Chapter Five
THE ROYAL MAGI
For someone used to dealing mostly with humans, Hobin felt strange consulting the Royal Magi. Between a tall, grizzled centaur and a distinguished faun sat a badger, beaver and fox. Were these the folk that would solve his great dilemma?
“Kindly state your name for the record,” the beaver said.
“Hobin, Earl of Balburn.”
“Yes, milord.” As he scratched down the words with a quill, he added, “Please be aware that all proceedings will be taken down in writing and may come to the attention of the King.”
“Is that necessary? This is a delicate problem and I was hoping for a little discretion.”
“He’s required to say that,” the faun replied. “Never fear…you are the one seeking answers, not us and certainly not the King.”
***
Hobin was confused and a bit distressed. He had practiced in his mind what he would say, and that rehearsal always included pauses while the Magi, sitting on the edge of their seat, would gasp and make remarks of shock and disbelief.
The Earl did pause his spiel several times to scan their faces. Their expressions were as unreadable as the runes on the Great Stone Table. “I saw the water glowing, but I could not see my reflection,” he added, “and when I looked into its depths for a while the water began to move of its own accord.”
“One moment please,” Mountebank said. “I’m having a problem with this.”
“Do you doubt my word, good beaver?”
“No, milord. The nib on my pen is cracked.” He got another quill from the desk, dipped it in the inkwell and said, “Now then, would you kindly repeat that last bit about the moving water for the record?”
***
Lord Balburn was achingly sure that they either did not understand what they were hearing or they did not believe a word of it. Either way he would have wasted his time. Worse, if word of that strange tale got back to the King, it could be the end of his career. Hobin and his son would be put out of the manor and while he could lead a unit in the army, Cendric was not fit to be anything but an aristocrat.
“So there I was,” Hobin continued, his hands folding and unfolding nervously. “Larkins has never lied to me, and the expression on his face was one of absolute credibility. When he spoke of what he knew, it was as if he had rolled a great weight off his back. Perhaps he is going mad. Perhaps both of us are. I only know what I saw…or rather felt…in the pool was somehow more real than reality itself.” Again Hobin glanced about, studying their expressions. “Well, milords? Have you nothing to say? Is this a worthy question or do you fancy me a raving lunatic?”
“It is a worthy question,” said the faun, High Mage Aramis. “Since you have apparently finished, kindly retire to the waiting room and we will discuss your case.”
***
Hobin was back in that contemptible lobby, kept waiting for a very long time, so long that his supper was brought to him by a sympathetic guard. When he had just about decided to find his companions and leave, Aramis entered the room and sat next to him. Hobin was at once relieved and terrified.
“You were ill at ease, sir,” the faun said. “A pity, since we convened a special meeting just to help you.”
“Why shouldn’t I feel ill at ease? This type of problem is not your usual fare.”
“No, it’s not. The only thing we’re used to getting on a usual basis is respect.” One of the faun’s brows raised.
“Was I ill mannered?”
“Let’s just say it was painfully obvious you were addressing your remarks to Wynngarth and me, the ones whose faces looked the…ahem…most human.”
Hobin began to nervously wring his hands. “I did not mean to. I was at a disadvantage sir. You see, I am just not used to dealing with talking beasts.”
“Talking beasts? Even though by Aslan’s good pleasure you are here to protect and prosper them? Oh yes, Hobin, your reputation preceded you, and I had hoped you wouldn’t live up to it.”
“Oh.” Hobin looked down. “They must hate me.”
A bit of a sympathetic smile lit Aramis’ face and he shook his head. “I would call it disappointment, milord, not hate. You would have known better had you looked them in the eye.” The faun lifted Lord Balburn’s chin. “Have you ever met Lord Jarrigan?”
“Jarrigan? Never heard of him.”
“
Nobody’s heard of Lord Jarrigan. Nobody’s heard of his earldom either, though it used to be a sizeable city to the north of Cair Paravel. It was home to 9000 souls until a terrible thing happened to it, something so terrible that no one even remembers.”
“I don’t understand. I’d think the worst tragedies are the ones you could never forget.”
“Ah, but the memories mean it is not a total loss, not a loss unmourned. This one lost even its power to excite patriotism and devotion. This one left no ballads, no stories. And yet at Aslan’s good pleasure it did leave echoes. You have a note from Gonvin, we have the diary of Lord Jarrigan, and the wishing well where it was discovered now sits guarded behind walls six feet thick.”
Hobin’s hands began to tremble. He felt as if he were in nothing but his undergarments. “How do you kill nine thousand people who were never born??”
The faun raised a finger. “Just because they were denied their birth doesn’t mean they don’t exist. The souls of these folk were forged from the undying breath of Aslan, and so could never disappear completely. They live on, yet their promise has not been redeemed, their hopes have never been realized, their children unborn, and all they might have shared with us was burned away. Gonvin and Erin have joined their ranks.”
“These poor folk! Have they no recourse, no advocate?”
“They have you. The echo of their despair has borne you here. Had you not come to us, knowing what you know, their blood would have been on your hands. Two deaths are less than nine thousand, but in Narnia it only takes one death to make a man a murderer.”
Hobin bowed his head. It was as if he could feel the weight of the lost city resting squarely on his shoulders. He went through the grief of ill tidings as the truth sank in. He was not sure what would become of him, but he knew his life would never be the same. He looked up.
“By the Lion, I will do the honorable thing. Tell me what to do. There is a book of spells close to the pool, and if you came with me, you would understand…”
“No! You must
never go there!”
“But I thought…?”
“Two wrongs do not make a right. Even I dare not counsel you. You must go instead into the Utter West and find the Palace of Hypnos.”
“The west of Narnia?”
Aramis half smiled sympathetically and patted his shoulder. “The western edge of the world, my son. The utter west.”
“Are you joking?” Hobin began to pace about, his hands agitated. “You expect me to find the end of all things? I don’t think anyone’s ever been there!”
“It’s not like I would send you out alone. Look beyond your own problems, Hobin. I have nine thousand good reasons to send a delegation to the Utter West. Perhaps your coming was a sign from Aslan that the time was right. In any event, we could learn a lot about our world.”
“Who is this Hypnos? A great wizard? How do you know he will even help us?”
“He is a benevolent immortal whose children, the Dark Muses, whisper dreams into the ears of laborers and wisdoms into the ears of prophets. Hypnos speaks with Father Time through his dreams. Only he can untangle the knotted cords of history and set the course you must follow. You must return Gonvin to his rightful place and speak to Hypnos of Jarrigan. Time must resume its rightful course.”
Hobin seemed to visibly shrink. “You speak of murder, and yet if I put things back the way they were, would I not be guilty of Cendric’s murder and my suicide? Worse yet, that our very souls would be lost and forgotten?”
“They would not, sir. As I said, a soul is a breath of the divine wind. You would vanish from our history, but not from yours.”
“And if I do this thing, will Aslan forgive me?”
“If you don’t, you can bet he won’t. Trust in him, seek to know his will, and salvation will visit your house. And remember that whatever you lose for his sake will be restored to you tenfold.”
CONTINUED
