Author's Note: I apologize. I've been somewhat under the weather and inspiration hasn't come easily. But I did a bit of brainstorming last night with my editor - long may she rule - and we've come up with a few things. So, please bear with if I'm slow on the updating process. I want to make sure I'm putting out the very best stuff I can to honor both the story itself and its devoted readers. You guys deserve that.
I'm going to say again that I've had to take extreme liberties with the fandom, especially regarding geography (why didn't the Great Lewis give us a before and after map of the realm? Oh, I despair muchly.) and involving all sorts of original characters. While not part of the original works, they nevertheless do exist in my little Narnia-fan world and Lord knows I've tried to keep them true to the fandom. But we are going to have bad guys and good guys and they just might surprise you a little bit.
Also, while I'm going to try to keep the story centered around Narnia as much as I can, do remember that even though he's young and somewhat inconsistant when it comes to ruling a kingdom, our dear Caspy is the king and he needs to start acting like one. That's part of what the story's about; growing up, or into, our responsibilities. So, bearing all that in mind, I'll hush now and let you enjoy chapter 7. Sib
Her Royal Highness Melissande, beautiful Jewel of all Anvard, sat before her mirror and fumed. However, despite her roiling emotions, the only outward sign of her upset was the small line between perfectly sculpted eyebrows. She stared at her reflection and seethed.
This was not going well. Her father had promised her the Royal Crown here at Telmar and by all the gods in the heavens and below, she would have it, one way or another! Yet, for all her glorious perfection, this ingrate king seemed content to spend his free time cavorting with her idiot brother and deadly dull sister! It wasn't to be borne!
And this king! Melissande vented a quite-unladylike snort. She'd imagined the Telmarine king somewhat differently than the reality that jounced his way into the courtyard. No, the King of all Telmar and Narnia should be a great man, one tall, dark and strong, of regal bearing and noble countenance, not some youthful ingrate who looked as if he should be shoveling in the stables!
The more her thoughts drifted along these veins, the angrier she became, but there was no use in having a tantrum; no one was awake yet to appreciate her fine flare for histrionics. The princess merely resigned herself to pouting atop her stool; halfheartedly brushing at her thick black hair, only succeeding in mussing the dark locks further. Giving up, she threw the silver gilded accessory across the room, taking small comfort in the resounding thud against the stone. But she finally forced herself to calm; soon it would be a moot point anyway.
Her goal in Telmar was to gain the throne by marrying the reigning king. Although she'd not been so fortunate thus far, there was at least one thing she knew she could call upon for help. For all her vainness, Melissande was not merely a spoiled, empty-headed brat. In all actuality, she knew the twists and turns of the male mind quite well, disregarding that it didn't twist all that much, in her jaundiced opinion.
Well-used to being admired by many of the most powerful men in the world, she'd long used that to her advantage, sometimes flirting outrageously, allowing herself to be courted with coy coquettishness. She'd even succumbed to a few stolen kisses in dark corners, but merely scorned the love-struck lad afterward, brushing him off with a cold-heartedness that would have done Jadis herself proud.
And, when natural means didn't work, there was always her fail safe, carefully nestled in a silver jewelry box that always accompanied her. Melissande picked it up now, gently opening the polished lid and brushing aside to the velvet cloth, revealing the small heart-shaped bottle. The elixir inside was dark, nearly bloody in color. But it was potent; the one who'd given it to her had been adamant on that. He'd also warned her to use it only here in Telmar, just in case her betrothed proved problematic.
The instructions were painfully simple: "Two drops, Highness," he'd said. "In a glass of wine. Make sure you're the first the king sees after drinking, and his heart will forever be yours, as will the crown of Telmar and Narnia."
Yet now, they were here in Telmar, and she was no closer to that crown than she'd been in Anvard. The boy-king was just being awfully stubborn about it. Melissande pursed her lips, ethereal eyes narrowed in thought. She snarled into the mirror. Everything depended on her attainment of the throne. Long ivory fingers removed the bottle from its nest. She held it up to the candlelight, watching the flame flicker deep in the elixir's depths. Melissande turned the little bottle over in her hand. The gods knew that her boring little sister had prattled on and on of magic, faeries and taking creatures. Well, Her Royal Highness figured that it was high time to show everyone just what brand of magic could bind two kingdoms together for eternity.
He woke with a throbbing headache. Odd, but he couldn't recall being struck on the temple. Caspian groaned, rolling over to hang halfway off the bed, knowing that if he opened his eyes he'd see the floor move. But they disobeyed his command and did just that, sliding open just enough for him to make out shapes beyond his eyelashes. Everything was gray and fuzzy.
Groaning, the king rolled back atop the mattress, arm flung over his seared eyes. The drapes were pulled, throwing his chambers into cool dimness, but nevertheless the light that did permeate the room seemed to make straight for his brain, smoking into his ears and eyes to bang about his head with sharp centaur hooves, they taking delight in tormenting him.
But with consciousness came remembrance, clarity was still out for the morning. He recalled the bout of recreational drinking with Telfonus, which he could now blame for his aching head and watering eyes. And for his rather brash actions last night with a certain redheaded princess.
Yet that memory brought to light other memories, specifically the ones of their dancing atop the battlement, of the way their songs had melded together, much the same as had their embrace. The king sighed softly, lowering his arm from his face and staring up at the bed's high canopy, his mind's eye envisioning wind-tossed unbound hair, dark green eyes that were so timid, so unsure but entrancing just the same, pale lips that had sang so beautifully, given voice to the magic inherent in the melody, lips that had trembled when speaking his name, those eager soft lips that he should have kissed…
Caspian groaned and flopped over, burying his head in the pillows, willing sanity to return to his jumbled brain. Now he knew why he'd always avoided alcohol like the plague. And thus did he make a fervent pledge to do so again, never mind the occasion. He probably had the ale tolerance of a squirrel. And he knew a few squirrels, so he could relate.
Malcan trooped in a few minutes later, primly ignoring his liege's groans of protest when prodded to get out of bed and bathe. He doused his king thoroughly, determined that Caspian would face the day with a clear head.
After nearly drowning in the bathtub and irritably sending away his overly solicitous – but privately smirking – valet, the king dressed slowly, pulling on his left boot with a groan. He did not want to tackle any political problems today. What he really wanted was to take Destrier and head back to Cair Paravel for a few weeks and let all this nonsense just percolate without him.
But the royalty in him sternly abraded that notion. Whether he liked it or not, he was still the king, and as such, had responsibilities to his kingdom, despite the fact that they were responsibilities he felt he could sometimes do without. Besides, he realized with a lightening face, he still had his 'genius' idea to put forth to the Archduke.
Yes, he should do that right now. The man had been trying to snag him for another bout of kingly fencing, so why not knock the nail right on the head, as Peter might have said? Caspian hauled on his other boot and ran fingers through his damp hair before buckling on sword and dagger, trotting from his quarters feeling ten times brisker than he had upon waking.
However, the first item on his agenda was not to be the conference with the Archduke. Before he'd even rounded the corner leading from his quarters, he was nearly bowled over by a hurried Telfonus, who bowed perfunctorily and began without preamble, "Sire. I was just on my way to fetch you."
Caspian grinned, straightening his sword belt. "I can see that. What's the rush, Telfonus?"
Telfonus didn't return the smile. "Rainstone and Sergeant Lord Scythley have returned, my king."
That had Caspian looking up a bit sharply. "Here? At the castle?" he echoed stupidly. "They're supposed to be patrolling the northeastern borders, looking for any other lands and families that need attention."
Telfonus nodded, urgently prodding his liege to accompany him. "I know, Sire. They have news for you, Rainstone reports. They're waiting for you in the council room."
Caspian didn't hesitate; he jogged after his General. This smacked of foreboding. Ever since Caspian had decreed that the Narnians would be reclaiming their lands, some of the Telmarine land owners had blustered about it, demanding that since they had been farming those lands for generations, they should be allowed to keep on doing so. Nevertheless, the young king had been adamant to keep the promise he'd made to the forest creatures.
Most of the Telmarine lords had fallen into line, thanks to the threat of unleashing both the Telmarine and Narnian armies should belligerence become too far out of hand, but a few still far to the north and east were apparently still unsettled about the entire affair. Caspian had appointed Rainstone, the eldest of Glenstorm's sons - and the most level-headed - to take a few of his countrymen and join Sergeant Lord Scythley in making rounds to these disgruntled men, trying to hammer out a beneficial agreement for everyone.
"Lucien's not with them, is he?" Caspian asked as they walked briskly down the steps.
Telfonus shook his dark head. "No, Sire. Lord A'Karn was near Beruna, last I'd heard. I'd imagine he's back at home now, tending to his own fields." Telfonus rolled his eyes. "Or he should be," he grumbled under his breath.
The huge centaur looked up as Caspian and his general entered the council chamber. Sergeant Lord Manfred Scythley rose respectfully to his feet. After greeting both of them, trying not to feel like a child when gazing up at the tall centaur, Caspian took his chair and asked pointedly, "All right, Manny. What's going on?"
Manfred glanced at his companion, who took the hint and responded. "Sire. We have come from the northern regions of the Western Woods. There have been a number of small squabbles among your people, my king."
Lord Scythley took up the thread then. "Mostly malcontents, Sire. Dithering on about the injustice of it all, that they're being forced to give up a fraction of their lands back to the Narnians. But the brushfires are getting serious." His weathered lined face grew grave. "The garrison at Bever's Landing was completely overrun by Lord Montoya's troops."
Caspian's eyes widened. "What? When?"
"Three days ago, Sire," Manfred answered. "Rainstone and I arrived by the time the dying was finished and mopped up the mess." He ran a hand down his face and sighed. "Lord Montoya was killed in the skirmish; apparently he'd been frothing at the mouth and leading the charge before they cut him down."
He leaned back in his chair and went on. "His son's in charge now, and you can believe Rainstone here put the fear of the Lion in the boy. Montoya'll not cause any more trouble, Sire." Manny grinned up at his tall friend. "Even when we left, I heard him screaming at what was left of his platoon and demanding the whip for himself; apparently his soldiers were about get a lesson in humility."
Caspian sank back in his chair with a groan. "This is exactly what I'd hoped to avoid, gentlemen," he told them tiredly. "I do not want Telmarines and Narnians fighting amongst themselves."
"Oh, there was no fighting between our people, Sire," Manny corrected. "Apparently Montoya just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that you'd ordered his estate to be reduced. And it wasn't like he was suffering from it, either. Goodness, I was actually thankful to give a chunk of mine away."
Rainstone smiled indulgently; truly, these conversations were beneath the centaur's understanding, since Narnians had no need to hold to any sort of titles. But he was in the service of his king, therefore he would do as he must and suffer these boring little meetings.
"Sire," Telfonus was saying, "we'll need to re-man that garrison at the Landing. With it so close to Ettinsmoor, we can't afford to leave it empty."
"Yes, Telfonus, I know," Caspian agreed, temple propped on his hand. "See to it, if you would." Telfonus nodded and made a note before turning back to the others.
"What of Lucien?" Caspian asked the two. "Could he not talk some sense into Lord Montoya?"
Manfred shrugged, spreading his hands. "He split off from us before we reached the woods' border, Sire," he explained. "Said he needed to veer towards Beruna to see to some business there. Apparently he knew something we didn't, because word reached us a few days later that an assassination attempt had been tried on the local magistrate at Beruna. Lucien and his men routed the brigands and sent them back to Karn for interrogation. He sent word that he was riding with them, just to make sure they arrived home." Manny shifted in his seat and snorted. "Personally I think he just wanted to be there when his boys stuck in the hot irons."
Caspian chortled. "Now, now, Sergeant. Lord A'Karn is a good man. One of the best. And a good friend."
Telfonus snorted and Manny echoed it. "May that be, Your Majesty, but he's a little too refined for my tastes. I will concede though, that I've never seen his equal when handling a blade."
The king nodded. "That's true indeed. He and I learned under the same master and I was never once able to disarm the lout."
Rainstone tolerated it a bit longer before bowing his head regally and inquiring, "What would you have of us, Sire?"
Leaning back in his chair, Caspian glanced at Telfonus, who just nodded with a very small shrug, as if to say, You're the king, boy. Make the decision. He looked back at his two field men, narrowing dark eyes thoughtfully.
"I cannot have these little incidents cropping up, gentlemen. If we're to be a united kingdom, we have to have the lords with us, not secretly hoarding these little bouts of peevishness. Continue as you've been, please. And feel free to stamp out any brush fires you come across, if you would." He arched an eyebrow. "And pass those orders along to the legion commanders as well." Caspian and Telfonus shared a glance. "Inspire them to use their …creativity…when it comes to it."
Rainstone too lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, but Manfred's grin covered his entire face. "It shall be as you say, Your Majesty," he intoned solemnly, rising from his chair and bowing with a creak of armor. "We live but to serve you."
To be continued…
