"So," Peter said. "Let us have a look at these rings."

Edmund felt this was a very unwise thing to do, but Peter had opened the catch on the box before he could say anything. He as resigned to this moment anyway, where Peter would think he was denying him Narnia.

The rings were bright yellow and green, just as the Professor had said. What he had not said was how shiny and attractive they were. However, it was not the warm brightness of a golden crown or the cheerful transparent green of beech leaves. Edmund didn't quite know how to describe it. He didn't know of the lurid city being born in the American desert, but if he had ever seen the neon lights of Las Vegas he would have thought instantly of those rings. They even gave off a faint hum like a neon sign. Starting at them Edmund felt excited, but it was not the wholesome excitement of pulling away from port on the Dawn Treader or seeing the edges of the world and the beginning of Aslan's country. Nor was it the shiver of bravery and high adventure as he rode to battle. Edmund searched his memories to find where he felt the same high-fevered, ill thrill before.

He remembered with a sickening jolt at the exact moment when Peter breathed in a queer voice "How very remarkable," and reached out to touch the rings.

"Peter, no!" Edmund cried suddenly and sharply. He snapped the box shut, and apparently just in time because it closed on Peter's fingers.

Peter gave a cry of pain and shook his stinging hand, glaring at Edmund from under a scowling brow. "What the devil did you do that for?" he demanded.

Edmund scrambled to his feet to hold the box away from Peter. "You must not touch those rings," Edmund gasped. His mouth was unnaturally red.

"Must not? I am unused to dictums from my younger brother." Peter was suddenly pale and his jaw was tight.

"Don't do this. Don't let this take hold of you," Edmund pleaded. He noticed his breath was thick and sticky and too hot, as if he was expelling something that had made him sick once. It's just like fighting with Caspian on Deathwater. Peter's not himself and I've got to fight him, but I don't know what to do. He would not admit out loud or even in the upper part of his consciousness that it was also like Deathwater because part of him wanted the rings for his own.

Peter stared up at Edmund for a long moment. If he had seen his brother after his first encounter with the White Witch, he would have recognized the sick pallor and the red splotched cheeks. This was different, though, because Edmund's dark eyes were blazing intently, not maliciously. "Do what? Lay claim to a rightful way to get to Narnia?" Peter demanded, rising. He reached reflexively for a sword that was not there, and Edmund felt his stomach lurch.

"Listen! These rings—don't trust them. They give me the same awful feeling as the Witch's Turkish Delight. If we're meant to get to Narnia, it's not this way. We can't break Aslan's commandment. Trust me, in the name of Aslan."

Peter stood tensed for a moment. The he let out his breath and his fist uncurled. After a moment where his stare was blank, he shook himself and said "That feels rather like coming out of a fever," Peter said breathlessly. "I am sorry, Ed."

Edmund gulped and nodded. He felt shaky as if he'd just been sick. He let himself sink down on the grass again. He was relieved of course that Peter had relented before it came to blows, but what left him with the taste of bile in his mouth was that he could say "Trust me, in the name of Aslan," and Peter would. Wasn't invoking Aslan's name for someone to trust in him, Edmund, deepest of all Narnian traitors, a form of blasphemy?

Peter saw his brother's face, but he was blaming himself. "I don't know what came over me," he said, dropping onto the grass beside Edmund. "I saw those rings, and I—"

Oh, shut up. Shut up! You don't know anything about it. Edmund drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his arms. He wished he were sick, because there might be a cure then.

Peter broke off what he was saying and laid a hand on his brother's back. "Ed? Are you all right?"

For a long time Edmund said nothing. Then he turned his head so he could look at Peter and said in a thin and weary voice, "I know what Aslan did. For me, I mean."

Peter whistled. "How did you find out?"

"I figured it out. You may have forbidden everyone to talk about it, but it was Narnia's worst-kept secret. And that's only right."

Peter's face grew hard, as if he would like to chastise someone for breaking his commandment. But all those subjects have been dead for centuries. Now there's only me to deal with. "You weren't meant to know," he said quietly.

"I don't think that's true," Edmund said in his slow, contemplative tone. "I think you were just trying to protect me from knowing." He smiled a spectral sort of smile that made him look grim indeed with his pallor and his face in the shadow of the wall. "But what I want to know, Peter, is why you wanted to protect me. I was going to sell your life—your's and Susan's and Lucy's—for power and Turkish Delight." He stood up and began to pace in front of his brother.

"That was so long ago—" Peter began, but Edmund cut him off.

"Time doesn't erase the deed, does it? Narnia hasn't forgotten. I sailed to the end of the world a millennium after our reign, practically, and I saw the very knife the Witch used to kill Aslan. It's the cruelest looking thing I ever saw, and there it sits along with the feast at Aslan's Table saying to everyone 'don't forget.' But you would have me forget. Rather, you would keep me from knowing."

"Because I wanted to keep this from happening! Edmund, you shouldn't do this to yourself, you…" Peter trailed off here; he apparently was out of things to say.

Edmund snorted a little derisively. "You're at a loss for words, but there's so many things you could have—should have—said. Didn't you ever want to know why I was going to sell all your lives to the White Witch? I know you're not afraid for yourself, but you are afraid for Susan and Lucy. Don't you want to know why I would do that to them?"

Peter simply stared at his brother. His eyes were very keen and very bright.

"I did it because I was mad at you," Edmund pressed forward. "I hated you for being so noble and so good. I hated being told that I should be more like you. Oh, don't shake your head and start to apologize. It's not your fault. Lucy's got to live up to Susan and the way people rave on about her beauty. It takes something to turn a little resentment at being shunted to the side to an evil greed."

Peter was on his feet now too. "You are not evil, Ed, and we are none of us perfect. Why I--"

Edmund shook his head. "No, Peter. There is nothing so bad you could have done. You're not capable of it. You put an entire kingdom ahead of your own needs. I had to stop riding to battle with you because you would risk everything to protect my life over your own. You are like Aslan in that you're willing to sacrifice yourself for those you love. That's why they called you King Peter the Magnificent."

"That wasn't it, and I'm no better than you, and you were King Edmund the Just. All of that…you were different then. Susan and Lucy and I, we knew—"

He couldn't bear Peter's bracing speeches. Not when he didn't deserve it. He had no right to seek safe harbor. Edmund turned away, and he felt so perfectly wretched he had to wipe away a couple of tears. "Peter, you have been kind enough not to speak of this to me for all these years. Don't let's talk of it now. Let's just wire the others that we've got the rings." He walked into the house without a backward glance at his brother.