Sunshine and Cinnamon
Chapter 1:
A Letter and an Old Acquaintance
Aravis slowly laid down the letter, a frown creasing her forehead. She knew exactly what she wanted to do about it--she also knew what Aslan would have her do--and these two sides warred within her. There was no point in arguing with herself; eventually, her subconscious told her, she would need to give in to what Aslan wanted. This knowledge, however, did nothing to ease the fierceness of the mental battle taking place. Finally, she sighed in resignation.
Behind her, the door opened with protesting squeal. Aravis turned, selfish worry still marking her face. "Whatever caused that?" Cor asked, a serious question hiding under his playful tone. He smoothed the frown out of her lips with his thumb. Unwillingly, Aravis felt a smile grow as her husband dropped a kiss on her cheek.
She gestured to the letter. "Read it for yourself. Remember when we were separated in Tashbaan--so long ago, now--and that Tarkheena, Lasaraleen, helped me get to the Tombs?" The distaste was evident in Aravis' voice. "It's from her. She never seemed like the kind of person to get into this type of trouble, but...well--just read it," she finished shortly, getting up and busying herself with small nothings.
Cor, curiosity growing, took her seat at the desk and slowly went over the letter.
"Darling Aravis:
"I've gotten into a bit of trouble--completely innocently, I assure you. You may--or may not--remember that when last we met, my esteemed husband was away on business. Well, he's dead, and now everybody who is anybody is saying that I did it--or planned it, anyway, because I wanted to be free to marry Daalik Tarkhaan.
"Honestly, darling, it's all so completely ridiculous. Daalik wasn't nearly as wealthy as my venerable husband, and I would never marry beneath me. He is delicious when it comes to looks, but there's almost nothing behind his title; and, of course, I could never be poor of my own choice.
"Anyway, just before my husband died, some business venture went all wrong--I don't know how or why, only that it somehow took away most of my money. My greatly esteemed Father refuses to help me because he's in some sort of political trouble and needs to stay on the Tisroc's (may he live forever) good side. He thinks that helping me--someone most people now consider a murderer--would make his position worse.
"Circumstances have gotten consistently worse and worse until I have even begun to fear for my life. Even the Tisroc (may he live forever) is beginning to act in a way that frightens me--always making the most dreadful hints. Isn't just wonderfully lucky, darling, that I remembered you? I know you won't desert me, not when we've always been such dear friends!
"I couldn't safely stay in Calormen another night, so I used what money I had left to buy passage on a caravan heading to Anvard and send this letter ahead of me. I'm sure I shall not need to stay with you very long; all this horrible gossip will die down soon, surely, and then I can return home.
"Well, I'm on my way, and should arrive within a few days of this letter. Remember, dearest, how I helped you when you were lost and alone.
"affectionately,
"Lasaraleen Tarkheena"
Cor absently let the paper fall, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. Sometime during the reading, Aravis had come back to stand behind him. "Well?" she questioned. "What do you think we should do?"
"Let her stay, of course," he answered, reaching up to capture her hand, "although it seems she won't be the most pleasant of guests."
"She's a stuck-up gossip lover who doesn't know how to stop talking," Aravis corrected sorrowfully, "and it seems we'll be stuck with her for quite a while. Unless," and suddenly her voice brightened, "we can convince her to continue on to Cair Paravel."
Cor laughed. "Oh, no you don't," he scolded teasingly. "We're going to be courteous hosts and let her know she'll be welcome here for as long as is necessary. It's what Aslan would want, you know."
"I know," Aravis said, scrunching up her face in displeasure. "Just don't expect me to be her 'dear friend'."
Their shared laughter could be heard several rooms away.
IO0O0O0I
Lasaraleen Tarkheena's fingers fumbled to tighten the knots holding down the canvas walls. Despite her efforts, the violent dust storm managed to make itself known within her wagon. She pressed a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, eyes gritty with the ever-present sand.
She was so cramped. The spoiled Tarkheena felt a longing for civilization as passionate as the storm itself rise up within her, and she cursed the day she had decided to flee north. Of course, the northern barbarians wouldn't know a thing about real civilization. She thought, with a martyr-like air, that she wouldn't ever be in a truly civilized place for years and years--at least, not until she returned to Tashbaan, which would be soon, she assured herself.
However, that was wishful thinking and she knew it. It was likely--no, almost certain--that she would never see her homeland again. In truth, the situation was worse than she'd let on in her letter to Aravis. She'd heard through the gossip of her servants that the Tisroc--may he live forever--was nearly ready to proclaim her death sentence.
It wasn't the least bit fair! She knew many women who flirted outrageously when their husbands were away--and some who didn't even bother to hide it.Besides, her husband had been so old. Surely she couldn't be expected to confine herself to just him? But doubt rose up like a taunting monster. All right, so maybe she should've been a little more prudent--but that didn't justify the horrible, horrible comments that even her dearest friends had been making, and believing.
Surely they knew, deep down somewhere, that she would never plan anyone's death--much less do the deed herself!
Just then, one of the knots came loose. The canvas flapped wildly, and dust-laden wind burst in, stinging her cheeks and hands. Eyes shut tight against the onslaught, she groped crazily for the cord, retying it on the frame. This done, she sat back on her haunches, panting with the effort.
Lasaraleen stared down at herself. Her hands were red and chapped by constant exposure to the elements. Her dress--once so lovely--was dark and muddy with sand and sweat. Sand coated her skin and was caked in her hair--her eyes stung with it.
"I--I'm so--dirty," she whispered brokenly.
And that was the last straw. The Tarkheena curled into a ball and wept.
