Hello to all my lovely readers! So glad you are still with me!
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Aslan's Daughter: I definitely see what you mean!
Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I am putting my usual request for reviews up here, because by the end of the chapter you probably won't want to read an author's note...it's a long one and probably (hopefully) a bit stressful. Leave me a review if yo can please! Thanks for reading!
22nd. of Greenroof, 1012—Second-day
Peter was just drifting into an uneasy doze, finally having given up on finding a comfortable position on the creaking wooden chair and resigning himself instead to having a very stiff neck, when a commotion from the front room of the inn brought him suddenly back to full awareness. Edmund was still asleep and looked surprisingly peaceful, utterly undisturbed by the racket in the other room, and Peter frowned slightly. Edmund was usually a light sleeper and the series of crashes and voices shouting Calormene curses were certainly loud enough that they should have woken him.
Still, the more pressing concern seemed to be the commotion itself and Peter hauled himself out of the chair with a groan of annoyance. Another crash came from the front room, this one accompanied by more indistinguishable shouting, curses that sounded like they had come from the innkeeper, and a familiar sounding shriek of alarm.
"What now?" he muttered crossly, reaching for Rhindon, which he had leaned against the bedframe. Casting a last, concerned look over his shoulder at his still sleeping brother, Peter cautiously pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway beyond. It was dim, the only illumination coming from one smoking, foul smelling clay lamp that did little to dispel the shadows in the few doorways that led into other rooms—all of which were empty as far as Peter had been able to determine.
The lamp smoke made his eyes sting and his lungs burn and he paused, coughing into the crook of his arm, only for Brickle, who was sprinting up the hallway from the other direction, to collide with him.
Reeling from the unexpected impact Peter stumbled back against the wall, still coughing, and put a hand on the Dwarf's shoulder, trying to steady him. Brickle dug in his heels and twisted away, his expression panicked before he recognised Peter. He seemed to calm slightly, obviously whatever had sent him into a panic in the first place was serious enough for him to be currently unconcerned by the fact that he had almost knocked his king down in his haste, and Peter felt a sinking sense of dread.
"What is it, Brickle?" he demanded sharply, still half choking on the foul lamp smoke.
Brickle peered up at him through the gloom, eyes wide with still barely controlled panic. "They're at the door! Please, your majesty, they mean to kill us!" He raised a grubby hand to his beard, tugging frantically at the ragged strands of red hair and Peter grabbed his wrist quickly before he could do any further damage to the bedraggled mass of hair.
"Who is at the door?" He resisted the urge to shake Brickle when the fellow simply stared up at him shaking his head frantically. Something had obviously frightened him badly, and Peter doubted that a mere squadron of the Calormene Guard could have done so. The Guard was frightening, not panic inducing. "Brickle, take a breath," he ordered as patiently as he was able. "There, that's better. Now tell me, who is at the door?"
Brickle took a gasping, ragged breath, still shaking his head, but seemed to collect himself somewhat. "T-the priests," he managed at last, tugging at his beard with his free hand. Peter gave up trying to stop him and released his other wrist with a sigh.
"What priests?" he was nearly certain he knew already, and the question came more from an empty hope for contradiction rather than a need for confirmation. He had heard stories of terrifying Calormene priests, but had not given them much credit as truth—many of them were too gruesome and disturbing to be taken as anything other than the ravings of mad men.
"His priests! Tash's priests," Brickle shuddered. "I was in the street and I saw them coming—faces like skulls, eyes like fire, and the smell of death." He shuddered again, both hands twisting frantically at his tangled beard. "They'll kill us all and take our souls!"
Peter did shake him then, not roughly, but insistently. "Where is Menwy?"
"G-guarding the door," Brickle stammered. "We braced it with the tables and chairs, but they have soldiers with them, and torches."
Peter nodded, thinking frantically. "Go back to Menwy, tell her to go—both of you, get out of here. Go to the tombs, I'll meet you there when I can. Go out the back, try not to be seen, but go quickly."
Brickle nodded and dashed back towards the main room where the crashing was now accompanied by the sounds of splintering wood as the soldiers began to break through the door. They had a minute at most before the Guard broke through—the fact that they had not yet set fire to the inn indicated that they had orders to take him and Edmund alive at least, but he hardly trusted the Priests to keep them alive for long once captured.
He hurried back to the room and found Edmund still asleep, apparently oblivious to both noise and danger. Bolting the door hurriedly behind him he hurried to the window and wrenched the sagging shutters open. The window had no glass and much to his relief there were no bars, but beyond the ragged hedge of shrubbery below the window he could clearly see two white turbans with the spikes of helmets protruding from the tops of them.
Edmund could probably make it past the guards to the street without being seen if he wanted to, and was awake enough to understand the necessity, but Peter doubted that he could. He cautiously stuck his head out of the window and turned slightly, peering up at the second story of the inn above him. A drain pipe ran from the decrepit gutter, down along the side of the building, and passed the window only a few feet to the left. If they could climb up it, then it would be a simple matter to scramble up to the roof where they could hopefully find a way down to the street that was not guarded—or wait for the guards to leave as long as the didn't set fire to the inn first.
Of course, it only worked if Edmund was awake. Peter was rather dubious concerning his own ability to make it up the drain pipe under the best of circumstances and knew he certainly couldn't do it while carrying his brother.
More crashing signaled that he was running out of time, and he pulled his head back in through the window and turned back to Edmund. Shaking him urgently, he was rewarded with a thoroughly cross groan and a halfhearted attempt to push him away.
"Ed!" He shook him again and this time Edmund opened his eyes halfway, and glared up at him, obviously feeling enough like himself to add a muttered curse for good measure. "Wake up," Peter ordered sharply, too familiar with his brother's foul moods upon being woken to be deterred.
"G' away," Edmund grumbled, attempting to burrow under the blankets.
Peter shook him again, frustration growing as he heard more shouting, the sound growing louder as the door began to break. "Edmund! If you don't wake up right now we'll both be killed!"
That seemed to get Edmund's attention and he sat up so quickly that his head almost collided with Peter's. "What?"
"No time," Peter warned, lowering his voice. "There's a drain pipe outside the window, we need to get to the roof." He didn't bother asking if Edmund was well enough to climb. If he wasn't then they were dead anyway. Edmund nodded and got to his feet, stumbling only slightly as he took a moment to find his balance.
Peter spared a moment to glance hastily around the room, pausing long enough to collect his cloak from the back of the chair, and then hurried back to the window. Edmund was already sitting on the sill, leaning out backwards as he reached for the drain pipe. Peter sent a silent prayer to Aslan that the guards in the street below did not choose that moment to turn and look up. Only a few paces and a raggedly trimmed charcoal tree separated them from the side of the inn and the window through which Edmund had now disappeared.
Peter heard the main door give way with a crash and hastily stuck his own head through the window, stifling a grunt of annoyance as his shoulders scraped against the narrow frame. After a fair bit of wriggling, and far more noise than he would have liked, he succeeded in squeezing the rest of the way through the window and grabbing hold of the drain pipe.
Edmund was nearly to the top of it, resting one foot on the edge of the second story window sill, by the time Peter managed to get a solid grip on the pipe and begin the climb. He felt the metal shift and risked glancing up to see that the already derelict gutter and its fastenings were shifting alarmingly under the strain of his and Edmund's combined weight. Edmund was looking up too, and a moment later he was climbing again, releasing the drain pipe as soon he was close enough to the roof to grab the edge of the gutter instead.
Peter made it to the second story window just as he heard a general outcry from the back of the inn, followed by the sound of galloping hooves and furious shouts. He sincerely hoped that Menwy and Brickle had made good on their escape and, judging by the outrage in the soldiers' shouts, they most likely had.
Looking up again, he saw that Edmund had pulled himself up onto the flat roof and was peering anxiously over the edge. Cursing silently Peter left the brief respite of the second story sill and began climbing again, his boots slipping against the baked mud bricks as he tried to find a foothold on the wall. After another moment of clumsy scrambling he grasped the edge of the gutter and pulled himself up, onto the roof where he collapsed gratefully on the sun warmed tiles.
Edmund raised an eyebrow at him as he tried to get his breath back. "This is why I'm the spy," he announced quietly, looking like he was trying not to laugh.
Peter glared at him, though he knew it would be immediately obvious that there was no true annoyance behind the expression. "No, you're the spy because you're a sneak."
Edmund shrugged and peered back over the edge of the roof. Sighing, Peter joined him, laying flat on his stomach and hoping that none of the guards would notice that two Northerners were watching them like bizarre birds perched on the edge of the roof.
The street below was deserted, except for the two guards in front of the window they had climbed out of, and they appeared bored, leaning on their spears with their backs to the exit they were supposed to be guarding. Peter shook his head in amazement. Orieus would have been furious to see any of their own guards behaving in such a manner, but Peter could not help but be grateful for their carelessness. Escaping from a building guarded by a troupe of Narnians would have been nearly impossible.
Edmund nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and motioned towards the other edge of the roof, the one that overlooked the small courtyard and the front of the inn. Peter nodded agreement, and they cautiously began crawling across the roof—staying as low and as quiet as they could. Reaching the edge and peering over, Peter found the tiny weed choked courtyard in front of the inn crowded with horses and armoured soldiers carrying scimitars and round shields.
One of the soldiers was holding a robed and turbaned man with a long, dirty beard firmly by the arm and Peter recognised the innkeeper with a feeling of disgust. The man had obviously been the one to betray their presence to The Guard—though Peter suspected it had been the height of foolishness for him to do so. The man had accepted gold from a Northerner, had allowed him to remain under his roof, and it had only been after days had passed that he had gone to fetch the soldiers. From what he knew of Calormene law such actions were tantamount to treason.
A moment later he forgot about the innkeeper entirely when six tall men, wearing blood red robes and black turbans stepped out of the low doorway, flanked by eight soldiers who wore red tabards emblazoned with the twisting flame and vulture emblem of Tash's temple Guard.
He heard Edmund draw in his breath sharply and glanced over to find that his brother had gone pale and was staring at the men below in horror. "Lion's Mane," he breathed, still staring. "They're the bloody Priests!"
At any other time, Peter might have laughed at the phrasing, but as it was he remained silent and turned his attention back to the courtyard below. The Priests stood with their backs to the building and he could not see their faces but when he looked back towards the innkeeper he saw that the man had flung himself to the ground and seemed to be babbling incoherently. Looking at the rest of the men he saw that the soldiers too seemed uneasy, shifting and muttering as they made signs of protection.
When one of the red-robed figures turned back towards the inn a moment later Peter saw why and suddenly Brickle's panic seemed perfectly understandable. The Priest was very tall and carried a short, curved dagger in his right hand, but there was nothing particularly frightening about that—it was his face that made Peter shudder and look away quickly.
Beneath the black turban the Calormene's face appeared unnaturally pale, and it had taken Peter a moment to realise why. He had no face. Where his skin and features should have been there was only bleached white bone. His eyes were two sunken hollows that seemed filled with ruddy flame, and his mouth was a grotesque hole with only a few teeth still clinging to the bones of his jaws.
Peter shrank back from the edge, suddenly feeling as though surely those terrible flaming eyes could find him, regardless of where he was. He heard a half-stifled groan of pain next to him and found that Edmund too had drawn back from the edge and was pressing both hands to his head, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.
Looking quickly back over the edge of the roof Peter saw that another of the Priests had turned to join his companion and both of them seemed to be looking in a vaguely upward direction, though it was difficult to tell without facial features to give the direction of their gaze away. He quickly retreated again, and found that Edmund's nose was bleeding again, though it didn't appear to be as bad as before and his expression was slightly less pained than it had been the night before under similar circumstances.
"What is it?" he whispered, keeping his voice low enough that it was more a silent forming of words than a whisper. Edmund shook his head, pressing a hand to his bleeding nose, and then nodded back towards the courtyard obviously intending Peter to take another look.
The Priests had turned away again, and the soldiers were sheathing their scimitars and grasping the bridles of their horses in preparation for departure. Peter scanned the cluster of men curiously, trying to catch sight of the innkeeper, and saw him still laying on his face in the dust with his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow.
One of the Priests was stooping over him and a moment later Peter saw the knife he carried flash in the sunlight and the innkeeper went limp, arms dropping from around his head as he died. Peter grimaced, feeling a rush of sympathy for the man, even if he had betrayed them. The innkeeper might have accepted the gold and held his tongue out of greed, but in the end he had been loyal to his country and paid for that loyalty with his life.
A moment later the soldiers and priests had mounted and were streaming back onto the street in a clatter of hooves and shouts, leaving the innkeeper's body sprawled where he had fallen. Peter was unsurprised to see that two soldiers remained, one stationed on either side of the front entrance leaning against their long spears and appearing bored.
Cursing under his breath, Peter crawled back from the edge and shook his head. "They left guards," he relayed quietly—keeping his voice low enough that he was certain it would not be heard on the street below.
Edmund snorted, which seemed rather dangerous considering his recent nosebleed. "Of course they did; they aren't complete idiots." Peter frowned at him and he shrugged. "What? We should give them some credit at least."
"If you say so." It wasn't worth arguing with his brother about. "What happened anyway, when the priest looked up?"
Edmund shrugged, not meeting Peter's eyes. "I don't know."
"Ed." Peter had always found it rather difficult to make a whisper sound sufficiently menacing, but either he had managed it at last or Edmund was simply too tired to employ his usual avoidance tactics because he sighed, his expression resigned, and peered over the edge of the roof to make sure the soldiers were still unaware of their presence before answering.
"I think I've seen them before, but I can't remember when. It's like—" he broke off and pressed his hands against his eyes.
"Ed?" Peter put a hand on his shoulder, concern returning as he recognised the gesture. "Maybe you shouldn't try to remember. Menwy said—"
"They were there before," Edmund interrupted, his voice strained. "Last time I think. They were there, chanting something about souls and brothers." More blood was dripping from his nose and his hands were pressed against his head with so much force that Peter could see his fingertips whitening. He didn't seem particularly aware of his brother's presence either, and his voice was growing dangerously loud.
"Edmund!" Peter shook his shoulder slightly, raising his own voice as much as he dared, hoping to shock Edmund out of whatever confused state he was falling into.
Edmund stared at him, eyes glazed as if he were looking through him, and shook his head. "No."
"What? Ed, can you hear me?" Do you know who I am? He added silently, dreading the answer too much to risk asking.
"Soul to soul, blood to blood. What Tash has claimed none can take, until the debt is paid." The words were unfamiliar, but sounded like part an invocation. Or an enchantment, Peter thought darkly. The accent they were spoken in was strange too—musical and lilting like something he would have expected to hear from a Tarkaan or other high borne Calormene.
"Edmund!" Peter shook his shoulder again, more urgently, and risked a glance back over the edge of the roof. The guards were still in the street below talking and laughing quietly as they passed a wineskin between them. If they had been even slightly more competent Peter was certain they would have heard Edmund's strange, half-chanted statement.
Peter turned back to him and shook him again. "Snap out of it!"
Edmund blinked and frowned at him. "What?" He frowned and dropped his hands away from his eyes to his nose. "Not again!" he grumbled, examining his bloody fingers with annoyance.
Peter hastily tore a strip of fabric from his cloak and passed it to him. "Keep your voice down," he warned. "It's a wonder you haven't had the guards up here already."
Edmund nodded and lowered his voice. "What happened?"
Peter stared at him, he wasn't really surprised, but he had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that Edmund would at least remember what he had said. "I'm not sure," he said at last. "But I think we need to find Peridan and leave—the sooner the better."
Edmund nodded, though he was frowning. "I saw Menwy, and you said Brickle is with you. They weren't in the inn when the soldiers came, were they?"
"No, they're waiting outside the city." I hope. He was fairly confident that Menwy could outrun even the Tisroc's prized racing horses (who were likely to outlive the Tisroc) but outrunning was one thing and escaping notice and staying hidden was another matter entirely.
Edmund nodded, likely thinking the same thing if his worried frown was any indication. "We'll need Brickle. He's seen a map of the tunnels and he can guide you if—" he broke off and shrugged. "Just in case."
It wasn't a particularly comforting thought—stumbling through Calormene sewer tunnels with a nervous dwarf as a guide—but he supposed it would be better than wandering lost through the tunnels with Edmund mumbling incomprehensible Calormene phrases, utterly unable to guide him.
"I would suggest we wait for dark," Edmund continued, frowning up at the sun which was nearing its zenith, "But I am reasonably certain we'll bake if we stay up here for much longer."
He was right. Peter could already feel the skin on the back of his neck starting to blister and sweat kept dripping into his eyes and prickled uncomfortably in his beard. The heat seemed to have returned with a vengeance and there was no sign of clouds promising rain and cooler temperatures.
"We should be able to get back down the way we got up, if those guards have gone." He shuffled awkwardly back to the edge of the roof where the pipe led back down to the street and peered over the edge.
The street was nearly deserted, and Peter suspected that most of the Calormene people had retreated indoors out of the sun. A few ragged children were playing in the dust on the other side of the street and a blind beggar was sitting cross-legged in the sparse shade of the charcoal trees with a dented metal bowl in front of him. There was no sign of the two guards who had been stationed there before.
"Can you make it back down?" Peter asked, glancing over at Edmund who had joined him and was studying the street with a rather dubious expression.
Edmund responded by elbowing him sharply in the ribs and rolling his eyes. "Can you?" he retorted. "I seem to recall you were the one having trouble on the way up. Anyway, it's no use you going down there looking like that."
"Like what?" Peter didn't see anything particularly wrong with his appearance. Edmund, on the other hand, looked thoroughly disreputable considering that he was still barefoot and wearing a set of Peter's spare clothes which were rather too large for him.
Edmund snorted. "Look around, do you see many Northerners? Much less ones with swords and fine boots."
"I'm not leaving Rhindon behind," Peter growled back, putting a protective hand on the sword's hilt and glaring back at his brother.
Edmund rolled his eyes and held up Peter's cloak, which he had left lying on roof tiles. "Of course not, but you can't carry it openly either. Better take off the boots too."
Peter scowled at the prospect of wandering through the filthy streets barefoot, but he had to admit that Edmund was right. He pulled off his boots and passed them to Edmund along with his sword belt. Edmund wrinkled his nose and hastily folded the boots and sword into a makeshift bundle he had made from Peter's cloak.
"How do you plan on getting that down to the street?" Peter asked, eyeing the bundle dubiously. Dropping it would most likely make enough noise that even the most inept guards would notice, not to mention the risk of the beggar or the children stealing it before either of them could reach the street.
"You go down first and I'll throw it down to you?" Edmund suggested, sounding rather too cheerful at the prospect of tossing things at his brother from a safe distance. Peter scowled, but he didn't have a better idea. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the prospect of climbing back down the drain pipe either.
The descent went about as well as could be expected and Peter was unsurprised to find himself sprawled in an undignified heap among the crushed remnants of a half-dead shrub when he reached the bottom. He scrambled to his feet, cursing under his breath when he stepped on a sharp rock, and peered back up at the roof to find Edmund peering over the edge, very obviously laughing at him.
He glared back, the glanced around quickly, hoping that no one had taken much note of his less than graceful arrival on the ground. The blind beggar was still sitting in the dust directly beside the street and seemed uninterested in anything except his begging bowl, but the children were staring at him with wide eyes, whatever game they had been playing forgotten. A moment later they scattered, running pell mell in different directions, doubtless to report Northerners dropping from the sky to their parents—who would more than likely report it to The Guard.
Peter scowled after the children for just a moment longer than he should have and was taken by surprise when the bundle Edmund had made of his sword and boots dropped from the roof. The bundle hit him squarely in the chest and for the second time in as many minutes Peter found himself sprawling clumsily in the dust and broken shrubbery. Edmund followed the parcel, hald climbing, half sliding down the drainpipe with far more grace than Peter had managed and leaned against the wall of the inn, still laughing quietly as he watched his brother pick himself up and brush dead leaves and twigs from his hair.
"We should go," Peter said, feeling distinctly cross. He squinted up at the sun, then scanned the surrounding street. "The gate isn't far and the others should be waiting at the tombs."
Edmund nodded, still looking amused, and stepped around the charcoal tree into the street. The beggar raised his head hopefully at the sound and held out his bowl, the few coins in the bottom of it rattling. Peter looked back regretfully as they continued down the street.
"I wish we could have helped him," he said quietly, all too aware that a single gold piece would probably have bought the man food and lodging for a week as long as he wasn't particular about where he stayed.
Edmund shrugged and kept walking, head down as he scuffed his bare feet through the dust. "It's probably best we didn't, unless you have Calormene money—Narnian gold would only get him killed."
"The innkeeper didn't hesitate to accept it. Neither did that Lemesh fellow." Peter scowled, remembering how Lemesh had tried to knife him. He wasn't about to tell Edmund that particular bit of information though, especially considering that he had almost returned the favour and Brickle was the only reason the Calormene spy was still alive.
Edmund scoffed and shook his head. "I'm guessing the innkeeper is the man they killed back there?" When Peter nodded Edmund sighed and shook his head again. "And I don't suppose you stopped to wonder how they found him?"
Peter shrugged. "I suppose I thought he chose loyalty over greed and went to fetch the soldiers."
Edmund was quiet for a long moment as they hurried past a group of merchants arguing near an open stall that appeared to be selling jars of insects. The street was growing more crowded as they neared the gates, but so far no one seemed to be taking notice of the two dusty, barefoot, and slightly ragged Northerners. Peter could guess why, but chose not to dwell on the thought too long. The only Northerners here were slaves.
Once they were past the small group of people Edmund continued as if there had been no interruption. "Narnian gold is as good as a death sentence here—at least in this part of the city. Someone must have seen the innkeeper with it and reported him to The Guard, which led them straight to us."
"So Lemesh is likely to be found out to?" Peter couldn't quite regret that, although he supposed he should be more sorry than he was. After all, Edmund seemed to find the fellow useful.
Edmund snorted. "Lemesh is, among other things, a very good forger. Whatever gold you gave him is probably already being melted into Calormene coins that he can spend without fear of finding his throat slit."
"What about the Priests? I can't imagine them turning up everytime someone is found with Narnian coins." The memory of the Priest's bare skull and dead, fire-filled eyes made him look quickly over his shoulder, suddenly feeling an irrational fear that they were being followed. From the corner of his eye he saw Edmund shrug.
"That's the bit I can't quite make out," he admitted, scuffing his bare feet against the paving stones as he walked. "I know I've seen them before, although I still don't remember where or when, so maybe they were there because of me."
Peter had already reached a similar conclusion but he had been hoping to have his theory refuted, rather than confirmed.
The street was growing crowded again and this time the group of merchants was larger, though these ones seemed to be drinking, rather than arguing. "Keep your head down," Edmund warned quietly, as they slipped past the merchants and on into a sort of courtyard that seemed to serve as an open air market.
Peter frowned but did as he was told, as they pushed their way as unobtrusively as possible through the groups of merchants, beggars, and women going about the business of shopping for the next day.
The air was hot and oppressive in amongst the people and the combined smell of spices, cooking food, and the unwashed bodies of the beggars sitting in the dust made Peter want to gag. When he glanced over at Edmund he saw that his brother did not seem remotely bothered by press of people and smells. He looked almost as if he belonged there as he slipped, nearly unnoticed, through knots of people with his head down and shoulders slumped. He looked dejected and broken spirited, as if he really had spent years as a Calormene slave and Peter shivered slightly despite the heat. It was not a pleasant thought and for a moment he wished Edmund wasn't quite so good at losing himself in the role he was currently playing.
After a few more long tense moments, in which Peter found himself shoved, nearly knocked over, and cuffed sharply on the head when he had the misfortune to collide with a wealthy looking merchant, they were through the worst of the crowd and were hurrying down a wider, better maintained thoroughfare.
Peter breathed a sigh of relief to at least be able to breathe freely again. His feet hurt from walking barefoot over the rough paving stones and his head ached from the relentless glare of the sun. Still it was a relief to look ahead and see the looming city gates, even if they were guarded by a group of at least ten soldiers, all with long spears and small, round shields.
Edmund nudged Peter sharply in the ribs with his elbow. "Lion's Mane Pete, try to look a little less arrogant."
Peter scowled at him, but tried to slump his shoulders a bit more. I'm not sure how anyone could look arrogant stumbling around barefoot in the slums of Tashbaan, he thought crossly, but wisely chose not to say anything aloud.
The gates grew tantalisingly closer as they hurried on, nearly invisible in the stream of other people leaving the city in groups and pairs, donkey carts and packs rattling after them. Most of the farmers from the surrounding countryside who had come into the city for the day seemed to returning home and much to Peter's surprise—and relief—they were through the gates before anyone seemed to take notice of them.
They had only gone a few more yards down the wide, paved road that led down from the city before Edmund turned aside sharply and hurried through a grove of orange trees and down a slight embankment that hid the road from view once they were at the bottom of it. A few paces farther on the short grass gave way to small, sharp rocks, and then to sand. The tombs loomed before them now, dark and forbidding against the sky and a shadow swooped out from among them and landed heavily on Peter's shoulder.
"Well met, your majesty," Sallowpad the Raven croaked, his voice deafeningly close to Peter's ear as he settled his feathers into place. "And you," he added, and Peter felt him shift to tilt his head in Edmund's direction. Edmund appeared infuriatingly unsurprised at the Raven's sudden appearance and merely nodded to him.
Peter sincerely wished the Bird had decided to land on his brother's shoulder rather than his, since it had been something of a shock to find that he was suddenly being used as a perch by a Raven who he had assumed would have returned to Cair Paravel days before, but Sallowpad had never been particularly concerned with the assumptions of others.
"What news, good cousin?" Edmund asked, frowning slightly as Sallowpad continued staring at him with one, beady eye. Peter felt the Raven's talons tighten on his shoulder and heard the uneasy ruffle of feathers next to his ear.
"What news?" the Bird croaked back. "I have news of interest to the High King. For you, Son of Obresh, I have no news."
"What did you call him?" Peter turned his head sharply to glare at Sallowpad, but the Raven was still watching Edmund and his talons were digging painfully into Peter's shoulder. Peter had never known a Raven to be frightened before, but somehow he was quite certain that Sallowpad was.
"Son of Obresh," Edmund repeated, and there was something in his voice that made Peter turn back to him with a feeling of inescapable dread.
Edmund was not looking at him, or at Sallowpad, he was looking down at his hands. He was still holding the bundle made of Peter's cloak in his right hand but the knot he had tied it together with had come undone and he was holding Rhindon, unsheathed, in his left hand. There was something about the scene that seemed terribly wrong to Peter, but for a moment he could not decide what it was. Then Edmund looked up, eyes wide and frightened and face suddenly drained of all colour—Peter could see a thin stream of blood starting to run from his nose.
He dropped the bundle and held up Rhindon, staring at the blade, at his hand wrapped around the hilt of it, with a look of absolute confusion and terror, and at last Peter understood what had seemed so wrong. He stared at him, slowly beginning to realise, but reluctant to believe.
Son of Obresh. The blank, unrecognising look Edmund had given him at the inn, the way his voice had changed on the rooftop when he had spoken words that were not his own.
"Soul to soul, blood to blood. What Tash has claimed none can take, until the debt is paid."
No. It isn't possible—it's just Edmund. I'm wrong, please, Aslan, tell me I'm wrong.
"Ed?" He took a cautious step forward and Sallowpad croaked loudly in his ear, as if in warning.
"Peter," Edmund's voice was shaking and so was the sword still gripped in his hand—the wrong hand. "I'm not left-handed." Then his knees buckled and before Peter could react he had crumpled to the ground, Rhindon falling to the sand beside him.
I'll just leave this here...review if you want to know what is going on and what happens next! I'm joking, I'll of course post, even if you don't review.
Cheers,
A
