Edmund snickered. "In other words, Pete, shut your gob."

"The barracks are over there, right, Torvus?" asked Susan, and when he nodded, she continued on across the courtyard. Lucy followed after, but the boys went off into the gardens. Susan hoped this meant they would take the steep and narrow trail down to the beach and bathe before dinner.

She didn't really want to be the mother-figure for the kings and queens of Narnia, she thought as they entered the closest barracks building, a broad and solid structure whose rear wall was the outside wall of the castle. She was not yet a grown woman herself, after all, and they did have a mother, even if she was very far away. Strongwind and Pekana were mothers, strong and fierce: Susan couldn't see herself being like that, not for a very long time. But her family did need someone to make sure they were fed and clothed and safe, and for all that Peter was High King and very brave and (mostly) sensible, Susan couldn't imagine he would enjoy counting up barrels of salted fish, as she had done with Panna this morning.

Someday, she reckoned, they would go home, although the image of England had grown oddly blurred in her mind, as if it were a poorly-focused photograph. She would like to be sure that when they had fulfilled this task that Aslan had set them to-for clearly being kings and queens of Narnia was less a reward than another, greater, challenge than the defeat of the Witch-they would be safe, and healthy, and together, as she and Peter had promised their parents they would be.

The inside of the barracks was less promising than the outside: there was little in the way of furniture, and one of the chimneys appeared to have a bird's nest in it. The glass in the windows was all gone, although the wooden shutters were still bolted to the walls. Susan threw open one set of windows while Torvus opened the other, and Lucy rooted around in a pile of debris on the floor. "Oh, look!" she said.

It was a small eating knife, with a worn horn handle and a brass seal on the pommel that looked like a weathered tree. The knife had clearly been well-used, old long before it had been abandoned here among scraps of rotted leather and bits of broken wood.

Lucy turned it over in her hand, and the sunlight reflected from the blade onto the walls and floor. "It's very old," she said, thoughtfully. "It must have been here when the Witch first came. It probably belonged to one of the soldiers in the Guard back then."

People lived here once, Susan thought. People who had eaten and slept and loved one another, and then died. Perhaps they had even died here, in this castle, on these floors, and it was only Aslan, or some aspect of the Deep Magic, that had saved her from finding skeletons or worse in all those empty rooms. She shivered.

Torvus touched her elbow. "I'll send some people to clean the place out, queen. We'll make it fine again. But we'll need to make another place for the Centaurs, these rooms'll not be large enough for them."

"You're right," Susan said, and they went out of the cool stone rooms into the bright castle courtyard. It was just noon, and the sky was cloudless, the day warm: perhaps one of the last good days before the rains of autumn.

The guards were back on duty at the gate. Susan could recognize Bindle from behind, as the only Dwarf with hair that short. And the White Tiger sat on the opposite side of the gate, her head erect but her tail twitching as though she were watching a mouse-hole. From the gardens Susan heard voices; Panna was arguing with Sallowpad about something. High overhead a figure circled, probably a Gryphon, and Susan realized she would have another carnivore to feed soon.

Narnia was Narnia: it held danger and wonder, death and glory, and while sometimes Susan might have to swim a mile underground, other times she might have to clean out old barracks. She rather hoped that in future she got more banquets and fewer battles.

She dusted the cobwebs from her skirts and headed back to the great front doors, her steps quick and light on the cobbles. Peter and Edmund would train with Silversharp and Lucy would run wild about the castle, charming everyone. And Susan? Susan had a castle to organize.


They ate late that night, for Silversharp had kept Peter and Edmund past sunset, cantering beside them on a long loop through the open ground outside the castle. They ran, and tripped, and jumped when they didn't fall, and stumbled through fields and over fallen logs and across streams, as the sunlight disappeared and the shadows deepened to blackness. Silversharp seemed made of steel rather than silver, her dry voice never pausing, as she lectured them on logistics and strategy, on how vital it was to be able to move in the darkness, to know their own ground, to be able to keep going long after one wanted to stop.

When at last she let them go, they stumbled across the field to the gates, past the campsites and fires of the Oathsworn, who greeted them with a mixture of friendly mockery and commiseration. "She'll have you up the cliffs next, king, you'll be wishing for the night-time runs!" said one of the Fauns, and a passing Bear slapped Edmund on the back so hard he nearly fell over. At length they found the castle gates and staggered, footsore and trembling, up the stairs to the entry hall, to discover Lucy waiting for them, curled on the floor with a candle and a book in her hand.

As Peter stopped in the doorway, Lucy leaped to her feet. "Oh, you're here, finally! We've been waiting forever, are you all right? Torvus said you would be late, but Susan wouldn't start supper without you."

"Lion's mane, I'm starving," moaned Edmund, who was quite as filthy as Peter, although he hadn't fallen as often.

But Peter shook his head. "Wash first, Ed, or we never will." Lucy disappeared down the stairs to the kitchen, shouting, and Peter picked up Lucy's candle and led the way down the narrow side hall he'd discovered that morning.

"What's this?" asked Edmund, as they descended (unsteadily) a shallow flight of steps. Peter didn't answer. They were, he estimated, below the east tower, and not far, in a direct line, from the path down to the beach. The air was much warmer here. A wooden door stood ajar at the bottom of the stairs, and an odd, damp smell met them.

Peter stepped through the door, put his candle on a ledge at head-height, and began to strip. Edmund followed him in and gasped, gratifyingly. "Where did this come from?"

"No idea," said Peter, working on his boots. He suspected Cair Paravel shared more than a little of Narnia's magical awareness, and hadn't chosen to open the baths to them until they'd proven themselves first. Whatever the reason, he didn't care, now that he had the cool cleansing tub and the enormous heated pool to soak in, large enough for a dozen Humans to share (if they didn't mind bumping knees).

The heated pool was like heaven for his battered bones. If Susan hadn't sent Torvus down to find them, Peter was quite sure he would have fallen asleep there, and possibly drowned. Torvus also brought clothes: somehow during the day, Susan had had their spare tunics cleaned, and his smelled of sun and dry grass as Peter pulled it over his head.

"This way, your majesty," said Torvus, when they re-emerged, and instead of leading them down to the kitchens, he took them up a flight of stairs and to a small room with a crackling fire.

"About time!" cried Lucy. "We're starving!"

"Think how we feel," grumbled Edmund, and staggered forward theatrically to collapse into a heap at Susan's feet.

Peter glanced around and at length recognized the room: it was the chamber they had all slept in after the coronation party. Susan had piled the carpets together so they could serve as seats (if not actual chairs, having no backs), and two tree-rounds were serving as a low table, on which were several platters of hot food.

"Su, you're amazing," said Peter with feeling, and Susan grinned at him as she spooned something red, with meat and vegetables in it, over what looked like plain rice.

"Panna's the amazing one," Susan said, and handed Peter the bowl. "She brought boxes of cooking gear with her from Pattering Hill, including all these bowls, and by the time we arrived yesterday, she'd already been to Beruna at least once for supplies. She's the only reason we're not eating dandelion greens and charred fish again."

Picking up one of the pottery cups, Peter sniffed and raised an eyebrow. "Where's the wine from? There wasn't any in the castle when we left." He lowered himself gingerly onto the carpets and took a cautious bite of the red stuff. It was still warm, pleasantly spicy, and chunky with bits of pork and a number of vegetables. It was even better than breakfast had been.

Edmund shrugged, hunched over his own bowl, which Peter translated as, "I don't know and I don't care, don't you know I'm starving here?"

"Torvus, aren't you eating?" asked Lucy suddenly, and Peter looked up to see the Faun retreating out the door.

Torvus hesitated, looking at Lucy and Susan with a conflicted face, and then shook his head. "I have eaten already, Queen Lucy. But thank you for the offer. I will see you in the morning, no doubt." And he disappeared down the hallway.

"Oh," said Lucy, and looked a little crestfallen. Peter looked around and realized that this was the first time he'd been alone with only his siblings since... Well, since Rhea had first come to them. It made the room a bit empty.

"Seems odd to eat alone," said Edmund, serving himself a second helping of the rice. "Wasn't anyone else hungry?"

Susan toyed with her food a little. "They ate already," she said. After a moment, she went on. "And besides, well. We're the kings and queens. We might like to eat in company, but it makes many of them feel uncomfortable."

The red stuff was suddenly less flavorful. Peter swallowed a mouthful and put his fork down. He wanted to protest, to complain, because he loved Narnia and Narnians, and hated the thought of being set apart like that-but he caught Lucy's eye and she looked unhappy, so instead he smiled at her. "That's fair," he said, a little more forcefully than he intended. "Everyone wants some privacy now and then, after all. It'll work out."

"You think so?" Lucy asked, and Peter said, "I'm sure of it." He almost believed himself.

Susan served them all seconds (and Edmund thirds), and poured the wine (although she refused Lucy and Edmund a second cup, to Edmund's dismay, until Peter reminded him they were training again with Silversharp in the morning, and Edmund carefully switched to water). Susan had found her blue gown again, the one she had worn for the coronation, and she looked far more royal than the rest of them did, Peter had to admit.

The room was a good choice for supper: it was cozy with the fire, the open windows letting in the smell of the sea and the sound of the waves below. Peter pushed away his bowl at last, and sank back onto the carpets, balancing his cup of wine on his stomach. He looked down at the wine, then around at his siblings.

Susan was piling the bowls together in a neat stack; Edmund was considering a bruise on his knee where he had smacked it into a tree; Lucy was idly tracing designs on the faded carpet.

"Well," Peter said. "What do you think now?"

The bowls clanked as Susan piled them onto the empty serving platters. "About what?"

"This." Peter waved a hand at the castle around them, with its tiled floors and mysterious secrets, the history hidden behind every door. "This job Aslan gave us. Think we can manage it?"

"Yes!" said Lucy, with no hesitation. "Aslan wouldn't have given it to us if we couldn't." Her face shone with her surety. Peter grinned and ruffled her hair, and then looked at Susan.

Susan pursed her lips, smoothed the skirts of her dress, and then lifted her head proudly. "Yes, I do think we can manage it. We have a lot to learn, and not much to work with, but we do have something to offer. And Narnia needs us." Peter couldn't help smiling: for all that she claimed to be the sensible one, the one who would stay at home and keep the fires burning, Susan would never turn down a challenge-especially when someone needed her. Aslan had known that, Peter was sure.

He cocked an eyebrow at Edmund, who frowned and picked at a scab on his elbow. "It's not going to be easy," he said slowly, as if working it out as he spoke. "Silversharp isn't training us so hard just for the fun of it. We've got more trouble ahead, I can tell that much. Those mercenaries-I think Telmar will be a problem for a long while. And there's likely more besides, that we don't know about." Edmund looked up at Susan sharply. "And Su-I think you'd better come out with us tomorrow."

Susan frowned. "But we've got plenty of archers now-"

"No, Ed's right," interrupted Peter, pushing himself upright. "You and Lucy both should be training, as well. We don't know what's coming, and-" And I promised to keep you safe, he thought, but didn't say it. "-It's better to be prepared. Just in case."

Susan said, "There's other kinds of training, too," and looked at Lucy. "We should all be in school by now, if we were still in England."

"But there aren't any schools!" protested Lucy, seeing where this was going.

Edmund laughed. "No, but we're surrounded by the smartest people in Narnia. You think you couldn't learn anything from Rhea? Or Torvus or Sallowpad? We need to know Narnia's history, and geography, and politics."

"And agriculture, money-making, road-building, forestry, weaving, smithing, fishing, hunting, and ship-building," continued Peter, and dropped his head back with a groan, to stare at the shadowy ceiling. There was so much to do. But oddly, he wasn't afraid of it.

Aslan had brought them to Narnia, sure they had the skills to succeed. And he had sent them help: Rhea and Sallowpad, Silversharp and Windcaller, Broadclaw and Torvus. They held Narnia now, or maybe they didn't hold it, but they had touched it and started to learn it, and it had begun to learn them. They knew it now, the real Narnia, not the shallow image of it that had formed during the struggle with the Witch, and that had danced to the mer-people's singing during the coronation party. That had been a fairy-tale country, and it had disappeared with the magic when the party was over.

The real Narnia was thigh-deep in cold water underground, picking brimbleberries and planting grape vines, shearing sheep in the summer heat on the northern hills, cutting sheaves of corn with a stone knife and grinding the grain by hand, poling rafts loaded with supplies down a flood-swollen river, hunting elk over the snow in the western mountains, hammering out fine silver-chased mail in a sweltering forge. It was Bindle's shaved face and Fraxinus' tortured memories; Tumnus' shame and Bruno's grandstanding; Pekana's strength and Ponsonby's generosity; and Rhea's steadfast loyalty.

He didn't know how to say any of that, so instead he sat up and put out his hands: they all linked hands together, with an odd, ritual solemnity. The fire was dying and the light flickered across his sibling's faces, making them look, by turns, older and younger, pleased and worried, resolved and joyful. But their eyes were shining.

"I think," Peter said, looking around at the kings and queens of Narnia, "this is going to be the best adventure ever."

And that is the end of this story, which is just one of the many adventures the Pevensies had in their time as kings and queens of Narnia. If you've read the other Narnia books, you know that they went on to be Narnia's most famous and beloved rulers, and under their guidance, Narnia became strong and prosperous again. But between this adventure I have shared with you, and their final return to England after they'd grown to be wise and skillful rulers, there must indeed be many more stories to tell.