http://nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
narniaexchange2011-09-01 05:14 pm
nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com) wrote in narniaexchange2011-09-01 05:14 pm
Entry tags:
Out of Season 3/4 - for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lady_songsmith
Title: Out of Season
Author:edenfalling
Recipientlady_songsmith
Rating: PG-13
Possible Spoilers: no plot spoilers, extensive use of background and settings from The Horse and His Boy
Warnings: background presence of slavery, discussion of and planning for something equivalent to human sacrifice
Summary: In the fourteenth year of Rishti Tisroc's reign, a demon in the shape of a beaver is captured and brought to Tashbaan. Shezan Tolkheera, high priestess of the goddess Achadith, is given the responsibility of guarding the demon until its sacrifice at the Spring Festival. Complications ensue.
Part 1
---------------------------------------------
Out of Season, part 2
---------------------------------------------
Shezan woke in the faint gray light of false dawn with the impression that an insect was biting her upper arm. She swatted at the itch, only to realize that the spellstone had fallen sideways to lie beside her while she slept and was vibrating against her sheets instead of her skin. Hastily she murmured the word to bring the demon's voice to her ears.
"--don't know, I keep telling you they don't talk to me!" the beaver demon said, sounding, as always, near the brink of tears.
"Try harder," the bird demon said in its scratchy voice. "Your grandparents sheltered the kings and queens when they first came to Narnia, despite what they knew the Witch would do if she discovered them. And they survived, because they didn't panic. They made plans and followed them through. Follow their example, Marigold, and think."
"But Hkreegah--" the beaver demon said, a whine sliding into its voice.
"But nothing," the bird demon snapped, clicking its beak for emphasis. "If there's one thing you do better than anyone I know, it's talk. So talk to the Calormenes. They'll let something slip, even if it's just to shut you up or scare you."
"I hate you," the beaver demon said sullenly. "I don't believe you're trying to save me at all. I bet you're the one who betrayed us -- Captain Dar said he'd never seen a storm blow up like that, and if you'd been flying patrols like you were supposed to, we wouldn't have been blow all the way south to Calormen. It's your fault I'm going to die."
"Don't be an idiot. If I'd been out flying close enough to spot that storm, it might have sucked me in, and anyway, I was asleep. You may have noticed that people can't stay awake forever," the bird demon said. "What happened, happened, and all we can do is deal with the consequences. Now. Queen Susan has sent an ambassador to Tashbaan to parlay with the Calormenes. He should arrive tomorrow. Maybe that will do you some good and maybe it won't, but at the very least he may learn something useful."
"Like what kind of knife they'll use to kill me?" the beaver demon said, still sullen.
"Like where the sacrifice will take place," the bird demon said. "I have to go before the sun rises and someone notices me here. One visit from a bird is random chance. Two might begin to raise suspicions. Keep your eyes and ears open, and I'll be back tomorrow morning."
Shezan heard the rustle of wings as the bird demon flew away.
"I hate her," the beaver demon muttered to itself. "I really, really hate her. Why did she get away? She's the one who always talked about adventures and raiding slave ships! I was just the cabin girl, and Captain Dar said it was just a little trip to Terebinthia. I'm not a pirate! Hkreegah should be locked up here, not me."
It sniffled, and there was a peculiar chewing, snapping sound -- biting on a stick? Then the demon whispered, so soft as to be nearly inaudible, "I didn't mean it. I don't want anyone to die. I just want to go home."
It began to weep.
Shezan whispered the terminating word and let go of the spellstone.
She had a morning invocation to perform.
---------------
As the warmth of the afternoon slipped into the cool of evening, freshened by a perfume-laden breeze from the upriver gardens, Shezan entered the palace in search of her grandfather. She had hoped he would be in his private chambers, but when she unlocked the door, the rooms proved empty. Therefore, he was playing politics, and given the situation, he was most likely with Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever), Ahoshta Tarkaan, Malindra Takhun, Prince Rabadash, or some combination of those four.
Shezan had no desire to speak with any of them tonight.
Nonetheless, she stopped a passing courtier and asked where the Tisroc had chosen to dine this evening. Then she walked through the corridors, courtyard, and grand halls of the new palace, ignoring their grandeur and beauty with the ease of lifelong familiarity, until she reached the small, private Honeycomb Pavilion, so named for the singular construction of its ceiling: a receding nest of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny plaster hollows, outlined by jagged geometric plaster stalactites. The outer surface appeared to be a normal ribbed dome in red sandstone, resting on eight pillars, one at each corner of the raised stone dais.
Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever) reclined on a stout, cushioned sofa, the heavy flesh of his body nearly hidden by the elaborate layers and embroidered frills of his robes. Now and again he reached a lazy hand down to the table set before him and ate a sweetmeat or raised his glass and drank a long swallow of sweet red wine. Ahoshta Tarkaan sat cross-legged on a cushion, a glass of wine at his side, and Axartha Tarkaan -- granted a most extraordinary honor, both for his advanced age and the long friendship between him and Rishti -- sat on an old camp chair, made of canvas on a hinged wooden frame so it was easily folded and carried from place to place. He had neither wine nor food to hand. Four guards stood watch, one at each path leading to the pavilion, and a slave knelt by Rishti's feet, ready to serve.
Ahoshta was speaking in a low voice about the ever-present worry of unrest in the western provinces, and the new worry of what to do with the soldiers who had grown accustomed to war during the endless rebellions and succession wars. Shezan stopped at the base of the three stone steps up to the pavilion, the guard's sword lowered to symbolically block her approach. She clapped her hands.
When the Tisroc (may he live forever) turned his attention toward her, Shezan knelt and pressed her forehead to the stones of the path for a count of nine. Then she straightened and folded her hands on her thighs, but remained kneeling.
"Your granddaughter is most correct in her behavior, O my friend," Rishti Tisroc said in a calm, unhurried voice -- the tone of one who knew all things were within his power, and thus had no need to indulge in the worries or frustrations of lesser men. "You, however, might have thought to inform me that you expected her presence. I should have requested my chief wife to attend us, that she might be enlightened with the elevated sentiments of religion."
Ahoshta twitched briefly at Rishti's words.
Axartha smiled. "O my master, my granddaughter goes where she will when the goddess calls. And I, for one, would not have it said that Malindra Takhun takes more interest in talk of retired soldiers than is, perhaps, seemly for one whose repute rests on her graciousness and beauty rather than her strength of arms."
Ahoshta twitched again.
"Your concern for my wife's good name pleases me, O most loyal Axartha," Rishti said, raising his glass to his lips. He drank, then added, "I also am concerned for my family's reputation. While nineteen sons are a great blessing from the gods, at times I could wish for somewhat less favor. The fiery passion of youth, as the poet Izfadil has said, can easily leap the stones of reason and ignite the wildfire of violence."
Axartha smiled, but Shezan could see the tightness around her grandfather's eyes, and she knew he was wondering whether Rishti knew about Rabadash's plans, and if so, how much.
"In any case," Rishti continued, "I wish to contemplate the slow birth of night, as Zardeenah's stars peer through the darkness of Azaroth's enveloping cloak. Leave now and we will discuss the best disposition of the western armies on the morrow."
"To hear is to obey," Axartha said, and attempted to rise without upsetting his flimsy chair. Shezan clambered to her feet and moved to help him, but the guard stopped her on the lowest of the three steps. The waiting slave lent a hand instead.
Shezan slid her shoulder under her grandfather's arm when he reached the base of the steps.
Ahoshta had remained on his cushion, watching Axartha's halting progress with a badly hidden smile. Now Rishti Tisroc stirred himself and noticed his junior advisor still cluttering the Honeycomb Pavilion with his presence.
"Ahoshta Tarkaan, when I dismiss my friend, I wish to be alone. See that you cease to presume," the Tisroc said in his placid voice. The guards all took one step up toward the dais, hands on their swords.
Ahoshta scrambled to his feet and snatched his cushion from the stones. "To hear is to obey, O my master," he said, and hurried past Shezan and Axartha into the surrounding garden.
Shezan did not bother to hide her smile.
She and her grandfather spoke of inconsequential things -- the weather, the perpetual ache in his feet and knees, the difficulty of finding cooks who could satisfy Rishti Tisroc's appetite without inducing indigestion -- until they reached his chambers and sat on the wide marble rim of the fountain in his private courtyard, letting the splash of water and the singing of his caged nightingales cover their voices.
"O my grandfather, does the Tisroc (may he live forever) suspect Rabadash, or was he speaking of Prince Ilragesh and Malindra Takhun?" Shezan asked.
Axartha shrugged. "Who can say? For now, it is enough that he suspects someone, and that his partiality toward his chief wife has not blinded him to her ambitions. I will continue to work on Ahoshta so our voices will be in harmony and thus point Rishti's attention where it should go. But enough of my work, O delight of my days. Tell me what has passed with you since last we spoke." He patted the folds of white linen draped over Shezan's shoulder with a trembling hand.
Shezan told him about the plan to hold the demon's sacrifice outdoors, where more people could see the victory of the gods over a minion of the Accursed Lion, and, not incidentally, where more witnesses would make it problematic for Rabadash to strike his father.
"That was well done," Axartha said.
"It was Falna Tolkheera's idea," Shezan corrected. She enjoyed her grandfather's praise, but not for accomplishments that belonged to others.
"Perhaps she proposed it, but you saw the advantage and chose correctly," Axartha said, patting Shezan's shoulder again. "If you had been a son, there would be no need for me to fear for Calormen after my death. I know you would easily outwit Ahoshta and give wise counsel to Rishti (may he live forever) and to Rabadash in his turn. Even now, I sleep easier knowing you hold a high position in your own name and cannot be removed from Rabadash's circle by someone assigning your husband to a distant province. It was, I admit, well done to speak your vows to Achadith, though I thought it the foolish rebellion of youth at the time."
"You flatter me," Shezan said, unsure how else to respond.
"Flattery is an exaggeration or outright lie calculated to bring advantage to the flatterer," Axartha said, steel sliding into his voice as distaste spread sour across his face. "I speak the truth, and the only advantage I seek is for you to trust yourself as I trust you, O my granddaughter. Now. The twelfth hour approaches, and you should return to the temple complex. Tonight is the new moon, is it not?"
"When Zardeenah bows to Achadith," Shezan agreed, on more solid footing when discussing the rituals she knew in her breath and bones. "Deel Tolkheera is preparing now, doing what is needful in Zardeenah's honor. Achadith simply waits to receive the sickle and the bowl, which can be done by anyone sworn to her service. My part comes at the first hour of day."
"Nonetheless, it is best for you to be seen as the Great Queen's representative in this world," Axartha said. "And my old bones could use a rest. I will not keep you simply to relieve an old man's boredom." He pressed his hands on the marble and began to lever himself upright.
Shezan helped him indoors, where a slave took over the job of preparing Axartha for bed.
Shezan watched for a minute to ensure that all was well, then began her journey back through the palace to Achadith's temple, where she ritually cleaned her feet, her hands, and her face before waiting at the doors to receive the bowl and sickle from Deel's hands.
It wasn't until she laid the symbols of the moon into the water at the feet of Achadith's statue that she realized she had, once again, forgotten to tell anyone about the bird demon and its hope of disrupting the sacrifice.
---------------
The night was filled with noise and motion as Shezan and her fellow priestesses led a score of initiates through the rites that marked Achadith's power as expressed in the moonless sky. As the twelfth hour of night gave way to the first hour of morning -- which was nearly synonymous with dawn, two days from the border between winter and spring -- Shezan led the procession across the temple complex to Zardeenah's shrine, where she returned the silver bowl and sickle to Deel in a mirror of Achadith returning the moon to the sky.
Then she performed the morning invocation before Achadith's statue, allowing the initiates to watch the steps and listen to the hymn. Usually they watched one of the lesser priestesses perform the public invocation in the outer shrine, but some of these girls might become Tolkheeras of lesser temples elsewhere in the empire, and so they would need to know the secret rituals that only those sworn to the gods were permitted to see.
When she finished, Shezan returned to her chambers and slept until noon.
Upon rising, she delegated the preparations for the Spring Festival to Muthori, who promptly passed most of them on to the other priestesses and the initiates. Shezan left them to iron out the details and went in search of her milk-brother.
This proved more difficult than she had expected, since Rabadash had taken the gift of clouds like a flat gray veil over the sky to train his companions and their armsmen in various cavalry and chariot maneuvers without worrying over the blinding glare of sun on sand. There was no room within Tashbaan itself for such things -- the island was entirely given over to buildings and gardens, with the streets as narrow as possible and most markets set up within rented courtyards rather than the public squares one saw in other cities -- and so the army camps and training grounds lay downstream on either side of the river. Rabadash was on the desert side today, so that was where Shezan went, first by palanquin and then on horseback. Riding had never been one of her greater skills, but she had traveled to Ulvaan and back, and joined in numerous pleasure excursions over the years, and she was perfectly able to sit a horse for half an hour.
She still failed to find Rabadash himself, since he was busy with his play-fighting. Ilgamuth Tarkaan, however, was sitting cross-legged under a scrubby olive tree at the edge of the flat, sandy chariot field, reading a treatise on the First Brothers' War, which had nearly broken Calormen in half after Idrath World-Conqueror's untimely death. His horse was tethered to a nearby stake, his companions' various saddlebags were strewn around in careless disarray, and an open bottle of wine sat on the dusty ground at his side.
Ilgamuth looked up at the sound of hoof beats and smiled at Shezan. His scarred lip twisted half the expression into more of a sneer, but Shezan had learned to see around that in the years since he had been at court.
"Shezan Tolkheera, what brings you to this wasteland to grace my unworthy eyes with the glory of your presence?" Ilgamuth asked, closing his book and setting it by the wine bottle.
"Mercy brings me, O most worthy Tarkaan," Shezan said, returning his smile. "The Spring Festival approaches. In past years, Prince Rabadash has sought me out to spend long hours complaining of the crowds, the noise, and the pointlessness of honoring Tash with the death of a placid beast instead of with a glorious battle. This year, I thought I would save him the trouble and seek him out instead."
Shame flashed over Ilgamuth's face for a moment before he veiled it with mild curiosity. So Rabadash was still contemplating patricide, and Ilgamuth was sensible to the gravity of that crime. Despite that, Shezan did not expect him to betray Rabadash's confidence. When Tarkaans swore loyalty to a Tisroc or a prince, that bond outlasted death. To break it was to condemn oneself to the host of unquiet dead who, lacking the favor of the gods, were easy prey for the Accursed Lion and his demon hordes.
"The prince, upon whom may the gods bestow luck, is perhaps learning that he cannot treat the great festivals the way he did as a boy," Ilgamuth ventured. "They are of greater moment and portent for a man in the fullness of his strength."
"Perhaps so," Shezan agreed, lightly. "If so, I rejoice in the change. Rabadash has long been the most excellent of generals -- was it not he who destroyed the rebel army in the province of Surnar, so their comrades could be cornered at Teebeth for the final blow? If he matches wisdom to his strength, his future will be bright."
"I will convey your words to him, O jewel of the goddess," Ilgamuth said, bowing slightly from the waist. "While we wait for him and my other companions to tire their horses, will you not dismount, sit, and share a loaf of bread and this bottle of wine with me? For the day, though cloudy, is nonetheless warm, and refreshment is more welcome in company."
"O most excellent of flatterers, I will," Shezan said, laughing, and swung her leg over the saddle to dismount.
She and Ilgamuth spent a pleasant half hour discussing the early history of Calormen, jumping from war to politics to religion and back. He had a quick mind and a deft turn of words, he was a strong soldier, and he was pleasing to look upon, despite his scars. Shezan thought, half seriously, of venturing a joke on how a true man would be fighting with his companions despite his still-healing wounds, just to see if Ilgamuth would react favorably. She had had no interest in the marriage her mother had attempted to arrange when she was fifteen, but unlike young Tarkheenas, a priestess could choose a partner for herself. She could do far worse than Ilgamuth Tarkaan -- assuming she wished a husband at all. A man would divert her attention from the goddess and from politics, but perhaps now that she had reached her goals, she could afford to be less single-minded.
Before Shezan could decide one way or the other, the rapid drumbeat of a galloping horse announced the presence of a messenger in a hurry. The man pulled his panting horse to a stop not one stride away from them, slid to the ground, and knelt in a hasty obeisance.
"Yes, get up, what is it?" Ilgamuth said irritably.
"O my master and O my mistress," the messenger said without raising his head, "the Tisroc (may he live forever) requests the presence of his eldest son in one hour when he gives audience to the ambassador from Narnia, lately arrived in Tashbaan."
"A pox on Narnia," Ilgamuth grumbled. "Why could it not have remained a frozen and inaccessible legend until after our time?"
"The gods willed otherwise," Shezan said philosophically, though she shared the sentiment.
"So they did," Ilgamuth agreed. "Ah well, I will interrupt my prince and bring him home. Will you wait for our wretched procession, O most noble Tolkheera, or will you avoid our inevitable stench and foul tempers?"
Shezan smiled and stood, brushing dust from her split linen skirts. "Since you have defined the options with such a clear imbalance, how can I help but choose the one you hold out as the course of wisdom? Tell Rabadash I will see him in the palace."
Ilgamuth offered his hand to help her mount and ordered the messenger to serve as her escort back to Tashbaan. As Shezan rode away, she saw him untether his own horse and ride toward the cloud of dust that marked Rabadash's chariots, a small signal horn held loosely in his hand.
"What cause did the Narnian barbarian give for his presence in our country?" Shezan asked the messenger. If he didn't know, that would imply either that Rishti Tisroc or her grandfather wished the details kept secret, or that Rabadash had been summoned in such haste that the details were not yet known. Either would be interesting.
But the messenger answered readily: "To plead for the life of the demon taken at Elith, O my mistress, and to speak of trade and alliance, perhaps even marriage."
Now that was even more interesting, especially when put together with what Shezan had overheard the beaver and bird demons speak of... which she still needed to tell her grandfather, so he would not try negotiating with only half the knowledge he needed.
Shezan dug her heels into her horse's sides, urging it into a trot. The faster she reached the palace, the better.
---------------
Shezan barely had time to comb dust from her hair and rebraid it into a single long plait before her palanquin arrived at the gates of the palace. The guards knew her, and normally let her walk where she wished, but this time one of them stepped into her path, bowed, and told her that the Grand Vizier requested her presence immediately, and he would take her where she needed to go. Shezan allowed him to stand, and followed.
The guard led her through the Hall of Black Marble, the Hall of Pillars, and half of the Hall of Statues. He turned aside before the colonnade that led to the main doors of the throne room, slipping through a small side door, easily overlooked in the general grandeur of the rooms. This led, by means of a narrow passage with a low ceiling and no windows (that was nonetheless decorated in intricate painted plasterwork, illuminated by a single flickering lamp), to a side chamber at the back of the throne room where Axartha Tarkaan was waiting.
The guard bowed and withdrew, leaving Shezan and her grandfather alone.
"O my granddaughter and O the prop of my age, we have no time to talk," Axartha said hastily. "Prince Rabadash rode his men straight up through the city and thus arrived faster than I and Ahoshta expected. Even now he is entering the throne room to stand beside Rishti (may he live forever), and the Narnian messenger will be brought in any minute now. I need you to watch the barbarian for any signs of sorcery or communion with the Accursed Lion, and also to restrain Rabadash should he seem on the verge of rash words or actions. You have my full trust and confidence."
He grabbed hold of Shezan's arm with surprising force and tugged her toward the curtained archway into the throne room. Wrong-footed, Shezan allowed him to maneuver her onto the dais near the Tisroc's right hand. She found herself standing next to Rabadash, who looked even hotter and dustier than she felt, though he had apparently found time to change into a fresh tunic and trousers and wrap a bit of fabric around his helmet by way of a turban.
"This is a farce," Rabadash muttered in Shezan's ear. They were nearly of a height, so he could do so without any betraying stoop.
"This is your father's command," Shezan murmured back, while her grandfather shuffled behind the throne to sit, in his flimsy camp chair, at Rishti Tisroc's left hand.
"As I said, a farce," Rabadash repeated. He might have continued in that vein, but Rishti Tisroc waved a languid hand from where he lounged on his cushioned throne, and slaves began to beat the great drums on either side of the entrance. Slowly the massive copper door swung open, revealing a most peculiar figure.
The Narnian had skin as pale as the unquiet dead -- even paler than slaves of northern birth, or the merchants and sailors from the eastern island who sometimes accompanied their goods upriver from the harbor. His hair was the dead color of straw, and his eyes a strange, washed-out gray as if the long winter of Narnia had leached them of pigment. He wore outlandish clothes: a long tunic of wool dyed a blinding bright green, no trousers to cover his legs between his boots and his knees, and neither helmet nor turban nor cap to cover his head. He wore no sword in the Tisroc's presence, naturally, but when he reached the base of the dais where Rishti sat in his throne, and Shezan and Rabadash stood, he did not press his head to the floor, nor even kneel, Instead, he made a simple bow, as if the Tisroc were no higher than an ordinary Tarkaan.
Then again, what did a barbarian know of courtesy?
"Your majesty," the barbarian said, without waiting to be announced or acknowledged, "the Queen Susan of Narnia has sent a letter to you as a brother king, touching on the subject of her vassal, one Marigold Beaver, lately captured and unlawfully imprisoned on false charges of piracy. She requests your favor in reviewing the case and releasing the aforementioned vassal, and in return offers a treaty and trade agreement advantageous to both your nation and hers."
Now he knelt and presented a rolled and tied piece of parchment he pulled from between his tunic and belt.
Shezan stepped on Rabadash's foot before he could react. "Silence," she hissed in his ear. "The insult is to your father; therefore let your father answer."
She ignored the sidelong glare he sent her way. In another minute or nine, he would realize she was right and had saved him endless trouble and embarrassment. He was hasty, of that there was no doubt, but Rabadash was far from stupid.
"Ahoshta," the Tisroc said, gesturing toward the letter. Ahoshta Tarkaan hurried from where he stood beside Axartha, snatched the letter from the barbarian's hands, and presented it to Rishti with an obsequious bow.
The Tisroc slipped the ribbon off, unrolled the letter, and read it in a leisurely fashion. Then he handed it to Axartha, who also read it. Shezan studied her grandfather's face, but though she knew him better than anyone save the Tisroc himself (may he live forever), she could not find any change in his expression. He had far too much experience in court politics to reveal himself so easily.
The barbarian had no such training. His restlessness was obvious to the smallest child. His lack of hope -- as if he already knew what response would come -- was equally obvious.
Axartha handed the letter back to Rishti, who crumpled it in his hand and tossed the wadded parchment to the floor at his feet. "My answer is no," he said, his lack of emphasis somehow giving his words more conviction than any great emotion could have done. "The demon was lawfully taken -- its ship entered our waters without the proper stamps and papers, and one of the Elith coastal patrol captains recognized several men as part of a raiding party encountered in previous years. A demon is also an abomination unto Tash and thus doubly deserves to die. As for the trade concessions your mistress offers, they are already rightfully ours whatever your people choose to believe. As for the offer of marriage, it is insulting beyond belief that I should choose to bind the blood of Tash to the family of a mongrel warlord who holds a land smaller than any of the twenty-seven provinces within my rule."
The barbarian clearly wanted to protest, but he managed to hold his tongue by his own will.
"You may, if you wish, remain for the Spring Festival to witness the death of the demon," the Tisroc continued. "Otherwise, return to Narnia and tell your mistress that the game of kings is not for fools and dreamers, but for those who can see the world as it is and bend it to their will. When she can do that, I may begin to listen."
The barbarian rose to his feet and bowed from the waist. "I will remain to bear witness to Marigold Beaver's fate, your majesty," he said. "I ask only that you remember your words when you also bear witness to that moment."
"I forget nothing," Rishti Tisroc said in his cool, placid voice. "Guards, show the barbarian to the guest chambers in the old palace."
Four men immediately stepped forward from their positions against the walls and surrounded the Narnian. Two of them fell in beside him, while one walked ahead and the fourth behind. They marched the barbarian out of the throne room almost as if he were a prisoner -- the only difference, in truth, was that they had neither seized his arms and legs, nor chained his wrists and ankles. The symbolic effect was much the same.
"The Grand Vizier and his second may stay," the Tisroc said to the room at large. "The rest of you, leave us." The guards and courtiers slowly filed out through the still-open copper doors. Rabadash and Shezan exchanged a speaking look, then ducked out through the small back corridor.
"I repeat: farce," Rabadash said for the third time as he strode toward his chambers, Shezan trailing at his heels. "My father knew he would refuse, your grandfather knew, that useless blister Ahoshta knew, every guard and courtier knew, even the barbarian knew! There was no need to call me away from training for this. My men need to be prepared for any circumstance, yet lately we are interrupted more and more often. It grows intolerable."
"Perhaps you should request permission to undertake a small campaign against the minor southern lords in Rachegra province, who have been refusing to pay their full taxes these past two years," Shezan suggested. "That would provide valuable experience for your companions, win glory for you, and ensure that no court politics would interrupt your plans."
"What, and leave Ilragesh to steal my place at his abominable mother's prodding?" Rabadash demanded. "No. Never."
"You could take him with you," Shezan ventured.
"No!" Rabadash said, and kicked the wall, breaking off a delicate bit of plaster molding. "He will never make a soldier, and I won't have deadweight in my army. Especially not deadweight that is always looking to stab me in the back or slit my throat while I sleep. His mother would force me to assign him a command, and do you know how easy it is for a commander to ensure that a battle is lost and an enemy killed in the confusion? I won't have Ilragesh within five miles of any campaign I lead."
"I bow to your knowledge of war, O my prince," Shezan said as they approached the door to Rabadash's chambers. Ilgamuth was sitting on a low stone bench nearby, reading; he looked up at the sound of their footsteps. Two other Tarkaans standing next to him also turned. "I will leave you to the company of your friends," Shezan said. She bowed from the waist, touching her forehead to symbolize pressing her head to the floor, then turned and began to make her way out of the palace.
Behind her, Rabadash murmured something to his friends. Male laughter filled the corridor, loud and full of life.
---------------
As the afternoon wore on, Shezan attempted to work out the details of which priestesses and initiates would be assigned to which rituals and at what times during the Spring Festival. Normally that kind of puzzle came easily to her, but today her mind seemed caught in sand, so that every step was a struggle and every track erased as soon as her metaphorical feet left the ground.
Eventually she gave up and went to the inner shrine, where she knelt before the goddess and prayed for this unseasonable confusion to be lifted. For a moment she thought she heard the echo of Achadith's voice, as if the goddess had spoken from a great distance, but no words resolved from the sweet cacophony and Shezan concluded that she had simply heard the muffled sound of a gong or a bell. Her mind still felt gritty and slow when she finished her prayer and splashed water from the pool at the goddess's feet to wet her eyes and clear them, but if Achadith chose not to answer, Shezan would do her best to soldier on regardless.
The spellstone vibrated as she walked back to her chambers, startling her -- Shezan had nearly forgotten that she had the means to listen in on the beaver demon. She whispered the necessary word, and a foreign tune floated to her ears. Something about green rushes and lost love, melodramatic and silly, rather like some of the peasant folk tunes from the western provinces.
Shezan unlocked the door of Soorabadeen Takhun's contemplation chamber and glared down at the demon, which abruptly fell silent. "The soldiers said you talked," Shezan said. "Not that you sang."
"I don't have anyone to talk to," the beaver demon said, petulantly, drawing itself upright on its hind legs with its fish-scale tail stretched out behind for balance. "The soldiers just stopped giving me water. You people hit me if I try to talk. Are you going to hit me now?"
It waddled back a few steps and picked up a peeled twig in its hand-like paw. "I can hit you back! I could bite you! I bet you taste awful, because you're an awful person, but I could do it anyway!" the demon said. Its false bravado mimicked the behavior of girls a few years away from the transition to womanhood, pretending that they were already grown and independent.
"A man from Narnia came to Tashbaan today. He had a message from your Queen Susan to the Tisroc (may he live forever)," Shezan said, wondering how the demon would react. Would it manage to fake surprise?
"Oh. What was the message?" the beaver demon asked.
No surprise. It really did act like a child. Did demons have children? If the bird demon had spoken truth, then yes, they did -- it had mentioned the beaver demon's grandparents. But demons weren't properly alive. They were the slaves of the Accursed Lion, caught in the halfway lands between this world and heaven. The dead could not create life. Neither could demons, not even the Accursed Lion, which was the chief cause of the envy and hatred they bore the gods.
Yet this beaver demon claimed to have ancestors.
"It doesn't matter what the message said. The answer was no," Shezan said curtly. "You will not be ransomed or rescued. The day after tomorrow, you will be sacrificed to the nine gods."
"I hate you," the beaver demon said, bending the peeled twig between its forepaws. "If you were on a ship that got blown to Narnia in a storm, we wouldn't call you a pirate and lock you up and kill you. We wouldn't sacrifice you to any gods. The only people who do that are evil, like the White Witch was evil. She tried to kill Aslan but it didn't work, and it won't work if you try to kill me for your stupid gods. Someone will save me and take me home."
"No one will save you," Shezan said, folding her arms and glaring down at the demon. "Whatever your Accursed Lion did to cheat death, he will not do the same for you. It is not in his nature to share his secrets or his power. This we know from the mouths of the gods themselves -- both Tash and Achadith have come to earth and spoken to the line of the Tisroc, revealing the nature of the world.
"One day the Lion will be bound to the earth outside the wall of heaven and the vultures of Tash and the eagles of Achadith will pluck out his eyes and liver every morning and evening to the end of eternity," she continued. "This will happen. It is written and promised. Without the Lion's sorcery to protect you, your land will come to nothing, destroyed in fire and ice. But the righteous of my land will pass through the gates of heaven and follow the gods to a new world, as we once followed them to Calormen."
Shezan drew a deep breath. "So you see, it is better for you to die now in the service of the gods than to share the fate of those who follow the Accursed Lion."
The beaver demon looked at her with a child's blank lack of understanding. "Aslan's not cursed," it said. "And no eagles or vultures would touch him, not if they were Talking Beasts. We remembered him for a hundred years of winter, no matter what the Witch did to make us turn away. You don't make any sense."
There was no sense arguing theology with a child. They weren't old enough for logic.
"Don't sing anymore," Shezan said, and shut the door with great force as she stepped back into the corridor.
"I don't care what grandmother says, humans don't make any sense," she heard the beaver mutter through the spellstone. "Not even Queen Susan, if all she did was send a letter. But I'll be brave like Hkreegah said. I'll be brave like Aslan."
Shezan muttered the word to end the spell. Then she dumped the Spring Festival scheduling details in Muthori's lap and spent the evening back at Achadith's feet.
If the goddess spoke, Shezan failed to hear.
---------------
As before, the bird demon came to visit during the gray light of false dawn. Shezan woke the spellstone halfway through the conversation, when its vibration finally nudged it close enough to her arm to touch skin and irritate her into awareness.
"--soon as you're on the altar, or whatever they're going to set up since I think they're going to improvise on the steps outside the biggest temple," the bird demon was saying. "The only problem is if they chain you to a piece of furniture. As long as it's a human holding the chain, we're fine. Ellen can claw up a person, no trouble, and then we just have to get you over the river to where the others will be waiting."
"But won't the Calormenes know?" the beaver demon said plaintively. "They don't notice you because there's nothing strange about gulls near a river, but even Calormenes can't be stupid enough to miss an eagle swooping down to grab me in the middle of a thousand humans. And then they'll follow us and we'll be caught and we'll all die and I'll never get home!"
"That's the best part," the bird demon said in its scratchy voice. "Of course it's strange for a golden eagle to come that close to humans, let alone carry off a yearling beaver. But Queen Susan has been studying Calormen for months now so she can try negotiating for lower tariffs, and she says that eagles are sacred to one of the other Calormene gods -- the one in charge of strange chances and impossible things. So they'll take it as a sign from their gods and let us go."
That was... actually very clever, Shezan admitted. Perhaps this Queen Susan of Narnia was not the fool her letter and her envoy had painted her. Perhaps those were simply for show and distraction. Narnia could not afford war with Calormen, so the barbarian queen used cunning instead of force to achieve her will.
Of course, this Queen Susan's work was for naught, since Shezan knew the truth and could easily foil the would-be rescuers by ensuring the beaver demon was chained to heavy weights of stone or steel, and could denounce the Narnian plot even if, through some mischance, it did go to plan. But still, Shezan thought, Rabadash could stand to learn from the barbarian woman. He had not outgrown his youthful tendency to throw himself into action without considering the consequences, and none of the Tarkheenas he had deigned to flirt with over the years had shown either the desire or the ability to restrain him.
The two demons were still conversing; Shezan hastily returned her attention to their words.
"--try to be quiet so they won't worry about chaining me," the beaver demon was saying, "but they're awfully mean. I don't know if they'll notice. They call me a demon, but they treat me like a dumb beast. Look at this! They're making me eat sticks and raw things all the time. I like salad as much as any beaver, and of course aspen is the best snack and I like to keep my teeth in good condition, but what I really want is some of Grandmother's baked potatoes with butter and chives and sour cream." The wistful longing in its voice was impossible to miss.
"You'll see your grandmother soon enough, along with your parents and all your brothers and sisters," the bird demon promised. "Now remember -- act like you're sad and defeated. If you seem too cheerful, someone may grow suspicious."
"Yes, yes, I know," the beaver demon said. "Oh, go away, Hkreegah. You keep saying you shouldn't be here when people might see."
"And so I shouldn't be," the bird demon agreed. "If all goes well, I won't see you again until you're free. Be brave, Marigold. This will all be done tomorrow, one way or another."
Shezan heard the sound of wings, and broke the listening spell.
She needed to tell Nakdeh and the others to chain the beaver demon during the sacrifice. All the Tolkaars and Tolkheeras were meeting from the fifth hour onward to set the final details of the Festival. She would reveal the Narnians' plot then.
---------------
For the second time within a week, someone interrupted Shezan during the morning invocation. This person was more subtle than the initiates had been -- contenting herself with a single loud cough, a pointed clearing of her throat, and twice the faint chime of bells as she shifted her position -- but Shezan found herself even more annoyed. The initiates were girls, and they had been whipped into a loss of composure by the demon's presence. An adult should know better.
Shezan returned the onyx bowl to its niche and turned. "Malindra Takhun. To what do I owe the honor of your exalted presence?" She did not bow, nor touch her forehead, nor lower her eyes.
Malindra Takhun, a tall, statuesque woman whose sharp bone structure had easily made the transition from youthful beauty to mature elegance, frowned minutely and tapped her lacquered nails against the silk and lace of her dress. "Shezan Tolkheera. To what do I owe the slander you and the Vizier have poured into Ahoshta Tarkaan's ears?" she said, equally direct. "I would never raise my hand against Prince Rabadash. It is foul and dishonorable of you to imply otherwise."
Of course Malindra Takhun would never raise her own hand against Rabadash. That was what intermediaries were for.
"I never said you would stain your hands in such a fashion," Shezan said, striding toward the door of the inner shrine. It was dangerous for anyone to be there without a priestess to draw the goddess's attention -- in fact, it was improper for anyone but a priestess or an initiate to be there at all, which raised the questions of who had let Malindra in, and why. In any case, Shezan's departure forced Malindra to follow.
"Words do not have to be spoken to be heard," Malindra said, taking three long, chiming steps until she was walking at Shezan's side instead of trailing behind her. "I bear you and your family no ill will. We all want what is best for Calormen. Your grandfather's mind is keen, but age has blurred his sight and he sees conspiracy where none exists. I ask you as one woman to another, O most discerning of Tolkheeras, to cease your support for the Vizier's campaign of whispers against me and mine."
"And what of your campaign of whispers against Prince Rabadash, to whom I bear all the love due my brother and all the loyalty due my lord?" Shezan asked, turning down the corridor that led to Soorabadeen Takhun's contemplation chamber.
Malindra cut in front of Shezan and spun on her heel, forcing them both to stop in the middle of the dead-end corridor. "It is no secret that I think Prince Rabadash unfit to rule," she said, raising her right hand and pointing at Shezan's heart to emphasize her words. "He is rash, intemperate, and a slave to romantic passions -- the worst mix of his parents' flaws. My esteemed husband (may he live forever) made a bad first marriage, and though I grieve for his past grief, I think Nurneesh Tarkheena's early death was a blessing to the empire. It would have been a greater blessing if her son had accompanied her into the grave."
Shezan drew breath to argue, but Malindra pressed her hand against Shezan's collarbone and the shock of uninvited contact gave her the space to continue uninterrupted.
"My sons are not perfect. Only the gods are perfect, and I would never blaspheme. But Ilragesh is versed in court politics, and while he has never been to the wars, he knows how to choose generals who will earn victory."
Shezan drew breath again, and Malindra pressed harder. "Ah! Don't interrupt. Moreover, I arranged my son's marriage to a wife whose strengths complement his flaws, and already they have a son. Meanwhile, Prince Rabadash agitates for senseless fights and the only women he seeks out merely indulge him in his folly. It would take a miracle from the gods for him to set his eye on a woman strong enough to rein him in and temper his passion with wisdom. Should he take the throne, his reign would be bloody, expensive, and above all, short -- leaving my son to pick up the shards. I would prefer not to subject Calormen to that fate, and should Ilragesh become Tisroc, he would be pleased to assign Prince Rabadash to fight in all the far-off battles his heart may desire. So. For the sake of our country and both our families, Shezan Tolkheera, I ask you again to cease your foolish stand against me."
Malindra removed her hand, but remained standing too close for comfort. Shezan refused to take a step back. Instead, she gestured to the door of the contemplation chamber, behind Malindra's back, forcing the other woman to turn and take a half-step to the side.
"That is the prison of a woman whose mind followed lines that mirror yours," Shezan said. "I am sure you have heard of Soorabadeen Takhun's fate, and the long, prosperous reign of the son she despised."
"It is foolish to assume history will repeat itself," Malindra said sharply.
"It is equally foolish to ignore history's lessons," Shezan said, her back and shoulders stiff with cold fury. "I would remind you of Chazbardin Tisroc, who accepted his elder brother's oath that he had no interest in the throne, and then spent seven years putting down the rebellions that were raised in his brother's name. If Ilragesh inherits while Rabadash still lives, Calormen will descend into the very chaos that you claim to abhor. Your ambitions require my brother's death. All the clever words in the world will not perfume that truth enough to make it palatable."
"So you accuse me of that crime?" Malindra said, drawing herself up to her full height as if she wanted to look down on Shezan.
Shezan stood pillar-straight, taking full advantage of the two inches she had on Malindra, and spread her hands, palms open and fingers outstretched. "Of assassination? No. No one has died. Of the attempt? Again, no. Your hands, as you say, have never been raised in violence. Of playing politics and dropping whispers into the court like stones into a shallow pool? Yes, but that is both the truth and not a crime. You have nothing to take to Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever) that he does not already know, and you cannot cry slander because I have made no false charge against you."
Malindra was too practiced to grind her teeth or curse, but her elegant face betrayed a certain tightness that said she dearly wished to let her frustration out.
"We will speak of this again," she said.
"To hear is to obey, O most perceptive Takhun," Shezan said, and hid a savage smile at the sour twist to Malindra's face. "However, I have duties to attend to, and I am certain you have people to meet and speak with. I presume you can find your way out as you found your way in, and I wish you a restful day."
Shezan spun on her heel and strode off, never once looking back.
---------------
The final organization for the Spring Festival was run out of Nakdeh Tolkaar's chambers in the great temple, since as the high priest of Tash he was first among equals and also the one who performed the sacrifice of the yearling bull. The high priests of Sokda, Garshomon, and Nur were already there when Shezan arrived, as were Deel, Falna, and Izelichoor. Only the high priest of Azaroth had yet to arrive. Nakdeh had arranged his receiving room to resemble a council chamber, with nine hard-backed chairs arranged around a table, on which a score of diagrams and lists were held down with polished river stones. A pitcher of coffee sat in a basin of melting ice on a low table in the corner, with bowls of honey, cocoa powder, and ground dried chili beside it.
Shezan poured herself a cup of coffee and added a spoonful of honey before taking a seat at the table between Nakdeh and Falna.
Deel and Nakdeh were arguing over the order of the procession, as they did every year. The priests of Tash went first, followed by the priestesses of Achadith, and the priests of Azaroth went last, but the placement of the other gods and goddesses, not to mention the arrangement of people not sworn to any god's service, such as the Tisroc (may he live forever) and his family, had never been formally settled and tended to shift in response to political currents and to how many concessions Deel could wring out of Nakdeh before she went hoarse.
Shezan determinedly ignored the show and set about helping her more practical colleagues arrange less lofty but more important matters, such as certifying the receipt of five hundred barrels of cheap red wine, sending initiates to make sure the doors to all but the public areas of the temples were locked, authorizing payment for the masons who had constructed a temporary altar on the eastern steps leading down from Tash's temple to the great courtyard, and so on and so forth for nearly three hours. At some point a pair of servants arrived with platters of finger food, since everyone was far too busy to stop for a proper lunch.
Shezan had just stood to replenish her coffee when a male initiate knocked on the frame of the open door, cleared his throat, and said, "O my masters and O my mistresses, the barbarian envoy seeks an audience with Shezan Tolkheera, on the matter of the captive demon."
Shezan glanced around the room to see if anyone had prior knowledge of this, but her colleagues seemed as puzzled as she was. She set down her empty cup and said, "I will deal with this. Remember that I must be standing beside the altar on the steps, to guard against sorcery. Otherwise I make no requests."
"Yes, yes, it will be done," Nakdeh said, waving a careless hand before resuming his endless argument with Deel.
"I'll make sure of it," Falna added, which was much more reassuring.
"Lead on," Shezan said to the initiate, and followed him through the shining splendor of the great temple to the graceful archway and colonnade that joined the seat of Tash's power to the temple of his queen. The Narnian messenger was waiting just inside the doors, smiling awkwardly at the passing initiates, who stared and whispered to each other behind their hands. One of the temple guards stood at his side, glaive held loosely in one hand and a dagger and flail hung from his belt.
"You requested an audience," Shezan said, discarding the usual courtesies.
"I did, and I thank you for agreeing to meet with me. The Grand Vizier said you were charged as Marigold Beaver's jailor, since demons fall within your goddess's sphere of influence," the Narnian said. He bowed from the waist, but something in his posture and the set of his shoulders gave the impression that he had no real understanding of the appropriate degree of honor he should have paid to Shezan, given their respective status, and had simply used a generic greeting. "My name is Peridan," he added as he straightened and met Shezan's gaze.
"If you wish me to release the demon, know, O man of the North, that I cannot, and moreover, I would not even if I could," Shezan said. "Its death is promised to the gods, and the Tisroc (may he live forever) has added his voice to theirs, so both the earth and the heavens speak as one on this matter."
The Narnian grimaced, and did not much bother to hide the expression. "I'm sorry to hear that, my lady, but I can't say I expected anything different. What I wanted to know is if it would be possible for me to see and speak with Marigold Beaver before her execution. Her family sent messages in my care, and I promised to bring her last words home to them."
And again, the implication that the beaver demon was a child, born as human children were -- not a demon coalesced from the chaos that followed the Accursed Lion, which only aped at life. Shezan concealed a frown.
"If I and the guard remain present, you may have your meeting," she said.
The Narnian grimaced again, but nodded. "As you say, my lady. I assume you have a prison somewhere within the palace?"
Shezan had to work harder to hide her frown. The bird demon knew the beaver demon was in Soorabadeen Takhun's contemplation chamber, and had presumably told its fellows and its queen. So how did that same queen's envoy not know such a basic thing as which building the demon was kept in? Or was he better at dissembling than she'd thought, and his previous poor attempts were merely a way to lull her into complacency?
"Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever) has many rooms for those who break his laws and attempt to dissolve order into chaos. However, demons are a matter for the gods; therefore, the demon you seek is held within Achadith's temple," Shezan said. "Come. I will show you."
She set off toward the contemplation chamber, staying within the public areas as long as possible to keep the Narnian out of rooms and corridors where he had no business being. He followed at her heels, turning his head this way and that to take in the columns, the ornate plasterwork, the frescos depicting scenes from the hymns of Achadith, the fountains, and the statues of the goddess in her many aspects. The temple guard trailed silently behind.
"Here," Shezan said when they reached the dead-end corridor with the small, plain door. She lifted the key from its hook and unlocked the door.
The beaver demon was paddling aimlessly in the porcelain tub, facing toward the window and away from the doorway, but it detected some change and slapped the water with its fish-like tail, producing a great surge that nearly spilled out onto the floor and a loud, carrying crack like the snap of a whip. It attempted to duck under the water, but surfaced again a second later, spinning around in the choppy water to face the door.
Its eyes grew round and its mouth opened soundlessly as it caught sight of the Narnian man.
"Marigold Beaver, my name is Peridan," the barbarian said, dropping to one knee just inside the threshold. "Queen Susan sends her respect and sympathy to you, our sister in the love of the Lion, and in recognition of your courage and endurance, she names you a companion of the Order of the Garter." He bowed his head -- a human bowing to a demon. It was abominable.
"I-- but-- I--" the beaver demon stuttered.
"I also bear messages from your family," the Narnian said, lifting his head though he remained down on one knee. "The priestess Shezan has allowed me to bring them to you, though we cannot, unfortunately, speak in the privacy that such missives deserve. Shall I begin?"
"I-- yes," the beaver demon said. "No. Wait. Can we go into the corner?" it said, looking up at Shezan with an expression halfway between aggrieved glare and abject pleading. "I promise we won't whisper, but even though you hate me, can't you let me pretend you're not here? Can you at least turn around?"
Shezan met the beaver demon's stare evenly. "No. You might pass hand signals or a written message. But the guard will look the other way," she said. The guard immediately turned around and faced out the open door. "And he will close the door," Shezan added. The guard did so.
"You're a horrible person. I hope you wake up one morning and realize how horrible you are, and spend the rest of your life hating yourself, just like I hate you," the beaver demon said. It pulled itself awkwardly over the side of the tub and waddled into the far corner. The Narnian man stood and followed, then crouched down so his face was nearly on a level with the beaver demon when it sat on its hind legs and straightened from its habitual hunch.
"What-- what did my mother say?" the beaver asked in a trembling voice.
Peridan told her.
After a time, when the beaver finished weeping, she gave a message for Peridan to take back to Narnia. It had nothing to do with birds and rescue attempts -- just family, and love, and the regret of things left unsaid and undone.
Shezan watched, blank-faced, as Peridan took the beaver's front paws in his hands and squeezed them gently. Then he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the beaver, as if hugging a scared and homesick child. "I'm so sorry, Marigold," he said. "But have faith. Aslan will not abandon you. Even if the worst comes to pass, all those who love him will meet in his country at last."
"Thank you," Marigold Beaver whispered.
Shezan turned away.
---------------------------------------------
End Part Two
---------------------------------------------
Part 3
Author:
edenfallingRecipient
lady_songsmithRating: PG-13
Possible Spoilers: no plot spoilers, extensive use of background and settings from The Horse and His Boy
Warnings: background presence of slavery, discussion of and planning for something equivalent to human sacrifice
Summary: In the fourteenth year of Rishti Tisroc's reign, a demon in the shape of a beaver is captured and brought to Tashbaan. Shezan Tolkheera, high priestess of the goddess Achadith, is given the responsibility of guarding the demon until its sacrifice at the Spring Festival. Complications ensue.
Part 1
---------------------------------------------
Out of Season, part 2
---------------------------------------------
Shezan woke in the faint gray light of false dawn with the impression that an insect was biting her upper arm. She swatted at the itch, only to realize that the spellstone had fallen sideways to lie beside her while she slept and was vibrating against her sheets instead of her skin. Hastily she murmured the word to bring the demon's voice to her ears.
"--don't know, I keep telling you they don't talk to me!" the beaver demon said, sounding, as always, near the brink of tears.
"Try harder," the bird demon said in its scratchy voice. "Your grandparents sheltered the kings and queens when they first came to Narnia, despite what they knew the Witch would do if she discovered them. And they survived, because they didn't panic. They made plans and followed them through. Follow their example, Marigold, and think."
"But Hkreegah--" the beaver demon said, a whine sliding into its voice.
"But nothing," the bird demon snapped, clicking its beak for emphasis. "If there's one thing you do better than anyone I know, it's talk. So talk to the Calormenes. They'll let something slip, even if it's just to shut you up or scare you."
"I hate you," the beaver demon said sullenly. "I don't believe you're trying to save me at all. I bet you're the one who betrayed us -- Captain Dar said he'd never seen a storm blow up like that, and if you'd been flying patrols like you were supposed to, we wouldn't have been blow all the way south to Calormen. It's your fault I'm going to die."
"Don't be an idiot. If I'd been out flying close enough to spot that storm, it might have sucked me in, and anyway, I was asleep. You may have noticed that people can't stay awake forever," the bird demon said. "What happened, happened, and all we can do is deal with the consequences. Now. Queen Susan has sent an ambassador to Tashbaan to parlay with the Calormenes. He should arrive tomorrow. Maybe that will do you some good and maybe it won't, but at the very least he may learn something useful."
"Like what kind of knife they'll use to kill me?" the beaver demon said, still sullen.
"Like where the sacrifice will take place," the bird demon said. "I have to go before the sun rises and someone notices me here. One visit from a bird is random chance. Two might begin to raise suspicions. Keep your eyes and ears open, and I'll be back tomorrow morning."
Shezan heard the rustle of wings as the bird demon flew away.
"I hate her," the beaver demon muttered to itself. "I really, really hate her. Why did she get away? She's the one who always talked about adventures and raiding slave ships! I was just the cabin girl, and Captain Dar said it was just a little trip to Terebinthia. I'm not a pirate! Hkreegah should be locked up here, not me."
It sniffled, and there was a peculiar chewing, snapping sound -- biting on a stick? Then the demon whispered, so soft as to be nearly inaudible, "I didn't mean it. I don't want anyone to die. I just want to go home."
It began to weep.
Shezan whispered the terminating word and let go of the spellstone.
She had a morning invocation to perform.
---------------
As the warmth of the afternoon slipped into the cool of evening, freshened by a perfume-laden breeze from the upriver gardens, Shezan entered the palace in search of her grandfather. She had hoped he would be in his private chambers, but when she unlocked the door, the rooms proved empty. Therefore, he was playing politics, and given the situation, he was most likely with Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever), Ahoshta Tarkaan, Malindra Takhun, Prince Rabadash, or some combination of those four.
Shezan had no desire to speak with any of them tonight.
Nonetheless, she stopped a passing courtier and asked where the Tisroc had chosen to dine this evening. Then she walked through the corridors, courtyard, and grand halls of the new palace, ignoring their grandeur and beauty with the ease of lifelong familiarity, until she reached the small, private Honeycomb Pavilion, so named for the singular construction of its ceiling: a receding nest of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny plaster hollows, outlined by jagged geometric plaster stalactites. The outer surface appeared to be a normal ribbed dome in red sandstone, resting on eight pillars, one at each corner of the raised stone dais.
Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever) reclined on a stout, cushioned sofa, the heavy flesh of his body nearly hidden by the elaborate layers and embroidered frills of his robes. Now and again he reached a lazy hand down to the table set before him and ate a sweetmeat or raised his glass and drank a long swallow of sweet red wine. Ahoshta Tarkaan sat cross-legged on a cushion, a glass of wine at his side, and Axartha Tarkaan -- granted a most extraordinary honor, both for his advanced age and the long friendship between him and Rishti -- sat on an old camp chair, made of canvas on a hinged wooden frame so it was easily folded and carried from place to place. He had neither wine nor food to hand. Four guards stood watch, one at each path leading to the pavilion, and a slave knelt by Rishti's feet, ready to serve.
Ahoshta was speaking in a low voice about the ever-present worry of unrest in the western provinces, and the new worry of what to do with the soldiers who had grown accustomed to war during the endless rebellions and succession wars. Shezan stopped at the base of the three stone steps up to the pavilion, the guard's sword lowered to symbolically block her approach. She clapped her hands.
When the Tisroc (may he live forever) turned his attention toward her, Shezan knelt and pressed her forehead to the stones of the path for a count of nine. Then she straightened and folded her hands on her thighs, but remained kneeling.
"Your granddaughter is most correct in her behavior, O my friend," Rishti Tisroc said in a calm, unhurried voice -- the tone of one who knew all things were within his power, and thus had no need to indulge in the worries or frustrations of lesser men. "You, however, might have thought to inform me that you expected her presence. I should have requested my chief wife to attend us, that she might be enlightened with the elevated sentiments of religion."
Ahoshta twitched briefly at Rishti's words.
Axartha smiled. "O my master, my granddaughter goes where she will when the goddess calls. And I, for one, would not have it said that Malindra Takhun takes more interest in talk of retired soldiers than is, perhaps, seemly for one whose repute rests on her graciousness and beauty rather than her strength of arms."
Ahoshta twitched again.
"Your concern for my wife's good name pleases me, O most loyal Axartha," Rishti said, raising his glass to his lips. He drank, then added, "I also am concerned for my family's reputation. While nineteen sons are a great blessing from the gods, at times I could wish for somewhat less favor. The fiery passion of youth, as the poet Izfadil has said, can easily leap the stones of reason and ignite the wildfire of violence."
Axartha smiled, but Shezan could see the tightness around her grandfather's eyes, and she knew he was wondering whether Rishti knew about Rabadash's plans, and if so, how much.
"In any case," Rishti continued, "I wish to contemplate the slow birth of night, as Zardeenah's stars peer through the darkness of Azaroth's enveloping cloak. Leave now and we will discuss the best disposition of the western armies on the morrow."
"To hear is to obey," Axartha said, and attempted to rise without upsetting his flimsy chair. Shezan clambered to her feet and moved to help him, but the guard stopped her on the lowest of the three steps. The waiting slave lent a hand instead.
Shezan slid her shoulder under her grandfather's arm when he reached the base of the steps.
Ahoshta had remained on his cushion, watching Axartha's halting progress with a badly hidden smile. Now Rishti Tisroc stirred himself and noticed his junior advisor still cluttering the Honeycomb Pavilion with his presence.
"Ahoshta Tarkaan, when I dismiss my friend, I wish to be alone. See that you cease to presume," the Tisroc said in his placid voice. The guards all took one step up toward the dais, hands on their swords.
Ahoshta scrambled to his feet and snatched his cushion from the stones. "To hear is to obey, O my master," he said, and hurried past Shezan and Axartha into the surrounding garden.
Shezan did not bother to hide her smile.
She and her grandfather spoke of inconsequential things -- the weather, the perpetual ache in his feet and knees, the difficulty of finding cooks who could satisfy Rishti Tisroc's appetite without inducing indigestion -- until they reached his chambers and sat on the wide marble rim of the fountain in his private courtyard, letting the splash of water and the singing of his caged nightingales cover their voices.
"O my grandfather, does the Tisroc (may he live forever) suspect Rabadash, or was he speaking of Prince Ilragesh and Malindra Takhun?" Shezan asked.
Axartha shrugged. "Who can say? For now, it is enough that he suspects someone, and that his partiality toward his chief wife has not blinded him to her ambitions. I will continue to work on Ahoshta so our voices will be in harmony and thus point Rishti's attention where it should go. But enough of my work, O delight of my days. Tell me what has passed with you since last we spoke." He patted the folds of white linen draped over Shezan's shoulder with a trembling hand.
Shezan told him about the plan to hold the demon's sacrifice outdoors, where more people could see the victory of the gods over a minion of the Accursed Lion, and, not incidentally, where more witnesses would make it problematic for Rabadash to strike his father.
"That was well done," Axartha said.
"It was Falna Tolkheera's idea," Shezan corrected. She enjoyed her grandfather's praise, but not for accomplishments that belonged to others.
"Perhaps she proposed it, but you saw the advantage and chose correctly," Axartha said, patting Shezan's shoulder again. "If you had been a son, there would be no need for me to fear for Calormen after my death. I know you would easily outwit Ahoshta and give wise counsel to Rishti (may he live forever) and to Rabadash in his turn. Even now, I sleep easier knowing you hold a high position in your own name and cannot be removed from Rabadash's circle by someone assigning your husband to a distant province. It was, I admit, well done to speak your vows to Achadith, though I thought it the foolish rebellion of youth at the time."
"You flatter me," Shezan said, unsure how else to respond.
"Flattery is an exaggeration or outright lie calculated to bring advantage to the flatterer," Axartha said, steel sliding into his voice as distaste spread sour across his face. "I speak the truth, and the only advantage I seek is for you to trust yourself as I trust you, O my granddaughter. Now. The twelfth hour approaches, and you should return to the temple complex. Tonight is the new moon, is it not?"
"When Zardeenah bows to Achadith," Shezan agreed, on more solid footing when discussing the rituals she knew in her breath and bones. "Deel Tolkheera is preparing now, doing what is needful in Zardeenah's honor. Achadith simply waits to receive the sickle and the bowl, which can be done by anyone sworn to her service. My part comes at the first hour of day."
"Nonetheless, it is best for you to be seen as the Great Queen's representative in this world," Axartha said. "And my old bones could use a rest. I will not keep you simply to relieve an old man's boredom." He pressed his hands on the marble and began to lever himself upright.
Shezan helped him indoors, where a slave took over the job of preparing Axartha for bed.
Shezan watched for a minute to ensure that all was well, then began her journey back through the palace to Achadith's temple, where she ritually cleaned her feet, her hands, and her face before waiting at the doors to receive the bowl and sickle from Deel's hands.
It wasn't until she laid the symbols of the moon into the water at the feet of Achadith's statue that she realized she had, once again, forgotten to tell anyone about the bird demon and its hope of disrupting the sacrifice.
---------------
The night was filled with noise and motion as Shezan and her fellow priestesses led a score of initiates through the rites that marked Achadith's power as expressed in the moonless sky. As the twelfth hour of night gave way to the first hour of morning -- which was nearly synonymous with dawn, two days from the border between winter and spring -- Shezan led the procession across the temple complex to Zardeenah's shrine, where she returned the silver bowl and sickle to Deel in a mirror of Achadith returning the moon to the sky.
Then she performed the morning invocation before Achadith's statue, allowing the initiates to watch the steps and listen to the hymn. Usually they watched one of the lesser priestesses perform the public invocation in the outer shrine, but some of these girls might become Tolkheeras of lesser temples elsewhere in the empire, and so they would need to know the secret rituals that only those sworn to the gods were permitted to see.
When she finished, Shezan returned to her chambers and slept until noon.
Upon rising, she delegated the preparations for the Spring Festival to Muthori, who promptly passed most of them on to the other priestesses and the initiates. Shezan left them to iron out the details and went in search of her milk-brother.
This proved more difficult than she had expected, since Rabadash had taken the gift of clouds like a flat gray veil over the sky to train his companions and their armsmen in various cavalry and chariot maneuvers without worrying over the blinding glare of sun on sand. There was no room within Tashbaan itself for such things -- the island was entirely given over to buildings and gardens, with the streets as narrow as possible and most markets set up within rented courtyards rather than the public squares one saw in other cities -- and so the army camps and training grounds lay downstream on either side of the river. Rabadash was on the desert side today, so that was where Shezan went, first by palanquin and then on horseback. Riding had never been one of her greater skills, but she had traveled to Ulvaan and back, and joined in numerous pleasure excursions over the years, and she was perfectly able to sit a horse for half an hour.
She still failed to find Rabadash himself, since he was busy with his play-fighting. Ilgamuth Tarkaan, however, was sitting cross-legged under a scrubby olive tree at the edge of the flat, sandy chariot field, reading a treatise on the First Brothers' War, which had nearly broken Calormen in half after Idrath World-Conqueror's untimely death. His horse was tethered to a nearby stake, his companions' various saddlebags were strewn around in careless disarray, and an open bottle of wine sat on the dusty ground at his side.
Ilgamuth looked up at the sound of hoof beats and smiled at Shezan. His scarred lip twisted half the expression into more of a sneer, but Shezan had learned to see around that in the years since he had been at court.
"Shezan Tolkheera, what brings you to this wasteland to grace my unworthy eyes with the glory of your presence?" Ilgamuth asked, closing his book and setting it by the wine bottle.
"Mercy brings me, O most worthy Tarkaan," Shezan said, returning his smile. "The Spring Festival approaches. In past years, Prince Rabadash has sought me out to spend long hours complaining of the crowds, the noise, and the pointlessness of honoring Tash with the death of a placid beast instead of with a glorious battle. This year, I thought I would save him the trouble and seek him out instead."
Shame flashed over Ilgamuth's face for a moment before he veiled it with mild curiosity. So Rabadash was still contemplating patricide, and Ilgamuth was sensible to the gravity of that crime. Despite that, Shezan did not expect him to betray Rabadash's confidence. When Tarkaans swore loyalty to a Tisroc or a prince, that bond outlasted death. To break it was to condemn oneself to the host of unquiet dead who, lacking the favor of the gods, were easy prey for the Accursed Lion and his demon hordes.
"The prince, upon whom may the gods bestow luck, is perhaps learning that he cannot treat the great festivals the way he did as a boy," Ilgamuth ventured. "They are of greater moment and portent for a man in the fullness of his strength."
"Perhaps so," Shezan agreed, lightly. "If so, I rejoice in the change. Rabadash has long been the most excellent of generals -- was it not he who destroyed the rebel army in the province of Surnar, so their comrades could be cornered at Teebeth for the final blow? If he matches wisdom to his strength, his future will be bright."
"I will convey your words to him, O jewel of the goddess," Ilgamuth said, bowing slightly from the waist. "While we wait for him and my other companions to tire their horses, will you not dismount, sit, and share a loaf of bread and this bottle of wine with me? For the day, though cloudy, is nonetheless warm, and refreshment is more welcome in company."
"O most excellent of flatterers, I will," Shezan said, laughing, and swung her leg over the saddle to dismount.
She and Ilgamuth spent a pleasant half hour discussing the early history of Calormen, jumping from war to politics to religion and back. He had a quick mind and a deft turn of words, he was a strong soldier, and he was pleasing to look upon, despite his scars. Shezan thought, half seriously, of venturing a joke on how a true man would be fighting with his companions despite his still-healing wounds, just to see if Ilgamuth would react favorably. She had had no interest in the marriage her mother had attempted to arrange when she was fifteen, but unlike young Tarkheenas, a priestess could choose a partner for herself. She could do far worse than Ilgamuth Tarkaan -- assuming she wished a husband at all. A man would divert her attention from the goddess and from politics, but perhaps now that she had reached her goals, she could afford to be less single-minded.
Before Shezan could decide one way or the other, the rapid drumbeat of a galloping horse announced the presence of a messenger in a hurry. The man pulled his panting horse to a stop not one stride away from them, slid to the ground, and knelt in a hasty obeisance.
"Yes, get up, what is it?" Ilgamuth said irritably.
"O my master and O my mistress," the messenger said without raising his head, "the Tisroc (may he live forever) requests the presence of his eldest son in one hour when he gives audience to the ambassador from Narnia, lately arrived in Tashbaan."
"A pox on Narnia," Ilgamuth grumbled. "Why could it not have remained a frozen and inaccessible legend until after our time?"
"The gods willed otherwise," Shezan said philosophically, though she shared the sentiment.
"So they did," Ilgamuth agreed. "Ah well, I will interrupt my prince and bring him home. Will you wait for our wretched procession, O most noble Tolkheera, or will you avoid our inevitable stench and foul tempers?"
Shezan smiled and stood, brushing dust from her split linen skirts. "Since you have defined the options with such a clear imbalance, how can I help but choose the one you hold out as the course of wisdom? Tell Rabadash I will see him in the palace."
Ilgamuth offered his hand to help her mount and ordered the messenger to serve as her escort back to Tashbaan. As Shezan rode away, she saw him untether his own horse and ride toward the cloud of dust that marked Rabadash's chariots, a small signal horn held loosely in his hand.
"What cause did the Narnian barbarian give for his presence in our country?" Shezan asked the messenger. If he didn't know, that would imply either that Rishti Tisroc or her grandfather wished the details kept secret, or that Rabadash had been summoned in such haste that the details were not yet known. Either would be interesting.
But the messenger answered readily: "To plead for the life of the demon taken at Elith, O my mistress, and to speak of trade and alliance, perhaps even marriage."
Now that was even more interesting, especially when put together with what Shezan had overheard the beaver and bird demons speak of... which she still needed to tell her grandfather, so he would not try negotiating with only half the knowledge he needed.
Shezan dug her heels into her horse's sides, urging it into a trot. The faster she reached the palace, the better.
---------------
Shezan barely had time to comb dust from her hair and rebraid it into a single long plait before her palanquin arrived at the gates of the palace. The guards knew her, and normally let her walk where she wished, but this time one of them stepped into her path, bowed, and told her that the Grand Vizier requested her presence immediately, and he would take her where she needed to go. Shezan allowed him to stand, and followed.
The guard led her through the Hall of Black Marble, the Hall of Pillars, and half of the Hall of Statues. He turned aside before the colonnade that led to the main doors of the throne room, slipping through a small side door, easily overlooked in the general grandeur of the rooms. This led, by means of a narrow passage with a low ceiling and no windows (that was nonetheless decorated in intricate painted plasterwork, illuminated by a single flickering lamp), to a side chamber at the back of the throne room where Axartha Tarkaan was waiting.
The guard bowed and withdrew, leaving Shezan and her grandfather alone.
"O my granddaughter and O the prop of my age, we have no time to talk," Axartha said hastily. "Prince Rabadash rode his men straight up through the city and thus arrived faster than I and Ahoshta expected. Even now he is entering the throne room to stand beside Rishti (may he live forever), and the Narnian messenger will be brought in any minute now. I need you to watch the barbarian for any signs of sorcery or communion with the Accursed Lion, and also to restrain Rabadash should he seem on the verge of rash words or actions. You have my full trust and confidence."
He grabbed hold of Shezan's arm with surprising force and tugged her toward the curtained archway into the throne room. Wrong-footed, Shezan allowed him to maneuver her onto the dais near the Tisroc's right hand. She found herself standing next to Rabadash, who looked even hotter and dustier than she felt, though he had apparently found time to change into a fresh tunic and trousers and wrap a bit of fabric around his helmet by way of a turban.
"This is a farce," Rabadash muttered in Shezan's ear. They were nearly of a height, so he could do so without any betraying stoop.
"This is your father's command," Shezan murmured back, while her grandfather shuffled behind the throne to sit, in his flimsy camp chair, at Rishti Tisroc's left hand.
"As I said, a farce," Rabadash repeated. He might have continued in that vein, but Rishti Tisroc waved a languid hand from where he lounged on his cushioned throne, and slaves began to beat the great drums on either side of the entrance. Slowly the massive copper door swung open, revealing a most peculiar figure.
The Narnian had skin as pale as the unquiet dead -- even paler than slaves of northern birth, or the merchants and sailors from the eastern island who sometimes accompanied their goods upriver from the harbor. His hair was the dead color of straw, and his eyes a strange, washed-out gray as if the long winter of Narnia had leached them of pigment. He wore outlandish clothes: a long tunic of wool dyed a blinding bright green, no trousers to cover his legs between his boots and his knees, and neither helmet nor turban nor cap to cover his head. He wore no sword in the Tisroc's presence, naturally, but when he reached the base of the dais where Rishti sat in his throne, and Shezan and Rabadash stood, he did not press his head to the floor, nor even kneel, Instead, he made a simple bow, as if the Tisroc were no higher than an ordinary Tarkaan.
Then again, what did a barbarian know of courtesy?
"Your majesty," the barbarian said, without waiting to be announced or acknowledged, "the Queen Susan of Narnia has sent a letter to you as a brother king, touching on the subject of her vassal, one Marigold Beaver, lately captured and unlawfully imprisoned on false charges of piracy. She requests your favor in reviewing the case and releasing the aforementioned vassal, and in return offers a treaty and trade agreement advantageous to both your nation and hers."
Now he knelt and presented a rolled and tied piece of parchment he pulled from between his tunic and belt.
Shezan stepped on Rabadash's foot before he could react. "Silence," she hissed in his ear. "The insult is to your father; therefore let your father answer."
She ignored the sidelong glare he sent her way. In another minute or nine, he would realize she was right and had saved him endless trouble and embarrassment. He was hasty, of that there was no doubt, but Rabadash was far from stupid.
"Ahoshta," the Tisroc said, gesturing toward the letter. Ahoshta Tarkaan hurried from where he stood beside Axartha, snatched the letter from the barbarian's hands, and presented it to Rishti with an obsequious bow.
The Tisroc slipped the ribbon off, unrolled the letter, and read it in a leisurely fashion. Then he handed it to Axartha, who also read it. Shezan studied her grandfather's face, but though she knew him better than anyone save the Tisroc himself (may he live forever), she could not find any change in his expression. He had far too much experience in court politics to reveal himself so easily.
The barbarian had no such training. His restlessness was obvious to the smallest child. His lack of hope -- as if he already knew what response would come -- was equally obvious.
Axartha handed the letter back to Rishti, who crumpled it in his hand and tossed the wadded parchment to the floor at his feet. "My answer is no," he said, his lack of emphasis somehow giving his words more conviction than any great emotion could have done. "The demon was lawfully taken -- its ship entered our waters without the proper stamps and papers, and one of the Elith coastal patrol captains recognized several men as part of a raiding party encountered in previous years. A demon is also an abomination unto Tash and thus doubly deserves to die. As for the trade concessions your mistress offers, they are already rightfully ours whatever your people choose to believe. As for the offer of marriage, it is insulting beyond belief that I should choose to bind the blood of Tash to the family of a mongrel warlord who holds a land smaller than any of the twenty-seven provinces within my rule."
The barbarian clearly wanted to protest, but he managed to hold his tongue by his own will.
"You may, if you wish, remain for the Spring Festival to witness the death of the demon," the Tisroc continued. "Otherwise, return to Narnia and tell your mistress that the game of kings is not for fools and dreamers, but for those who can see the world as it is and bend it to their will. When she can do that, I may begin to listen."
The barbarian rose to his feet and bowed from the waist. "I will remain to bear witness to Marigold Beaver's fate, your majesty," he said. "I ask only that you remember your words when you also bear witness to that moment."
"I forget nothing," Rishti Tisroc said in his cool, placid voice. "Guards, show the barbarian to the guest chambers in the old palace."
Four men immediately stepped forward from their positions against the walls and surrounded the Narnian. Two of them fell in beside him, while one walked ahead and the fourth behind. They marched the barbarian out of the throne room almost as if he were a prisoner -- the only difference, in truth, was that they had neither seized his arms and legs, nor chained his wrists and ankles. The symbolic effect was much the same.
"The Grand Vizier and his second may stay," the Tisroc said to the room at large. "The rest of you, leave us." The guards and courtiers slowly filed out through the still-open copper doors. Rabadash and Shezan exchanged a speaking look, then ducked out through the small back corridor.
"I repeat: farce," Rabadash said for the third time as he strode toward his chambers, Shezan trailing at his heels. "My father knew he would refuse, your grandfather knew, that useless blister Ahoshta knew, every guard and courtier knew, even the barbarian knew! There was no need to call me away from training for this. My men need to be prepared for any circumstance, yet lately we are interrupted more and more often. It grows intolerable."
"Perhaps you should request permission to undertake a small campaign against the minor southern lords in Rachegra province, who have been refusing to pay their full taxes these past two years," Shezan suggested. "That would provide valuable experience for your companions, win glory for you, and ensure that no court politics would interrupt your plans."
"What, and leave Ilragesh to steal my place at his abominable mother's prodding?" Rabadash demanded. "No. Never."
"You could take him with you," Shezan ventured.
"No!" Rabadash said, and kicked the wall, breaking off a delicate bit of plaster molding. "He will never make a soldier, and I won't have deadweight in my army. Especially not deadweight that is always looking to stab me in the back or slit my throat while I sleep. His mother would force me to assign him a command, and do you know how easy it is for a commander to ensure that a battle is lost and an enemy killed in the confusion? I won't have Ilragesh within five miles of any campaign I lead."
"I bow to your knowledge of war, O my prince," Shezan said as they approached the door to Rabadash's chambers. Ilgamuth was sitting on a low stone bench nearby, reading; he looked up at the sound of their footsteps. Two other Tarkaans standing next to him also turned. "I will leave you to the company of your friends," Shezan said. She bowed from the waist, touching her forehead to symbolize pressing her head to the floor, then turned and began to make her way out of the palace.
Behind her, Rabadash murmured something to his friends. Male laughter filled the corridor, loud and full of life.
---------------
As the afternoon wore on, Shezan attempted to work out the details of which priestesses and initiates would be assigned to which rituals and at what times during the Spring Festival. Normally that kind of puzzle came easily to her, but today her mind seemed caught in sand, so that every step was a struggle and every track erased as soon as her metaphorical feet left the ground.
Eventually she gave up and went to the inner shrine, where she knelt before the goddess and prayed for this unseasonable confusion to be lifted. For a moment she thought she heard the echo of Achadith's voice, as if the goddess had spoken from a great distance, but no words resolved from the sweet cacophony and Shezan concluded that she had simply heard the muffled sound of a gong or a bell. Her mind still felt gritty and slow when she finished her prayer and splashed water from the pool at the goddess's feet to wet her eyes and clear them, but if Achadith chose not to answer, Shezan would do her best to soldier on regardless.
The spellstone vibrated as she walked back to her chambers, startling her -- Shezan had nearly forgotten that she had the means to listen in on the beaver demon. She whispered the necessary word, and a foreign tune floated to her ears. Something about green rushes and lost love, melodramatic and silly, rather like some of the peasant folk tunes from the western provinces.
Shezan unlocked the door of Soorabadeen Takhun's contemplation chamber and glared down at the demon, which abruptly fell silent. "The soldiers said you talked," Shezan said. "Not that you sang."
"I don't have anyone to talk to," the beaver demon said, petulantly, drawing itself upright on its hind legs with its fish-scale tail stretched out behind for balance. "The soldiers just stopped giving me water. You people hit me if I try to talk. Are you going to hit me now?"
It waddled back a few steps and picked up a peeled twig in its hand-like paw. "I can hit you back! I could bite you! I bet you taste awful, because you're an awful person, but I could do it anyway!" the demon said. Its false bravado mimicked the behavior of girls a few years away from the transition to womanhood, pretending that they were already grown and independent.
"A man from Narnia came to Tashbaan today. He had a message from your Queen Susan to the Tisroc (may he live forever)," Shezan said, wondering how the demon would react. Would it manage to fake surprise?
"Oh. What was the message?" the beaver demon asked.
No surprise. It really did act like a child. Did demons have children? If the bird demon had spoken truth, then yes, they did -- it had mentioned the beaver demon's grandparents. But demons weren't properly alive. They were the slaves of the Accursed Lion, caught in the halfway lands between this world and heaven. The dead could not create life. Neither could demons, not even the Accursed Lion, which was the chief cause of the envy and hatred they bore the gods.
Yet this beaver demon claimed to have ancestors.
"It doesn't matter what the message said. The answer was no," Shezan said curtly. "You will not be ransomed or rescued. The day after tomorrow, you will be sacrificed to the nine gods."
"I hate you," the beaver demon said, bending the peeled twig between its forepaws. "If you were on a ship that got blown to Narnia in a storm, we wouldn't call you a pirate and lock you up and kill you. We wouldn't sacrifice you to any gods. The only people who do that are evil, like the White Witch was evil. She tried to kill Aslan but it didn't work, and it won't work if you try to kill me for your stupid gods. Someone will save me and take me home."
"No one will save you," Shezan said, folding her arms and glaring down at the demon. "Whatever your Accursed Lion did to cheat death, he will not do the same for you. It is not in his nature to share his secrets or his power. This we know from the mouths of the gods themselves -- both Tash and Achadith have come to earth and spoken to the line of the Tisroc, revealing the nature of the world.
"One day the Lion will be bound to the earth outside the wall of heaven and the vultures of Tash and the eagles of Achadith will pluck out his eyes and liver every morning and evening to the end of eternity," she continued. "This will happen. It is written and promised. Without the Lion's sorcery to protect you, your land will come to nothing, destroyed in fire and ice. But the righteous of my land will pass through the gates of heaven and follow the gods to a new world, as we once followed them to Calormen."
Shezan drew a deep breath. "So you see, it is better for you to die now in the service of the gods than to share the fate of those who follow the Accursed Lion."
The beaver demon looked at her with a child's blank lack of understanding. "Aslan's not cursed," it said. "And no eagles or vultures would touch him, not if they were Talking Beasts. We remembered him for a hundred years of winter, no matter what the Witch did to make us turn away. You don't make any sense."
There was no sense arguing theology with a child. They weren't old enough for logic.
"Don't sing anymore," Shezan said, and shut the door with great force as she stepped back into the corridor.
"I don't care what grandmother says, humans don't make any sense," she heard the beaver mutter through the spellstone. "Not even Queen Susan, if all she did was send a letter. But I'll be brave like Hkreegah said. I'll be brave like Aslan."
Shezan muttered the word to end the spell. Then she dumped the Spring Festival scheduling details in Muthori's lap and spent the evening back at Achadith's feet.
If the goddess spoke, Shezan failed to hear.
---------------
As before, the bird demon came to visit during the gray light of false dawn. Shezan woke the spellstone halfway through the conversation, when its vibration finally nudged it close enough to her arm to touch skin and irritate her into awareness.
"--soon as you're on the altar, or whatever they're going to set up since I think they're going to improvise on the steps outside the biggest temple," the bird demon was saying. "The only problem is if they chain you to a piece of furniture. As long as it's a human holding the chain, we're fine. Ellen can claw up a person, no trouble, and then we just have to get you over the river to where the others will be waiting."
"But won't the Calormenes know?" the beaver demon said plaintively. "They don't notice you because there's nothing strange about gulls near a river, but even Calormenes can't be stupid enough to miss an eagle swooping down to grab me in the middle of a thousand humans. And then they'll follow us and we'll be caught and we'll all die and I'll never get home!"
"That's the best part," the bird demon said in its scratchy voice. "Of course it's strange for a golden eagle to come that close to humans, let alone carry off a yearling beaver. But Queen Susan has been studying Calormen for months now so she can try negotiating for lower tariffs, and she says that eagles are sacred to one of the other Calormene gods -- the one in charge of strange chances and impossible things. So they'll take it as a sign from their gods and let us go."
That was... actually very clever, Shezan admitted. Perhaps this Queen Susan of Narnia was not the fool her letter and her envoy had painted her. Perhaps those were simply for show and distraction. Narnia could not afford war with Calormen, so the barbarian queen used cunning instead of force to achieve her will.
Of course, this Queen Susan's work was for naught, since Shezan knew the truth and could easily foil the would-be rescuers by ensuring the beaver demon was chained to heavy weights of stone or steel, and could denounce the Narnian plot even if, through some mischance, it did go to plan. But still, Shezan thought, Rabadash could stand to learn from the barbarian woman. He had not outgrown his youthful tendency to throw himself into action without considering the consequences, and none of the Tarkheenas he had deigned to flirt with over the years had shown either the desire or the ability to restrain him.
The two demons were still conversing; Shezan hastily returned her attention to their words.
"--try to be quiet so they won't worry about chaining me," the beaver demon was saying, "but they're awfully mean. I don't know if they'll notice. They call me a demon, but they treat me like a dumb beast. Look at this! They're making me eat sticks and raw things all the time. I like salad as much as any beaver, and of course aspen is the best snack and I like to keep my teeth in good condition, but what I really want is some of Grandmother's baked potatoes with butter and chives and sour cream." The wistful longing in its voice was impossible to miss.
"You'll see your grandmother soon enough, along with your parents and all your brothers and sisters," the bird demon promised. "Now remember -- act like you're sad and defeated. If you seem too cheerful, someone may grow suspicious."
"Yes, yes, I know," the beaver demon said. "Oh, go away, Hkreegah. You keep saying you shouldn't be here when people might see."
"And so I shouldn't be," the bird demon agreed. "If all goes well, I won't see you again until you're free. Be brave, Marigold. This will all be done tomorrow, one way or another."
Shezan heard the sound of wings, and broke the listening spell.
She needed to tell Nakdeh and the others to chain the beaver demon during the sacrifice. All the Tolkaars and Tolkheeras were meeting from the fifth hour onward to set the final details of the Festival. She would reveal the Narnians' plot then.
---------------
For the second time within a week, someone interrupted Shezan during the morning invocation. This person was more subtle than the initiates had been -- contenting herself with a single loud cough, a pointed clearing of her throat, and twice the faint chime of bells as she shifted her position -- but Shezan found herself even more annoyed. The initiates were girls, and they had been whipped into a loss of composure by the demon's presence. An adult should know better.
Shezan returned the onyx bowl to its niche and turned. "Malindra Takhun. To what do I owe the honor of your exalted presence?" She did not bow, nor touch her forehead, nor lower her eyes.
Malindra Takhun, a tall, statuesque woman whose sharp bone structure had easily made the transition from youthful beauty to mature elegance, frowned minutely and tapped her lacquered nails against the silk and lace of her dress. "Shezan Tolkheera. To what do I owe the slander you and the Vizier have poured into Ahoshta Tarkaan's ears?" she said, equally direct. "I would never raise my hand against Prince Rabadash. It is foul and dishonorable of you to imply otherwise."
Of course Malindra Takhun would never raise her own hand against Rabadash. That was what intermediaries were for.
"I never said you would stain your hands in such a fashion," Shezan said, striding toward the door of the inner shrine. It was dangerous for anyone to be there without a priestess to draw the goddess's attention -- in fact, it was improper for anyone but a priestess or an initiate to be there at all, which raised the questions of who had let Malindra in, and why. In any case, Shezan's departure forced Malindra to follow.
"Words do not have to be spoken to be heard," Malindra said, taking three long, chiming steps until she was walking at Shezan's side instead of trailing behind her. "I bear you and your family no ill will. We all want what is best for Calormen. Your grandfather's mind is keen, but age has blurred his sight and he sees conspiracy where none exists. I ask you as one woman to another, O most discerning of Tolkheeras, to cease your support for the Vizier's campaign of whispers against me and mine."
"And what of your campaign of whispers against Prince Rabadash, to whom I bear all the love due my brother and all the loyalty due my lord?" Shezan asked, turning down the corridor that led to Soorabadeen Takhun's contemplation chamber.
Malindra cut in front of Shezan and spun on her heel, forcing them both to stop in the middle of the dead-end corridor. "It is no secret that I think Prince Rabadash unfit to rule," she said, raising her right hand and pointing at Shezan's heart to emphasize her words. "He is rash, intemperate, and a slave to romantic passions -- the worst mix of his parents' flaws. My esteemed husband (may he live forever) made a bad first marriage, and though I grieve for his past grief, I think Nurneesh Tarkheena's early death was a blessing to the empire. It would have been a greater blessing if her son had accompanied her into the grave."
Shezan drew breath to argue, but Malindra pressed her hand against Shezan's collarbone and the shock of uninvited contact gave her the space to continue uninterrupted.
"My sons are not perfect. Only the gods are perfect, and I would never blaspheme. But Ilragesh is versed in court politics, and while he has never been to the wars, he knows how to choose generals who will earn victory."
Shezan drew breath again, and Malindra pressed harder. "Ah! Don't interrupt. Moreover, I arranged my son's marriage to a wife whose strengths complement his flaws, and already they have a son. Meanwhile, Prince Rabadash agitates for senseless fights and the only women he seeks out merely indulge him in his folly. It would take a miracle from the gods for him to set his eye on a woman strong enough to rein him in and temper his passion with wisdom. Should he take the throne, his reign would be bloody, expensive, and above all, short -- leaving my son to pick up the shards. I would prefer not to subject Calormen to that fate, and should Ilragesh become Tisroc, he would be pleased to assign Prince Rabadash to fight in all the far-off battles his heart may desire. So. For the sake of our country and both our families, Shezan Tolkheera, I ask you again to cease your foolish stand against me."
Malindra removed her hand, but remained standing too close for comfort. Shezan refused to take a step back. Instead, she gestured to the door of the contemplation chamber, behind Malindra's back, forcing the other woman to turn and take a half-step to the side.
"That is the prison of a woman whose mind followed lines that mirror yours," Shezan said. "I am sure you have heard of Soorabadeen Takhun's fate, and the long, prosperous reign of the son she despised."
"It is foolish to assume history will repeat itself," Malindra said sharply.
"It is equally foolish to ignore history's lessons," Shezan said, her back and shoulders stiff with cold fury. "I would remind you of Chazbardin Tisroc, who accepted his elder brother's oath that he had no interest in the throne, and then spent seven years putting down the rebellions that were raised in his brother's name. If Ilragesh inherits while Rabadash still lives, Calormen will descend into the very chaos that you claim to abhor. Your ambitions require my brother's death. All the clever words in the world will not perfume that truth enough to make it palatable."
"So you accuse me of that crime?" Malindra said, drawing herself up to her full height as if she wanted to look down on Shezan.
Shezan stood pillar-straight, taking full advantage of the two inches she had on Malindra, and spread her hands, palms open and fingers outstretched. "Of assassination? No. No one has died. Of the attempt? Again, no. Your hands, as you say, have never been raised in violence. Of playing politics and dropping whispers into the court like stones into a shallow pool? Yes, but that is both the truth and not a crime. You have nothing to take to Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever) that he does not already know, and you cannot cry slander because I have made no false charge against you."
Malindra was too practiced to grind her teeth or curse, but her elegant face betrayed a certain tightness that said she dearly wished to let her frustration out.
"We will speak of this again," she said.
"To hear is to obey, O most perceptive Takhun," Shezan said, and hid a savage smile at the sour twist to Malindra's face. "However, I have duties to attend to, and I am certain you have people to meet and speak with. I presume you can find your way out as you found your way in, and I wish you a restful day."
Shezan spun on her heel and strode off, never once looking back.
---------------
The final organization for the Spring Festival was run out of Nakdeh Tolkaar's chambers in the great temple, since as the high priest of Tash he was first among equals and also the one who performed the sacrifice of the yearling bull. The high priests of Sokda, Garshomon, and Nur were already there when Shezan arrived, as were Deel, Falna, and Izelichoor. Only the high priest of Azaroth had yet to arrive. Nakdeh had arranged his receiving room to resemble a council chamber, with nine hard-backed chairs arranged around a table, on which a score of diagrams and lists were held down with polished river stones. A pitcher of coffee sat in a basin of melting ice on a low table in the corner, with bowls of honey, cocoa powder, and ground dried chili beside it.
Shezan poured herself a cup of coffee and added a spoonful of honey before taking a seat at the table between Nakdeh and Falna.
Deel and Nakdeh were arguing over the order of the procession, as they did every year. The priests of Tash went first, followed by the priestesses of Achadith, and the priests of Azaroth went last, but the placement of the other gods and goddesses, not to mention the arrangement of people not sworn to any god's service, such as the Tisroc (may he live forever) and his family, had never been formally settled and tended to shift in response to political currents and to how many concessions Deel could wring out of Nakdeh before she went hoarse.
Shezan determinedly ignored the show and set about helping her more practical colleagues arrange less lofty but more important matters, such as certifying the receipt of five hundred barrels of cheap red wine, sending initiates to make sure the doors to all but the public areas of the temples were locked, authorizing payment for the masons who had constructed a temporary altar on the eastern steps leading down from Tash's temple to the great courtyard, and so on and so forth for nearly three hours. At some point a pair of servants arrived with platters of finger food, since everyone was far too busy to stop for a proper lunch.
Shezan had just stood to replenish her coffee when a male initiate knocked on the frame of the open door, cleared his throat, and said, "O my masters and O my mistresses, the barbarian envoy seeks an audience with Shezan Tolkheera, on the matter of the captive demon."
Shezan glanced around the room to see if anyone had prior knowledge of this, but her colleagues seemed as puzzled as she was. She set down her empty cup and said, "I will deal with this. Remember that I must be standing beside the altar on the steps, to guard against sorcery. Otherwise I make no requests."
"Yes, yes, it will be done," Nakdeh said, waving a careless hand before resuming his endless argument with Deel.
"I'll make sure of it," Falna added, which was much more reassuring.
"Lead on," Shezan said to the initiate, and followed him through the shining splendor of the great temple to the graceful archway and colonnade that joined the seat of Tash's power to the temple of his queen. The Narnian messenger was waiting just inside the doors, smiling awkwardly at the passing initiates, who stared and whispered to each other behind their hands. One of the temple guards stood at his side, glaive held loosely in one hand and a dagger and flail hung from his belt.
"You requested an audience," Shezan said, discarding the usual courtesies.
"I did, and I thank you for agreeing to meet with me. The Grand Vizier said you were charged as Marigold Beaver's jailor, since demons fall within your goddess's sphere of influence," the Narnian said. He bowed from the waist, but something in his posture and the set of his shoulders gave the impression that he had no real understanding of the appropriate degree of honor he should have paid to Shezan, given their respective status, and had simply used a generic greeting. "My name is Peridan," he added as he straightened and met Shezan's gaze.
"If you wish me to release the demon, know, O man of the North, that I cannot, and moreover, I would not even if I could," Shezan said. "Its death is promised to the gods, and the Tisroc (may he live forever) has added his voice to theirs, so both the earth and the heavens speak as one on this matter."
The Narnian grimaced, and did not much bother to hide the expression. "I'm sorry to hear that, my lady, but I can't say I expected anything different. What I wanted to know is if it would be possible for me to see and speak with Marigold Beaver before her execution. Her family sent messages in my care, and I promised to bring her last words home to them."
And again, the implication that the beaver demon was a child, born as human children were -- not a demon coalesced from the chaos that followed the Accursed Lion, which only aped at life. Shezan concealed a frown.
"If I and the guard remain present, you may have your meeting," she said.
The Narnian grimaced again, but nodded. "As you say, my lady. I assume you have a prison somewhere within the palace?"
Shezan had to work harder to hide her frown. The bird demon knew the beaver demon was in Soorabadeen Takhun's contemplation chamber, and had presumably told its fellows and its queen. So how did that same queen's envoy not know such a basic thing as which building the demon was kept in? Or was he better at dissembling than she'd thought, and his previous poor attempts were merely a way to lull her into complacency?
"Rishti Tisroc (may he live forever) has many rooms for those who break his laws and attempt to dissolve order into chaos. However, demons are a matter for the gods; therefore, the demon you seek is held within Achadith's temple," Shezan said. "Come. I will show you."
She set off toward the contemplation chamber, staying within the public areas as long as possible to keep the Narnian out of rooms and corridors where he had no business being. He followed at her heels, turning his head this way and that to take in the columns, the ornate plasterwork, the frescos depicting scenes from the hymns of Achadith, the fountains, and the statues of the goddess in her many aspects. The temple guard trailed silently behind.
"Here," Shezan said when they reached the dead-end corridor with the small, plain door. She lifted the key from its hook and unlocked the door.
The beaver demon was paddling aimlessly in the porcelain tub, facing toward the window and away from the doorway, but it detected some change and slapped the water with its fish-like tail, producing a great surge that nearly spilled out onto the floor and a loud, carrying crack like the snap of a whip. It attempted to duck under the water, but surfaced again a second later, spinning around in the choppy water to face the door.
Its eyes grew round and its mouth opened soundlessly as it caught sight of the Narnian man.
"Marigold Beaver, my name is Peridan," the barbarian said, dropping to one knee just inside the threshold. "Queen Susan sends her respect and sympathy to you, our sister in the love of the Lion, and in recognition of your courage and endurance, she names you a companion of the Order of the Garter." He bowed his head -- a human bowing to a demon. It was abominable.
"I-- but-- I--" the beaver demon stuttered.
"I also bear messages from your family," the Narnian said, lifting his head though he remained down on one knee. "The priestess Shezan has allowed me to bring them to you, though we cannot, unfortunately, speak in the privacy that such missives deserve. Shall I begin?"
"I-- yes," the beaver demon said. "No. Wait. Can we go into the corner?" it said, looking up at Shezan with an expression halfway between aggrieved glare and abject pleading. "I promise we won't whisper, but even though you hate me, can't you let me pretend you're not here? Can you at least turn around?"
Shezan met the beaver demon's stare evenly. "No. You might pass hand signals or a written message. But the guard will look the other way," she said. The guard immediately turned around and faced out the open door. "And he will close the door," Shezan added. The guard did so.
"You're a horrible person. I hope you wake up one morning and realize how horrible you are, and spend the rest of your life hating yourself, just like I hate you," the beaver demon said. It pulled itself awkwardly over the side of the tub and waddled into the far corner. The Narnian man stood and followed, then crouched down so his face was nearly on a level with the beaver demon when it sat on its hind legs and straightened from its habitual hunch.
"What-- what did my mother say?" the beaver asked in a trembling voice.
Peridan told her.
After a time, when the beaver finished weeping, she gave a message for Peridan to take back to Narnia. It had nothing to do with birds and rescue attempts -- just family, and love, and the regret of things left unsaid and undone.
Shezan watched, blank-faced, as Peridan took the beaver's front paws in his hands and squeezed them gently. Then he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the beaver, as if hugging a scared and homesick child. "I'm so sorry, Marigold," he said. "But have faith. Aslan will not abandon you. Even if the worst comes to pass, all those who love him will meet in his country at last."
"Thank you," Marigold Beaver whispered.
Shezan turned away.
---------------------------------------------
End Part Two
---------------------------------------------
Part 3