Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.

CHAPTER TEN: ISAIAH 49:15

Peter slumped against the stable wall and wolfed down the coarse bread and boiled meat he had been given. The Tarkaan, obviously not wanting to be bothered with him for the rest of the day, had turned him over to the stablemaster. The hard-eyed Calormene had removed his shackles and set him to mucking out stalls, and Peter had thrown himself into the task with a genuine vengeance.

Arren and Darreth who would dare sell the Kings of Narnia into captivity and Serkan who would carry them off to Tashbaan to sell again, Mucahit who had so carelessly taken his brother's sight, this Hakan who had bought him and Edmund as if they were dumb beasts, even the Tisroc, may he burn forever, who cast greedy eyes upon his sister and his kingdom, all of them had glimmered before Peter's eyes, and he had stabbed the hayfork into the filthy straw and waste as if they were the entrails of his enemies.

Now he sat chained by one ankle to a post meant for the horses. The merciless Calormene sun had long since sunk out of sight, and his food was too soon gone. Serkan had evidently thought it poor business practice to waste food on slaves who would soon be someone else's property, and this was Peter's first meal today. He hoped Edmund had been fed. Surely the lady would see to that. Thank Aslan, Edmund had been given to into her kind care. If only he would be patient and wait until the Lion made them both a way out. Please, Peter begged silently, don't do something stupid, brother mine.

He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and then pulled off his filthy shirt. The stablemaster and the other slaves he had seen in the courtyard had gone to their rest. Evidently Peter was meant to sleep where he had been left, and he decided he would at least make himself more comfortable. He hadn't had a chance to wash since he and Edmund had been taken, however long ago that had been, so it was a relief to kneel before the horse trough and duck his head under the water.

It was warm from the day's heat, but it was clean and it was a relief to feel it on his skin, in his hair, on his chafed wrists. The night was dark and the wind was picking up, and for the first time in Calormen he began to feel cool if not clean.

He sat again with his back to the trough and patted his face dry with his shirt. Before he could do anything more, he heard a woman's light laugh, and he looked up to see a shadowy figure standing near one of the pillars of the porch.

It was the Tarkheena.

OOOOO

"I saw the other barbarian when he left here, O My Mistress. They are not very alike, are they?"

The unfamiliar voice pierced Edmund's consciousness, and he realized he must have at some point blacked out again. His shackles were gone, but he was still on the little couch where he had been before. He lay unmoving, trying to remember where he was and what had happened. The Lady Cemil, he remembered her. She had soft hands and a kind voice, though that last voice had not been hers. The Lady Cemil had given him something cool to drink, something too sweet and, at the same time, faintly bitter. Perhaps that was why he didn't remember anything else until now.

But he still remembered too much. He kept his eyes closed. There was no use opening them. No remedy. He was blind. Forever. And Peter– Peter was gone. Edmund could still feel that last touch against his hair, that last silent blessing before he left.

He wouldn't cry. He was a man. He was a King.

You've got to be calm. You've got to be clever. He could still hear the low comfort of Peter's voice from he didn't know how long ago. You have to be brave now. And sneaky.

He lay still, keeping his face slack as if he yet slept, making sure not even a twitch of a smirk showed on his lips. He could do this. The Lady Cemil had taken pity on him, on his youth, on his captivity, on his blindness. If she liked to think he was a helpless child, he would let her. He would learn her ways, the ways of the house, and he would await his opportunity. He would be calm and clever, brave and sneaky, and one day he would find a way to get to Peter, to get to Narnia. Until then–

"Are you certain they are brothers, O Noble Mistress?" that unfamiliar voice asked, and then he recognized Lady Cemil's sweet laugh.

"I wondered that very thing, Fareeha. But seeing the elder's gentle care of him, I could believe nothing else. They are quite different, are they not?"

"As different as bright sun and pale moon, but, perhaps, something about the mouth . . . " The other voice, a voice with more than a touch of age in it, trailed off, and Edmund knew she was studying him. "Has he his brother's sky-colored eyes?"

"No. His eyes are as dark as those of our own people. They put me in mind of . . . " Lady Cemil took an unsteady breath. "Asil had such eyes."

"And the wealth of black hair," the older woman said, and Edmund felt work-roughened fingers smooth the hair from his forehead. "And was of such an age."

"I think you loved him almost as I did."

"Indeed, Dear Mistress. Did I not tend him from his first breath to his last?"

Edmund lay still, listening, pitying the lady her loss and the still tender grief she carried. Neither of the women said anything for a long time. Then the lady laughed, a faint, half-choked laugh.

"Well, we are foolish old women, are we not? Perhaps we ought look to the present rather than the past. This boy is half starved by the look of him."

"That's easily seen to, O My Mistress. I will make him some of my broth at first. Then when he is ready, he shall have something heartier." The older woman, Fareeha, turned his face gently to one side, no doubt still searching him over. "And he shall have ointment for his wounds. After he is bathed."

Edmund forced his breathing to stay slow and steady, but it was, he decided, time he let them know he was awake. He moaned softly and let his eyes flutter open.

"How are you feeling now, young one?" the lady asked. "You have slept long."

"Your pardon, O My Mistress." He tried to sit up, thinking he ought to kneel again, but she held him where he was.

"It is well," she soothed. "It is well. You had need of rest. And now I daresay you would do well for having something to eat."

His stomach growled in answer, and he felt the color flush into his face. "It would be most welcome, O My Mistress."

"Some of your broth, Fareeha, if you please."

"At once, O Noble Mistress."

The older woman scurried away, and Edmund once more tried to sit up. This time the lady put her hand behind his back and helped him.

"When did you last eat, Edrret?" she asked.

He thought for a moment, trying his best to feel the warmth of the sun that had earlier fallen on his left side. "Forgive me, My Kind Mistress, but is it still the day I was brought here?"

"That same evening, young one."

"Again I ask your pardon, Most Kind Mistress. I have been most troublesome to you."

"No, indeed, child. And did I not tell your brother you would be well looked after now?"

Edmund bit his lip, blinking hard to ward off the tears that burned behind his eyes. "My brother is– He's being looked after as well? Will he come back?"

The lady patted his arm. "I am certain he has been fed. Likely some while ago. You need not worry. My son does not starve his slaves."

"But will he come back?" Edmund turned his head, as if it were possible to hear Peter's returning footsteps. "Tonight?"

She did not answer. She merely continued to pat his arm.

"Please, O My Mistress, will he?"

"He will have been sent down to the fields, young one," she said at last, her voice gentle and consoling. "If not now, he will be soon. He is unlikely to come here ever again."

Author's Note: Thanks as always to OldFashionedGirl95 for various prose pokings and missing-word-sightings and objections to potential stupidity. You are greatly appreciated, dear one.

– WD