Fast is Falling for deepdarkwaters
Title: Fast is Falling
Author: bedlamsbard
Recipient: deepdarkwaters
Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: none
Summary: A generation after Eustace and Jill rescued Prince Rilian, a young princess of Archenland arrives in Narnia to attend university.
Fast is Falling
It was raining as the coach rattled through the narrow Beaversdam streets and up to the gates of Starchild College. Isard flicked back the curtain and peered out, hoping to get a better view of the city, but it was raining too hard for her to make out anything other than the tall walls rising on either side of the street. Even after the coach stopped in front of the college’s closed gates she couldn’t see anything.
“Are you sure, your highness?” Lady Mirilis asked her as Isard fastened her cloak around herself and straightened her hat in the mirror Mirilis was holding up. “It’s not too late to go back to Anvard, after all. I’m sure the Queen would understand.”
“My mother would not understand,” Isard said with feeling. “My mother was very explicit about my education. Besides, she did say that if I really did hate it, after the first year she would let me go to university at Hartsmount instead.”
Lady Mirilis’s sniff told Isard what she thought of that. “Hartsmount was good enough for your father and your brother,” she said. “Besides, it’s tradition.”
“I think Mother wants to start a new tradition,” Isard said. She leaned back as the carriage door opened, Sir Joscen already holding up an umbrella as he offered her his free hand. Isard took it, frowning in concentration so as not to slip on the wet step of the carriage or the water-slick cobblestones of the street. Joscen’s twin brother Sir Jos was standing at the gate speaking to the porter, who had opened the wicket gate set in one of the big gates and was peering out, looking curiously at the royal Archenland crest painted on the carriage doors.
Isard tipped her head back, trying to get a good look at Starchild College, but between the rain and the edge of the umbrella, she couldn’t make out anything but a general impression of gold-colored brick and a few statues, featureless this close to the building. She looked up and down the street, where the walls of Starchild College seemed to go on forever. Her view of the opposite side of the street was blocked by the carriage. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in sight, although the rain might account for that.
“Your highness?” Sir Jos said. “There’s some paperwork that requires your signature.”
Sir Joscen kept pace with her as Isard made her way carefully up the rain-slick steps to the gate. Starchild College wasn’t even a century old yet, but they were already developing a dip in the middle, worn down by the passage of hundreds of feet.
Isard had her first proper sight of the college as she stepped carefully through the wicket gate. It was only big enough for one person to enter at a time - she wondered briefly if they had to open the main gate for a centaur, since she didn’t think that one would be able to pass through - and a brief spray of rainwater rolled off the brim of her hat as she tilted her head up, though she was now under the cover of the gatehouse arch. Directly in front of her was the flattest, neatest lawn that she had ever seen, and opposite that was the now-familiar form of a Narnian chapel, made of the same golden brick as the college walls and with stained glass windows whose forms she couldn’t make out from here. Isard eyed it with disapproval. She hadn’t been inside a chapel yet - her mother had followed the Archenlander custom as long as she’d been married - but something about the notion bothered her. They didn’t do such things in Archenland - trying to tame the Lion by hiding him away inside four walls and a roof, as though by doing so it might make him less Narnian and more Telmarine. In Archenland they knew that there was no way to tame the Lion.
“Your highness?” said the porter.
Isard turned towards him - her, she realized belatedly; her voice was deep enough that Isard had taken it for a man’s, but on closer inspection she saw that the porter was a minotauress, wearing a heavy overcoat over her brown skirt, which matched the color of her hide.
“What do I need to sign?” she asked.
The porter showed her, and Isard spent several minutes reading over the pages, all with the ornate beaver-and-compass-rose seal of the university at the top. Behind her, the footmen carried in the luggage that she had brought with her, stacking the trunks and hatboxes under the shelter of the arch.
“Can we take this up to Her Highness’s rooms?” Sir Joscen asked the porter.
Minotaurs couldn’t really purse their lips - their mouths weren’t made for it - but Isard could imagine how the expression might have looked on a human face as the porter said, “I’m afraid that men aren’t permitted past the gatehouse, save in special circumstances.”
“Longear and I can manage,” Lady Mirilis said. “Isn’t that right, Longear?”
Isard’s maid nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
The porter eyed the two women dubiously - Lady Mirilis’s faun’s ears stuck out beneath her hat, though her hooves were concealed by her skirts, and Longear was what in Archenland was called a chimaera, a mix of several different nonhuman species. She looked human enough at first glance, but Isard had no idea what scent she gave off to the porter, whose senses were undoubtedly more sensitive than hers. She knew that in Narnia they weren’t always quite as sanguine about such things as they were in Archenland; her mother had warned her about that before she’d left Anvard.
“I suppose,” the porter said finally.
Isard signed the last piece of paper with a flourish, handed the ink-pen to the porter, and stepped back. The minotauress read it over, her lips moving silently, and nodded. “All of this appears to be in order,” she said. “Just a moment.” She ducked into her office, reappearing a moment later to hand a set of keys over to Isard. One of them was big, with wicked looking teeth, while the others were smaller. All had a stylized star on the grip.
“This is for the gate - it will work on any of the college gates - and these are for your building and your room,” the porter said. She pointed at the small passageway set between two buildings across the perfect lawn and set about giving Isard directions.
Isard nodded, her lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated - she didn’t have anything to write them down on, and the minotauress seemed disinclined to give her anything more concrete. She resolved to do some exploring as soon as she was able, just so that she’d have her bearings down by the time lectures began.
“And of course, you’re aware that you won’t be permitted to keep a maid while you’re a student here?” the porter finished.
“I’m aware,” Isard said, taking the folder that the porter handed her. She peeked inside it - it appeared to contain a list of instructions on things that she was and was not permitted to do. Be out of academic robes during term time was at the very top, immediately followed by entertain gentlemen in her chambers. Not, she thought dryly, something that was likely to be a problem for her.
Longear and Lady Mirilis helped her carry her trunks across the quad - avoiding the grass at the porter’s strict instruction, which almost doubled the distance - or rather, Longear and Lady Mirilis carried the trunks, while Isard was only permitted to carry the two hatboxes. Isard’s room was located in a round building with the romantic name of Rose Tower. Isard had to juggle the hatboxes for a moment before she could get the key out, but before she could fit it into the lock the door opened before her, revealing a plump young woman with Telmarine-dark hair.
“I thought I heard someone at the door!” she said cheerfully. “You must be our fifth. I’m Calixta Fell.” She thrust her hand out at Isard, who took it hesitantly. Calixta’s grip was firm and dry, and she beamed at Isard once she’d let go.
“I’m Isard Colschild,” she said slowly.
Calixta didn’t seem to recognize her name. “Oh, are you from Archenland?” she asked. “Or is that one of the island accents, I can never remember -”
“Archenland,” Isard said quickly, before Lady Mirilis could point out that Calixta wasn’t just speaking to any Archenlander maiden, but to the King’s daughter. “My mother wanted me to come to her old college.”
“That’s sweet,” Calixta said. “Come in, let me help you with that - Charmain, come and help, won’t you?”
Another girl, tall and rawboned, with a slightly muddy cast to her features, appeared just behind Calixta’s shoulder. “Hello,” she said.
Calixta took one of the two hatboxes out of Isard’s arms. “Your bedroom is on the second floor, to the right,” she said. “Everyone else is here already - this way.”
Before she turned up the narrow stairs, Isard caught a glimpse of a comfortable looking sitting room and two other girls, one of whom was nose-deep in a book. The other had a lap-harp balanced on her knee and was running her fingers across the strings, her expression introspective. Neither so much as looked up at the disturbance.
Her room was much smaller than she had been expecting. Isard put her hatbox down on the narrow bed and looked around, trying to fight down her dismay. There was a small square window with dirty diamond-shaped panes set into one curving wall, with a battered-looking desk beneath it. She practically had to climb onto the bed in order to let Lady Mirilis and Longear drag her trunks into the room, though at least she thought that they would be able to fit under the bed. She was grateful that her mother had warned her to bring her own bedding and made Longear and her other lady’s maid back in Anvard show her how to make her own bed.
Lady Mirilis stepped back from the trunk she’d brought in, breathing heavily, and frowned as she looked around the room. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to go back home and attend Hartsmount instead, your highness?” she asked, a plaintive note in her voice.
“Mother wouldn’t allow it,” Isard reminded her.
“I’m sure your father could be convinced,” Lady Mirilis said doubtfully.
“I’ve already missed the start of term,” Isard said. She gave the room another look around. “I’m sure it will be quite cozy. Besides, it doesn’t get as cold in Narnia in winter as it does in Archenland.”
“You never know,” said the new girl - Charmain, Calixta had called her - dolefully. “We’re likely to have another cold winter this year. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a long one, too. Short autumn, short spring, and no summer at all, most likely.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Char,” Calixta said, elbowing her. Even with Longear standing out in in the tiny hallway and Isard sitting on the bed, there was barely room for all four of them in the room. “Don’t mind her, Isard, she’s half-Marsh-wiggle. They’re all gloomy like that.”
Isard looked at Charmain with renewed interest, taking in the slight greenish cast to her skin and what appeared to be webbing between her fingers, her bog-green eyes. She had read about Marsh-wiggles in her books, but she had never met them before. From what she had read, they very seldom left their settlements in the Northern Marsh. She had never heard of a Marsh-wiggle marrying a non-Marsh-wiggle before.
“Don’t stare,” Charmain said, meeting her look for look. “It’s rude.”
“I’m sorry,” Isard said. “I’ve never seen a Marsh-wiggle before. We don’t have them in Archenland.”
“You don’t have any marshes worth speaking of in Archenland,” Charmain said. “It’s just very typical. It’s hard for us to find anywhere good for us to live. That’s why we’ve been living in the same place for the past three thousand years. We’ll probably be there for the next three thousand years too, unless the hurricanes finally wash them away. That’s probably more likely.”
“All Marsh-wiggles are like that,” Calixta repeated. She put her arm around Charmain’s shoulders. “Come on, Char. Let’s let her say goodbye to her friends. You’ll have plenty of time to traumatize her later.”
Charmain shrugged her arm off, but turned her pondscum green gaze on Isard. “I hope we’ll like each other,” she said. Even her voice sounded muddy somehow; Isard couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “But we probably won’t. No doubt we’ll be screaming at each other before the week is out.”
“I look forward to the day when you scream at anyone,” Calixta said, throwing an apologetic look over her shoulder at Isard as she steered Charmain out of the room. “No, really, I do. It will be so refreshing for you. I really think you could use it.”
“Well, this ought to be…bracing,” Lady Mirilis said doubtfully. To Isard’s relief, she didn’t ask again whether Isard was sure that she didn’t want to go back to Archenland. Instead she said, “Do you want to come and say goodbye to Sir Jos and Sir Joscen?”
Isard nodded silently, feeling overwhelmed. On the way here from Anvard it had all seemed like a wonderful adventure, something off in the distant future, but now it was starting to feel real. Something of this must have shown on her face because Lady Mirilis carefully skirted one of her trunks and came over to sit down on the bed beside her, covering Isard’s hand with her own. “It won’t be that long, your highness,” she said. “You’ll come home for Christmas, of course, and that’s only a few months away.”
Isard nodded again. “I know,” she said. “It’s just - it’s a lot to take in.”
“Well, you do have family here,” Lady Mirilis added. She sounded a little grudging about this, for which Isard couldn’t blame her; most Archenlanders were averse to acknowledging Telmarine Narnia’s existence, or even that the royal family had, over the past few generations, been steadily intermarrying with the Narnian royal family. Narnian mother or not, Isard couldn’t blame them for it.
“I suppose,” Isard said. She would have had family at the University of Hartsmount too. Her older brother was still there, and she had an uncle who was a fellow at Queenscrown College. Here in Narnia, all she knew was that the Crown Prince was at Beaversdam too and that the rest of her uncle’s family - the royal family - was in Cair Paravel, off on the coast.
She pressed her hands to her face, taking a few minutes to breathe in, then nodded to herself and let her hands fall to her lap. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’m a princess of Archenland, the bone of Adam and blood of Eve. I’ll be all right.”
Lady Mirilis smiled at her and put a hand on the back of her neck, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, you will, your highness,” she said. “Now. Shall we go and say goodbye to the others.”
Isard nodded.
*
She went back to Rose Tower slowly, trying not to drag her feet. The umbrella she was carrying felt awkward in her hand - Sir Joscen had pressed it on her during their farewell, promising that he would see her again when she went home for Christmas. She put it down in the slight shelter in front of the door to Rose Tower, fitting her new key into the lock.
Inside, Isard put her umbrella into the stand and hung her cloak up on a hook, unpinning her hat and looking around for a place to put it. Eventually she carried it into the round sitting room with her, hesitating in the doorway.
There were several squashy-looking armchairs, a rocking chair, and a couch in the room, drawn close around the hearth. Rain still beat down against the windows, one of which was on either side of the big bookshelf set against the wall. There was a table as well - a big one near the back, and a smaller one that had been pulled up against one of the armchairs, where one of the girls that Isard hadn’t been introduced to was resting her mug as she pored over a book. She was small, delicate-looking, with the dark skin that meant that one parent or another had probably come from Terebinthia or Calormen. Charmain and Calixta were sitting on the couch, Calixta with her legs curled up and her bare feet pressed against the arm, Charmain sitting with her feet on the floor and her back straight, holding an embroidery hoop in one hand and a needle in the other.
The other girl was the one with the harp. She ran her fingers over the strings with a silvery sound, singing softly.
For the Witch has come to Narnia
And the night is long and cold
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
I shall wander through the valley
Over hill and over dale
For my love, oh my love, has gone away
For the winter fast is falling
And the river now is frozen
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
I have searched from Waste to ocean
From Ettinsmoor to Archen
For my love, oh my love, who’s gone away
Past the fields and through the forest
To a place betwixt two mountains
For my love, oh my love, has gone away
Through frozen gate I venture
To a garden made of stone
For my love, oh my love, has gone away
There are statues great and small
From unicorn to giant
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
I have searched from high to low
And the night is quickly falling
And my love, oh my love, I cannot find
I can hear the bells ringing
As the Witch Queen fast approaches
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
The girl’s voice faltered on the last syllables and her hand fell from the harp.
“That’s a sad song,” Isard said. Her voice seemed to break the spell the song had spread over the room, and the others blinked and looked up, seeming to notice her presence for the first time.
The girl with the harp smiled at her. “Yes, it is,” she said. “An old faun who lives on our estate taught it to me. You must be the new girl. I saw you come in earlier.”
“I’m Isard Colschild,” Isard said, venturing further into the room. She was still carrying her hat.
The girl with the harp patted the arm of the armchair beside her. “I’m Angely of Owlswood. My sister is betrothed to the Crown Prince.”
“Oh, for the Lion’s sake, Angely,” said the girl with the book, looking up at them over a pair of round spectacles. “We’ve all heard. The entire country’s heard. The King sent out criers.” She turned her attention to Isard. “I’m Tivadar Greenlaw. Isn’t Colschild the family name for the Archenlander royal family?”
“It is,” Isard nodded, folding herself into the indicated armchair and resting her hat on her knees. Calixta and Charmain were looking up with interest. “My father’s the King of Archenland. My mother is King Florian’s sister. She’s the one who wanted me to come here.”
“Oh, that’s why your friend called you ‘your highness’,” Calixta said, her mouth rounding into an O. “I was wondering. I didn’t know that we were getting a princess this year, how exciting. Most young ladies don’t come to university, you see,” she explained to Isard.
Isard blinked. “Why not? Not everyone does in Archenland, but most nobles do, if only for a year or two. It’s a good way to make connections if you can’t afford to go to court every year. Most don’t bother getting degrees unless they want to.”
“The University doesn’t issue degrees to women,” Angely said. “Glasswater University has been talking about it, but they’re all eccentrics, and the only reason that they want to is because we don’t. I’m sure the University Board will never sign off on it, even if the Dean is in favor.”
Isard felt her back go stiff. Her hands tightened on the brim of her hat. She had to force herself to loosen her grip, worried about bending it. “We don’t get degrees?”
“We have the privilege of calling ourselves dames of Beaversdam upon completion of all three years,” Tivadar said, her mouth twisting. “It’s awful, isn’t it? The College can petition The University to grant an honorary degree if they think you’ve earned it, but that doesn’t happen very often, and usually only if you have a patron with a very full purse.”
“My mother didn’t tell me that,” Isard said, shaken.
Calixta shrugged. “I thought you said that most people in Archenland didn’t get degrees.”
“Well, they have the choice to, if they want -”
“And can afford it, no doubt,” Charmain put in. “My lord father won’t acknowledge me, but he’ll pay to get me out of sight for a few years. Oh, well. There are worse places to be. I could be back in the swamps, living off frogs and raw fish in a hut stinking of smoke.” Her expression went distant. “He’ll probably decide it’s too much money and find some easier, cheaper way to get rid of me. Assassins, probably.”
Calixta put a hand on her back. “That’s not going to happen,” ‘she said firmly. “Assassins are expensive.”
Isard was startled into laughter, along with Tivadar. Angely brushed her fingers over her harp strings, a dancing murmur of silvery joy coming from them, and smiled. Charmain didn’t smile, but her expression went a little less grim, the corners of her mouth turning up too slightly to be a real smile.
Calixta rubbed her back. “No degrees,” she said to Isard, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “We learn dancing, deportment, music, literature, and enough politics, economics, and history to prove pleasant dinner companions to men who aren’t afraid of a woman with a brain in her head. Nothing worth getting a degree for, I’d think. Maybe it’s different in Archenland.”
“Just a little,” Isard said slowly, thinking of her brothers and her friends from court, off at the University of Hartsmount this term. She supposed that Narnian men had a similar time of it, even if the women didn’t. Why had her mother sent her here, if it wasn’t for the education? Hartsmount was older than Beaversdam by almost three hundred years, the universities in Calormen older still. The Calormene ones were definitely more distinguished.
It had to be the connections. As far as Isard knew, they weren’t talking about a Narnian marriage this year, since two generations in a row seemed to have straightened out affairs between the two countries. Most Archenlanders nobles were still wary of marrying their children to the Narnian nobility, even two generations on from Caspian the Conqueror. They had the luxury of making that decision; the royals didn’t. King Florian’s mother was an Archenlander; his sister was married to the King of Archenland, but beyond that, there was seldom much conversation between the upper tiers of Narnian and Archenlander society.
Isard looked over the four other women with a thoughtful eye, trying to remember what her tutor had told her about the Narnian peerage. Owlswood was one of the most distinguished families in Narnia; the Fells owned most of the land north of the Great River, right up to the borders of the Northern Marsh, which was presumably where Charmain had come from. The Greenlaws were a merchant family who had bought themselves a lordship and an estate to go along with it from King Florian’s father Rilian. Not bad friends for a princess of Archenland to have, none of them.
“Do you like it here?” Isard found herself asking, unexpectedly.
Angely seemed surprised by the question. “Like it?” she said. “The rooms are tiny, the food’s awful -”
“It’s not that bad,” Charmain put in.
“Oh, like you’d know, it’s not cat tails and frog legs.”
“There’s no call for that!” Calixta said, frowning fiercely at Angely.
Angely shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Anyway, the food’s awful, the classes are pointless, we aren’t permitted out of the college except in a group of three or more, and we can’t even wear real frocks during term time. The only saving grace is that my mother isn’t standing over me trying to marry me off to any man with a title and a pulse, since men aren’t permitted onto the grounds.”
“Unfortunately,” Tivadar sighed. “Even if you leave the college, they’re all either drunk in the pubs, too interested in town girls, or too interested in their studies to speak to a woman. Or they prefer exotics to humans - sorry, Char, I didn’t mean that,” she added quickly.
Charmain shrugged. “It’s all right,” she said. “My father apparently likes women who will flash him a bit of green or a cloven hoof or hairy shank. Aslan knows he’s not the only deviant in Narnia.”
Isard gasped. She hadn’t meant to, and Charmain’s gaze shot to her, steely beneath the mud-green. “I’m sorry,” she made herself say. “You just - no one in Archenland would ever say anything like that. It’s - it’s horribly offensive.”
“I wish that was true here,” Calixta muttered under her breath, patting Charmain on the knee.
Angely shifted a little in her seat, her fingers brushing across her harp strings again. She looked uncomfortable. “You won’t find a lot of that sort of thing in Narnia,” she said. “It’s not really the sort of thing that’s spoken of in polite company.”
“That’s all right,” Charmain said. “My being here effectively makes this anything but polite company. Starchild College normally doesn’t allow nonhumans as students,” she explained to Isard. “My father gave them a very large amount of money so that they might make an exception.”
Isard stared at her. No wonder Lady Mirilis and Longear had gotten so many stares during their journey, despite Narnia’s large nonhuman population. “That’s barbaric!”
“Welcome to Narnia,” Charmain said.
Isard pressed her palms together, letting the tips of her fingers rest against the bridge of her nose. She could still go back to Archenland; Lady Mirilis and the rest of her escort was staying the night in Beaversdam before heading back to Anvard in the morning. Lady Mirilis would certainly be happier about that, especially once she heard about the way Narnians treated nonhumans. But her mother wouldn’t be happy about that. And if she was right about why her mother had wanted her to come here, then leaving would put her at a disadvantage in the future. Not too many Archenlanders really knew anything about Narnia.
“Well,” she said finally. “It will certainly be an education, won’t it?”
Original Prompt that we sent you:
What I want: I'm always curious about the books and literature in fantasy worlds. I'd be interested to see your take on some kind of Narnian writing - a few pages from a history, or a cook book, or a racy romantic novel, or somebody's memoir... anything! If that doesn't appeal, I'm really into worldbuilding so it would be great to see something about parts of Narnia we don't get to see much of, or maybe something about the behind-the-scenes stuff (servants in one of the royal palaces? Random sailors or soldiers?) instead of focusing on the books' main characters. Just throwing ideas around now so I'll shut up, but basically I'd love to read anything about Narnia as a country and society, good or bad. I'm less interested in shippy stuff but totally happy for that to be a part of it if you like.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: Maybe something from Mr Tumnus's bookshelf?
Author: bedlamsbard
Recipient: deepdarkwaters
Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: none
Summary: A generation after Eustace and Jill rescued Prince Rilian, a young princess of Archenland arrives in Narnia to attend university.
Fast is Falling
It was raining as the coach rattled through the narrow Beaversdam streets and up to the gates of Starchild College. Isard flicked back the curtain and peered out, hoping to get a better view of the city, but it was raining too hard for her to make out anything other than the tall walls rising on either side of the street. Even after the coach stopped in front of the college’s closed gates she couldn’t see anything.
“Are you sure, your highness?” Lady Mirilis asked her as Isard fastened her cloak around herself and straightened her hat in the mirror Mirilis was holding up. “It’s not too late to go back to Anvard, after all. I’m sure the Queen would understand.”
“My mother would not understand,” Isard said with feeling. “My mother was very explicit about my education. Besides, she did say that if I really did hate it, after the first year she would let me go to university at Hartsmount instead.”
Lady Mirilis’s sniff told Isard what she thought of that. “Hartsmount was good enough for your father and your brother,” she said. “Besides, it’s tradition.”
“I think Mother wants to start a new tradition,” Isard said. She leaned back as the carriage door opened, Sir Joscen already holding up an umbrella as he offered her his free hand. Isard took it, frowning in concentration so as not to slip on the wet step of the carriage or the water-slick cobblestones of the street. Joscen’s twin brother Sir Jos was standing at the gate speaking to the porter, who had opened the wicket gate set in one of the big gates and was peering out, looking curiously at the royal Archenland crest painted on the carriage doors.
Isard tipped her head back, trying to get a good look at Starchild College, but between the rain and the edge of the umbrella, she couldn’t make out anything but a general impression of gold-colored brick and a few statues, featureless this close to the building. She looked up and down the street, where the walls of Starchild College seemed to go on forever. Her view of the opposite side of the street was blocked by the carriage. There didn’t seem to be anyone else in sight, although the rain might account for that.
“Your highness?” Sir Jos said. “There’s some paperwork that requires your signature.”
Sir Joscen kept pace with her as Isard made her way carefully up the rain-slick steps to the gate. Starchild College wasn’t even a century old yet, but they were already developing a dip in the middle, worn down by the passage of hundreds of feet.
Isard had her first proper sight of the college as she stepped carefully through the wicket gate. It was only big enough for one person to enter at a time - she wondered briefly if they had to open the main gate for a centaur, since she didn’t think that one would be able to pass through - and a brief spray of rainwater rolled off the brim of her hat as she tilted her head up, though she was now under the cover of the gatehouse arch. Directly in front of her was the flattest, neatest lawn that she had ever seen, and opposite that was the now-familiar form of a Narnian chapel, made of the same golden brick as the college walls and with stained glass windows whose forms she couldn’t make out from here. Isard eyed it with disapproval. She hadn’t been inside a chapel yet - her mother had followed the Archenlander custom as long as she’d been married - but something about the notion bothered her. They didn’t do such things in Archenland - trying to tame the Lion by hiding him away inside four walls and a roof, as though by doing so it might make him less Narnian and more Telmarine. In Archenland they knew that there was no way to tame the Lion.
“Your highness?” said the porter.
Isard turned towards him - her, she realized belatedly; her voice was deep enough that Isard had taken it for a man’s, but on closer inspection she saw that the porter was a minotauress, wearing a heavy overcoat over her brown skirt, which matched the color of her hide.
“What do I need to sign?” she asked.
The porter showed her, and Isard spent several minutes reading over the pages, all with the ornate beaver-and-compass-rose seal of the university at the top. Behind her, the footmen carried in the luggage that she had brought with her, stacking the trunks and hatboxes under the shelter of the arch.
“Can we take this up to Her Highness’s rooms?” Sir Joscen asked the porter.
Minotaurs couldn’t really purse their lips - their mouths weren’t made for it - but Isard could imagine how the expression might have looked on a human face as the porter said, “I’m afraid that men aren’t permitted past the gatehouse, save in special circumstances.”
“Longear and I can manage,” Lady Mirilis said. “Isn’t that right, Longear?”
Isard’s maid nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
The porter eyed the two women dubiously - Lady Mirilis’s faun’s ears stuck out beneath her hat, though her hooves were concealed by her skirts, and Longear was what in Archenland was called a chimaera, a mix of several different nonhuman species. She looked human enough at first glance, but Isard had no idea what scent she gave off to the porter, whose senses were undoubtedly more sensitive than hers. She knew that in Narnia they weren’t always quite as sanguine about such things as they were in Archenland; her mother had warned her about that before she’d left Anvard.
“I suppose,” the porter said finally.
Isard signed the last piece of paper with a flourish, handed the ink-pen to the porter, and stepped back. The minotauress read it over, her lips moving silently, and nodded. “All of this appears to be in order,” she said. “Just a moment.” She ducked into her office, reappearing a moment later to hand a set of keys over to Isard. One of them was big, with wicked looking teeth, while the others were smaller. All had a stylized star on the grip.
“This is for the gate - it will work on any of the college gates - and these are for your building and your room,” the porter said. She pointed at the small passageway set between two buildings across the perfect lawn and set about giving Isard directions.
Isard nodded, her lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated - she didn’t have anything to write them down on, and the minotauress seemed disinclined to give her anything more concrete. She resolved to do some exploring as soon as she was able, just so that she’d have her bearings down by the time lectures began.
“And of course, you’re aware that you won’t be permitted to keep a maid while you’re a student here?” the porter finished.
“I’m aware,” Isard said, taking the folder that the porter handed her. She peeked inside it - it appeared to contain a list of instructions on things that she was and was not permitted to do. Be out of academic robes during term time was at the very top, immediately followed by entertain gentlemen in her chambers. Not, she thought dryly, something that was likely to be a problem for her.
Longear and Lady Mirilis helped her carry her trunks across the quad - avoiding the grass at the porter’s strict instruction, which almost doubled the distance - or rather, Longear and Lady Mirilis carried the trunks, while Isard was only permitted to carry the two hatboxes. Isard’s room was located in a round building with the romantic name of Rose Tower. Isard had to juggle the hatboxes for a moment before she could get the key out, but before she could fit it into the lock the door opened before her, revealing a plump young woman with Telmarine-dark hair.
“I thought I heard someone at the door!” she said cheerfully. “You must be our fifth. I’m Calixta Fell.” She thrust her hand out at Isard, who took it hesitantly. Calixta’s grip was firm and dry, and she beamed at Isard once she’d let go.
“I’m Isard Colschild,” she said slowly.
Calixta didn’t seem to recognize her name. “Oh, are you from Archenland?” she asked. “Or is that one of the island accents, I can never remember -”
“Archenland,” Isard said quickly, before Lady Mirilis could point out that Calixta wasn’t just speaking to any Archenlander maiden, but to the King’s daughter. “My mother wanted me to come to her old college.”
“That’s sweet,” Calixta said. “Come in, let me help you with that - Charmain, come and help, won’t you?”
Another girl, tall and rawboned, with a slightly muddy cast to her features, appeared just behind Calixta’s shoulder. “Hello,” she said.
Calixta took one of the two hatboxes out of Isard’s arms. “Your bedroom is on the second floor, to the right,” she said. “Everyone else is here already - this way.”
Before she turned up the narrow stairs, Isard caught a glimpse of a comfortable looking sitting room and two other girls, one of whom was nose-deep in a book. The other had a lap-harp balanced on her knee and was running her fingers across the strings, her expression introspective. Neither so much as looked up at the disturbance.
Her room was much smaller than she had been expecting. Isard put her hatbox down on the narrow bed and looked around, trying to fight down her dismay. There was a small square window with dirty diamond-shaped panes set into one curving wall, with a battered-looking desk beneath it. She practically had to climb onto the bed in order to let Lady Mirilis and Longear drag her trunks into the room, though at least she thought that they would be able to fit under the bed. She was grateful that her mother had warned her to bring her own bedding and made Longear and her other lady’s maid back in Anvard show her how to make her own bed.
Lady Mirilis stepped back from the trunk she’d brought in, breathing heavily, and frowned as she looked around the room. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to go back home and attend Hartsmount instead, your highness?” she asked, a plaintive note in her voice.
“Mother wouldn’t allow it,” Isard reminded her.
“I’m sure your father could be convinced,” Lady Mirilis said doubtfully.
“I’ve already missed the start of term,” Isard said. She gave the room another look around. “I’m sure it will be quite cozy. Besides, it doesn’t get as cold in Narnia in winter as it does in Archenland.”
“You never know,” said the new girl - Charmain, Calixta had called her - dolefully. “We’re likely to have another cold winter this year. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a long one, too. Short autumn, short spring, and no summer at all, most likely.”
“Oh, don’t be like that, Char,” Calixta said, elbowing her. Even with Longear standing out in in the tiny hallway and Isard sitting on the bed, there was barely room for all four of them in the room. “Don’t mind her, Isard, she’s half-Marsh-wiggle. They’re all gloomy like that.”
Isard looked at Charmain with renewed interest, taking in the slight greenish cast to her skin and what appeared to be webbing between her fingers, her bog-green eyes. She had read about Marsh-wiggles in her books, but she had never met them before. From what she had read, they very seldom left their settlements in the Northern Marsh. She had never heard of a Marsh-wiggle marrying a non-Marsh-wiggle before.
“Don’t stare,” Charmain said, meeting her look for look. “It’s rude.”
“I’m sorry,” Isard said. “I’ve never seen a Marsh-wiggle before. We don’t have them in Archenland.”
“You don’t have any marshes worth speaking of in Archenland,” Charmain said. “It’s just very typical. It’s hard for us to find anywhere good for us to live. That’s why we’ve been living in the same place for the past three thousand years. We’ll probably be there for the next three thousand years too, unless the hurricanes finally wash them away. That’s probably more likely.”
“All Marsh-wiggles are like that,” Calixta repeated. She put her arm around Charmain’s shoulders. “Come on, Char. Let’s let her say goodbye to her friends. You’ll have plenty of time to traumatize her later.”
Charmain shrugged her arm off, but turned her pondscum green gaze on Isard. “I hope we’ll like each other,” she said. Even her voice sounded muddy somehow; Isard couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “But we probably won’t. No doubt we’ll be screaming at each other before the week is out.”
“I look forward to the day when you scream at anyone,” Calixta said, throwing an apologetic look over her shoulder at Isard as she steered Charmain out of the room. “No, really, I do. It will be so refreshing for you. I really think you could use it.”
“Well, this ought to be…bracing,” Lady Mirilis said doubtfully. To Isard’s relief, she didn’t ask again whether Isard was sure that she didn’t want to go back to Archenland. Instead she said, “Do you want to come and say goodbye to Sir Jos and Sir Joscen?”
Isard nodded silently, feeling overwhelmed. On the way here from Anvard it had all seemed like a wonderful adventure, something off in the distant future, but now it was starting to feel real. Something of this must have shown on her face because Lady Mirilis carefully skirted one of her trunks and came over to sit down on the bed beside her, covering Isard’s hand with her own. “It won’t be that long, your highness,” she said. “You’ll come home for Christmas, of course, and that’s only a few months away.”
Isard nodded again. “I know,” she said. “It’s just - it’s a lot to take in.”
“Well, you do have family here,” Lady Mirilis added. She sounded a little grudging about this, for which Isard couldn’t blame her; most Archenlanders were averse to acknowledging Telmarine Narnia’s existence, or even that the royal family had, over the past few generations, been steadily intermarrying with the Narnian royal family. Narnian mother or not, Isard couldn’t blame them for it.
“I suppose,” Isard said. She would have had family at the University of Hartsmount too. Her older brother was still there, and she had an uncle who was a fellow at Queenscrown College. Here in Narnia, all she knew was that the Crown Prince was at Beaversdam too and that the rest of her uncle’s family - the royal family - was in Cair Paravel, off on the coast.
She pressed her hands to her face, taking a few minutes to breathe in, then nodded to herself and let her hands fall to her lap. “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’m a princess of Archenland, the bone of Adam and blood of Eve. I’ll be all right.”
Lady Mirilis smiled at her and put a hand on the back of her neck, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead. “Yes, you will, your highness,” she said. “Now. Shall we go and say goodbye to the others.”
Isard nodded.
*
She went back to Rose Tower slowly, trying not to drag her feet. The umbrella she was carrying felt awkward in her hand - Sir Joscen had pressed it on her during their farewell, promising that he would see her again when she went home for Christmas. She put it down in the slight shelter in front of the door to Rose Tower, fitting her new key into the lock.
Inside, Isard put her umbrella into the stand and hung her cloak up on a hook, unpinning her hat and looking around for a place to put it. Eventually she carried it into the round sitting room with her, hesitating in the doorway.
There were several squashy-looking armchairs, a rocking chair, and a couch in the room, drawn close around the hearth. Rain still beat down against the windows, one of which was on either side of the big bookshelf set against the wall. There was a table as well - a big one near the back, and a smaller one that had been pulled up against one of the armchairs, where one of the girls that Isard hadn’t been introduced to was resting her mug as she pored over a book. She was small, delicate-looking, with the dark skin that meant that one parent or another had probably come from Terebinthia or Calormen. Charmain and Calixta were sitting on the couch, Calixta with her legs curled up and her bare feet pressed against the arm, Charmain sitting with her feet on the floor and her back straight, holding an embroidery hoop in one hand and a needle in the other.
The other girl was the one with the harp. She ran her fingers over the strings with a silvery sound, singing softly.
For the Witch has come to Narnia
And the night is long and cold
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
I shall wander through the valley
Over hill and over dale
For my love, oh my love, has gone away
For the winter fast is falling
And the river now is frozen
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
I have searched from Waste to ocean
From Ettinsmoor to Archen
For my love, oh my love, who’s gone away
Past the fields and through the forest
To a place betwixt two mountains
For my love, oh my love, has gone away
Through frozen gate I venture
To a garden made of stone
For my love, oh my love, has gone away
There are statues great and small
From unicorn to giant
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
I have searched from high to low
And the night is quickly falling
And my love, oh my love, I cannot find
I can hear the bells ringing
As the Witch Queen fast approaches
And my love, oh my love, has gone away
The girl’s voice faltered on the last syllables and her hand fell from the harp.
“That’s a sad song,” Isard said. Her voice seemed to break the spell the song had spread over the room, and the others blinked and looked up, seeming to notice her presence for the first time.
The girl with the harp smiled at her. “Yes, it is,” she said. “An old faun who lives on our estate taught it to me. You must be the new girl. I saw you come in earlier.”
“I’m Isard Colschild,” Isard said, venturing further into the room. She was still carrying her hat.
The girl with the harp patted the arm of the armchair beside her. “I’m Angely of Owlswood. My sister is betrothed to the Crown Prince.”
“Oh, for the Lion’s sake, Angely,” said the girl with the book, looking up at them over a pair of round spectacles. “We’ve all heard. The entire country’s heard. The King sent out criers.” She turned her attention to Isard. “I’m Tivadar Greenlaw. Isn’t Colschild the family name for the Archenlander royal family?”
“It is,” Isard nodded, folding herself into the indicated armchair and resting her hat on her knees. Calixta and Charmain were looking up with interest. “My father’s the King of Archenland. My mother is King Florian’s sister. She’s the one who wanted me to come here.”
“Oh, that’s why your friend called you ‘your highness’,” Calixta said, her mouth rounding into an O. “I was wondering. I didn’t know that we were getting a princess this year, how exciting. Most young ladies don’t come to university, you see,” she explained to Isard.
Isard blinked. “Why not? Not everyone does in Archenland, but most nobles do, if only for a year or two. It’s a good way to make connections if you can’t afford to go to court every year. Most don’t bother getting degrees unless they want to.”
“The University doesn’t issue degrees to women,” Angely said. “Glasswater University has been talking about it, but they’re all eccentrics, and the only reason that they want to is because we don’t. I’m sure the University Board will never sign off on it, even if the Dean is in favor.”
Isard felt her back go stiff. Her hands tightened on the brim of her hat. She had to force herself to loosen her grip, worried about bending it. “We don’t get degrees?”
“We have the privilege of calling ourselves dames of Beaversdam upon completion of all three years,” Tivadar said, her mouth twisting. “It’s awful, isn’t it? The College can petition The University to grant an honorary degree if they think you’ve earned it, but that doesn’t happen very often, and usually only if you have a patron with a very full purse.”
“My mother didn’t tell me that,” Isard said, shaken.
Calixta shrugged. “I thought you said that most people in Archenland didn’t get degrees.”
“Well, they have the choice to, if they want -”
“And can afford it, no doubt,” Charmain put in. “My lord father won’t acknowledge me, but he’ll pay to get me out of sight for a few years. Oh, well. There are worse places to be. I could be back in the swamps, living off frogs and raw fish in a hut stinking of smoke.” Her expression went distant. “He’ll probably decide it’s too much money and find some easier, cheaper way to get rid of me. Assassins, probably.”
Calixta put a hand on her back. “That’s not going to happen,” ‘she said firmly. “Assassins are expensive.”
Isard was startled into laughter, along with Tivadar. Angely brushed her fingers over her harp strings, a dancing murmur of silvery joy coming from them, and smiled. Charmain didn’t smile, but her expression went a little less grim, the corners of her mouth turning up too slightly to be a real smile.
Calixta rubbed her back. “No degrees,” she said to Isard, picking up the earlier thread of conversation. “We learn dancing, deportment, music, literature, and enough politics, economics, and history to prove pleasant dinner companions to men who aren’t afraid of a woman with a brain in her head. Nothing worth getting a degree for, I’d think. Maybe it’s different in Archenland.”
“Just a little,” Isard said slowly, thinking of her brothers and her friends from court, off at the University of Hartsmount this term. She supposed that Narnian men had a similar time of it, even if the women didn’t. Why had her mother sent her here, if it wasn’t for the education? Hartsmount was older than Beaversdam by almost three hundred years, the universities in Calormen older still. The Calormene ones were definitely more distinguished.
It had to be the connections. As far as Isard knew, they weren’t talking about a Narnian marriage this year, since two generations in a row seemed to have straightened out affairs between the two countries. Most Archenlanders nobles were still wary of marrying their children to the Narnian nobility, even two generations on from Caspian the Conqueror. They had the luxury of making that decision; the royals didn’t. King Florian’s mother was an Archenlander; his sister was married to the King of Archenland, but beyond that, there was seldom much conversation between the upper tiers of Narnian and Archenlander society.
Isard looked over the four other women with a thoughtful eye, trying to remember what her tutor had told her about the Narnian peerage. Owlswood was one of the most distinguished families in Narnia; the Fells owned most of the land north of the Great River, right up to the borders of the Northern Marsh, which was presumably where Charmain had come from. The Greenlaws were a merchant family who had bought themselves a lordship and an estate to go along with it from King Florian’s father Rilian. Not bad friends for a princess of Archenland to have, none of them.
“Do you like it here?” Isard found herself asking, unexpectedly.
Angely seemed surprised by the question. “Like it?” she said. “The rooms are tiny, the food’s awful -”
“It’s not that bad,” Charmain put in.
“Oh, like you’d know, it’s not cat tails and frog legs.”
“There’s no call for that!” Calixta said, frowning fiercely at Angely.
Angely shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Anyway, the food’s awful, the classes are pointless, we aren’t permitted out of the college except in a group of three or more, and we can’t even wear real frocks during term time. The only saving grace is that my mother isn’t standing over me trying to marry me off to any man with a title and a pulse, since men aren’t permitted onto the grounds.”
“Unfortunately,” Tivadar sighed. “Even if you leave the college, they’re all either drunk in the pubs, too interested in town girls, or too interested in their studies to speak to a woman. Or they prefer exotics to humans - sorry, Char, I didn’t mean that,” she added quickly.
Charmain shrugged. “It’s all right,” she said. “My father apparently likes women who will flash him a bit of green or a cloven hoof or hairy shank. Aslan knows he’s not the only deviant in Narnia.”
Isard gasped. She hadn’t meant to, and Charmain’s gaze shot to her, steely beneath the mud-green. “I’m sorry,” she made herself say. “You just - no one in Archenland would ever say anything like that. It’s - it’s horribly offensive.”
“I wish that was true here,” Calixta muttered under her breath, patting Charmain on the knee.
Angely shifted a little in her seat, her fingers brushing across her harp strings again. She looked uncomfortable. “You won’t find a lot of that sort of thing in Narnia,” she said. “It’s not really the sort of thing that’s spoken of in polite company.”
“That’s all right,” Charmain said. “My being here effectively makes this anything but polite company. Starchild College normally doesn’t allow nonhumans as students,” she explained to Isard. “My father gave them a very large amount of money so that they might make an exception.”
Isard stared at her. No wonder Lady Mirilis and Longear had gotten so many stares during their journey, despite Narnia’s large nonhuman population. “That’s barbaric!”
“Welcome to Narnia,” Charmain said.
Isard pressed her palms together, letting the tips of her fingers rest against the bridge of her nose. She could still go back to Archenland; Lady Mirilis and the rest of her escort was staying the night in Beaversdam before heading back to Anvard in the morning. Lady Mirilis would certainly be happier about that, especially once she heard about the way Narnians treated nonhumans. But her mother wouldn’t be happy about that. And if she was right about why her mother had wanted her to come here, then leaving would put her at a disadvantage in the future. Not too many Archenlanders really knew anything about Narnia.
“Well,” she said finally. “It will certainly be an education, won’t it?”
Original Prompt that we sent you:
What I want: I'm always curious about the books and literature in fantasy worlds. I'd be interested to see your take on some kind of Narnian writing - a few pages from a history, or a cook book, or a racy romantic novel, or somebody's memoir... anything! If that doesn't appeal, I'm really into worldbuilding so it would be great to see something about parts of Narnia we don't get to see much of, or maybe something about the behind-the-scenes stuff (servants in one of the royal palaces? Random sailors or soldiers?) instead of focusing on the books' main characters. Just throwing ideas around now so I'll shut up, but basically I'd love to read anything about Narnia as a country and society, good or bad. I'm less interested in shippy stuff but totally happy for that to be a part of it if you like.
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: Maybe something from Mr Tumnus's bookshelf?