~ Shadow In The Silverwood ~
A/N: Writing the first five books of the "Blades of Narnia" series over the course of three years remains one of my all-time favorite literary undertakings. It was a labor of love that began with the 2005 Disney release of "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe." From there, my Narnia came to life on its own, and the single story meant to follow Edmund in the Golden Age became a cross-world saga spanning several books. At the end of the fifth book, several readers emailed me, kindly and enthusiastically asking me if I might consider revisiting the characters in the "Blades" series. I hesitated, citing all the professional writing I should be doing, but that proverbial wardrobe door continues to stand enticingly open, and any dreamer worth her salt knows she has to step through. This story is dedicated to you, fellow adventurers.
1 - The Myth Of Magic
Anvard Castle, Archenland
Summer 2303
"But Master Rune, I've already copied this text!" protested Jaelyn.
"Copy it again," grunted the old master scribe.
"I've practiced and practiced all afternoon," she said, glancing out the window at the sun shining on the plain below the castle. A gorgeous, golden, late-summer day, and she was missing the whole thing. She pointed to the pages in front of her. Not one spare drop of ink marred her work. "My letters are perfect!"
Rune pushed Jaelyn's writing box across the timeworn table and glared at her with that familiar grumpy look. "And you will never master the position of a castle scribe, Jaelyn Lumen, unless you employ some patience. Come to that, you could do with some humility as well, young lady." He pulled a sanded parchment toward him. "Look at these cardinal letters. Sloppy curvature. No grace. Space entirely wasted on the page." He tossed her parchment across the table with a careless scowl. "How do you think men will look back on recorded history, as written by someone with so little love of recording it?"
Jaelyn tried to rein in the stubborn impulse to point out that Archenland hadn't had an event interesting enough to record in three hundred years. Her family had been poor, and her one blessing (or curse) was that she possessed decent handwriting, taught her by a blastedly diligent old man whom her mother had nursed back to health when Jaelyn was but a child. When her parents died of the fever, that skill had saved her from the streets. She had received a position at Anvard, transcribing histories and documents, but as Rune said, there was no love in it. Her heart lay in the forests and fields and the adventures to be had in the wild, not in a stuffy library.
No, everything that was interesting had been happening in Narnia. The mysterious death of the king, Caspian IX! The disappearance of the lords of Narnia's seven provinces! Secret whispers of betrayal and deceit! Just the thought of the story to be unearthed set her fingers itching. That was a real story. Not this quill-scratching, berry-pressing, finger-staining chore of recording dusty old volumes no one ever looked at.
She groaned at the stacks of books and scrolls and wondered that the table wasn't groaning with her under their weight. "If only I could just magically transfer all these ..." she muttered.
"There is no such thing as magic," Rune scolded. "There is only hard work ... and industry ... and patience."
That last of which Master Rune seems to be lacking, she thought, attempting to hide a rueful smile.
She wasn't quite successful. Rune cuffed her in the back of the head with a sheaf of papers. "And humility," he reminded her. He dropped the papers on the table before her. "Finish that text and begin the following, up to the page I've marked. If you finish ... with some attention to detail, this time ... you may join the serving staff in the clearing tonight."
Jaelyn beamed. The staff held bonfires and dances and singing on fine evenings, in a clearing beside the castle. Rune was her guardian, mentor, and perpetual scold, but he did let her out from under her scrolls and books upon occasion ... and she loved to sing. "Thank you, Master Rune."
He grunted again, more indulgently. "See that you copy the text in its entirety. No skipping passages ... understood?"
She nodded vigorously. Rune left the hour-marked candle at her table and exited the library.
- # -
The candle had burned through three hours. Jaelyn had started on the new text, but by the twentieth page, the words began to blur and swim before her eyes. She rubbed them, smearing ink on her cheeks and not caring. Rune had probably known she'd be too tired to join in the festivities tonight, blast the old grouch. She sighed, picturing the satisfied look on his face when he learned she had spent the night poring over the texts as he'd been trying to get her to do all day. There would be no chance for song tonight, after all.
With an enormous yawn, she turned the page.
And found something that didn't belong there.
A paper had been folded into the crease of the book. She picked it carefully out. It was so brittle, it crackled in her fingers. Unfolding it, she found a letter.
To His Majesty Edmund Pevensie, Duke of Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table, King of Narnia by the Order of Aslan
Cair Paravel, Narnia
Lion's Year 1030
Bless it, this letter was old. Jaelyn wondered if it were among the things Rune meant her to copy. What was that "lion's year" all about? And who, in the name of all of Archenland, was Aslan?
Honored Father,
Selbaran has no love for the Hags of Ettinsmoor.
Hags? Jaelyn had heard of old crones referred to as such things by rude folk ... but why would the writer have capitalized it? She gave it up for a style of old speech and went on reading.
I have no love for the chore of routing the last of them from the Silverwood, either. Many still support the White Witch's ideals—
Wait. Witch? As in, magic? Magic, as in, there was no such thing as magic?
—and I cannot help but think that, were she not a monument of stone now standing on the plain before Cair Paravel, they would be searching out ways to join her cause once more.
I long to return home to you and Mother, and cease this restless hunting. You will tell me it is a prince's duty, and you are right, but it is a lonely one. I haven't your stomach for such a separation from everything I hold dear. Here, I have only the forest.
Jaelyn ran her fingers lightly over the page, feeling the writer's loneliness echo down through nearly 1300 years. And she'd thought herself lonely. She had only books and musty scrolls to battle in her solitude, rather than supporters of a (she could hardly even think the word, still confused about the reference to magic) witch.
I look forward to news of your doings. I heard from my captain that my Good Cousin, Prince Aedan, has been training for a general at Beruna. He is much admired among my soldiers. It is unfortunate that they do not know him as I do, for I am certain he is as much the thwart as he has ever been. I pray he is not troubling the High King overmuch with his pranks.
Tomorrow I shall go to the North and finish expelling the Hags back to their homeland. It is my hope that this conflict will be over soon, and I may return to Narnia not for a returning warrior's welcome, but to the welcome of my family's faces.
Your Obedient and Loving Son,
Silas Faywater Pevensie
Knight of the Noble Order of the Table
Lord of Silverwood
Prince Regent of the Dryads of Selbaran
Silverwood Castle, Selbaran
Jaelyn almost crumpled the letter in her surprise. Dryads? No, wait. A prince of dryads? She turned the letter over in her hands, but there was no seal, no mark, no residue of wax. It had never reached its intended recipient ... a king of Narnia, so the letter claimed. And that wasn't even addressing the business about a "High King."
Her first thought was to put the letter directly into Rune's hands. Its historic significance alone, if it were not falsified, made it invaluable to Anvard's library.
But magic. Magic was real? The writer had certainly treated it as if he believed so ... even going so far as to call himself a prince of dryads. A legend. A tree spirit. A figment.
"A madman," she mumbled. In all her studies, she'd never heard of King Edmund, Prince Silas, Cair Paravel, or Silverwood Castle. Selbaran, yes, though Archenland had no contact with that forest island. Narnia, certainly ... but the seat of Narnia rested at Starshold with Lord Miraz.
Jaelyn pushed out of her seat and carried the hours candle to the map table. She selected Anvard's oldest known map and spread it out on the surface. Tracing a finger north from Anvard, she crossed the mountains and followed the River Rush. Settlements dotted the Narnian landscape even then—towns that had sprung up like mushrooms after Narnia was conquered by the Telmarines. According to the map's date, it had been created shortly after the Telmarine invasion of Narnia some three hundred years ago. Narnia and Archenland had been tenuous neighbors ever since.
Finally, her work as a historian and scribe had begun to have some use, even if she'd never felt she belonged here. "Beruna, Beruna," she murmured, searching.
There—a town settlement.
Narnia. Beruna. And Ettinsmoor, there at the top as it should be. She traced a finger into the Great Eastern Ocean and found Selbaran. From what little she knew, the island had been closed to travelers since before this map was created. How could it possibly have had such a close relation to Narnia, so far away?
Then she noticed a small mark close to the center of Selbaran.
Silverwood.
"So you did exist," she murmured. She wondered if a castle still stood there. A quick check of the newer maps confirmed no existence of Silverwood.
She sped her finger back across the sea to Narnia, but found no trace of Cair Paravel on the oldest map or any of the others. It was quite possible, of course, that it had fallen into ruin since the time of the letter.
How sad. I wonder if he ever returned home to his family.
A warm gust through the library window spilled her maps and the letter onto the floor. She bent to pick things up.
The library door burst open. Jaelyn panicked and stuffed Silas's letter into her sleeve, surely crushing it this time.
Rune carried a single candle. His hands shook so hard, the flame guttered and threw his face into ghastly shadows. "Gather your things, Jaelyn, quickly!"
"What? What is it?" she said, rushing to pick up her quills with alarm.
"No, no! Leave those! You must go ... now, tonight, this moment!"
"Master Rune, please tell me what is wrong!"
Rune hurried to a shelf and pulled a wooden box off the top. He shoved it at her. "Take that and your traveling pack and run deep into the forest. Hide the box, and make it safe. Do not come back."
"What?"
The old master scribe rounded on her. "Lord Miraz of Narnia has borne a son and sent his nephew, Caspian the Tenth, into exile. They are sending soldiers to Anvard."
"What's happening? Why are you so frightened?"
"Do you not understand, girl!" Rune roared, and Jaelyn trembled at the unaccustomed sound. "Miraz moves to assure his progeny's rule across the land. They are going to attack!"