A gust of wind swirled past the trees, the leaves flew, forming a small hurricane. They soon settled down and the backyard was calm again. But the silence was shattered—much to Edmund's displeasure—when a certain worried big brother came shouting out of the backdoor, bellowing Edmund's name with his hands around his mouth, cupping them to allow his voice to echo and grow in amplitude. Peter obviously didn't know that's what he was doing. But Edmund did. Edmund knew a lot. His feet were dangling, his lips giving a soft whistle—clueing Peter to where he was. But the unobservant lummox never looked up. Edmund sighed.

"Up here, Peter! I'm up here!" he said, and his brother gazed up. His expression of relief twisted into one showing sheer horror as he realized that his six-year-old brother was perched atop a high branch.

"Stay there! I'll—How did you even get there?" Peter asked, running to and fro. His breaths were ragged now, he was gasping, close to hyperventilating. Edmund had heard the doctors say so.

"Peter! Pete, look up!" Edmund said. Peter did, still struggling to properly breathe. Edmund smiled and tossed him his detective storybook, saying, "Catch!" Peter did, subconsciously, but his eyes were fixed on the book for a moment. He'd been distracted. And Edmund smiled to see him blink at the book and his breathing slowly return back to normal. Then Peter looked up again but before he could start panicking again, Edmund said, "Get dad!" Peter only stared at first, his flustered mind taking a moment to decipher the words. Then he blinked and nodded.

"Yes, I will. Don't move, Eddie! I'll be right back!"

Edmund smiled when Peter rushed back the way he'd come. Then he hopped down the branch, clinging like a monkey from the trunk. He slid down, loosening his grip on the trunk's surface. And within seconds, his feet were on the ground. He rubbed his hands together, brushing off the dust, and then waited for his brother to come dashing out of the backdoor, still panicked because Dad had refused to come. Daddy knew Edmund knew how to climb; after all, he'd taught him. And just as Edmund had predicted, Peter hurried out, his face wet with tears. Oh. Edmund felt guilty now. But then Peter looked up. And for the first time, Edmund couldn't read his face. Surprise? Relief? Joy? But then Peter clenched his jaw and was slowly walking towards him. And Edmund knew. Anger.

"No," Peter said, shoving away the dress Susan had pressed to his chest. Peter edged away from his frowning sister and said, "Absolutely not, Susan. That is a dress. A dress. A dress! Do I need to say more? Just give it to Lucy, she'll like it." Susan walked to him and brought the hanger to his neck. She straightened the dress, ridding it of the wrinkles by pulling it down by its hem. She looked up at him.

"It's a Tunic, Peter. A traditional Tunic. From King Gale's time. And since it's the anniversary of the conquering of the Lone Islands, it's necessary that we celebrate King Gale's heritage. Edmund didn't complain!"

"But you didn't make him wear a dress! His didn't have laces on it!" Peter protested, glancing with disgust at the flurrying laces that lined the middle of the dress, hiding its buttons. "It's even embroidered!" he said, pointing accusingly at the Lion sewed on the chest-pocket. Peter exhaled heavily, grabbing his sister's shoulders. "I'm the High King, Susan. I can't come looking out as feminine, you know. Just have Lucy wear it. She said she liked it." Susan scowled, giving him a glare that made Peter internally wince. She'd just promised him revenge. Then she smiled a nice smile.

"Of course, Peter. Don't be late, please," she said and then was gone, leaving him alone in his chambers. Peter sighed, feeling relieved now that the haunting dress had left him. Peter fell onto his bed. It was a winter day, bleak and breezy. The sea's crashing waves gave rippling vibrations to the air, singing a sweet tune, the cries of flustered servants to catch Prince Corin made Peter smile, the dryads' giggles and gossips and admiring comments about the two Kings of Narnia made him feel flattered, and the door shooting open to reveal a put off dark-haired little brother made him frown. He stood up.

"What is it?"

Edmund clamped the door shut behind him. "Take the dress back."

"Why?"

"Susan wants me to wear it! I'm not wearing it, so take it back."

"No," Peter said simply. He'd expected Edmund to make a retort, or give him his melting look, or a deadly glare. But he sighed instead and his hands reached down his pocket. He pulled out a parchment; it flapped in the cold wind rushing in through the balcony. Peter cocked one eyebrow, giving his brother a questioning look. Edmund glanced at the smaller, western balcony, nodding at it. The brothers hopped over the ledge and then jumped down to the other side. In sync, too. Edmund pulled the two chairs closer—Peter had no idea why or how they were there. And then placed the table in the middle. Then he spread the parchment—which was now revealing itself to be some sort of a map—over the table. Peter stared impassively at it.

"What is this?" he asked.

Edmund gave the cliché answer. "A map."

"No, I mean, a map of what?"

Edmund who was studying the map he must be familiar with by now, said, "Winding Arrow." He looked at his brother who was still confused. "Winding Arrow is just south of Anvard. Easy to reach from there." Then he looked down at the map again, tracing its surface with his finger until he reached a mark on the southern bank of the river, a little west of another mark on the same bank. "See this?" Peter nodded, intrigued now. "Now on the north bank," he said, tracing up to the north bank. Two more identical marks. "What do you see, Peter?"

"Four marks. The same distance from each other. Uh…a square," Peter said, looking up at Edmund again.

"That's what I and Dracus thought, too. But it—"

Peter's cough interrupted Edmund's sentence. "You and Dracus?"

"Yeah. I trust him with my life, Peter. It's—Oh, come on! You're jealous? You were busy with your silly suitors so I thought to go to Dracus!" Edmund defended himself, shrugging.

"Yes, yes, of course," Peter said, looking unpleased. "You were saying?"

"Right. We thought it was a square, too. We researched in the library, flipped through thousands of books. Searching for a square on a river. We had to clean up after, too. Sunstone wouldn't let us leave. Anyway—"

"Wait. Where did you find this?" Peter asked, looking down at the map.

Edmund licked his lips. "It was a message. Intended for someone else. We found it by accident. Okay, not by accident. Lord Lanin told me to give it Lord Barrin a week ago when we had to attend Susan's ball. I might have, you know, taken a peek."

"You what? Edmund, that's humiliating! You're a King. Not a common thief!"

"But I didn't steal! I just memorized where the marks were, gave the original map to Lord Barrin, and drew the marks on an identical map. Now, listen." Peter crossed his arms but felt inclined to listen indeed. "We found nothing in the five days. Then I wondered what if it's not a square at all. But an X."

"An X? Like in the pirate treasure stories? Edmund, please, you've been wasting my time. I—"

"Sit. Down," Edmund ordered, glaring at him. Peter sighed, untangled his arms, and sat back down on the small chair. "Now, listen. Without interrupting me every other second. So, I and Dracus searched through more books, looking for an X over a river. But nothing again. It was obvious, that's not what the clue meant. So I decided to think deep. Think, Peter, if it's not in the books, not written somewhere, what could it mean?"

"Edmund, have you been reading your Detective stories again? Oh, I hate this phase you go through when you do. Please, just take some of the medicine Mrs Beaver offered and—"

"Peter?"

"Yes?" Peter asked, raising his brows.

"Shut up! And please, just listen! I thought the message might be practical, you know? Because the bottleheads that the Lords are, they couldn't have thought of anything more intricate. Now, a cross indicates a target, doesn't it? So, I sent Chirp to Winding Arrow."

"I'm sorry, you sent my best northern scout to Winding Arrow? Blue-jays can't fly that far!"

"I sent an eagle to aid him. He was really excited about it. Now, Chirp and the eagle searched the river for any clues. They found naught. At first."

"Oh, for Aslan's sake, Edmund, just get to the point!"

"Well, they found a box. Right where the two imaginary lines of the X would meet. And in it, there was a letter. It was fortunate that the eagle could read. And as you know, eagles have a great memory. He memorized the whole letter and recited as it was to me. They'd, of course, put the original back into the box." Edmund then pulled out a small piece of paper, rough around the edges. He offered it to Peter. "Read it."

Peter took the letter from him. And read.

After three minutes and going over the letter four times, he said, "Oh, Ed. Edmund, this is—"

"This will destroy Su's party," Edmund said, standing up. He jumped out of the balcony, and back into the room. "But not if we can stop Lord Barrin before it's too late."

Peter nodded and followed his brother back into the room. "This is disastrous, Edmund. We need to tell him."

"No. Then we won't catch Lord Barrin red-handed. And that means a lot of work to prove he's guilty." As he said this, Edmund was slowly walking towards the door. Reaching it and turning the knob, he said, "And Peter, please take the dress back. Briella is coming."

Peter huffed. "You're lucky, Edmund. Really lucky." He sighed. "I'll take it back."

"Thank you!"

Shining laughter. Flapping curtains. The tempting buffet. Scented flowers. The sweetest tunes. And the softest melody. Dryads were singing, standing on the dais in the eastern corner. The lords and ladies were engaged in casual chatters, filling themselves with the traditional Narnian food. Most guests were gathered around the buffet which was decorated with all kinds of food items. The traditional honeyed toast, roasted meat, Susan's cookies, the richest wine in all of the north, and upon Lucy's insistence, chocolate. His eyes turned to his sisters. Lucy was dancing with Dracus, both laughing gleefully—probably amused by one of Lucy's old jokes. Susan was dancing with Prince Corin; Peter smiled, seeing how his sister had had to pick the Prince up in order to dance comfortably. Peter almost got up from his throne when Susan's shawl slid down her arm. But Corin picked it for her. He breathed out, settling back on his throne.

"You might as well dance, you know," came a frustrated voice from his right. Peter was rather startled to find Edmund sitting on his throne. Peter rolled his eyes. His brother moved as silent as the night and as swift as a cat. Invisible if he wanted to be. "There's a line of beautiful ladies, all waiting. Wondering if you'd ask one of them for a dance. But you, of course, won't. So the more desperate ones, the one standing in the front, will ask you themselves. See that tall Calormene lady? She's the most desperate. Red wine used to polish her lips, nails manicured, hair loose even though Tarkheenas prefer to have them tied up. And the Galman duchess. She—"

"Edmund?"

"Yeah?"

"You're doing it again, you know. Just shut up."

"What do you mean I'm doing it again? What is it that I do?" Edmund asked, blinking at his brother. Peter sighed.

"You read those old Detective novels of yours and do this! Become one yourself. I hate when you do this."

"I haven't been reading any novels! I'm a King, Peter. I don't have the time, as much as I wish I did," Edmund added silently, sighing.

"Liar."

"I'm sorry?"

"I found one under your pillow last night."

Edmund blinked. "You broke into my room?"

"I had a nightmare. I had to check," Peter said, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

"You—you had a nightmare so you decided to just break into my private chambers in the middle of the night and stare at me while I slept?"

"Yes."

"You're an idiot."

"It was a really horrifying nightmare!" Peter exclaimed, suppressing a shudder. He took some shuddering breaths. "She cut your throat," he said, voice thick with unshed tears. He cleared his throat, looking back at the party, trying to bring back the balance. He wiped his eyes. Edmund stared at him for a moment, opened his mouth and then shut it again.

He sighed. "I'm sorry, okay? I didn't—I didn't know. Please, I really am."

Peter gave a shaky nod. "Yeah, I know. Dracus doesn't seem to be so concerned that someone is going to murdered tonight," he said, glancing at the Knight who was still dancing with Lucy; he swept her off her feet and then put her down again, making her giggle.

"That's because he doesn't know," Edmund said. Peter turned to him, bewildered. "I trust him with my life, Peter. But I don't trust him with yours." Edmund smiled. "You're my brother. And nothing could change that."

Peter wiped his eyes again. "Alright, no need to get all emotional. How are we going to stop Barrin then?"

Edmund exhaled heavily. "I don't know."

A six-year-old Peter skittered down the stairs, hands on hips, and features distorted by a pout. He approached his dad who was reading the newspaper, and watching the telly when a piece of particular intriguing news came up. Peter liked the old man on the telly. He told him jokes. But the matter at hand was important, so he hopped on Dad's lap, making him giggle. Dad folded the newspaper and set it down on the table. He stroked his hair.

"What is it, Pete?"

"He took my book! Ed took it and mum didn't even scold him!" Peter complained, looking up at his father. "It's not fair! Mum always scolds me when I take Susan's dolls! Why didn't she scold Ed?"

"Because he's younger than you, Peter," Dad said, tickling his neck. Peter chuckled but then turned grim again, crossing his arms. "What book did he take?"

"The one with the…the…detectives!"

"You got it right this time, chap!"

"And he's not even three yet, not before October! He can't even read!"

"Oh, Pete, do you know why your brother takes your things?" Peter shook his head, confused. "How about you go ask him, eh? You'll be surprised." Peter crossed his arms again.

"But I'm not talking to him. I told him I hate him!"

"And what did he tell you?"

Peter gulped. "He said he loves me."

"Do you see now?"

Now, this is what the letter said, and this is what Edmund's been playing in his mind for the last twenty-four hours, looking for a clue, a mistake:

My dear Lord, it is I who writes this, your most loyal servant, and ever well-wisher, Lord Lanin. Your wish, among us, is well-known. Though dark, the wish is justified. After all, the King murdered your brother, sank his ship, and drowned dear Lord Bar, his body lost forever to us. And since it is I, Lanin, who presents you with this knowledge and opportunity to finally achieve your objective of killing the cruel King, I do wish you would gift me with a trivial part of your riches. But it is a decision that is entirely up to you, my Lord.

It is this: Narnia, as you may have heard, is celebrating the six-hundredth anniversary of the conquer of their Lone Islands. Gale the seventh King of Narnia conquered it in the light of the moon, their ships came at night, their nests glinting in the shine. Bows in hand, the King's men jumped down the ship and swam to the shores of Avra. They shot the arrows at the sign their King gave them, leaving those who were innocent, and killing those who resisted. And they won, my Lord. They won not because their numbers were greater and they were armed. But because they were clever. And they used the light as a guide. Let the light guide you, too, my Lord. Now, Queen Susan the Gentle of Narnia is hosting a grand party on the occasion, and it is known that King Lune, his son, and his most trusted lords, including you, dear Lord, will be invited to the Castle of Cair Paravel. Now, this, my Lord, is the opportunity you have been yearning for seven years. Have your revenge, my Lord. Praise your loyal servant with a share of your large wealth, if you wish. But have your revenge.

Lord Lanin

"Edmund?"

Edmund was started. But he stayed in his place. He turned and blinked at his brother. "What is it, Peter?"

"You don't have a plan?"

"Other than have King Lune surrounded by seven guards at all times—" Edmund said, glancing at Lune. He struggled past the cheetah and the two leopards walking beside him to get to the buffet. Chocolate seemed to please him. "—I don't have a plan, no. Do you?"

"You're the detective," Peter said cheekily. "Where's Briella? I've been wearing this stupid dress for her, haven't I?" Peter asked, squinting through the crowd, squirming, feeling the dress' uncomfortable surface grate over his skin and make it itch. When Edmund didn't reply, Peter knew he shouldn't have asked. "Ed?"

"She's sick," Edmund said, sighing. "She can't come."

"But she's here? In the Castle?"

"Yes, in the guest chambers. She's sleeping."

"Then go to her, you idiot," Peter said.

"Not when we have to keep King Lune alive. It's alright, Peter. I don't really care. I can't. We're not just Kings, Pete. We're knights, sworn to protect Narnia. I'm not looking for a girl I can marry. And neither are you."

Peter blinked at his brother and then swallowed. "When did you get so mature?"

Edmund smiled at him. "Learnt from the best. Now, you've read the letter. Tell me what you think of it."

"I don't know. It was just to tell Barrin of the party." Edmund scoffed. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

Edmund turned to him, his crown glinting sharply, making Peter blink. "Do you think Barrin wouldn't already know? Of course, he knew, Peter. And why hide the letter in the Winding Arrow where only the one who has the map can find it? It holds something of importance, Pete. Something in code. We just don't understand yet."

"But you said they were bottleheads!"

"I was wrong. I can be wrong, too, you know."

"Oh, shut up," Peter said. "Where's the letter? We should have a look at it again."

"I burned it."

"You what?"

"I've memorized it, Peter. There was no need for it. It would just serve as evidence."

"Evidence? Edmund, we're not the ones who want to kill King Lune."

Peter didn't think Edmund had heard him; his eyes were squinting through the crowd. He pointed at Susan. No, the Lord beside Susan, the one with the great beard. "See him?" Peter nodded. "He's sweating."

"What? How can you possibly tell that from here?"

"See how he's adjusting his collar? It means his neck is itching. And why would it itch unless he's sweating? He's biting his nails. A clear sign of nervousness. And he hasn't even touched the wine. What does that tell you?"

"That he needs to be in the right mind when the assassination happens. He knows something."

"Exactly. I've already signaled Dracus." And Peter's eyes wavered to the Knight, moving swiftly through the crowd towards the bearded Lord. Silverblade grabbed a glass of wine from the table as he went. And then bumped into Susan, stumbled forwards, and deliberately spilled the wine onto the Lord's royal tunic. He was now babbling loudly about how it was his father's and he'd just spoiled a very precious piece of clothing. Judging by how Dracus was bowing, Peter could say he was apologizing. Then the Knight led the man out of the Great Hall, probably taking him for a change of clothes.

"That was clever. Wait. How did you signal him?"

"Birds, Peter, birds."

"Oh. I thought you had a secret code or something. You never made a code with me."

"Peter! What did I tell you only minutes ago?"

"Right. Sorry. So, he knows now?"

"He didn't ask. But I told him. It was necessary," Edmund told him, turning to the party again. He waved back at Lucy. "I reckon you have about thirty seconds before the Tarkheena asks you to dance with her."

"Wh—"

"So, listen carefully. You'll accept. Accept, Peter. And you'll try to get as close to Barrin as possible. Get on his nerves. Talk about his brother. He's bound to spill something."

"Spill something—"

"But leave within ten minutes. I need you to give a speech. And besides, you're not safe with him."

"Edmund, I'm—"

"—perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, I know. But it's my duty to protect you and I'm not going to risk it. Here she comes! Accept!"

Peter coughed once and straightened his back, feigning a look of pleasantness when the Tarkheena approached him. She bowed and offered him her hand. He stood up and knelt before her, kissing her slender hand. He smiled up at her, and she urged him to get up. He did, still smiling. He reckoned his cheeks would hurt a lot after all this was over. Even through the dark-chocolate skin, Peter could see the pink rushing to the Tarkheena's cheeks.

"Uh, High King Peter, I—"

"Will you please me with a dance, milady?"

The lady gaped at first. And then blinked, clearing her throat. "Uh, yes, please. Thank you, Majesty. Come." And she grabbed his arm, leading him forward through the crowd. He looked back once to find Edmund wink at him. Clever, he mouthed. Peter couldn't help but smile.

Tap. Tap. Tap. That's all he could hear amidst so many dancing couples. Step forward. Step left. Step backward. Lift her up—even though she's heavy. Grab her waist. Pull her close. Step back again. Avoid her sandals at all costs. Peter clasped her hand more tightly, continuing the dance. He smiled, pulling her thin figure closer, making her blush and look down at her dancing feet. Peter led the dance, each move synced with the rhythm. You could say he'd been practicing. It was Susan's orders, of course. Tap, said the floor as he once again stepped forward, catching her as she fell back.

"Oh," she said, breathing heavily. Peter pulled her up. Swung her about by her waist. And then left her, smiling.

"It's been a pleasure, lady. Have something, please. I must now go eat. My sisters tell me I'm getting thinner."

"Oh, hardly, High King. You look perfectly."

Peter smiled again and then stomped to the buffet. He wasn't lying. He really was hungry. He picked a dish, admiring its shining marble surface and fetched himself some of the meat. The rich smell of oil was making him breathe in. He savoured it. Then sat down on one of the tables, ready to finally eat something. He licked his lips, breathing in again. He tucked the edge of the handkerchief under his collar and grabbed the knife and fork. And he cut the meat, the juicy smell filling the air. He plunged his fork into the cut piece and—

"King Edmund says—"

"Ah!" Peter screamed, startling away from the voice. He glanced around thrice before finally finding the owner of the voice. Chirp. Perched in the middle of the table, shifting from one foot to the other, craning his little neck at him. Peter was thankful he hadn't eaten yet. He'd have surely choked. And all because Edmund can't think of a more discreet way to send messages. "Chirp. You almost startled the life out me. What is it?"

"King Edmund says you can eat later. And he said…" Chirp hesitated, meaning it was an insult. "He said…"

"Never mind, Chirp. I understand. Tell him the same, will you?"

Chirp gave a quick nod and flapped his wings. Before flying away, he squeaked, "He said you're gaining weight!"

Peter's eyes widened when he realized he'd said that aloud and now all the guests were staring at him. He cleared his throat, leaving the table. Everyone turned away. But Peter's face was still red with embarrassment. He was certainly going to kill his brother tonight. His eyes scanned the crowd. Lords and ladies all chattering away. Couples dancing in the slow music the dryads were playing. King Lune sighing when the leopards insisted to stay with him. Corin laughing in Susan's lap. And they he spotted him. Barrin, drinking wine from a golden goblet, hovering in one shadowy corner, leaning against the tapestried wall. Peter was already walking towards him when a gentle hand grabbed his. He blinked and turned to see his littlest sister.

"Lucy. What are you—?"

"Dracus left some time ago. Dance with me? Please?"

"But I can't, dearest sister. There is something I need to—"

But Lucy persisted, her grip on his arm tightening. "Pleaaasee, Peter! Susan's got Corin. I need a partner. Please!"

"Lu, please, you must understand. I have to—" Peter tried struggling past her, looking back at Barrin.

"Peter, please!"

But he was gone.

"Peter!"

"Lucy, I said no!"

Lucy flinched away. And Peter instantly hated himself. He momentarily shut his eyes, breathing deeply. He cupped her face, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Lu. But I can't dance with you. I have important stuff to deal with. I—I need to find Ed."

She nodded, trembling. "I understand." And then she sprinted away. Peter could hear her sobs. Oh, he hated himself for this!

But he needed to find Edmund. Because Lord Barrin was gone. And that meant whatever was going to happen was going to happen now. He turned to the dais on which their thrones were built. All four were empty. And Edmund—

Peter glanced around, desperate to find his brother. They didn't have enough time. It was all spinning, the faint mutters dizzying him, time running out, drowning in the pressure.

"Edmund!" he bellowed.

And it was followed by a horrible scream. Lucy's voice. No, no, no. Peter panicked.

"Lucy!" he screamed, pushing past the crowd that had gathered in the middle of the hall. Whispers reached him. Whispers that were saying it was a terrible loss. "Lucy, no!"

There was blood under his feet, Lucy was still screaming at a body. An arrow was protruding out of it, the eyes filled with pain open and staring, and red lips covered in blood. Peter didn't know what to feel. Relief that it wasn't his sister who was lying dead in a pool of her own blood. Or sorrow for his brother who was blinking at the body. Almost in disbelief.

Peter was trembling, but he took shaking steps towards his brother. He stroked his cheek, urging him to look away. "Ed?"

"We need to find Barrin," Edmund said, turning to him.

"Edmund—"

"He did this. We need to find him. Now. And find Dracus. Come on, Peter," he said, grabbing his wrist. He led him through the crowd, towards the door.

As they left the Hall, Lucy's heartbreaking scream echoed, "Briella!"

OOOO

Author's note: Anyway, I will reveal how exactly Briella got killed. And how they're going to stop Barrin in the next and hopefully, the last chapter. We'll have to see. If you're wondering, yes, this was heavily inspired by Sherlock, though I doubt Edmund is anywhere near as good as him. What can I say? I wanted to write mystery.