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The strains of festive minstrel music chased Beren as she fled the keep for the solitude of the sea. Her slippers were too delicate to cushion her feet against the cobblestone road, her silken dress too thin to protect her from the sharp breeze. She hadn’t thought to retrieve a cloak in her haste to escape the banquet, and there was no chance she would turn back now. Better to suffer the chill of the night than return to the scene of her humiliation.
The road carried her down from the main keep and around the fortifying bastion. She cut across the lawn and, by the time she reached the guard at the smaller eastern gate, had managed to regain some of the control and poise that had carried her through the banquet. The guard required no words, just a nod and a coin, before letting her through. The door closed softly behind her, and Beren let out a strangled breath.
The promontory that held the Galman fortress was on the western side of the island, which meant both eastern gates let out directly onto the sea channel. A narrow road ran along the sea channel, widening to Beren’s left as it approached the main gate. She turned instead to the right, where road and channel both led towards the open sea.
It was quiet here, outside the fortress walls. Despite the guards stationed at intervals along the top of the wall, Beren felt alone for the first time in days. The wind was sharper here, tunneling along the canal. Despite the chill, she began to relax: shoulders dropping, steps slowing. A tear leaked from her eye and she brushed it away impatiently--but the next, she let fall, and the next, until a damp trail led from lashes to chin.
Only once did she let her eyes flutter shut. She pictured again the bland, disinterested look in the king’s eyes at their introduction. She remembered anew how the humiliation had twisted in her gut; an echo of the emotion swelled again, sickeningly strong. Beren forced the memory back down, opened her eyes again and picked up her pace.
By the time she came to the end of the canal-side road, Beren was nearly running. The canal was to her left, the wall to her right--and then, abruptly, both fell away and she was faced only with the open sea and the distant horizon beyond.
The wind was wilder here, tugging her hair from its careful updo and staining her dress with salty spray. Beren didn’t care. She fell to her knees, sobs choking her throat, eyes locked desperately on the horizon as if some answer might be found there. The water was ink-dark, too rough to reflect the blazing stars. But the light of the moon cast a trail over the choppy waves. Which is why she saw, despite her bleary haze of tears:
A boy surfacing desperately from beneath the waves.
There was no sign of where he came from--no ships docked on this side of the island, and certainly not so close to the fortress’s promontory. He disappeared again so quickly she almost believed the sighting to have been nothing but a trick of her eyes, but a moment later she saw again an outstretched arm and the flash of moonlight against bright hair.
A mermaid? But she recognized now the movements of his arms as the type of swimming strokes that mermaids did not use. He was growing more confident, drawing steadily closer to the shore. Beren dashed an arm across her eyes, her own misery temporarily forgotten. She rose to her feet again, leaving the road to pick her way over the rocks in her desire to get a better view.
One of the guards called out a warning to her, an abrupt reminder that Beren was not as alone as she’d pretended. She turned to him, waved an arm in the direction of the sea and shouted, “There’s a boy out there!”
There came a responding cry of alarm, but Beren had already turned back to the sea to fix her eyes upon the boy once more.
By the time the guards’ boat reached him, the boy had closed half the distance to the shore but was struggling to keep his head afloat. Beren watched anxiously as the guards heaved him into their dinghy. She could see him coughing and spluttering all the way back.
Dimos, captain of the watch, was waiting for the boat at the canal’s edge. Beren joined him, fingers twisting nervously in her skirts. She glanced up at his stern face, looked away quickly, and then asked, “Where did he come from?”
Dimos frowned, and he did not answer. And then the boat was drawing alongside the canal wall, and men were tossing ropes back and forth, and the boy was being guided up a rope ladder.
He stumbled forward, shivering in his wet clothes. His bright eyes were glazed as they roamed over the assembled men, so that Beren would have sworn he was not truly seeing anything at all--until those eyes locked on her, and sharpened. He looked away again immediately, swallowed, and then met her eyes deliberately to ask in a rough voice, “Please, where is this?”
She felt pinned beneath his gaze, and it was all she could do to breathe out, “Galma.” And because she was watching this boy as closely as he was watching her, she saw how his brow creased briefly before smoothing out again into a bland mask.
“Let us get you inside,” said Dimos, one hand falling on the boy’s shoulder. “We need to get you dry and warm.”
The boy swallowed again, dragging his eyes from Beren. “Yes,” he said, “Thank you.”
When Beren finally managed to convince Dimos to grant her access to the barracks, the boy had already been issued a dry change of clothes and stationed on a stool by the fire in the captain’s office. He looked half asleep, with his back curled and his head propped on one fist as he stared into the flames.
She hesitated in the doorway, afraid of intruding.
But the boy said, “Please, come in,” and straightened, his exhaustion slipping so easily behind a mask that she might not have guessed he was tired at all if she hadn’t arrived when she did.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Beren said.
“You’re not,” said the boy so earnestly that she at last stepped into the room. It was a small, utilitarian office; the captain’s old oak desk sat beneath a single sea-glass window, his chair tucked between it and the wall so he could look out into the room as he worked. The cast-iron stove sat in the opposite corner, the glow of its fire casting the room in dim red light and twisting shadows.
The captain’s desk chair was the only seat in his office, aside from the occupied stool. Beren felt oddly silly, sitting there with the large desk between her and the boy, like an imposter pretending at authority. She occupied herself with smoothing out the fabric of her dress, suddenly shy of meeting the boy’s curious gaze.
He had turned on the stool, putting his back to the fire to continue watching her. “Are you the one that spotted me? The girl on the shore?”
“Yes,” said Beren, feeling subconscious in her salt-stained dress. She still didn’t look up. “Are you alright? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” he allowed, “Thank you.”
When he said nothing more, Beren bit her lip. Hesitantly peeking up at him, she asked, “There weren’t any ships in sight, but you were so far from the shore. Where did you come from?”
His brow creased again as he shook his head. She couldn’t tell whether that meant he didn’t know or did not wish to say. It occurred to her that it must be overwhelming to be pulled out of the sea and ushered into a fortress’s barracks, where she was surely not the first person to greet the boy with questions. So she swallowed her curiosity and said, “I’m Beren.”
“Peter,” said the boy.
“You needn’t worry,” she continued, “These are my father’s men. They’ll give you whatever you need to recover.”
“Your father?”
“The Duke of Galma.”
To say that he gave her a closer look would be inaccurate, for the boy’s eyes had not left her since Beren first entered the room. But there was a new understanding in his eyes, now. “My lady,” he said, and then, with a touch of amusement, “I suppose that explains the very fine clothes.”
Beren looked down at her dress again and blushed heavily. She felt obligated to explain herself, as if afraid the boy might otherwise believe she always dressed so impractically. “It was for the banquet.”
“And that explains the music in the distance.”
She hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out, but the strains of revelry could just be heard through the window. “It’s the first night of the tournament,” she explained further. “It’s being thrown in the king’s honour.”
“Really? The…Narnian king?”
“Yes, of course.” She peered closer at his face, but he was as hard to read as ever. “They arrived three days ago. No one even knew he was coming until we received a messenger falcon two days before that. I always thought Narnians were scared of the sea.”
A strange expression had crossed the boy’s face, and he turned away from her at last to stare thoughtfully at nothing. Softly, he said, “Not all of them.”
He had a very good profile, she thought, admiring the angle of his chin and the lines of his cheekbones. Firelight flickered crimson against his golden hair, and it occurred to Beren that this boy, this Peter, looked more noble than any of the knights registered in her father’s tournament. He certainly didn’t have the look of a coarse sailor--his skin was too pale and smooth for that. Which was why she asked, almost without thinking, “Are you Narnian?”
His eyes flashed towards her again, brilliantly blue in this dim room, and she was prepared for his confirmation--but instead, he asked, “Why were you crying?”
Her hand flew to her cheek, as if to find fresh tears. Her skin was dry, of course--she had washed her face before coming to find the boy. But he had seen her before that, too, when the men had helped him ashore and she hadn’t yet thought to hide the evidence of her sorrows.
“It’s nothing,” she told him, and it was her turn to look away. But her heart was still sore and, embarrassingly, her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Sorry,” said the boy. “I shouldn’t have asked. I just--you’re not hurt, are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, and this too was a lie. But the boy did not press; he just continued to watch her with those solemn blue eyes. And maybe it was because this boy had come from nowhere, maybe because he was entirely unrelated to the cause of her sorrows, but Beren found herself confessing, “He didn’t even look at me.”
She caught the spark of enlightenment in the boy’s face, and knew he was drawing the wrong conclusions.
“It’s not like that,” Beren continued hastily. “I don’t even want to marry the king, not really. I don’t think I like him at all. But we owe so much debt, and Father said that the king would forgive it if he took me as his bride, and so I’ve practised all my courtly manners for days and tonight I dressed in my very finest--I’ve never worn anything so expensive in my life until now, and the sea salt has ruined the fabrics, and we really couldn’t afford this dress in the first place, but that’s a whole other matter--”
Most of the young men in the Galman fortress would have fled at the sight of Beren breaking into tears--or, at the very least, would have turned away in embarrassment and pretended not to notice. Peter did neither. Instead, he rose from his stool, letting the blanket slip from his shoulders into his arms as he crossed to the desk. Very politely, he offered it to her. “I don’t have a handkerchief, but would this help?”
It was so silly and gallant at the same time that Beren could not help but let out a breathy laugh. With a sniffle, she accepted the blanket, and told him in her finest courtly voice, “Thank you, sir.”
“A pleasure, my lady,” he responded, bowing. “So, Galma is in debt and the Narnian king has come to collect, and your Father thought to offer you in exchange for forgiveness but the king was not interested?”
Bland eyes passing over her; an unspoken dismissal; a twist of humiliation in her gut--
Again, Beren whispered, “He didn’t even look at me.”
Peter’s face was grave. “And I imagine your father also cannot afford this tournament he is throwing in the king’s honour.”
“Not a penny. But Father hopes that maybe, if we can appease the king--”
“Unlikely,” guessed Peter.
“Very,” Beren agreed.
Peter’s gaze finally dropped to the floor, his brow creased in thought. “I should like to meet this king of yours.” And when Beren let out another surprised laugh, a dark smile cut across his face as he added, “I would give him a piece of my mind.”
Later that night, as she finally returned to the keep and crept past the emptied banquet hall, Beren realized she felt lighter than she had since the news first came of the king’s impending visit. Her fears no longer weighed upon her; instead, she felt bolstered, as if all she had needed was the understanding of a single strange boy.
What was it about him that awoke her own confidence? The solemnity with which he had listened to her concerns? The way he had not dismissed her tears? Or was it simply that she had been distracted from her own troubles by the mystery of how this boy had ended up in the sea?
What would have happened, she wondered, if she had not been there on the shore at exactly the right moment to spot him?
Beren had never attended a tournament like this before, with horses and shining armour and long jousting lances. The islands had their own games centered around seamanship, challenges to discover who had best command over the waves. Galma last hosted the Sea Games three years ago; it had been such a thrill to stand upon the fortress’s outer wall and watch all the colourful sails racing against the wind.
But this tournament was utterly unlike their Sea Games. The sailors had been relegated to the sidelines while all the old families dusted off their ancient armour and elected champions to represent each house. The horses were hardly better than the armour, ranging from timid mares to lazy workhorses, with few actual gallant steeds among them.
Beren wondered how her father ever thought to impress the king with such a sorry display.
Jousting was the main event of the tournament, and she had managed to find a prime viewing location pressed up against the railing that separated the crowd from the competitors. So far, Beren had seen little to excite her--just a number of shabby knights racing towards each other on their horses before, inevitably, one veered away from the other. Only once so far had a knight been toppled, and she was convinced that had more to do with the quality of his seat than the force of his opponent’s blow.
But the crowd did not share her disappointment. Each time a new pair of knights entered the ring--or whatever the arena was called, she certainly didn’t care to find out--the crowd pushed forward in anticipation. Beren was forced to clutch desperately to the fencing just to keep from falling over.
It was madness.
And then, though the match had yet to begin, the crowd’s jostling eased.
“His seat’s all wrong,” said a voice behind her, and Beren spun about to discover the boy from last night standing at her shoulder, shielding her from the worst of the crowd’s movement.
He was much cleaned up today. The salt had been washed from his hair, and clothes found that properly fit him. He looked like any other Galman boy, if more pale--but certainly as excited by the tournament as anyone else.
“Pardon?” asked Beren belatedly.
“His seat,” repeated Peter, nodding to the knight closest to them. “He looks like he hardly knows what he’s doing.”
“I suppose you could do better,” she retorted, trying not to grin.
He looked at her in surprise, a smile playing on his lips. “Well,” he said with the huff of a laugh, as if admitting that she’d caught him out.
More evenly, she told him, “Galmans are sailors, not horsemen.”
A shout went up from the stands, and Peter turned back to watch the round. “Do you think it’s working?” At her baffled silence, he clarified, “The tournament. Do you think it will satisfy the king?”
An echo of last night’s emotions returned. Beren pressed her lips together, peering up to the box in the stands where her father and the king presided together over the tournament. From this angle, it was difficult to make out the people inside the box; all she could truly see were the bright colours of her father’s finest robes.
“I hope,” she said softly, hiding her pessimism, and then caught her breath as the knight Peter had critiqued toppled from his horse.
Peter made a noise in the back of his throat, a sort of so you see , but his attention was now also focused upon the box in the stands. He seemed lost in thought.
The winner of the bout guided his mount to the stands, offering a bow of respect to the duke and king hidden within the box. Beren caught sight of a pale hand rising in acknowledgement from the shadowed interior, and then the knight was riding away as the next pair of jousters took their places.
“Why aren’t you up there?” Peter asked.
Beren’s face warmed into a blush. She almost brushed the question off, almost told him the same pretty lie she’d offered her father ( “It’s so much more exciting down on the ground where everything is happening!”) . But it was the truth that slipped out instead. “I’d rather not face him again just yet.”
“Ah,” said Peter, fully understanding. “It’s a better view down here, anyway,” he added, before casually pointing out, “That one will be lucky to even move forward, the way his horse is behaving.”
Beren hadn’t noticed the horse’s twitchiness until then. She kept an eye on him as the bout began. “You know your horses,” she observed, as the knights passed each other widely without either managing a hit.
Peter gave a one-shouldered shrug. “This isn’t my first tournament.”
This was just more confirmation that Peter was Narnian himself. It could not be a coincidence that he had arrived at the same time as the king, and yet Peter had said nothing about being a part of their delegation.
Was there a reason for that? He had not asked her for an introduction to the Narnians. Did he not want them to know he was here? Or was she making up conspiracies where there were none?
Beside her, Peter made an impressed sound. “Now that one,” he said, nodding to the newest rider to unseat his opponent, “He knows what he’s doing. If he doesn’t make it to the end, I’ll eat my boots.”
The crowd certainly seemed to agree, based on their cheers. Beren watched the knight parade about the arena, waving genteelly before making a graceful exit. Some of the riders, she had recognized, but this one had yet to take off his helmet. She didn’t recognize the yellow, star-shaped flower that was the knight’s symbol, either.
Curious. But it was less to satisfy that curiosity and more the need to get out of the crowd that Beren suggested, “We could go speak to him, if you’d like. Pass along your praise.”
“My praise isn’t worth anything,” Peter protested, but he showed no reluctance as Beren took his arm and began to lead him through the crowd towards the tents.
The knight’s tent was tucked towards the back of the cluster, smaller than the others and undecorated by any family crests. It’s only identifying feature was the knight’s personal symbol: that little yellow flower hanging on a small square flag beside the tent’s entrance.
Beren could hear the rattling of armour from inside the tent as they approached. She hesitated beside the entrance, realizing abruptly that for all her studying of courtly manners, she did not know what the protocol was for entering a knight’s tournament tent. She glanced to Peter, who had thus far exhibited far better knowledge of such things, but he was busy frowning at the symbol beside the door.
So Beren played it safe, calling out a greeting from the doorway and waiting for permission before entering further. Even so, her eyes adjusted quickly to the dimmer light of the tent--enough to catch sight of a pale shoulder before the knight adjusted the positioning of her shift.
“Wait,” said Beren, averting her eyes as Peter stepped up behind her. “Don’t look, she’s changing.”
“She?” repeated Peter in an odd voice.
Beren risked another glance into the tent and realized that the woman was half-hidden behind a screen to protect her modesty from anyone who might enter. The woman had stopped undressing to stare at Beren over the top of the screen. Her single raised eyebrow and perfectly plaited hair gave her such a look of authority that it took Beren a moment to realize that this knight was hardly a woman at all, but was in fact barely older than Beren herself.
Meanwhile, Peter had turned entirely around to position his back to the tent in a very deliberate display of looking elsewhere.
“The knight,” Beren explained to him in a low voice, “She--she’s a girl.”
“Yes,” said Peter in a strangled voice, “She’s my sister.”
At this pronouncement, the lady knight underwent an abrupt change. That commanding, inquisitive air dropped, replaced by something more tentative, almost fragile. Her attention shifted from Beren to the boy standing with his back to the tent, and in a soft voice she asked, “Peter?”
He turned, arm brushing against Beren’s as he stepped closer. “Susan,” he breathed, and then the two of them were crashing together like waves against the shore. There was something desperate to their embrace, something so profoundly vulnerable that Beren, almost without thinking, moved to draw the flap down over the tent’s entrance.
Almost immediately, she regretted doing so from the inside of the tent. The siblings had drawn apart but Peter’s hands still rested gently on his sister’s shoulders, as if afraid to release her. This reunion seemed to Beren not just desperate, not just vulnerable, but private as well.
“How are you here?” asked Peter. “Last I knew, you were on your way to America.”
“And you were off to the Professor’s,” Susan retorted. “Clearly, both our plans changed.”
Beren looked between them, completely lost. She had never heard of any place called America before, not in all the books she’d ever read.
“And you’re a knight,” Peter added, a touch of confusion. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough.” Her gaze flickered over his shoulder, expression growing pensive as she studied Beren. “Long enough to be concerned.”
And while this may not have been said as an accusation, Beren still felt a pang of indignation. And so, though she was hesitant to interrupt this reunion, she allowed her curiousity to draw forth just one of her numerous questions: “Are you in Galma to join with the Narnians?”
Susan’s lips pressed tight together. “Something like that.”
“I take it,” said Peter, “you haven’t yet met the king?”
“Do you even know which king he is?”
Had these strange siblings been speaking another language entirely, Beren could not have been more confused. “The… Narnian king?”
Instead of addressing either question or comment, Peter said merely, “Narnians are known to be afraid of the sea.”
“His name is Caspian,” Susan added. “But given the number of Caspians in that line, a name means very little.”
An odd feeling had been creeping over Beren throughout this entire conversation. Now, at last, she identified it: humiliation. The same humiliation that had sent her fleeing from the banquet the night before, that distinct shame that came from understanding no one cared about her presence, no matter what effort she put in.
She’d thought Peter was actually interested in speaking with her. But now that he’d found his sister, he no longer needed Beren’s assistance. She might as well not even be in the same room with them now.
Her stomach clenched. “I should leave you to catch up,” she managed, before fleeing the confines of the tent.
She did not flee to the sea this time, though not for lack of trying. There were too many people attending the tournament to get anywhere fast. It seemed that the crowd had only gotten louder and rougher, and it took real effort to push her way as far as the stands overlooking the jousting tilt.
Beren was too overwhelmed to attempt to struggle against the crowd any longer. Instead, she ducked into one of the spaces beneath the stands and leaned back against one of the wooden posts to catch her breath.
She was not left alone for long.
The instant she felt Peter’s hand brush against her arm, Beren spun around again. One look at his face, and everything she had been keeping bottled within came spilling out. “Who are you, really?” she demanded. “Because the more I learn about you, the less I seem to know!”
He pulled his arm away, taken aback by her sudden anger. “I’m sorry, I--”
“You’re clearly Narnian, but not with the delegation. You know tournaments and horses. You have a sister who dresses as a knight--”
“Beren,” he said, and the firmness of his voice was such a surprise that the rest of her words caught in her mouth. He made a face, as if he regretted his tone, but continued, “I promise I will explain, but I first need you to introduce me to your father and the king.”
And there it was: the only reason he had been paying attention to her in the first place. It had taken longer than she had expected, but she had not been wrong that this boy would ask to meet with the king. And then, she supposed, he and his sister would join the king’s ship and sail away from Galma without a backwards glance.
But for all that she had predicted this, the knowledge that she was correct left a sour taste in her mouth. Which was why she retorted, “And who should I introduce you as?”
He studied her face, frowning, and said, “Peter of Narnia.” And when she continued glaring at him, he added, “Please, Lady Beren, this is important. My sister believes there will be an attempt on the king’s life.”
A flood of disbelief washed over her. “Then why has she not reported anything?”
“Please, Beren--”
But she remained unmoved. “Your sister could have come to my father herself.”
“All she has are rumours,” he said. “She entered the tournament to track down more evidence, but I am worried that she may not find the men responsible in time to stop the attack.”
Why, Beren wondered, would his sister believe herself capable of tracking down the men behind an impending assassination attempt? And why did Peter believe his sister’s concerns were correct, when all she had were rumours?
(Perhaps it would be better, Beren thought, if the assassination were not prevented at all. But she squashed that thought immediately; for all the trouble the king had brought with him, there would only be more if he were killed on Galman soil.)
“Fine,” she decided. “I will take you to my father, and you may present your case. But after, you will explain to me who you really are.”
“Thank you,” Peter breathed. “And I will, my lady. I swear to you on my honour.”
And despite her frustration with all his secrets, Beren did not doubt his word.
They climbed the stands together, Peter’s hand a gentle support at the small of her back. Down below, the crowd hushed briefly as two knights galloped towards each other--and then sighed in disappointment as neither lance made contact. Beren ignored the event, focused instead on how to introduce Peter to the king.
Only a few steps behind the curtained-off box, she paused. “Please, be polite,” she said, even though she could not imagine this boy ever being impolite to anyone. “I’ve told you how delicate our situation is with the king.”
“I will not cause a diplomatic incident,” said Peter solemnly. It was the sort of statement that might have come across as condescending from anyone else, but from Peter was merely an earnest promise.
And so Beren continued to the stand, nodding to the guard who lifted the curtain for herself and her companion to enter.
There were a number of people gathered in the royal box: more guards, a handful of servants, the Duke and his wife, and several members of the Narnian delegation. Among these was a talking mouse perched upon the arm of the chair that had been reserved for the king--who, Beren noticed with relief, was not even there.
No one noticed their arrival, not until Beren cleared her throat and said, “Father--”
The Duke lifted his head and turned, his face brightening as he saw her. “Beren, dear. Had enough of the crowds?” His forehead creased. “But who is this?”
And before Beren could answer, the mouse turned as well. “By my tail!” he exclaimed, and dropped into a low bow. “King Peter! You’ve returned!”
“King?” repeated Beren helplessly.
“Reepicheep,” said Peter with warm surprise.
“King?” said the Duke, his face now growing dark. “If you are the king, then who is the man down there?” And he swept his hand towards the jousting arena below, where one of the competitors had just removed his helmet to reveal the face of the man who had introduced himself to Beren as King Caspian the Tenth.
All of Galma had been raised on tales of the Golden Age.
Long ago, they would begin, or Once upon a time, or When the four rulers sat upon the thrones of Cair Paravel--
These were grand stories of quests and battles, magic and wonder, cleverness and justice. Stories of a time when Narnia and her subsidiaries were prosperous and peaceful, when relations between the islands and the mainland were easy and unstrained.
And so many of these stories featured the four rulers of Narnia themselves: Lucy, Edmund, Susan -- Peter. Four rulers so famed that even now, many Galman children carried their names. Beren’s own mother was a Susen with a younger brother named Piter.
Of course, Beren thought. Of course the Narnian kings would carry on these names. Of course their king would be named Peter, after the Magnificent himself.
“Duke Leventis,” said the noble mouse, “let me introduce to you his majesty, King Peter the Magnificent, High King over all Kings of Narnia. Three years past, he and his most beloved siblings came to us from the Golden Age to aid in the civil war against the usurper Miraz, and who gave their blessing to King Caspian the Tenth to rule Narnia in their stead.”
The introductions continued, but Beren was too light-headed to follow. This--this boy that had been rescued from the sea was in fact the greatest king in Narnia’s history? This boy, to whom she had poured out all her woes, including the concerns about Galma’s abilities to repay the owed tribute. She--she had told him about her father’s plan to marry her to the king in exchange for debt forgiveness. She had told him everything.
Strong arms caught her as she swayed, and Beren found herself looking up yet again into those deep blue eyes. “Your majesty,” she breathed in horror, and watched as the corners of those eyes crinkled in concern.
“Lady Beren,” he said, and helped her down into one of the empty seats--the one that had been set aside, she realized too late, for the king himself. His hands tightened on her arms briefly, as if he did not want to let her go, and then he pulled away.
“Duke Leventis, I apologize for my unorthodox arrival,” Peter-- King Peter said, “But I believe there is a plot to take the life of King Caspian at this very tourney. I do not cast aspersions upon your good character, your Grace-! But I do have reason to believe that due to situations beyond your control, less noble individuals are conspiring…”
Beren stopped listening. There was a roar in her ears, not that of the crowd but something deeper, like the ongoing crashing waves in a storm. Her whole body felt numb, and all she could do was stare down to where King Caspian was still parading about on his mount, waving and smiling obliviously at the crowd around him. Even as she watched, one of the Narnian soldiers approached the king. The king’s posture immediately changed; with a final wave at the crowd, he guided his horse from the arena.
Then he was gone, and the next pair of competitors were taking their places. And behind her, the High King was still discussing the situation with the Duke, while Beren pathetically sat and contributed nothing.
She was drawn back to herself by another light touch on her arm--not Peter, this time, but the noble mouse. “My lady,” he said grandly, albeit quietly enough not to interrupt the more important discussion going on behind them. “I must thank you for your part in rescuing King Peter from the ocean last night. It sounds as though it was most fortunate that you were there to see his arrival to this world; surely, Aslan guided you.”
“It was nothing,” Beren managed. “If I had not been there, surely the guards--”
“Nothing is sure,” said the mouse. “But I must particularly commend your eyesight, for the clouds were thick last night and I, for one, would never have spotted anything among the dark waves.”
“It was not that dark,” Beren protested. “The moon was bright when I was down at the shore.” Then, so as not to come across as disagreeable, she added, “The clouds must have parted at the right time.”
But the mouse looked at her strangely, and Beren finally realized for the first time since spotting the boy--the king-- in the ocean: last night was supposed to have been a new moon.
“It was Aslan’s will,” said the mouse, knowingly.
It was early evening when the High King found Beren. She had taken refuge at the shore again, sitting on the rocks not far from where she had first spotted the stranger among the waves. The sea was perfectly calm now, its surface glittering in the light of the setting sun.
She heard his approach, but believed the footsteps to belong to a guard until the king spoke. “Do you mind if I join you?”
She stiffened immediately, hugging her knees tighter to her chest. “Your majesty, o-of course.”
“Peter, please,” he replied immediately, lowering himself onto the rocks at her side.
But she could hardly dare to call him by his familiar name, not now that she knew who he was. Flushing, Beren resisted the desire to look at the king, keeping her eyes locked on the distant horizon. “Is King Caspian safe?”
King Peter folded his legs in a very boyish manner. “Yes, thank Aslan. Susan was able to coordinate with your father’s men to track down the perpetrators of the plot, but we have added extra guards to Caspian’s detail just to be safe.” In a fond voice, he added, “He does insist on competing, still, but we will keep careful watch.”
“Good,” she said, though it struck her as terribly irresponsible for a king to continue participating in a tournament when his life was in danger. She ducked her head down onto her knees.
More carefully, King Peter said, “I also spoke to Caspian about the tribute.”
Beren tensed again.
“He has no intention of calling in the unpaid debt. The purpose of this voyage is to rekindle relations with Galma and the Lone Islands, that is all.” A pause, and then, “Well, and to discover what happened to some exiled Lords of Narnia who sailed this way some ten years ago, but that is another matter entirely.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t think he even knew about the tribute,” he added, not quite hiding the hint of disapproval in his voice. “We will ensure to extend a formal forgiveness of the debt before leaving.”
She risked a glance to the side, and was startled to meet the king’s eyes. Hastily, Beren returned her gaze to the sea again. “Thank you,” she said in a tight voice, “for all your aid.”
“It is my duty as a king of Narnia to ensure all her citizens, including those of our island nations, are treated fairly.” Then, softening slightly, he said, “Besides, it is my pleasure to help you, Lady Beren.”
A shiver ran up her back at his words. Beren hugged her knees tighter. “I can’t imagine you were brought all the way from the Golden Age just for us.” For me, she meant.
“If I was, I would not mind,” said the king. “But you are right. Likely, there will be more… adventures… to be found on Caspian’s voyage. Susan and I will join him for as long as we are able. I have never been farther than the Lone Islands before.”
Wistfully, Beren said, “Neither have I.”
Waves lapped against the shore. A bird cut a path over the waves, dipping low to snatch up a fish before soaring up into the sky. Beren thought of ink-dark waves shining silver on a moonless night, and shivered again.
The silence stretched out between them, broken only by the bird’s exultant cries.
Just as she’d expected, the boy and his sister were joining the Narnian ship and leaving Galma behind. Peter–the High King of Narnian legend himself–had strolled out of the sea, casually righted Galma’s capsized fortunes, and now would sail away as suddenly as he’d appeared. Beren herself would be no more than a footnote in his adventures.
She blinked rapidly.
“My lady,” he murmured, brushing a thumb beneath her eye.
The touch startled her, and a sound escaped her, halfway between a sob and a laugh. Of course he’d noticed. The one person who’d ever made her feel truly seen –why had she hoped to hide her tears?
She met his gaze, then. Allowed herself to sink into those curiously solemn blue eyes for the last time. Never had anyone looked at her so closely. No one but Peter, this strange boy, this mythical king, looked at her as if she were the most wondrous thing in this world.
Only a few short days together, and yet she would miss him terribly.
His fingers brushed the hair from her face, and his voice was oddly hesitant when he spoke. “Would you care to join us, Beren? Caspian’s ship is not large, but I–I would be glad of your company.”
Her breath stopped in her throat. Leave Galma? Join the grand royal Narnian progress across the Eastern Sea? Hope trembled in her. How long had she dreamed of leaving Galma? Of having . . . adventures?
“I can’t–” she heard herself say, miserably. “I want to–”
But why not? Her father wouldn’t object. He’d be delighted if she joined the Narnians, would probably call it an “opportunity to strengthen diplomatic relations.”
“Why me?” she finally managed. “I’m not beautiful or . . . even interesting.”
His eyes darkened, fingers cupping her cheek. “Whoever told you that was a great liar, Beren.”
Then his mouth was on hers, gentle and warm and yet filled with the promise of so much more.
“Come with me,” he said again. “Please.”
Her vision blurred, until all she could see was those blue eyes fixed on hers. Softly, she said, “I think I should like that very much.”
Then she closed her eyes and leaned forward to meet his next kiss.