Disclaimer: I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia. C. S. Lewis does.

Author's Note: Just so my reader are not confused by this chapter, I would like to explain that the Northern March is under Peter's separate rule. He has his private estates there and it is located at a small distance from the border of Archenland and Narnia. This is my imagination though the Northern March is an invention of C. S. Lewis.

Important: Please study the spelling of names carefully.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

Peter reined his glossy-manned horse, his blond hair tousled with the blowing breeze, glittering through the wild, messy locks. His eyes narrowed as they scanned the widespread fields of a hundred shades of green, well tended and cared for by the Narnians living at the huge, eye catching manor, standing tall and magnificent with its golden-chestnut walls, the marble balconies extending out of the glistening mirror and the dominating towers, blushing under the first of the sun's gazes, all contributed to its splendour.

Lean trees of blooming jasmines lined the perimeter of the manor, sloping and shadowing over the red earth covered with pure white magnolias and pale blossoms. Their sweet smelling scent covered the air, inevitably drawing artistically butterflies towards them, their wings fluttering delicately. The emerald green bushes towered over the light jade and purple myrtle bushes. Further on were a million types of flora and fauna, all fine and radiant with their bright colours. Blood red, molten yellow, blushing pink tulips, their velvety petals, settled over pea green leaves and stems happily grew around the pale fountain with lamps installed to illuminate the water lights.

He jumped off the brooding mount, brushing back his hair, as he walked through the colourful meadow to the stables located on the gigantic property. The sleek horse pawed its way carefully over the ground so as to not disturb the imaginary tiny beings underneath. Or to guard itself against the insects. Peter laughed softly, patting its head gently.

'I'm sure there are no bugs here. Don't worry they won't harm you.'

The horse snorted (It was not a Narnian one) and glared at its chuckling master. Peter treaded his way to the lush coolness of the estate, his long legs graceful in their stride. There was a silent magic about this place that even Cair Paravel could not match. The Northern March held a charm which was rivalled by none what with the architect's dream mansions, wild jungles, gooey marshes and swamps and the wide array of scenery available.

Perhaps it was the constant neighing of the horse or Peter's own laughter which attracted the attention of the two fauns assigned to look after the stables, mares and horses. They came flying down to meet him, hands raised in salutes, heads bowed in respect as they shook his outstretched hands.

'My lord Peter! We were not expecting you for at least another week.' The elder of the two, a muscled male, exclaimed. 'The servants are running hither and to with haste. I daresay there is a great chance of a serious accident.'

The second, much younger one, tawny haired and lean, opened his mouth to speak when a baby centaur came trotting to join them.

'My king!' He said delightedly. 'You came at last!'

'Greetings to you as well, Aidan. I hope you and your family are in good health?' Peter questioned, keeping his expression serious as he inquired after the welfare of each of their families.

'My lord?' Aidan asked hesitatingly. Peter glanced at him inquiringly. 'My lord, did you not bring the High Queen with you? I mean- we-we-us-I-we are all-uh-eager to meet her.'

It was apparent that the two fauns had been itching to ask the question as well, that much Peter judged from their faces.

'Isabela desired to wander around the estates further down. She was very much intrigued by the wonder and beauty of the area so well-tended by you.' Peter answered. 'Do take the horse to the stable. Take good care for her, tend her lovingly, understand?'

'Yes my lord.' The elder faun murmured taking the reins from him. He shot a warning glance at his comrade who was opening his mouth to speak yet again. 'Come along both of you.'

Peter climbed up the sloping hill leading to the side of the manor where a smaller entrance was. He felt the wind caressing his face, touching it lightly with its fingers, tangling its waves into his hair as he made his way to the entrance. He paused to smell the aroma of the jasmines hanging down from the trees, touching them gingerly before weaving through to the southern foyer.

The guard lying across a wooden chair rose up swiftly, his hand rising up in a salute as he bowed low. He murmured some greetings, questioning about the welfare of the younger kings and queens as he wove around feverishly.

Peter made a small talk with him, enquiring about the young man's family, left behind in Archenland. He distinctly remembered the guard's name and those of his near relatives. He had learned long ago that such small things simply guaranteed without a doubt unending loyalty and a sense of comradeship.

The guard paused in mid-reply and saluted again before bowing, his face flushing completely. Peter turned around to find his wife standing there, her long hair pulled back into a wild plait. Her skin was a healthy pink and her veiled eyes glittered emerald as she caught Peter's sleeve.

'You were right!' She exclaimed. 'There are at least ninety cats in the den by the river.'

'Did you count them, Isabela?' Peter asked, amused by his wife's enthusiasm. In that moment she seemed like a small child. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard straighten, his face still reddened.

It had never occurred to him that other men might think Isabela attractive.

A small frown formed on his face as he glanced down at Isabela whose head barely reached his jaw. She stared up at him, her face curious at his change in attitude.

'What's wrong Peter?'

'Nothing.' Peter snapped out of his wavering reverie and waved his hands casually, neatly dodging her question. 'I hope you like the scenery of the area.'

He half expected her to raise her eyebrows and scowl at him avoiding her question. He was more than surprised when she launched into great detail about how she found the place absolutely stunning, chattering away quickly. A small smile appeared on his face at her innocent words as he deftly steered her into the manor, listening attentively to her words.

She's so young. He thought ruefully as they were overtaken by the servants and Narnians rushing to meet them. He saw their gazes avert to Isabela, studying her eagerly. The crowd was pushed aside by a large, lumbering form that pushed its way through, scowling back at those who glared at it.

Peter half groaned, half grinned as he stared at the hale, wrinkled woman who despite her age moved faster than some of the younger servants as she stared crossly at him, hands on her hips, her lower lip thrust out in disapproval.

The servants fled under the withering glare that she shot at them and Peter wryly observed as even the most fierce Narnians shot off, hastily muttering excuses and farewells.

'Sir Peter! I have told you and told you never to stay out for long. And now you keep Mistress Isabela out too! She can catch a cold in the chill. You think you came here just to fall ill? I say, I won't look after you if you fall ill because of these whims of yours. No sir!' she said loudly. 'I won't! So you better be careful.'

'Calm down, Heulwen.' He raised his hands in surrender. 'We just got here. I promise we weren't lingering out.'

'I ain't a child, Sir Peter.' She replied snappily. 'I know where you were and what you were doing. Aslan's mane! In this cold and without a shawl or a coat.'

'But Heulwen it is not cold outside. The sun is almost out.' Peter said impatiently, glaring at Isabela's inability to control her laughter. 'Can you please tell us where our room is?'

'So! You think you can escape my lecture! Oh no!' she added as she lumbered through the spacious hall to the marble staircase. 'You may be a king yet, Sir Peter, but I is older than you and more wiser as well. You may be taller than me, and Aslan am I proud of that, I can still scold you if I like it.'

'If course Heulwen.' Peter said neutrally, his voice more than amused. 'This is Isabela, my wife. I trust you know her?'

Heulwen paused in mid-climbing to spin around and glower at him.

'You think I do not know who your wife is?' She turned to Isabela, regarding her fondly. 'My young mistress is sure to strike the envy of the others. And you done set your mind to give her a cold!'

She rounded on Peter accusingly before she resumed her slow climbing.

'I like her.' Isabela whispered to his, rising up to murmur lightly in his ear. Her breath tickled his earlobe.

'Of course you do. She loves you already.' Peter told her, slipping an arm around her waist.

Isabela smiled slightly before studying the main wall of the manor which was painted with the backdrop of Cair Paravel standing against the setting sun. It was a magnificent painting, made centuries ago during the time of King Frank and Queen Helen.

'Here is your room.' Heulwen said finally, puffing for air as she stopped beside a large door. 'I will set together your breakfast. And you is going to eat it, understand?' She said sternly as Peter opened his mouth to talk. 'Make haste or I'll drag you down by your ears.'

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

Edmund leaned back against his chair, tilting it back so that it stood on its spindly wooden legs as he wove through the book in his hand. It was embossed with silver and gold and held together by a tight lock. The history of Narnia handwritten by one of the initial queens, Cassandra, if he remembered correctly.

So engrossed was he that he did not notice the opening and closing of the door to his study. He only glanced up once a small shadow fell on him. He smiled tiredly as he looked innocently up at Lucy whose red hair, flowing loosely over her pale nightgown, almost blazed.

'You should be asleep, Lu.' He admonished shifting slightly to extend his legs.

'So should you.' She noted quietly, perching on the edge of the chair and yawning widely. 'What are you doing?'

'Oh, I'm looking for some trace of Vladimar's history in these books.' He said casually, his eyes flying over to study her intently. 'Why?'

Lucy shrugged and her eyes wandered over the bronzed pages. Edmund looked down too, absorbing every small detail of the writing.

During the age of Queen Swanwhite the First, the sovereign state of Narnia extended itself to many vast areas including the Northern and Western Marches. Here it is rumoured that many creatures were trained in the ways of combat and other technical skill. And indeed their people seemed to be unique and excellent warriors. However there was an odd charisma around them, an aura that flickered through. A traveller once commented that these people knew the laws of wizardry and witchcraft and gave birth to generations of skilled wizards, sorcerers and magicians. Truly did it seem true. They were special, people believed, by the way they carried themselves and acted around other people of other tribes and nations.

'There!' Lucy exclaimed, pointing a finger towards the lower half of the second page. 'I think this will tell us something about him.'

Edmund said nothing, only sweeping away his coffee-brown hair and glimpsed at the passage where Lucy had pointed.

On her frequent travel to both the swampy yet stunning Marches, Queen Swanwhite the First disguised herself as a poor human. During one of these ventures she met a young boy whom her close Narnian ally described as 'a beautiful boy with shoulder length dark hair and crimson red eyes that matched pools of blood.' The oldest found chronicles of her time suggest that Queen Swanwhite was instantly intrigued by the child due to his odd behaviour and aloof demeanour and that she continued to meet him for quite some time. His name is mentioned as Vladimir or Vlad. As time went on the various spies and scouts sent to these areas began to vanish with no trace whatsoever. No news of their deaths reached Queen Swanwhite the First and as the months changed into years with no news or reports she was obliged to accept that they had either betrayed her or been discovered. Her own visits to the Marches continued. On the eve of Samhain-

'What's Samhain?' Lucy interrupted her voice curious. With difficulty Edmund tore his eyes from the text to roll his eyes at her, only a little irritably.

'Halloween. The day of the ghosts coming back to the world, the day when the dead are given food and water to last for the next complete year.' He replied shortly, turning back to huge book, shifting uncomfortably under its heavy, intense weight.

On the eve of Samhain, Queen Swanwhite travelled to the Western March in the disguise of a gypsy woman, her face smeared with soot to conceal her features. There she wove in and out among the crowd, taking in each and every detail of the people. They appeared ordinary, casual and interested in their own businesses however they seemed to have a restless energy among them, an energy that seemed entirely supernatural. One of the Narnian spies who had successfully managed to relay some essential piece of information before he had disappeared had stated in his second letter that festivals of the dead were extremely important to the creatures of the Marches including Samhain and they celebrated it with great fervour and chilling enthusiasm. The spy had written that the locals practiced odd customs throughout the year but most importantly that the weather in the Marches could very easily be predicted (and very accurately too) by the locals. They seemed to know whether it would snow heavily or rain lightly, for how many hours, minutes and seconds the sun would be present and what would be the intensity of its heat as the Narnian mentioned briefly. In his very last letter he ended with a single phrase of Old Narnian which if translated into one of the language of the Other World, English, meant That Which Weeps But Collects It's Tears. Mystified Queen Swanwhite tried to figure out as to what the words meant but was unable to make any sense out of it. On her Samhain visit she made other startling discoveries amongst which was that young Vladimir had two blood sisters both of whom had special abilities and incredible charm. Witches, some people said, Sorceresses. The Queen met briefly with both of them however she never mentioned her conversation with them nor did she describe them. Soon after returning to the capital she contracted an acute illness, a deadly one which had no cure and she exactly a month after returning Queen Swanwhite the First breathed her last.

No more mention was made of what had happened during her reign and indeed after many generations of inter marriages with Narnians, Archenlanders, Calormen and other tribes these people were accepted as kinsmen. No evidence remains of Queen Swanwhite's meeting with Vladimir and his two sisters. Many believe that they died soon after the Queen herself.

Edmund finished reading and looked up at Lucy's clear doe-brown eyes, as confused as his.

'Well what now?' She asked tentatively. Edmund did not answer but instead stared at the text, seeing yet unseeing. His mind was racing, running like a wild rabbit with its ears on fire.

'I don't know.' He said finally. 'There is something vital hidden in this text yet I cannot deduce what it is or how it will help us. We don't even know whether this is about Vladimar or not.'

'It mentioned Vladimar's name, Ed.' Lucy pointed out, matter-of-factly.

'Don't ever become a detective, Lu. You didn't read it carefully.' A faint smile crossed Edmund's face. 'It doesn't say Vladimar. It says Vladimir. Difference of the letter i.'

'So? It's the same thing Ed!' Lucy crossed her arms.

'No its not. These are two different names. Maybe of two different people.'

'But it can be that he changed his name over the years. Its been centuries since Queen Swanwhite the First's rule. Or maybe the name isn't correct. I mean Queen Swanwhite did not mention his name herself. It was only supposed by-' Lucy glanced down. 'He was also called Vlad. That's too much of a coincidence.'

'As far as we know Vladimar only had one sister whom he mentioned.'

'He could have a hundred that we wouldn't know about.'

'But why did he only mention one?' Edmund insisted. 'If he had other sisters they probably would have assisted him to get revenge.'

'Not necessary. They could be dead or even in hiding.' Lucy countered. 'Oh this is so confusing.'

'Hang on.' Edmund knelt his raven head over the book. 'We have a major clue in this book. We know that Vladimir and his two sisters were from the Western March.'

'Or Northern.' Lucy interrupted.

'Or Northern.' Edmund agreed. 'Maybe some of the original locals are still alive. Maybe they know something about what happened.'

'I don't think they would be alive.' Lucy said doubtfully, squinting thoughtfully. 'But still it's worth a try.'

'It's settled then.' Edmund closed the book and struggled to his feet. 'We go to the Western March.'

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][

Thank you, thank you, and thank you to all my readers! Please continue to review and send me your feedback, comments and criticisms. I request you all to please tell me constantly how you think I can improve the story and my writing!

A. L. Potter