A/N: A couple of you have been asking how old the Pevensies are in this story. I think I mentioned it somewhere earlier, however, for a refresher: Lucy is fourteen, going on fifteen, Edmund is fifteen, Susan is seventeen, nearly eighteen, and Peter is eighteen. Happy reading!

The Witch's dungeons were not a part of the castle that Peter had ever visited before, though he could not profess to having been to the Witch's castle often. Indeed, he had only gone there a few times after her demise, to make sure there was nothing left within the castle that reeked of her magic and could potentially harm Narnia in her absence.

The first time had been with Aslan. They had not gone into the dungeons. He could remember wanting to, to see where Tumnus and Edmund had been kept, only for Aslan to tell him that it wasn't worth seeing.

And he supposed that his curiosity ever since then was not what brought him here now. No, he only wished to get away from Lucy's compassionate gaze, from the words of sympathy from everyone around him, from King Lune, and Oreius' warnings that Narnia needed a firm leader now more than ever.

There was a guard at the door to the dungeons, or else Peter was sure he would have never found it in the twisting halls of the castle, even with the help of the loyal ram beside him. He couldn't help wondering how the guard, a minotaur and obviously a Fell Creature, had managed to stay alive down here, after the castle had been taken over and thoroughly searched.

It was not difficult, however, to dispatch of him with the next thought.

The ram ripped a ring of key's from the minotaur's waist and held it out to Peter.

Peter's hands shook as he took the keys, examining them to see which fit the ice lock on the door. He had never seen such a lock, nor such keys; made entirely of ice. They were transparent, but incredibly thick and looked as though none of them would fit.

He tried them all, and none did save the very last. Typical, he supposed.

The door to the dungeons slid open slowly, skidding loudly across the icy floor and making Peter wince.

The dungeons were completely empty of any prisoners, much less the dozens Peter had been imagining the Witch would keep down here, even in her short time returned.

And yet there had been a guard; the minotaur, standing guard over an empty room.

He supposed that was a warning about...something, and if he had been thinking clearly Peter would have known what, exactly, but as it was he ignored the signs. The thought of what may have already become of his brother sent a shiver of fear down his spine, and Peter swallowed hard.

Because before him, in the tiny cell on the opposite side of the room, was the very evidence of Edmund's imprisonment. His torture, at the hands of the Witch and her minions.

"Stay outside," he ordered the ram, and the creature dipped his head before turning about to allow Peter some amount of privacy.

It was worse than he had imagined, and, with one glance, he finally understood why nightmares of his time in this place had plagued Edmund throughout the years even more so than any others.

The ice that made up the majority of the White Witch's castle had receded at this point, though some, non-magical, remained, in the floor and the very bottom of each wall, as well as at the corners. The rest of the room was made up of iron, lining the walls and low ceiling, spikes sticking threatening out of this iron every few paces. There were no cells anymore, though Peter imagined that there must have been, at one point, for iron manacles were attached to the icy floor in haphazard places, some still even filled with bloody, broken skin.

Peter forced himself not to gag, not to think of Edmund as he stared at the most fresh of these manacles, blood staining the floor around it so deeply that Peter doubted the sight would ever wash away.

Nor, he supposed, would the stench.

And he knew that these manacles most have held Edmund, not so very long ago, for he could see the cloth still attached to them, stuck there with blood, and he shuddered at the sight, at the mere thought of what Edmund must have gone through down here, especially given Lucy's colorful descriptions of how she had found him the one time the White Witch had allowed her access to her brother.

Peter knelt by the torn cloth, blinking as his eyes suddenly filled. "Aslan, how could you have allowed this to happen?" he whispered out hoarsely.

A hand, on his shoulder, pressing gently, and Peter spun at the touch, Rhindon already unsheathed, only to find himself facing Susan.

"Aslan, you frightened me," he whispered, somehow afraid that speaking any louder in these dungeons would lead to something horrible, even as his voice echoed off the icy walls. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with Lucy, tending to the wounded."

Susan shrugged, then turned away from him, glassy eyes examining the room, though her face betrayed none of her thoughts.

"Lucy told me not to come down here," she said finally, staring at a particularly cruel spike sticking out of the wall, made of stone rather than ice, and glinting dangerously sharp. Peter could only imagine why it stuck out of the wall like that, could only imagine how the White Witch had used it on her prisoners.

The thought of Edmund's bruised, bloodied body when Peter had finally rescued him from the White Witch came to mind, and for a moment he thought he might be sick.

Susan continued as if she hadn't notice the faint green coloration to his skin. "Told me that it would only bring us pain. Of course, I couldn't listen to her, not after hearing that. And...I suppose I wanted to see for myself." Her eyes finally turned back to him. "I suppose I really didn't."

"The Witch kept Lucy down here, too?" Peter demanded, and Susan gave him a sad, patient look, like she might a suitor who simply would not understand that he did not hold her interest. He sighed. "Of course she did. Aslan, that must have been a horrible experience for both of them."

"Peter..." Susan tried, but the words she would say failed her. Finally, "You mustn't blame yourself for this. We couldn't have known..."

"I'm supposed to be the High King, the biggest power in Narnia save Aslan and the Deep Magic. But I couldn't even protect my own family!" Peter shouted, the words reminiscent of the ones he had spoken to Aslan, all those years ago. He'd been a fool to disbelieve them then. "Edmund's dead because I failed to protect him, Su! And he spent the last few days of his life stuck in a nightmare that I'd always told him he would never have to face again. Lucy very near died as well," he choked on those last words, tears gathering in his eyes. "Narnia was almost lost to the Witch. And Ed..."

Susan eyed him sadly, but said nothing.

Peter continued, grimly encouraged by her silence. "It's my fault. I was such a fool, and this is all my fault. I'm supposed to protect you lot, to be the Magnificent King," he shook his head miserably. "I don't feel like a King."

Susan stepped forward, lifting a hand to his cheek. "I don't remember you feeling much like a king the day we were crowned, either," she said. "Any of us, for that matter. We were all frightened, but we were only just learning then. You never stop learning, Peter."

"That was several years ago," he argued. "I thought I became one, thought I'd learned what it took. Turns out I haven't."

"Then be one," Susan said. "And stop destroying yourself over the thought that what happened was your fault. The White Witch is dead, and it was she that did all of this, not you. You stopped her."

Peter swallowed hard. "You sounded like Edmund, just then."

Susan gave him a sad smile, eyes shining with unshed tears, and then reached out her hand, waggling her fingers when Peter didn't immediately take it.

The moment their fingers connected, Peter found himself unable to hold back the tears. And he was glad, in that moment, as Susan knelt beside him and wrapped her arm around his shoulder, that he was not so very alone as he thought.

"If we die in this world, what happens to us in...that other place?" Peter asked finally, when the tears had subsided enough to speak.

Susan just shook her head, having no real answer for him.

"He's dead," Peter whispered hoarsely in that moment, hating how very young he sounded with the words. "Edmund's really dead, Su." And then he was sobbing, unable to hold back the emotions flooding through him, and Susan could do nothing but wrap her arms around him and cry into his shoulder, wetting the fabric below his bloody chainmail soundlessly in comparison to his loud, angry sobs.

"I know," she whispered finally, voice rather strained. "I know, Peter."

"He's dead, and we were too late to do anything about it," Peter continued, some distant part of him hoping that she had had the presence of mind to shut the door after her when Susan followed him into the dungeons, so that the rest of the castle could not hear him.

For the most part, though, he could hardly bring himself to care if anyone witnessed his distinct lack of decorum.

"I still can't believe it," Peter said, staring at those horrible manacles again. "I can't believe, after all this time..."

"I know," Susan interrupted again, but Peter wasn't finished quite yet.

"All those nightmares, Su. Almost every night, and he would bear them alone at first. I caught him, a couple of weeks after we were crowned, screaming in the middle of the night. After that, he'd come into my room after one hit and wake me up, and I would always promise him that there was nothing to be frightened of, that she could never touch him again." He ran a hand through greasy blond hair. "Aslan, I feel like such a horrible liar."

"You couldn't have possibly known, Peter," Susan attempted to console him, but Peter would hear none of it.

"That doesn't matter. He still...that was the one thing he was frightened of, Su. Nothing else could budge him, but the night terrors...they were all about her. All about her haunting him, about this very dungeon." He bit down hard on his lower lip. "And I could always save him from them just by shaking him awake." He swallowed hard, gulping down hot tears and meeting his sister's troubled gaze. "I couldn't save him this time. I tried, but I..."

"We all tried, Peter. But you defeated the White Witch. You..." she bit down on her lower lip, as if contemplating whether or not to speak the next words. "We avenged him."

A heavy silence hung between them. Then,

"It wasn't just me," Peter whispered, when the tears had subsided and he had enough presence of mind to be embarrassed by Susan's hold on him, as though he truly were a child and she his mother, offering comfort. "I didn't think I'd be able to kill her, without giving in to my anger. And then I remembered Aslan, finally."

Susan stiffened, turned away from him at the words. "It was still you who killed her," she said finally, her voice almost accusing.

Peter nodded. "Yes, but I would not have been able to do so and forgiven myself afterward if I hadn't been able to remember my faith," he said finally, wondering if she was somehow testing him, as her voice had certainly sounded like it a moment ago. "I remembered that he's never left us alone before, and suddenly I had the strength to fight her one more time."

Susan frowned. "You didn't look very weak to me," she whispered softly, the words somehow reverberating throughout the dungeon.

Peter chose to ignore the comment, realizing that, a week ago, he might have had the same viewpoint. "Do you think he'll come back soon?" he asked instead.

Susan shrugged. "There has never been a Narnian ruler who was not entombed without Aslan saying a final blessing. And there has never been a ruler so deserving of that blessing besides Edmund."

Peter nodded. "Of course he'll come, then." He reached for his sister's hand, helping her to her feet. "And perhaps he'll explain what took him so long, when he does." He looked grimly satisfied at the prospect.

He did not notice the falter in his sister's step, as she followed him out of the dungeons after those words. As she responded quietly, "I certainly hope he does."

The Witch's dagger cut into his skin, slowly, as though she were savoring every second of Edmund's pain. The knife glinted in the moonlight, the sound of wolves howling around them, though all Edmund could focus on was her leering smile, as the Witch learned down and whispered into his bleeding ear, "You think you've won, little king. You don't know the truth of it, though. I will always win, here. Here, at least, I am still Queen."

Edmund jerked awake with a gasp, to find that his eyes were covered with some sort of mask, and he could see nothing but blackness. As the events of the last few days swept over him, he rationalized that, by waking, he had only foolishly traded one nightmare for another.

It seemed Tash had cursed him after all, as the Tisroc had once told him, to a life of night terrors; memories, becoming reality to haunt him once more.

He took a deep, calming breath, realizing that, for some reason, despite the fact that Aslan had brought him back and the wound where the Witch had killed him was now healed, it was still difficult to breathe. Then he groped around for his surroundings, remembering Oreius' first lessons to him and his brother about hostage situations.

Keep a level head. Figure out where you are. If possible, leave a trail so you can be found. Try to escape.

His hands were bound rather ruthlessly behind his back, the twine digging into his skin even as it scratched against the tree he had been bound to. His feet were loose, and he managed to scuff them against the dirt for a moment before determining that he was still in Narnia. The ground in Archenland was not quite so soft, so smooth. And in Calormen, he supposed, it would have been sand.

The distinct smell of a nearby fire flitted to his nostrils then, masking the fresh scent of the forest around him, of the sea beyond, and something else that smelled delicious and made his stomach growl, giving him away. He let out a small, defeated sigh.

"You're awake," a voice said then, and Edmund froze.

Not a nightmare after all.

He didn't bother to answer, for, in that moment, the bounty hunter moved over to him, checking Edmund's bonds and them ripping off the blindfold on Edmund's face, and the young king flinched at the sudden bright light assaulting his senses, though it was not from the sun, but from a brilliant fire in front of him.

It was nightfall, the stars blinking above, the fire leaping almost to Edmund's own height sitting down, but hardly letting off smoke.

The bounty hunter, the man he could remember from the Stone Table, stood before him, face twisted into a slight sneer as he stared down at Edmund for a mere heartbeat, eerie shadows from the fire casting across his features.

"Where are we?" Edmund demanded, having a hard time believing that, if they were still in Narnia as he thought, they had not been found. Surely Peter was looking. Or, if not him, then Jadis.

The bounty hunter ignored him, moving back over to the small fire in the middle of the clearing the now occupied, and bending down to pick up the bowl hung over it; the source of that delicious scent. Edmund watched him warily, stomach once again informing him that he would very much like to partake of whatever it was the bounty hunter had cooked.

"On our way," the bounty hunter answered, which Edmund didn't think was much of an answer at all. In any case, he had a pretty good idea; this was not the Western Woods, as he knew that place by heart, and was certainly not Owl Wood, for that forest was far sparser.

He glanced around then, ignoring his captor for a moment in favor of taking in the rest of his surroundings. The small clearing they inhabited was still deep in the woods, but he knew that, should he manage to escape his bonds and his captor, if only for a few moments, he would be able to find help with some of the Talking Beasts in this area, or at the very least get one of the dryads to send a message to his siblings.

"I suppose that even those resurrected must get hungry sometimes then," the bounty hunter said finally, breaking through his thoughts, and Edmund blinked up at him.

"Huh?"

The bounty hunter snorted at this articulate response, and, in a moment, Edmund found a bowl of something warm and heavenly shoved into his hands, still bound, though no longer to the tree behind him. He did not think to ask how the bounty hunter had acquired the bowl, when he'd hardly been carrying anything on his person when he found Edmund at the Stone Table, not sure that he wanted to know the answer.

Still, the smell of the stew the man had made rivalled Mrs. Beavers', and he grinned even as he took a sip of it, balancing it on the ropes around his wrists.

Surely it wasn't poisoned, if the bounty hunter wished to take him back to Calormen for a reward.

Some part of him, perhaps ingrained by Susan's constant reminders, thought to thank the man, even if he was his kidnapper, intent on bringing him to Tashbaan for a reward.

And then Edmund belatedly realized that this stew tasted of meat, and no doubt the bounty hunter had not been so careful as to ensure his prey was not a Talking Beast before he had skinned it.

Edmund suddenly found he no longer had an appetite, and he set the bowl on the ground with a green face, sending up a silent prayer to Aslan for forgiveness and hoping that he would not empty the contents of his stomach in the next few moments.

The bounty hunter glanced up in surprise, and then eyed Edmund suspiciously, clearing looking for some sort of trap in the words. "If you think to make me feel guilty for taking you captive, and therefore let you go, you are a fool," he said finally, and turned back to his stew.

It was a good thing he did, or he would have noticed the way that Edmund was staring at the ground around his feet with sudden interest.

Edmund resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the words. "If you don't let me go before we reach the border, you're the fool," he countered. "My brother will chase you across the desert to find me; he's done it before."

If Peter was even still alive. Though Edmund supposed he must be; the ground around him was soft, warm. There was not a flake of snow in sight, and the warm sea breeze was certainly comforting.

Still, he would have liked visual confirmation, in that moment.

"A pity, then, that I don't plan on crossing the desert," the bounty hunter muttered, before pulling out the dagger in his boot. Edmund's breath hitched for a moment, the young king fully convinced that perhaps he had been foolish to think the Tisroc would want him alive, before the other man picked up a rock and started scraping it against the blunt side of the weapon. "And the last I checked, your brother was in the middle of fighting a war, Your Majesty."

It took a moment for those words to sink in. "What?"

He supposed he should not have been too surprised; this bounty hunter had already demonstrated that he was quite capable of looking out for himself, even if Edmund was not planning on making that easy for him in the days to come. But people knew him in Archenland; the man would not have quite so easy a time getting a ship back home as he had getting one there.

"You are the King of this country; I would think that even you might notice that we are not on our way South, but East," the man cajoled.

And as the bounty hunter's plan suddenly moved into place, Edmund could not help his guffaw of disbelief. "You'll never make it out of the harbor at Cair. No one will hire a ship for you if you're dragging along their King in chains."

The bounty hunter raised a brow. "Who said anything about hiring a ship? I have one already at my disposal there, as you'll see. You're not the only ones, you barbarians, who know how to force your animals to send messages. Now eat. And rest. You'll need the strength for the walk ahead of us, Your Majesty."

Edmund glanced down at the small bowl, the man's words a reminder of what he had just done. "I'm not hungry," he said finally, bile rising in his throat as he wondered just how the bounty hunter had convinced one of his people to send that message.

The bounty hunter lifted a brow in amusement. "Suit yourself. I forgot that you barbarians didn't eat meat."

"We do," Edmund said, after a full minute of biting his lower lip, "Just not our subjects." And he felt anger well up in him then, that he had done so, that this man was still doing so.

He let his hands fall back into his lap, moving carefully as he picked up the small stick beneath his leg and snapped it in two. The man's sharpened dagger had given him an idea, after all.

Silently, he moved so that his bound hands were at his left thigh, and began methodically rubbing the twig against the rock he had noticed digging into his skin there upon waking. It would take time. He needed a distraction.

But if the bounty hunter noticed Edmund's sudden uncomfortable change in position, he said nothing, slurping at the remainder of his stew and sharpening that blade.

It took all of Edmund's willpower not to flinch at the very sight of the glinting metal, at the thought of what that blade could most certainly do to him, of what the last blade that had touched him had done, in the hands of the White Witch.

"Why were you with King Lune's army, anyway? I know for a fact that every single one of his soldiers is handpicked by either himself or one of his loyal lords," Edmund said, forcing his voice not to sound accusing and therefore antagonize his captor.

That was certainly the last thing he wanted, if he entertained a hope of escaping this man.

The bounty hunter shrugged, for once not looking in Edmund's direction, and the young man smirked as he felt the end of the twig he was holding; now sharp enough to prick his finger. Perfect.

"I disguised myself as a stable hand for one of King Lune's loyal lords when I reached Archenland, in the hopes of finding that boy," the bounty hunter drawled. "Then the news came of war in Narnia, and of a boy turned to stone there. When his own squire died on the road, he took me on in the man's stead."

"That was rather unfortunate for the man," Edmund muttered, rubbing the sharpened end of the twig against the ropes holding him. He needed a bit more leverage, or perhaps just a few more minutes. The rope was not thick; indeed, if Edmund was at his normal strength, it would not have been difficult to escape even without the twig, making him wonder why the bounty hunter had bothered at all.

Perhaps it was the only thing he had to bind Edmund with. Or perhaps he thought that, after rising from the dead, Edmund would be too weak to escape it on his own.

"Is there a point to your questions, Your Majesty?" the bounty hunter asked then.

"Just trying to figure out what Narnia will need to do in the future to keep people like you from invading her borders," Edmund responded with a cheeky grin.

The first thread of rope snapped beneath his ministrations, and he couldn't help that smile.

As he tore through the second layer, it let out a small ripping sound, making the bounty hunter glance up at him in suspicion.

"Perhaps we should move on," he said then, stepping around the fire to grab Edmund and haul him to his feet. Edmund went willingly, holding his bound hands close to his body. Luckily, in the darkness, the bounty hunter's sight was at least partially impaired, and he did not notice the way the ropes had already begun to fray.

The bounty hunter made quick work of putting out the fire, stamping it with his feet and breaking the bowl against the spine of the nearest tree, causing Edmund to flinch in sympathy and wonder why the man was ruining a perfectly good bowl.

And then they were moving, the bounty hunter holding a knife to his back and shoving Edmund along none too gently through the forest as they did so.

Edmund sent up another prayer that his features were not so obscured by the darkness that the trees would not recognize him, that they would get some sort of message to his siblings, that he was alive, if nothing else. Then again, he wore no shirt and was covered in about a week's worth of grime and blood.

He could only hope his siblings would eventually recognize him.

Despite the sleep he had obviously gotten, considering that they were now a good distance away from the Stone Table, Edmund's legs moved sluggishly under him as he trudged ahead of the bounty hunter, that little twig still clasped in his hands tightly, hidden from view.

They walked in silence, the only noise the occasional wind through the trees, but Edmund knew that this would not last for long. They were nearing the edge of the forest, as he could tell from the increasingly salty air, and the trees were far more spread out now than they had been merely moments ago, Edmund no longer fearing that he was going to walk straight into one.

The twig dug into his skin then, and he looked down in surprise, footsteps faltering for only a moment.

"What's your name?" Edmund asked abruptly, and the bounty hunter looked up at him with a raised brow. Frankly, Edmund was surprised the man hadn't figured him out by now.

"What does it matter to you?" the man demanded suspiciously.

Edmund shrugged. "You know mine."

The bounty hunter snorted. "Half the world knows yours, Your Majesty."

"So?"

The bounty hunter stared into the distance for a moment before answering, in a softer tone that Edmund had yet heard from him, "There are very few in the world who know mine."

Edmund bit his lip. "This loved one you're kidnapping me to save."

The bounty hunter turned and glared at him, eyes sharpening as he realized what Edmund had really been doing, with this conversation. "What are you doing?" he demanded, nodding his head toward the stick in Edmund's clenched fingers.

Edmund gave the bounty hunter an innocent smile. "Merely trying to find some way to amuse myself. You're one of my more boring kidnappers, you know."

The bounty hunter raised a brow. "Is that right? I suppose you've had some experience with kidnappers, then."

"Oh, quite a few," Edmund smirked. "Most kings do, at some point or another, though my sisters," he swallowed, thinking of Susan and Lucy, "my sisters tell me that I am a special exception to that rule. Never a real bounty hunter before, though. I suppose that's something, in your favor."

The man snorted. "I suppose it is." And then he had a dagger at Edmund's throat. "Drop it."

Edmund gulped, the stick falling from his fingers and hitting the ground with a light snap. The bounty hunter eyed it for a moment, and then glanced up at Edmund. Laughed.

"What were you planning to do with that, Your Majesty, if I may ask?"

Edmund wasted only a moment; it would cost him. "This," and then he was moving, the broken rope in his hand his only weapon, and yet he had fought with less before. Usually with Peter by his side to take up the slack, but still.

It was just long enough for his purpose, after all.

The bounty hunter froze, taking a moment to work out the fact that Edmund had freed himself before cursing under his breath and pulling forth his dagger. "I'd choose carefully what you do next, Your Majesty," he warned lowly.

Edmund ignored the warning, lashing out even as the dagger nicked his skin, a drop of blood splattering to the ground in front of him. The knife twisted in the other man's grip, and Edmund, once again ignoring the injury it would cause him, lunged, wincing only as the knife pierced his skin before he managed to throw the rope around his captor's throat and pull.

Edmund held the rope there, twisting it around in his fingers to keep a good grip on it even as he attempted to tighten his grip around the bounty hunter's throat. Even as guilt throbbed painfully within.

He managed, after a tense moment, to do so, and the bounty hunter let out a strangled yell as they both fell in a heap to the ground, Edmund's rope tightening around his vocal cords cruelly as the Just King straddled him.

Edmund had never strangled someone to death before. He had seen Peter do so, once, a long time ago, though, and knew that it was not an easy process. That it took much longer than one would think, to choke the life out of someone's body.

He didn't want to strangle his captor now. Hoped merely to knock him out, if he could. But he knew that he had to return to his siblings, no matter the cost.

He could feel the muscles in his captor's throat spasming against his hand, could feel the man attempting to buck him off, but Edmund held firm, a strength that he hadn't seemed to possess while walking now coursing through him. Though he couldn't see it in the darkness, Edmund could well imagine the bounty hunter's face turning blue, his eyes bulging, could almost feel the fight, the air, leaving the man's body. Could feel the bounty hunter's fingers scraping against his arms in a feeble attempt to free himself.

And then, without warning, the bounty hunter managed to get his hand under Edmund's chin, forcing his head back, and Edmund let out a cry as his muscles strained. It was all the bounty hunter needed; Edmund's grip on the rope loosened for only a moment, and the bounty hunter was able to throw him off.

Edmund let out a cry as his back smacked into the small hill beneath him, the rope flying from his fingers.

His captor spun, shoving Edmund onto the ground this time, fists holding Edmund down by the wrists even as his knee pressed into Edmund's back.

Above them, the moonlight cast an eerie shadow on their forms, and Edmund could only hope one of the dryads had seen the scuffle and gone for help. Though he doubted that any of them were awake at this hour, and, if they were, they were most certainly at Dancing Lawn, rather than this side of the forest.

The knife suddenly pressed into his spine forced Edmund to stop squirming, and he went absolutely still at the feel of it against his back once more.

"I was hoping to avoid this," the bounty hunter ground out above him. His voice was coarse now, rougher than before, and Edmund felt a twinge of guilt, picturing the marks that would line his throat in the morning.

Edmund shrugged, speaking in a breathy laugh, "I was hoping to escape."

"And so we are both at odds," the bounty hunter muttered, and then he was pulling Edmund to his feet, none too gently.

"Well, I have a reputation to uphold, even if I am dead. I had to try, at the very least," Edmund said, even as his captor ripped off a piece of his own tunic and yanked Edmund's hands behind his back this time. The cloth was soft, and not nearly as thick as the rope had been, but his captor tied his hands securely enough that Edmund was sure he would lose all feeling in them in a few more minutes.

"If I let you walk on your own, do you promise not to run? I'd hate to bring home broken merchandise," the bounty hunter drawled.

Edmund flinched at the toneless words. "If you let me go, I promise you'll make double whatever the Tisroc would give you."

"For the King of Narnia who escaped him once before?" the bounty actually laughed at the words. "I think you undervalue your own worth, Your Majesty. Narnia could ill afford to pay such a pretty price for you."

Edmund shivered unconsciously at the thought, suddenly more than aware that he had no tunic of his own.

His captor did not seem very sympathetic to that fact, and they were walking again, at an admittedly faster pace, with Edmund's hands now in the bounty hunter's clear sight.

It was not until they had crested another dune, and Edmund could see Cair Paravel in the distance, home, and oh, did that thought ache at him, and the Eastern Sea beyond, that either spoke again.

"Mahir. My name if Mahir."