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V

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It took, rather understandably, some time to sort out everything that had happened while the hunt was on. It was Queen Susan's firmly-stated intention that none of the news of what had happened be immediately shared in the general company of the hunting party, and so she, King Peter and Cor contrived to cut King Lune, Queen Lucy and King Edmund from the group, that they might explain matters in greater privacy.

Of course this meant that Corin, spotting these efforts, at once concluded that Something Exciting had happened, and so he laid hold of Aravis's arm and hustled her out of the courtyard with his father and brother the Narnian monarchs. Cor, who had expected nothing less, was quick to take up for his friend and his brother when Queen Susan appeared reluctant to include them in the smaller party.

"It concerns them as well, you know," he pointed out, and Queen Susan was far too fair-minded to contradict this, so at last she said she supposed it would be all right (though she did look very worried as she said it) and everyone retreated to the library, where a guard was posted at the door and given strict instructions not to permit anyone to enter until further notice.

"Well?" Corin burst out, once the door was shut. "Did you get him? Who was it, anyhow?"

So bit by bit the story came out, with Cor, unable to look directly at his father, murmuring the most pertinent parts as fast as he could and then allowing Susan to take over.

"I was . . . intrigued," she said carefully, "by the behaviour of the children last night. Then I saw Cor had stayed behind from the hunt, so I thought perhaps I had better stay close to him."

"She asked me to stay close to her," Peter finished, "and so we were both on hand when . . . well, when it happened."

"And it was really Dorian?" Corin leaned so far forward in his seat that he nearly toppled to the floor. "It was actually Lord Dorian, who tore our room all apart, and took you away? Well!" he shook his head. "I wouldn't have guessed it. Isn't that something?"

"It is something, to be sure," King Lune said quietly, and Corin realised, however belatedly, that perhaps such unabashed enthusiasm might be out of place at this time.

"Oh— er— hem," he said, and struggled to appear apologetic. It was a valiant effort, but doomed from the start. Fortunately Queen Lucy drew focus from the squirming boy by asking the next question.

"Where is he now? Surely he is not still in Aravis's chamber."

"No," Cor shook his head, "he's not."

"He was removed to the gaol," King Peter put in, "once he regained consciousness." And he started to look pleased with himself, but thought better of it when Susan caught his eye.

"Did you really knock him down, then?" Corin asked. "I mean, knock him right out?"

"I did," said Peter, and then, at catching another look from Susan, hastily added, "but of course there was no need of that. There are guards for that sort of thing, and— and my temper, and— er— precipitous actions on my part, which . . . dash it all, Susan," plaintively, "I said I was sorry!"

Susan allowed that he had, indeed, and she begged his pardon for her tardiness in forgiving him. "He certainly did behave in a provoking fashion," she reflected. There was something in her face that was equal parts anger, pity and sorrow. "Though I still cannot support you having done so, I understand why you felt the need to act as you did."

"But what I don't see," Edmund said, frowning, "is why Dorian felt the need to act as he did. I mean, why did he steal into the Princes' room like that? How was it that he came to be in Aravis's room today when Cor found him?"

"Well, he'd have been looking for the seal, wouldn't he?" Corin said. "His seal that I found in our nursery when I was little; the one Queen Susan took from me so she could bind the books." He might then even have dared to scowl at her, had Queen Susan not looked at him in such a simple, silent way as to cause the prince to duck his head and say, "er, that is, the seal that I gave to her to use to bind them."

Susan smiled.

"Yes," Cor nodded, "he was looking for his seal. I suppose when first he missed it he must have thought that Mother had found it; from what I gather, he actually thought she was far more certain in her own mind of his guilt than she really was. He thought she was only waiting for the right moment to tell Father, but then of course she— well, she died, and he must have thought himself safe."

"He was in her room, though," Queen Susan said, surprising them all. As one, they turned to look at her. "Queen Lora's room, that is. After . . . everything. On the day you gave me the books, Cousin," she nodded to King Lune, "you sent word for me to meet you in her Majesty's chamber. You remember?"

Lune nodded. His answer was pitched very low. "I remember."

"When I got there, he was already inside. I didn't know who he was at the time, of course; I didn't even know he had no business being there. You must remember I had only been Queen for a little more than a year, and had very little understanding of the way a castle is run. It seems foolish of me, now, but I didn't think it strange to find a nobleman in the Queen's room. He simply excused himself and I thought nothing of it— I saw him many times over the years that followed, of course, given how generous our Cousin has been in opening his home to us, but even long after the point where I would have known to challenge him had I found him in a lady's chamber, I never thought to ask him what he had been doing that day. Of course, he must have been searching for the seal he had lost, even then." Queen Susan's expression was now almost wholly one of pity. "The poor man must have suffered terribly in his mind all these years, never knowing for sure what had become of it, or if at any moment he might be found out."

Everyone was too polite to tell Queen Susan that they couldn't quite bring themselves to share her sympathy for the prisoner, but it is unlikely she would have been surprised to learn it; Queen Susan had spent many years feeling sympathy for those whom most deemed wholly unsympathetic, and she had by that point grown accustomed to it.

"Then we came to Narnia, and Aravis and I started asking questions." Cor was careful not to look at Aravis as he said this— he worried she would insist on accepting blame for asking the questions so publicly, and he didn't want that. "It must have spooked him to think that somebody might find him out after all this time. Of course he had no way of knowing if we even had the seal or not, but he must have thought he had reason to worry. Then when we all put our names to the hunt list Father and I spent a long time talking about the seals. It seems he was in the room and close enough to overhear just a little of what we were saying, and he misunderstood, and assumed . . ."

"Guilty conscience makes for an uneasy spirit, what?" Edmund said.

"Something like that, I suppose," Cor nodded. "So that's why he tossed our room —Corin's and mine— and why he went to Aravis's room too, though I thought at first he was looking for the books. I don't think he even knew the books existed; he just wanted to find his seal."

"And where is his seal?" Lucy asked. "You have it, do you, Cor?"

"No," Cor shook his head, "not I." Then he looked to Aravis, who forbore to actually unlace the thing from the bodice of her hunt gown, but did lift the golden bob at the end of the leather cord so that they might see.

"Oh how clever!" Lucy applauded. "I don't imagine anyone would have thought to look for it there; and just as well, too," she added, suddenly very grave, "for he does not seem to be the sort of person who would scruple to injure anyone who stood in his way."

"But— look here," Edmund said, "I still don't see why. I certainly agree with Lucy, he doesn't seem to be the type of fellow to stick at much, but why did he steal Cor? The obvious explanation doesn't seem to make much sense; that is, if he took Cor because he was in the pay of the Tisroc, why would he keep silent for so long? Play the part, and all that, and never try to make an escape into Calormen or anything like?"

"He wasn't in the pay of the Tisroc, though," Peter corrected. "He was in the pay of that ex-Chancellor fellow; the one from the sea-battle. Bar, was it?"

"Lord Bar, yes," Lune said quietly.

"So he didn't much care about the Tisroc one way or another, then?" Corin wanted to know. "I mean, there won't be another Calormene army coming for us now we've locked him away, or anything, will there?"

"I should be surprised if there were," Peter said. Corin looked disappointed— but only a very little.

"And there's no doubt of this?" Edmund asked. "No question of him being in Lord Bar's pay, that is— we're quite certain?"

"Quite," Susan said. The way her mouth shaped the word was especially decisive.

"No, no, I know there's no doubt he's behaved abominably here, in Narnia," Edmund said. "I mean, there's no doubt he was willingly employed by Lord Bar? We're quite settled in our minds as to why he took Cor? There can be no question of his covering for another, acting under coercion . . . no chance that there is a wife or daughter locked away in a tower somewhere to ensure his obedience, or any of that sort of thing?"

"He has no children," Lune said. "He has no wife. There is no family at all. He did have a brother, once, but he is gone now."

"And there's really no question of his acting unwillingly, I'm afraid," Peter added. "He said— er— quite a few things as he was taken away. Most of them were awfully imprudent things to say in my hearing, too, given that I'll probably request a hand in arranging for his trial— with our Royal Cousin's permission, of course," he added, and inclined his head to King Lune.

"'Tis not my place to give permission, but rather to yield to Narnia what she is justly owed," King Lune said. His face was so grave and sad, so very unlike Cor had grown accustomed to seeing it, that it rather frightened the Prince. "By your account, King Peter, and by the testimony of her Majesty and my own son, this man has, in your home, committed acts of trespass and violence against the property and person of Narnian monarchs. What ally would I be, did I not yield to you the right of his judgment?"

At this speech Queen Lucy left her own chair and dropped to the feet of King Lune. "While our dear friend's sense of justice doubtless makes us proud to know him," she said, "our love of him demands we point out that a father wronged and a friend betrayed might surely expect some compassion and look for leniency of law and tradition from those he calls his allies. Dear, dear friend," she placed her little hand over his, "I cannot imagine what a sore trial this is for you, to learn of your friend's treason. I know my family is to kind to speak on that point, but I am so selfish in my love for your household, for your people who have shared with us in every manner of victory and loss, that I cannot hope to restrain myself. If your Majesty would see this man removed to Archenland to face whatever fate you believe he best deserves, I cannot think that any of us would presume to stop you."

This would have seemed a reckless and presumptuous thing for a Queen say in almost any situation, but when it was said by Lucy it somehow meant something else. Narnia's younger Queen knelt at the feet of a friend and ally in a posture not unlike that of a daughter and her parent. Lune, for his part, looked on Lucy and smiled, resting his free hand on that tiny one which covered his.

"Dear, dear friend," he echoed. "What sort of ally would ever ask for such a thing? Leniency contrary to the law? No manner of man or king that I would care to be could ask for such favours. No, he is ours to judge together, and by and by we will do as we must. I trust that King Edmund will serve in his usual capacity?" he glanced over to that man, who inclined his head in confirmation. "Then as I trust that King Edmund can fairly judge the man who committed such acts against Narnia, so too do I ask for his faith in my own ability to act as his impartial partner at the bench. I will offer any vow he asks as to my refusal to be swayed toward leniency of judgment for love of my friend, or toward a harsher verdict for love of my son."

"I would not be much of a judge of character," said King Edmund, "if I thought it necessary to ask for such a vow."

During this exchange Cor had begun to watch Aravis closely. Although she did tend to grow quiet in larger groups like this, he was unaccustomed to seeing her go for quite so long without saying anything at all. She hadn't even really moved, except to display the seal she wore. She didn't look upset, exactly, but she looked somehow very drawn in. Her hands in her lap were just a little too still, her expression just a little too calm and her entire posture just a bit too decorous for Cor to believe that she was doing very well with any of this.

"And where are the books now?" Queen Susan asked. "Were they yet in Aravis's room as he searched?"

"Oh, no," Cor shook his head. "We put them away somewhere else. I still wasn't certain he didn't know of them, you see, and so I wanted to be safe. We hid them— well, your Majesty, if you'd look behind you . . ."

Susan turned her head, and found herself staring at the library shelves. She frowned for a moment before her expression cleared; she put out her hand and took down, from between a weighty tome on the four hundred year history of the Aspen family that was rooted in the south-western banks and a slim pamphlet on the proper care and feeding of ermine, one of the seven leather-bound books.

"And the others?" she asked, to which query Cor replied by pointing out six different spots in the library where he and Aravis had concealed the books the night before, when he had still believed that Dorian might know of their existence. Lucy and Corin got up at once and went about gathering these; as they did, Susan begged that they would excuse her from the remainder of the discussion.

"I am not easy in my mind," she explained, "that our every guest has been cast adrift immediately on returning from their sport. There are matters of refreshment to be seen to, and so . . ." with an exquisite gesture of apology she got to her feet and made her way to the door, only to be arrested in her journey by Aravis's voice.

"If you would allow me, Queen Susan," the girl said, "I should like very much to assist you in whatever way you most require."

Queen Susan looked surprised by this offer, but she smiled and nodded and extended her hand to her little guest, who was quick to leap from her seat, run across the room and take it. Then both of them departed, leaving Cor to wish that he might somehow chase after them and demand to know if Aravis was all right— without, of course, actually chasing after and asking her.

"I suppose we should at least take a stab at planning this trial, then," Peter sighed. "I can't say I expect it to be any sort of pleasant business, but it will need to be done . . . who shall stand as accuser, then? Cor seems the obvious choice, being as he is included in pretty well all that Dorian has done against any of us, but maybe I ought to stand as well, given that it's Narnian land . . . what say you, Brother?"

Edmund looked thoughtful. He studied Cor a moment, and then looked askance at Lucy. She, understanding the silent question, pulled her mouth into a little moue of doubt.

"Susan does not care to accuse," she reminded him.

"Yes, but we must all do things we do not much like, from time to time," Edmund pointed out.

"This is certainly true, but you know perfectly well that I am not fit to be asked about things as intricate as the right of wrong of a person's position as court accuser! I can only tell you whether or not the proposed accuser would care to stand as such, and if the person's cousin held some secret and terrible grudge against the accused." She looked plaintively from one Narnian king to the other. "Good my brothers, I can tell you exactly how many tenants my lord Dorian will leave without a land-lord by his crimes. I can tell you their names and the stories of their lives and anything you might care to know of them as people, but as to the diplomatic propriety of who should best serve as accuser of an Archenlandish subject . . . Edmund, I don't know why you would believe that I, of all people—"

"All right, Lucy! Very well, yes, all right!" Edmund, laughing, held up a hand. "I am sorry to have even considered placing you in such a position. I beg your pardon and will not be so thoughtless as to ask again." He shook his head, and smiled at Cor. "What say you, your Highness?" he asked. "You have been nominated to stand as accuser; perhaps you should have some say in who, if anyone, might best stand beside you."

"I— well," said Cor, "I don't know what an accuser is, or does. Is it as it sounds?" He looked for guidance from his father.

"The accuser," Lune explained, "is the party who stands before the court to name the charges against the accused. The reason art nominated is because thou hast been dealt the cruellest hand by the work of Lord Dorian. He also came at thee here, in Narnia, with violent intent, and so art the best candidate. However, these good Kings have it in mind that perhaps it might be fitting to have a second beside thee, and so they put to thee the question of which person thou wouldst choose."

"Oh," said Cor, "Oh, I . . . I'm not sure." He looked around at everyone still there, and saw that even though he had admitted he was not sure, they still expected him to come up with an answer. "Well . . ." he struggled to see who might best fit the position. Queen Susan did seem the most suitable choice, being as she had been as nearly attacked as he, but Queen Lucy had said her sister hated to accuse and so Cor was loathe to ask it of her— especially as he was certain she would oblige in spite of her own distaste for the practice. King Peter, then, seemed the next best choice, as it was his house and his sister, but somehow that didn't quite fit either, that the host should accuse the guest. King Edmund and King Lune were to be judges and so could not accuse either. Cor would dearly have loved to have Aravis stand beside him, but she had scarcely been wronged at all (Cor did not imagine one could be an accuser solely on the slim strength of one's borrowed room having been pulled apart) and so . . .

"I should like it," he said at last, "if Corin would oblige by standing with me."

"What?" said Corin, and nearly toppled from where he was perched on the arm of his chair.

"Indeed?" Edmund said forward. He did not look disappointed or disapproving; only intrigued. "You may of course refuse to answer, but I hope you will indulge my curiosity— why Corin?"

"Well," said Cor, reminding himself not to sound apologetic for his choice, "it all affected him too, didn't it? When I was taken, there were all sorts of things that changed for him. He was going to be king when it wasn't a sure thing that I was even alive, and then when he came to Tashbaan there was all that confusion with me, and now, here, he's had his room destroyed and . . . well, Queen Susan was almost attacked too, and I know he thinks very highly of her, so that's his brother and his friend whom Dorian . . . came at. I just felt he fit as well as anyone else I might name."

Edmund nodded, turning this explanation over in his mind as though testing the weight and merit of it. What he heard certainly seemed to satisfy him; at least, he smiled broadly at Cor and nodded.

"Very neat," he approved. "I think you are quite right. A fine young diplomat in the making, isn't he, Cousin?" he smiled at King Lune.

"He is, at that," the Archen King agreed. "And now if our very good hosts and hostess have no further need of us, I hope I might excuse myself and my sons. I should like to confer with them."

"Do not trouble to excuse yourself, Cousin," Lucy said. "You may make free use of the library for as long as you have need of it. I believe my brothers would like to retire to discuss their respective tales of victory this morn, and as for me," this said with a laugh, "I think I will need a proper wash before I am fit for company!"

It was, Cor thought, a particular gift of Queen Lucy to cross all conventional bounds of propriety without causing even the slightest offence.

The young Queen continued to smile as she tugged King Edmund to his feet (King Peter managed to rise before she could lay hold of his sleeve) and all three urged the little family from Archenland to make free use of the library. Only once the Narnians had departed, shutting the door fast behind them, did King Lune turn to face his sons. He extended his hands to them, palms upward, in a wordless gesture of contrition, but Cor spoke before his father could.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I am so sorry, Father. I didn't want it to be somebody you loved; I didn't even want it to be anyone at all. I so very badly wanted to be wrong, but Mother seemed so certain. Aravis said it herself, and I had her read me all the bits to do with my kidnapping and I agreed with her. I would not have looked for him if I truly believed Mother could have been wrong . . . but I didn't believe that she would write of her suspicions if she had not been quite settled in her own mind as to the truth of them."

King Lune smiled a very little. It was impossible to say if he smiled at the earnest apology of his son, the memory of his wife, or even a bit of both.

"No," he said, "no, she would not have. Thou art correct. She was an extraordinarily careful woman, thy mother. She did not even trust the household accounts to our steward, and the poor fellow had to work very hard to take no offence. She was enamoured of detail . . . it was in fact she who uncovered Lord Bar's embezzlement in the first place. She said that the totals in certain of the accounts only appeared to add up; that in fact, they should not do. I could not understand what she meant; I thought that either they did, or they didn't, and no two ways about it. But she showed me how the right answer could be achieved with the wrong input, and in the end we traced the problem back to Lord Bar. It was not a taxing piece of detective work, admittedly, as only the Lord Chancellor could have managed the thing as neatly as he did, and only Lora could have picked it out as she did . . . but I do not blush to admit that we rather enjoyed the hunt while it lasted." He looked a little wistful, then, as though remembering the thrill of playing detective with his wife.

"Did he try to fight you when you confronted him, Father?" Corin asked hopefully, and King Lune laughed.

"Ever bloodthirsty, my boy! No, he did not. He was the soul of courtesy and contrition; he pleaded a weak and wicked nature and he resigned his own post at once— and quite right, too. But had we grasped the truth of what he said when he spoke of his wickedness . . . well. I think it best we did not know, then, or else we would have dealt with him much differently, and perhaps wondered evermore if we had been too harsh in our judgment of him. At least this way we know."

"But this way Cor had to be kidnapped," Corin reminded his father.

"That is true," the king agreed, "and I regret those years we lost, yet I do not believe the theft of that time would ever have been permitted had it not been a certainty that we would be granted at least as many years more. And see, now! We have a new little lady in our house because of it, and a staunch ally she has been to us already, eh? These things may cause us pain for a time, but the joy that springs on us come the dawn is a more than fitting recompense. Or at least," he smiled on the matched faces of his children (the elder with a slightly swollen lip and blacked eye given him by the younger) "this has been my own experience."

Only time would prove that it was the experience of the Princes, too.

O0O0O0O

The trial of Lord Dorian for crimes against the Royal houses of Archenland and Narnia was scheduled to occur after lunch and before dinner, which meant that it was only sparsely attended due to everyone's need to sleep off their lunch and ready themselves for that night's dinner. This also means that there is little remaining in the way of record of the event, but the eyewitness accounts and court documents all seem to be in agreement on the most pertinent points.

A number of solemnly-surprised Archenlandish courtiers were present, as were a handful of Narnians, both Beasts and men. Lord Dorian, now looking very grim and sullen, stood before the seats of King Lune and King Edmund and was closely attended by two solemn guards, one a Narnian Faun, the other an Archenlandish outrider who had accompanied the party north for the hunt. Prince Cor of Archenland stood as accuser, and his brother stood at his side. The Kings who sat as judges called the accusers to name the charges they brought against the prisoner, and so Cor and Corin spoke in turn.

Cor named his grievances as the theft of his Royal person (Queen Susan had worked with him to help get the wording just right) the years in his homeland that had been denied him, the intrusion against the privacy of his room and the assault on his person when he had confronted the accused.

Corin then named his own charges, these being the kidnap of his brother, several stressful years' worth of expectation of inheritance (Queen Lucy had persuaded him that "scaring me to death, making me think I would have to be King!" was perhaps not quite appropriate for such a setting as the court) and the assault on the person of she who had given up much of her own time to the task of raising him, their hostess the Queen Susan.

When these charges had been named, Lord Dorian was invited to defend himself against them. He didn't make a very good job of it, I'm afraid. Instead, he said a lot of things that were of course taken down for the court record, but I do not think any of us would benefit from their being reprinted here. If you truly care to hear a lot of foul and unimaginative insults against the good Kings and Queens of Narnia, the Princes of Archenland and the Lady Aravis, then I am afraid you must obtain the court records for yourself and read them there; they really would not better the tone of this chronicle.

King Lune, I will tell you, was not immediately insulted. Instead Lord Dorian appealed to him on basis of their long friendship, entreating his childhood companion to show mercy. King Lune was very quiet for a minute after this plea, and when he answered, his tones were soft and terrible to hear.

"Your mistake, milord," said the King of Archenland, "is not in crying mercy of I who love you. Your error does not stem even from your efforts this day to cover that crime which you committed against my house. Rather, you miscalculate in reminding me of that childhood we shared." He sat a little taller in his seat. "Yours was never a merciful nature, Dorian. Your brother was tender almost to a fault, covering your every transgression out of the goodness of his heart and his love for you, but you were commonly a stranger to pity, and so I marvel at your audacity to ask it now of me. In any event, I am but half your judge. The other half sits here beside me, and of King Edmund you can claim no long acquaintance."

There then fell over the chamber a most painful silence, because of course everyone remembered that the only thing Lord Dorian could claim of King Edmund was the questionable privilege of having laid violent hands on that man's sister just moments before King Peter had knocked him out.

King Peter barely bothered not to appear satisfied at the memory.

"Therefore if milord has no further defence of himself to present," King Edmund said, "my cousin and I will confer."

It was not a lengthy conference. Naturally the two Kings had come prepared to learn new things and hear a defence that might sway them to acquit— it would be a sorry sort of ruler who made up his own mind what the verdict would be even before he went in to preside over trial. Had Lord Dorian insisted that witnesses be produced, had he even claimed innocence, the trial would have gone on long enough to produce witnesses and investigate his claims. But he had only cursed his accusers and failed to deny the charges; nothing that had been said was new or shocking to either king, and certainly none of it was reason to acquit. The verdict, therefore, was that Dorian was guilty of all of which he stood accused, and Cor ached to hear his father say so.

"King Edmund has entrusted the Archen throne with the matter of sentencing," King Lune went on, "but we will not further dampen the joy of our shared company by passing sentence now. My lord will remain incarcerated in the gaol of Cair Paravel, and will make the journey home with us at the conclusion of our stay. Once we are again home at Anvard we will pass sentence. Until that time, we are done with you." He then nodded to the guards, who removed the prisoner with all speed.

With these unpleasant formalities completed, Cor looked for the chance to at last get near to Aravis and ask her privately what had been troubling her in the library. However he found that she was flanked by the Queens Susan and Lucy, all three ladies engaged in conversation, and Cor was pretty certain, on observing this, that he wouldn't be able to get her alone. Then he was distracted by Corin's enthusing that the whole thing had gone much better than he'd expected ("I didn't really believe he was the type to draw a sword on us all and make a bid for escape, and of course they'd have disarmed him before trial anyway, but I'll confess I was rather hoping he would at least put up a bit of resistance— though this way was satisfactory enough, I suppose") and by the approach of his father, who all at once looked very old.

"Bearing up well, my boy?" the king asked.

"Well enough, I think," Cor said, and then, emboldened, asked "and— what about you, Father? Are you quite all right?"

"Not a bit of it, I'm afraid," King Lune sighed. He nodded to the door. "Wouldst thou walk with me, boys?"

Naturally Cor said that he would. Corin expressed a preference for other amusements, though, and King Lune said that was quite all right, so just Cor and his father removed themselves from the room. The corridor beyond the door was wide and empty; King Lune set a leisurely pace as he walked it with his son.

"Hast seen thy first trial," he reflected. "Not one I would have had thee see, 'tis true, and yet . . . perhaps it is as well that the first hast seen was such a painful one. I should hope there will never be an easy verdict."

"Really?" Cor puzzled this over. "But wouldn't it be better if the verdict were an easy one?"

"Nay. For an easy verdict smacks of sloppy justice, and I would not see thee made an unjust judge. The verdict that is wrestled with, agonised over and spoken with a great weight settled across one's shoulders is the most even-handed such that can be spoken. It is no less than any prisoner deserves— the torment of his judge in the quest for that most just and perfect ruling."

"But what if I make a mistake?" Cor asked. "I mean, what if I do all as you have said, only the decision I make and the verdict I name is the wrong one?" He shuddered at the thought. "Father, what if I condemn a man for something he did not do?"

Lune rested a hand on his son's shoulder as they walked. "Why thinkest thou," he murmured, "that the gaol in our home is of such a size?" He smiled a little sadly. "It was designed according to the instruction of a wise and just king who knew that he would need to make much room for every possible mistake."

"And will Lord Dorian be locked in the gaol, then?" Cor asked. "For a very long time?"

Lune looked ahead to the end of the corridor.

"There is no doubt," he said, "that Dorian did that of which he has been convicted."

Cor squirmed. "I know. But . . . well, what of his brother, then? Didn't you say that he was always merciful? Wouldn't he appreciate it if we didn't —well— that is, if maybe Lord Dorian were only to be locked away?"

"Sir Dor is dead," Lune said. It was an ungentle thing to say and Cor felt the heavy finality of the words bite into his chest. "Dead, or lost, or gone, and better off for it."

Cor was confused. "You mean you don't know?"

"I mean it was a very messy and ugly thing, the sea-battle. A lot of men were lost over the side . . . we didn't feel honour-bound to search for them, I am afraid. I was too distraught at losing thee."

"You mean— he died in the battle fought over me? Sir Dor was one of the men in Lord Bar's pay?"

"He was one of the men on Lord Bar's ship. I could not fathom at the time why he would throw his lot in with such a man— he was not like that in the least. But it occurs to me now that he may have had it in mind to reverse the worst of his brother's treachery without having to actually betray Dorian. Of course," Lune sighed, "it did not come off like that, in the end . . . but I have always clung in my mind to the fancy that thy survival might be owed to him." He stopped walking to look down at Cor. "Now, having thee restored unto us, I have to this day learned nothing that would dissuade me from that belief. Indeed, the story that was told to me of thy rescue from the boat only strengthened it."

"You mean you think he was the knight to whom I was given? The one who starved himself to save me?"

"It is exactly like his nature," Lune nodded. "No man who would stoop to stealing a child could be the sort who would sacrifice his own life for that child's sake— and yet, the sort of man who could not bear to betray his brother, but who would do all he could to protect the child his brother stole . . . yes. Sir Dor was such a man. He erred always on the side of mercy." King Lune's hand on Cor's shoulder was a warm weight of trust to which that boy was desperate to live up. "I would see thee, my boy, become such a judge."

Cor nodded. "So would I," he said.

The two walked on in silence.

O0O0O0O

The hunt feast that night was a noisy and joyous affair. The day's bounty was roasting on the great fires of the feast hall, so that in amongst the woodsy, smoky smells and the scents of all the Beasts and people gathered together, you could also catch a whiff of the most wonderful aroma of supper, too.

The musicians played riotous songs all through the meal, and I am sure that your most disapproving auntie would never have condoned the sort of behaviour that was indulged in, for people got up all through the meal to sing and dance as the mood took them. They wandered around greeting friends and telling the sort of jokes and stories that are only ever told once you have gotten enough wine into you— and even then, are the sort of tales and jokes that can never be told to your mother.

"What's this song, then?" Cor asked of his brother, seeing that Corin appeared to be well-versed in the lyrics of the tune. He had to pitch his voice loudly to be heard over the twang of strings, the whistle of the pipes and the throaty chorus of the feasters— it seemed that the whole hall knew the words.

"It's a poaching song!" Corin shouted back. "Used to be sung by all the Beasts and Fauns and such that would steal game from the Witch, and then when the Winter ended they kept singing it. King Peter liked the pace of it so much that he's kept the tradition up and we sing it on nearly every hunt— though of course it can't really be called poaching if the King's in on it, now, can it?"

Cor found he couldn't be bothered by such petty logistics— it really was a marvellous, merry song. He could understand King Peter wanting to sing it every time they had a successful hunt. He could also understand Queen Lucy wanting to spring up from her seat, as she was doing now, and seize her sister's hands in hers, pulling a blushing Queen Susan into the midst of the party she had arranged that she might join in the stamping, swaying and clapping dance. He was especially grateful to her for doing this because it left an empty seat beside Aravis, into which he slid with all possible speed.

"Look here," he said with a boldness that felt alarmingly, wonderfully foreign to him, "what was bothering you up there? Back in the library you were all stiff and still, and even in court you were too. Did somebody do or say something to upset you? Did I?"

Aravis, after blinking at the surprise of being so suddenly addressed, began to smile. She shook her head.

"No," she said, "oh no. Nothing like that. It was only that I wondered —well, I feared— that perhaps you were sorry to have . . . not to have lost the time with your father, as of course you would be sorry for that, but rather you were so sorry for it that you might even wish . . ." she squirmed in a way that Cor thought very unlike her. At last it came bursting from her— "I was frightened to think you might be sorry to have found me. Not," quickly, "that you'd ever mean it that way, only I was stupid and scared and I just kept thinking that you would even give up the chance to have saved Bree and Hwin and me, if it meant that you could have gotten back that time you lost." Then she fell silent and faced him almost defiantly, as though daring him to scorn her.

He didn't scorn her, exactly— but I am afraid he did laugh.

"Cor!" Aravis cried, wounded, and Cor tried to stop.

"Sorry," he said, and laughed more. "Oh, sorry, I am sorry, but— it's just silly of you. You're acting like me, Aravis— don't you see? It's exactly the sort of thing I would think, only you thought it instead . . . maybe because I've not been thinking very much like myself lately, it makes sense that you would instead. But you needn't worry. It was just eight years, after all. I can give up eight years easily enough, I think, if it means that I have you and Bree and Hwin for my friends. After all, it's not as though we won't all be getting plenty years more, right?"

Aravis, thoroughly warmed and cheered by these words, said that she supposed he was right. "And of course," she added, "I was foolish to think that you couldn't understand what it meant to me to lose what I had. You may have lost it much longer ago, but you did lose something all the same. I was foolish to think, too, that you might prefer not to have lost it for the sake of what you gained— for, you see, I am glad to have lost all that I had in order to gain a home such as I have now in Archenland."

"Oh, yes," Cor said, "about that— I almost forgot. I need that," he nodded toward the seal that dangled from her bodice.

"Yes, of course," Aravis murmured, and popped the seal free of its cord, passing it back to Cor. "I expect it reverts to the crown, now, does it? The seal and . . . everything. His property and tenants and all of that."

"Well yes," said Cor, "but only for a moment." Then he took her hand in his, and pressed the seal back into her palm. "Now it all comes to you."

Aravis sat, dumbstruck, and looked from her hand to Cor, back to her hand, then back to Cor again.

"To . . . me?"

"Yes," Cor nodded. "I asked Father, you see, what was to be done with it all, and he said a steward was in charge of the property but a land-lord would need to be appointed over the steward. He suggested that I might do it myself, in order to pick up the trick of running a property, but I said I wasn't sure that would be very fair to the tenants. I said that maybe they'd do better with somebody who'd had a bit of experience with that sort of thing, but who could teach me, too. I asked if he could give the land to you. He said if you had my recommendation that was good enough for him, and so it's yours, now. All of it."

He looked down the table to where King Lune sat beside King Peter, the two men conferring over some joke or other. "Of course, we hope you will still make your home in the castle —well, I hope you will— but if you'd rather not, you could live in the manor there. I know that maybe you might have changed your mind about us being all right to live with, and if you have then you can leave now, if you like, but I do hope you'll stay." He flushed a little to make the admission. "The property is very close, you see, so you may always ride out to oversee it when you like —oh, and there are lots of horses, apparently; I made sure to ask Father, and he said Dorian's stables are first-rate— but of course if you would prefer to just move out—"

He had to stop talking then, because that was when she hugged him. Aravis, who always sat so perfectly and held herself in exquisite check, flew right off the bench, flung her arms around Cor's neck and tackled him with a hug. She said he was forbidden to make another mention of her leaving; she said he was her truest friend and she would not dream of moving out of the castle until she was forced from it. She also said a few other things too, but that was because she'd had rather a lot of wine that night. Thankfully she and Cor would both forget them come the next morning, and so I think it best overall that I not relate them here.

O0O0O0O

There remains only one part of this tale left to tell. It is the story of a cool, grey autumn dawn on the southern border of Archenland. Those who bore witness to this part of the story were King Lune, Prince Cor, Prince Corin, the Hermit of the Southern March and the Lady Aravis— newly taken possession of properties at which she declined to live, but which none doubted she would oversee with all the care and attention of the very best land-lady. All of these had gathered to witness the exile of Lord Dorian from Archenland— for such had been the sentence that King Lune had passed. Now they stood facing Dorian, and although Corin was secretly hoping the fellow would make a desperate try for the sword King Lune wore, he did not attempt it.

"Dorian, formerly of Archenland," said King Lune, "for the crimes you have committed against this kingdom and her allies, you and any heirs you may produce are henceforth banished beyond our borders. While in the pay of a man who served our enemy you betrayed the trust of your regent and your friend. You have chosen your master; therefore cast yourself upon the mercy of the desert and, should you survive to reach Tashbaan, seek the favour of he who governed the master you chose. Our friend," he indicated the hermit, "will keep a watch to ensure you do not return."

Then he fell silent and they watched as Dorian turned and started down the hill, toward the blistering heat of the desert and the fate that none could doubt awaited him therein. Before he was quite out of sight, however, Cor broke rank, running down over the hill. He caught up with the exiled nobleman and seemed, as near as the onlookers could tell, to extend something to him. Dorian made as though to refuse it but Cor extended his hand again, and this time the fellow accepted. Then he turned and continued on, and Cor watched him go a minute before he returned to his family.

"What was that all about, then?" Corin wanted to know.

"I made him a map," Cor said. "Last night. I drew him a map of the desert— of how to get safely to Tashbaan." He looked to the girl who stood beside him. "Aravis helped."

"Oh," said Corin, nonplussed. Their father smiled down at his elder son.

"Erring on the side of mercy, eh?" he asked gently.

Cor stared straight ahead so that the reflection of the rising sun upon the desert scorched his eyes. He lifted his chin a little higher to meet the coming dawn.

"Always."

O0O0O0O

A.N.: And so we are at the end! If anybody wants to hear the song that inspired the idea of the Narnian poaching song, Heather Dale's "The Poachers" from her CD The Green Knight is the culprit. I have ever-so-slightly rewritten the lyrics in my mind to make it fit into Narnia, but you don't really need to know the reworked version in order to enjoy it. It is a lively tune and I can easily see it being a favourite of Corin!

Thank you so much to all who have read and taken the time to leave feedback. Your thoughts and insights are dearly treasured and greatly appreciated. The final chapter of Kingdoms Come will go up sometime in the next week or so, and after that . . . new horizons loom, new stories are being written, and yes, I will own to some excitement over that!