Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Narnia or the High King. And he's glad of it.
AN: Thank you again to all of you who have reviewed so faithfully. That you are enjoying this and that you are kind enough tell me so really does make me smile! Just as an fyi, the next update might not be for a week or so, as Darth Real Life has challenged me to another duel. But I'll do my best to write when I can, and I'm always daydreaming, so never fear! And we will see what the other Pevensies are up to soon, I promise. I just like spending time with Peter...

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott
+The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, lines 1-9

IX. The Curse Has Come Upon Me…

Peter's head was whirling with all he had heard. To tell the truth, he had been just as surprised as the children when they burst out of the brush on the far side of the river, although he had managed to keep from yelling and had instead nearly lost his grip on the slippery water skin, which had been nearly full and heavy. Then when their mother had come along – the shock of hearing he had not, in fact, landed on one of the Seven – her words about the island being impossible to find and equally impossible to leave…

The High King drew a deep breath and tried to put the crippling thought from his mind – he knew he must not allow it to take hold or he would despair. If he had been the first to arrive in such a long time, then by Aslan's grace, perhaps he would be the first to leave. Lucy would urge him never to give up hope, and he could just see her earnest face and hear the encouragement in her tone. Thinking of his joyful, faithful sister warmed him, and he turned his attention to other mysteries.

Murano. The young man had never heard the name mentioned before, not even as a legend. But then, if the island could not be found, maybe it was not such a stretch to assume no one in the Seven Islands knew of it, although, even if they did, missing and possibly enchanted islands were not subjects that came up in general, every day conversation. He certainly had never thought to inquire after such things.

What had the woman said? Not since she was a small child had they been in contact with the outside world. He guessed her age to be in the middle years, not more than forty summers at the most. So what then, thirty years? That would put Narnia towards the end of its Great Winter and still under the Witch's control, with the rest of the countries – Calormen, Archenland, the Lone Islands, and the Seven Islands – complete question marks for the most part. He wondered what had caused Murano and its people to become lost to geography, memory, and time in such a drastic way. Have patience and the answers will unfold, came Susan's calm voice, an oft-repeated phrase from many past conversations.

Heartened by his memories, Peter followed the woman and her child through the verdant undergrowth to a wild tangle of blackberry bushes. There her son was picking in a very scattershot fashion, tossing the berries hastily towards the basket without looking.

"Robin, you must take more care," she said, moving to the adjoining bushes, "Or there will be no pie, for want of berries."

The young boy stuck out his lower lip and squinted, and the High King suddenly quashed the urge to issue a stern reproof for such disrespect. "Easy there," he thought, "He's only a whelp and not one of your soldiers." Still, he stepped up behind the woman, hoping that his looming presence would add some weight to her words.

"Madam," he said then, letting his bundle drop to the forest floor, "Will you allow me?" He reached out questioningly for her basket, and she gave him such a skeptical look that he withdrew his hand partway.

"I would very much like to help," he continued, pouring on all the charm he could and realizing his dubious appearance was probably nullifying half of it. "It is the least I can do after frightening you and your children so."

She raised an eyebrow and then laughed a little. "Aye, indeed, sir, you did give us a scare. But let us drop the fancy names – each time I hear you say 'madam,' I wonder who it is you're addressing. I am Carvaca. This is Muriel," she touched the little girl's head, "and this is Robin."

The young man bowed as though he were in the Great Hall itself. "You do me great honor. My name is Peter."

At this, the little girl peeped around her mother's skirts and regarded him solemnly with large hazel eyes. "Are you really a knight?" she whispered.

Peter took up the basket and nodded. "Yes," he said, feeling rather foolish as shy happiness lit her face.

"Have you ever killed a dragon, sir?" she asked, and there was such hope in her countenance that Peter felt even worse having to shake his head no.

"I'm afraid I'm not a terribly good knight, even if I have the title," he said regretfully, "I have not slain a dragon."

Muriel looked so disappointed that Peter knelt and placed his right fist at his left shoulder, meeting her gaze squarely. "I may yet meet one," he said gravely, "and if I ever do, mi'lady, I swear by the Lion, I will bring you his head."

The little girl beamed and gave a very awkward curtsey, and with an answering smile, the High King stood and turned to the bushes, ignoring Carvaca's bemused expression. He began to hunt for the small berries nestled between the green leaves, and she joined him after showing her daughter where to look.

The four of them picked in silence for a little while, with Carvaca occasionally reprimanding Robin when he ate more berries than he put in the basket or comforting Muriel when a thorn pricked her small finger. The sunlight began to lance through the tree branches in slanted stripes as afternoon wore on towards early evening, and eventually, Carvaca dropped a berry with finality onto what was by now a much larger heap.

"I do believe that is enough," she said, and Robin gave a hoarse cheer.

"It's about time!" he cried, "Can I go now? I wanted to go down to the beach."

His mother shook her head, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. "I'm sorry, my love, but it's too late. We need to head back before dusk."

"Awwww, Momma," he began to whine, but Carvaca held up a warning finger.

"None of that now," she said firmly, "Or you'll be fetching water for the rest of the week. I mean it, Robin. Take your basket and start back – we'll be right behind you."

The young boy gave one last huff of displeasure but did as he was told, and his mother watched him for a few minutes before turning her attention back to Peter, who picked up his bundle and slung it over his shoulder again. Indecision crept back into her brown eyes, but he said nothing, not wishing to push.

"Well, Sir Peter," she said, taking hold of the berry basket, "We come to it at last."

She paused and then took a deep breath. "You are welcome to stay with my family if you can stomach us. We don't have much, but we would be happy to share with you until you can manage on your own."

At these words, melancholy descended upon the young man's shoulders like a heavy cape. For a few short moments, he had been able to put aside the trouble, pain, and heartache of the last twenty-four hours – not to mention the past week – and forget his predicament in the simple joy of completing a task. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, however, and had nowhere to go, and the prospect of spending the night on his own did not seem very appealing. Would you rather stay outside in a strange forest alone and unarmed and let the boogey man get you? said Edmund's voice in his head, the sarcastic tone one he remembered well. I didn't think you were that idiotic, Peter.

The High King made a small bow. "I do not deserve your kindness, Carvaca, but I will accept your offer. I can say with assurance that I will not be a burden to you or the others in your village."

She shrugged and took Muriel's hand, heading off into the undergrowth. "There is always wood to be hewn and water to be drawn." Glancing back over her shoulder, she managed a small smile. "And berries to be picked."

After avoiding a fallen tree and a snarl of brambles, they struck what to Peter seemed a very vague path, but the woman appeared to know exactly where she was going, so he trudged along willingly behind her. His feet were starting to protest their rough treatment, and weariness was beginning to wrap clinging arms of velvet about him – miraculous healing or not, he had been flat on his back for almost a week and was already going out of practice. He grumbled to himself - it was disgusting how quickly the hard conditioning of campaigning and its deprivations deteriorated.

Silence reigned, broken only by the noises of a forest settling in for the night, and the High King was left alone with his thoughts while they walked. He was still burning with curiosity about Murano and what had happened to cut it off from the world, but he judged that now was not the time to ask. He kept his head up and his gaze moving and watched their progress as best he could while making sure the occasional root or stone protruding from the earth didn't cause him to stumble or stub his toes.

After a bit, the trees gradually thinned and the light increased, and the three of them came abruptly out of the woods into the open. Before them a low valley opened up, the path snaking down along the river and branching off through fields of what looked to be various grains – wheat mostly, and some barley, corn, and rye. The forest bounded the valley on all sides, closing in like an advancing army, but Peter could see the village not far beyond the fields, a collection of roughly twenty cottages, thatched and oft-repaired, with lazy coils of smoke drifting from chimneys. The smell of burning peat reached him faintly, and with it came dim memories of other times and another place. He shook himself slightly and tightened his grip on the blanket.

A goodly way past the village, the ground rose sharply, and the young man blinked and looked again, not quite believing his eyes. A castle of sorts stood there, tall and imposing and made of frowning gray stone. Four towers connected by four walls rose into the purpling sky – forming something of a square – and although banners flew from each of the towers, he could not see if any device was worked upon them. If there were windows in the towers, no lights shone from them to mark their places, but he could see a large gate in the facing wall, though it was tightly shut.

He realized that he had stopped short and was gaping when Carvaca and Muriel halted their progress and turned to look back at him. "What in Aslan's name is a castle doing here?" he asked, nearly stammering he was so astonished.

Carvaca smiled nervously. "That is the home of our Lady," she replied, and there was a curious note to her voice. Peter failed to hear this, however, as he was too busy picking his jaw up from the ground where it had fallen.

"Ah…um…hmm," he swallowed with some difficulty, "and who is this Lady of whom you speak?" He tore his attention from the castle to see a flush creeping up Carvaca's neck.

"Our protector," she responded after an odd pause and turned away, continuing to walk down the path into the valley.

Muriel remained for just a moment, chewing on her index finger, looking back into Peter's incredulous blue eyes. "She's a fairy," she said softly, taking the fingers out of her mouth long enough to speak, and then her mother tugged her along.

Well, well. Things were just getting curiouser and curiouser, as Lucy would say. He supposed he shouldn't be quite so surprised at the appearance of a castle, as he already felt rather permanently detached from reality with all that had happened so far. That was the trouble with adventures such as this though – one never knew what was going to pop up next.

Knowing he couldn't stand staring for the rest of the night, Peter hitched his bundle up again and resumed following Carvaca and Muriel as they wound their way through the fields towards the village. As they passed the nodding heads of grain, he noticed that they were spindly and thin and quite sickly looking. Although he would be the first to admit he did not understand one jot about farming, even he could see that something was wrong with them. Lion's mane, what was this place?

The High King stifled his bewilderment as they drew near the first of the cottages, wanting to see how the wind blew before giving in and pouring forth a flood of queries. Robin had apparently been spreading the word of their arrival, for people were coming out of doorways, peering out of windows, and tailing along behind, staring, whispering, and pointing. Carvaca's shoulders hunched with tension, but she went on, trying her best to ignore the attention.

Finally they came to a stop before a particularly tumble-down cottage, and the crowd with them gathered around in a semi-circle. Carvaca made to enter, but a strident voice halted her on the doorstep.

"All right, now, Carvaca," it said, "What in the name of heaven and earth is this?"

The woman handed Muriel the berry basket and shooed her inside, and then she faced her friends and neighbors. Peter saw she was trembling slightly, and he moved in front of her, letting his bundle slide to the ground. "I have been shipwrecked here on your island," he said, standing tall and resolute, showing no fear, letting his voice carry to the edges of the rapidly growing group of people.

"But who are you? How did you get here? What do you want?" The questions flew fast and furious, the expressions wary and suspicious.

"We came upon him in the forest," Carvaca interjected, "He is a knight of the realm and has lost all he has."

"That still doesn't answer the important question, Carvaca," said a squat older lady who had pushed her way to the front of the group and now stood with her arms folded, looking Peter over with shrewd eyes. "How did he get here? This place, where no one has come for so many years?"

She stepped forward and craned her neck back to scrutinize him, and suddenly her nostrils flared and her eyes widened. "A knight, pah," she spat at his feet, distrust lacing her tone. "You stink of enchantments."

The High King was taken aback, and automatically his hand moved up to touch the bandaging wound about his chest. Several tense seconds crawled by before he responded. "Perhaps," he said as mildly as he could manage, wanting to diffuse her rancor before it infected public opinion, "but I am no sorcerer, madam. You have my word on that."

The old woman humphed and continued to glare at him, but Peter returned her gaze calmly and she looked away at last. "Nothing good will come of this if you take him in, Carvaca!" she called as a parting shot and rudely shoved people aside to leave the crowd.

"Does Devon know of this?" another voice asked, and Carvaca shook her head.

"He does not," she replied, "but I know my husband would insist that I make this stranger welcome."

"Would he, now?" said another villager snidely. Carvaca flamed red.

"He would indeed, Loran," she said tersely. "Now if you'll excuse us, I have supper to prepare." She turned on her heel and entered the cottage, pausing long enough to motion Peter inside. As he went in and shut the door behind them, he caught a brief glimpse of a neat row of black birds sitting calmly on the cottage roof across the way and staring at him intently with shiny, beady eyes.