As Edmund slipped back into the royal tent, snow dusting the hood and hem of his cloak, Susan stifled a shiver at the cold draft and said, "Was aught amiss, or was the sound, as I told you, merely a branch cracking under the weight of ice?"

"The weight of ice and an Owl who misjudged her landing, so we were both correct," Edmund said, then held up his hands, one bare and one still gloved, and added, "Peace, the message was nothing ill; merely our good Ambassador Coltsfoot sending word that we are warmly awaited in Vashnoi, and that the King of Vinyedvyeri seems most amenable to the plan for a joint strike at Harfang come spring."

"So long as the good Owl is uninjured," Susan said, and quirked an inquiring brow -- ("Merely dazed, and grateful for a warm perch out of the snow") -- "then I was more correct than you; as forfeit, I sentence you to warm your feet by the brazier (for I have no wish to share a bed with a block of ice) and reflect that a king who cannot trust his people to manage a night patrol without his presence at every minute is a foolish king indeed."

"As you command, Su," Edmund said, and neatly caught the cushion Susan tossed at his face.