This is certainly not the chapter you all deserve after so long a wait, but, unfortunately, it's the chapter I have time to post. This means it's short, possibly rushed, but contains some very important details regarding more than one important plot point.

On a different note I want to say thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, and is still reading this story. It is ending up far longer than I had planned and is certainly taking much longer to write, but it will be finished and posted, and that is because of all of you! Thank you!

Aslan's Daughter: So happy you are still around! There is much more of Lucy and the pirates in the future! Both in this story and in others I have planned. Glad to hear you are looking forward to the prequel! Hopefully it will live up to your expectations!

Inna: Diplomatic charisma is the perfect term for it I think! Glad to hear you are enjoying the story.

"Who is he?" His own voice startled him badly—he was certain he had not spoken but his lips moved to form the question nonetheless. It was dark, not the darkness of night, but the darkness of unlit caverns beneath the earth, of claustrophobic rooms whose darkness was unbroken by torches or windows—the darkness of the blind or of the dead.

His hand moved without his command, grasping something cool and solid. An iron post, his sluggish mind informed him. A gate, it amended a moment later, though how the conclusion had been reached he could not say.

"A northern spy," Another voice answered from the darkness to his left, on a level with his ear and very close beside him, deep, confident, and familiar in a way that made his skin prickle uncomfortably.

Danger, his mind warned, though he had no power to flee or fight.

"He is no one you need concern yourself with," the voice went on, disgust seeming to drip from every word. "Though perhaps I misjudged his tenacity when I deemed him too unimportant to search for myself and sent those incompetent fools after him instead."

There was a low scuffing sound, boots against stone, and then the dull thud of a kick against something far less unyielding than stone.

He blinked, eyes straining, and felt his hand tighten involuntarily around the iron of the gate post. His eyes stung and when he opened them from blinking he found himself staring at his own hand, knuckles white as, suddenly dizzy, he clutched the gate for support. Pain stabbed through his head, momentarily blinding him again with a disorienting flash of red that faded quickly to blackness.

Blinking furiously, he tried to focus, willing his sight to return, and after a moment it did, though the scene before him was now blurred—out of focus as if seen from beneath water or through a thick pane of cheap glass.

A man lay in the street at his feet, dressed in battered armour with a sword just out of reach of one outstretched hand. Another man stood over him, looming and familiar, his foot drawn back to kick the fallen man again.

"Stop!" This time he had meant to speak, though the word came out garbled, letters slurred and running together into an unintelligible sound of protest. The scene before him blurred still more, the street seeming to pitch and roll like something seen from the deck of a ship in the midst of the storm.

The man turned, more familiar still when his face was visible, though he still could not connect the harsh proud features to a name, and the expression of disgust on his face was replaced by one of nearly frantic concern.

"Are you well? You've gone pale as Zardeenah's ghost."

His hand lifted, shaking, to his face as he felt the warmth of blood begin to flow from his nose. His sight was fading to blurs of shadowy colour and agonising flashes of light and then coming back into focus with dizzying clarity.

The moon was bright, illuminating the street with a strange light that was nearly as bright as that of day, only silvery and somehow spectral draping everything with strange, dancing shadows.

There was blood on the paving stones, not enough for a killing blow only a dark splash against the moonlight street, and there—lying face down was a man. Dressed in a battered armour, sprawled limply, he appeared lifeless and that thought was accompanied by an indefinable chill. The man's turban had come half unwound and trailed away from his head enough to reveal an untidy patch of blond hair. That was important, recognisable, but he could not remember why, and his sight was fading again, shapes running together in blurs and streaks as his head spun dizzily.

There was a hand on his arm, the creak of the gate as it swung open, and he was being hurried along a different path where the air was heavy with the smell of orange blossoms. The man who seemed so familiar was speaking urgently, repeating an unfamiliar name, questioning—pleading.

Falling. No sight. No sound. Hands on his shoulders pushing him deeper into the darkness. Then the dizzying, disorienting sensation of falling upwards. No, not falling, rushing upwards. The hands holding him down fell away. There was a surprised grunt, then roar, the sound somehow golden and bright—comforting and ferocious all in the same moment.

21st of Greenroof, 1012—Firstday

His eyes flew open and he found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His head still ached, but it was distant and muted now—not the sharp stab of agony he remembered.

None of this had been part of the plan. He had made a plan, regardless of what Peter might think about his habit of rushing into strange or dangerous situations, he always made plans. Whether or not they usually worked was a topic of some debate, and this was undoubtedly one of the times when his carefully constructed plans had been utterly useless.

Everything had been going perfectly, he remembered that much. Meeting the Tarkaan in the inn had seemed like a stroke of unbelievably good luck, which, now that he thought about it more, he really should have been more suspicious of. If things seemed unbelievably lucky, then that usually meant they were unbelievable. Finding nothing in Obridesh's room should have been his first clue that he was in danger, but, like a fool, he had blundered on into whatever trap it was that he could not remember being sprung.

His head throbbed distantly as he rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. Disappearing for—what had Peter said it was, nine days?—had not been his plan. Neither had forgetting everything that had occurred and wandering through Tashbaan, barefoot, and in the middle of a rainstorm. Even less part of his plan was his idiotically protective elder brother following him to Calormen, blundering through Tashbaan drawing attention to himself, and eventually making a scene by sending for a Centauress to come to a decrepit inn in the worst part of the city.

The aforementioned protective idiot was currently slumped in a chair beside the narrow, thin cot Edmund found himself lying on, looking utterly exhausted, as he snored quietly. This was rather concerning, not because Peter was hovering by his bedside, but because he couldn't quite seem to connect his current location and awareness to his last memory of sitting beside a strange hearth with Menwy asking him quiet, concerned questions. Edmund made a point of never sleeping so deeply that he was not aware of being moved—unless he was seriously injured—and this lapse in control worried him nearly as much as his failure to remember the previous days' events.

Other than his headache he seemed relatively well, which was mildly reassuring. The cut on his hand had healed to a thin line of reddened skin and he examined it curiously, vague recollections of confronting Obridesh about poison Sitting up he rolled his stiff shoulders and grimaced as the ancient bedframe creaked deafeningly.

Peter started violently, nearly falling out of his chair, and Edmund sighed, half-annoyed and half-regretful. He really hadn't meant to wake his brother, the poor chap looked as exhausted as Edmund felt, and now that he was awake the inevitable questions were likely to begin. Not that I'm very likely to be able to answer any of them.

Peter blinked, his confusion only clearing when he saw that Edmund was awake and sitting up. Edmund stared at him—his mind felt slow, memory hazy and confused—but there was something different about his brother. It didn't seem alarming, only somehow confusing and out of place—as if something had changed to quickly to be seen—one moment not there and the next suddenly appearing.

Peter frowned, brows furrowing in concern and something else that Edmund could not quite place. "Ed? Are you-"

That was it—a change so obvious that he was amazed he had not recognised it at once. "What in the name of sanity have you got on your face?" he demanded, headache temporarily fading in the wake of shock.

Peter blinked, obviously startled, then grinned a touch ruefully as he ran a hand over the short beard that had most certainly not been present on his chin the last time Edmund had seen him in Cair Paravel. "I've been a little busy," he admitted, still grinning—the other, unidentifiable emotion replaced by relief.

Edmund wrinkled his nose, considering the change critically. "It doesn't suit you," he concluded at last. "Although, it might prove very useful in frightening away empty-headed duchesses. You look like an outlaw from the Western Wild."

"You're lucky I've missed you," Peter grumbled good-naturedly. "Otherwise I might be inclined to club you over the head. It can't be that bad, can it?" He was still grinning like an idiot, and it was becoming rather alarming.

"I think Susan is planning your funeral." The memory was hazy, accompanied by a blinding stab of pain behind his eyes, but he was certain he had not imagined the words. "You really thought I was dead, didn't you?"

The question seemed to have an enormously sobering effect on Peter and his expression was suddenly serious as he nodded. "I did, we all did, and then—" he broke off, frowning, and shook his head. "You do know who I am, don't you?"

Edmund frowned at him, feeling that he was missing something terribly important. It made his head ache. "Should I not? I know you grew a beard but that doesn't—"

Peter cut him off with another scowl and an impatient gesture. "It's not a joke, Ed. Last night you, well, for a moment it seemed like—never mind," his smile was forced as he shrugged and Edmund recognised the other, strange expression at last.

Fear. "Never mind what?"

Peter shrugged. "Do you remember coming here last night?"

It seemed like a deliberate change of topic, but Edmund sensed that now was not the time to push his brother too far. Peter was not easily frightened, and it had been years since Edmund had seen that expression of fear in his brother's eyes. Dismissing that for now, he frowned, trying to remember.

"Not exactly, he admitted at last. "I remember waking up, I think. I was only the floor, and my nose was bleeding, but nothing before that." He concentrated, trying to remember further back, trying to sort through the hazy blur that the last nine days seemed to have become.

Moonlight on Calormene helmets. The dizzy spin of the street before him as the hilt of his knife left his hand. A grunt of pain, the realisation of some fatal mistake, and a hard blow to the back of his knees.

Hard stones beneath him as he knelt with the point of a scimitar at his throat.

"You poisoned me."

"Are you well? Brother, are you well? Look at me!"

A hand on his shoulder, clutching it tightly enough to leave bruises.

His nose was bleeding, he realised dully, feeling the warmth of blood dripping through the fingers of a hand he did not remember raising to his face. Someone was shaking his shoulder, shouting for help, but the voice echoed until it was unrecognisable. The face of the man bending over him was blurred too, and he barely had time to realise that the name being called was not his before the world spun away in a haze of light and colour.

The next time Edmund woke he found himself looking up into the serious face of a Centaur. His head still ached, but his mind seemed clearer, thoughts more focused, and he recognised the face above him.

"Menwy?" He tried to sit up and found himself pushed back firmly.

"Better to lie still," Menwy warned, dark eyes impassive as they met his. "Your nose is still bleeding, and I think you have frightened your brother quite enough for one day, your majesty."

His throat was dry, and he swallowed painfully, nearly gagging at the taste of blood. Face still expressionless, Menwy slid an arm behind his shoulders. "Sit up slowly," she warned, half supporting him as she handed him a mug of tea. "Best drink that quickly though," she advised. "It's bitter." Edmund scowled at the murky contents of the mug and suddenly found himself missing Lucy. Menwy was a competent healer, but she had none of Lucy's cheerful brightness.

"Quickly," the Centauress repeated, the first hint of concern beginning to show in her expression.

The tea was foul, but it did seem to rid his mouth of the taste of blood, though he wasn't sure the bitter aftertaste of what herbs had been in it was much of an improvement. Menwy took the mug back and handed him a damp square of fabric instead.

"Hold this under your nose," she ordered shortly. "And don't tilt your head back—you'll choke."

"Where's Peter?" he asked, doing his best to staunch the flow of blood still dripping from his nose.

"Outside, he wouldn't stop pacing." Menwy stood, which was quite a feat considering she had been kneeling in close quarters, though she had to keep her head bent to keep from hitting it against the low ceiling. She took half a step towards the door, knocking the already unsteady bedside table over with her hind legs, and looked over her shoulder, warning plain on her face. "Whatever you did, I would advise against doing it again. It's a wonder you have any blood left."

The door shut quietly behind her and Edmund scowled after her, listening to the sound of her hooves retreating. A moment later the door opened again, and Peter peered around it, appearing rather shaken.

"Ed?"

Ignoring Menwy's advice Edmund tilted his head back as he motioned vaguely with the hand not pressed against his face. Peter seemed to take that as an invitation and approached, rather more cautiously than Edmund felt the situation warranted.

"You'll choke," he warned, perching on the edge of the chair.

Edmund rolled his eyes, though the feeling of blood in the back of his throat was rather alarming. "So I've been informed. What happened?"

Peter shrugged, still looking a little pale. "You were telling me what you remembered, then you went pale as a ghost and started shaking. By the time I got Menwy in here you were covered in blood and unconscious. Are you alright?"

Edmund considered for a moment and shrugged. "I think so, my head hurts," he admitted grudgingly. It was no use trying to hide anything from Peter when he was this concerned, and Edmund found that he was currently too tired to try. "And I think I've been advised against trying to remember for the moment."

Peter nodded, unsurprised. "I thought that might have been it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

Edmund would have snorted in annoyance if he hadn't been afraid of covering the room in blood. "And I suppose you knew this was going to happen if you asked me what should be a perfectly simple question?"

Peter scowled and shook his head. "I didn't know what would happen, but I should have guessed it wouldn't be anything good. Just—maybe let me figure this one out without you?"

Not likely. But he knew better than to voice the thought aloud. "Where's Peridan?" he asked instead. "He was with me last I remember, at least, I think he was." The nosebleed seemed to have stopped at last and he examined the blood-soaked fabric Menwy had given him with disgust, almost missing Peter's frown. "What?" he asked, tossing the fabric onto the ruins of the table. "Was he not with me last night?"

"No, and no one's seen him since you disappeared. I even asked that snake Lemesh. How you find these people I will never understand."

Edmund glared at him, only half registering the news about Peridan. "Lemesh? Lion's Mane Peter, how did you even find him? Good spies are hard enough for me to find and if anyone saw you talking with him I'll be in need of a new one."

Peter shrugged, not looking remotely apologetic. "Brickle told me. Besides, he strikes me as someone who can look after himself quite capably."

"Did he try to knife you?" Edmund asked, temporarily distracted by this rather amusing prospect. "He usually tries to knife people."

Peter shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "I was in too much of a hurry to allow him sufficient time to do anything except answer my questions. He didn't know where you were, and doesn't even know who Peridan is, but assured me that no Northern spies were being held in the Tisroc's dungeons."

Edmund nodded, if he was being entirely honest he had expected an answer of that sort regarding Peridan. Whatever the Tarkaan was involved in, beyond what he already knew, Edmund doubted that the Tisroc, however long he managed to survive, knew anything about it. Obridesh was not the type of man to share his plans with anyone who he believed he could not entirely control.

"He'll be in Obridesh's palace," he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. Unless he's dead or a spy himself, he added silently, though judging by Peter's expression his brother was having the same doubts. "Obridesh has a network of tunnels beneath his palace, connecting it to the cellars of various other nobles. We can slip in through those. There's a door, in the sewers I think, and it shouldn't be too hard to find our way from there."

"We?" Peter's frown had become somewhat dangerous and the effect was only increased by his new beard—it made him look older and somehow grimmer. "You seem to think you'll be coming along."

"It's not as if you can find the tunnels on your own," Edmund countered, though he knew full well that he was perfectly capable of drawing his brother a map. Luckily Peter did not seem to consider this possibility, though he still did not appear pleased at the prospect of Edmund accompanying him anywhere, probably least of all the to the house of the Tarkaan responsible for his disappearance.

"Fine," he agreed, with rather more grace than Edmund had expected. "But not tonight—if you don't sleep first Menwy is likely to have both our heads."

Suddenly feeling too tired to argue Edmund nodded and leaned his head back against the wall. "Or worse she would tell Orieus."

Peter laughed and ruffled his hair, an action which Edmund told himself he only allowed because he was tired. Peter seemed to take this as an invitation and hugged him cautiously, nearly falling off his chair in the process.

"I'm not dying you know," Edmund complained, though he didn't try to pull away. Whether he wanted to admit it or not he found that he was immensely grateful for his brother's presence.

"No," Peter said quietly releasing him, though he kept one hand on his shoulder. "And thank Aslan for that."

Edmund was almost certain that he saw the telltale sparkle of tears in his older brother's eyes but chose not to comment on it, and a moment later Peter blinked, and they were gone. "Get some sleep," he ordered, voice only slightly unsteady, as he settled back into the chair.

Edmund would have protested that his brother was being an idiot and there was no reason for him to stay, but he was asleep before he could do more than frown.

Short, probably rushed, and definitely not what I want to post after a month's absence, but hopefully you all still enjoyed it. Peter's chapter is up next, and will be much longer and contain even more possibly confusing details that are incredibly important!

Let me know in a review what you thought and thank you so much for reading!

Cheers,

A