A/N: Who's ready for some more pining and politicking? I'll admit this chapter got away from me a little; I'm back on my 6k nonsense, apparently. 😅
Chapter 58 Content Warnings: brief violence
Chapter 58: you'll always haunt me
Addie
"You should get out more, Addie." Mum coughs into her napkin. "Every night I get home, you're here. You've been so quiet since you came home from the countryside."
Stew sloshes out of Addie's spoon. Mum never brings up the years they spent apart, and Addie prefers that. It's easier to be kind and respectful when she doesn't think of how Mum sent her away.
"I go to the library with Josie every week."
Another cough, then Mum folds the napkin and hides it in her lap. "You know, I met your father when I was sixteen."
Addie blinks down at a carrot chunk and her half-eaten crust of bread. The thought of her arms around some strange boy and letting him kiss her twists wrong in her stomach, souring her dinner. Mum hasn't mentioned this before; why now?
"Josie's better company."
Mum's slender, calloused hand covers Addie's wrist, thumb stroking in careful circles.
"You can't marry Josie, sweetheart."
"Why not?" Addie's spoon clatters to the table. She stirs her stew with the bread crust to keep her hands occupied. "We get along, and I like her more than anyone else our age."
Josie doesn't say she's silly for preferring books to most people. Josie enjoys sharing stories, picking them apart in whispers at the library, and she takes the train across London every week just to spend time together. There's no guessing with Josie - Addie likes her company, Josie likes hers, and that's that.
Simple. Easy. Ever since they left the countryside and returned to London, Josie's made time for her and never once mentioned the cost of the train tickets or how long it takes. Never asked for anything, only Addie's time, and Addie's been entirely happy to give it.
It's nice to feel wanted. None of the London boys - neighbours, schoolmates, passing acquaintances at the grocer - make her feel loved, or even appreciated. They're too eager for any sweetheart with little care for who; they just make her feel small or annoyed.
Mostly annoyed.
"A friend like Josie is a wonderful thing," Mum says. "But soon you'll be grown. I don't want you to be alone."
Alone? She's not.
Addie flips her hand over and tangles their fingers. "I'm not; I have you, and Josie, and I have friends from school. Besides, no one gets married at sixteen."
Mum's grip tightens, her hazel eyes blazing. Addie got her eyes; Mum says so all the time.
"I want to know you have someone to take care of you. I won't always be around."
Of course she won't; the war taught Addie that lesson too well, and she knows, she knows people leave, and run, and loving doesn't mean being in the same place, but the one thing she will never need is to be taken care of. She'll be working by spring's end, contributing more than just cooking and burying her nose in schoolbooks of grammar and mathematics.
"I can take care of myself," Addie snaps. "You have - we have, ever since Dad didn't come home."
Mum's shoulders sag. Addie opens her mouth to apologise, but Mum speaks first.
"You're still young," she says. "I want better for you, Adelaine."
Addie swallows. "I'm fine, Mum." Then, because the sound of trains and bombs is roaring in her ears and it hurts, that half-lie, Addie sinks into denial, a familiar taste of ash, bitter as over-brewed tea. "I have everything I need right here."
Mum's stare follows her as Addie slurps the rest of her dinner and takes her bowl to the sink. Mum's silence is worse - observing, inviting, weighing her insistence like flour on a scale.
"I'm your mother. I can tell you've been restless."
Wrong thing, Tash, wrong thing to say. Addie's temper bubbles up too fast to stop, sharp and cloying, a barbed, bitter satisfaction.
"I've been restless since you sent me away." Addie taps Mum's bowl, empty but for dregs a good bread crust would sop up. "Done?"
Mum sighs and doesn't offer her bowl. Addie tears a small chunk of bread, wipes the bowl, and offers it to her. No sense wasting food.
Mum pushes it away. "Addie, love, I only sent you away to keep you safe. London was -"
"Dangerous, I know. But you stayed. Still hungry?"
Mum plucks the stew-dipped bread and leaves it in the bowl.
"Where is this coming from? You've never been upset about this before."
"You weren't pushing me out before."
Mum's just doing what mothers do, encouraging a normal life: settled down, a job by day and a family after that. Josie says her mum is forever going on about marriage and children and tall houses with flowers out front.
But Mum's never been that kind of mother before. She works sunup to sundown, gone more than she's here, but she always comes back and Addie keeps them both fed, makes a game of laundry on Mum's day off, and that's enough.
Mum hasn't pushed her out the door since the Blitz.
Addie gives up on the bowl and turns toward the sink. Mum catches her wrist.
"I only want what's best for you. You're getting older, and -"
"I don't have time for boys." Addie swallows, tongue thick in her mouth. "I barely see you as it is."
Mum tugs her down, and Addie kneels.
"That worries me, too. Don't you get lonely?"
Denial curls up her throat, a cloying temptation and so easy, an insignificant lie.
She… doesn't want to lie. In times past - long past - lying hasn't been worth the temporary comfort.
"I don't think a boy will help with that," Addie says instead. "If we need money, I'll get a job. The library -"
"No." Mum tucks a loose curl behind Addie's ear, her thin fingers chilled. Mum feels cold a lot these days. "None of that. You finish school and let me worry about money."
"But -"
"We're alright," Mum says firmly. "My wages and your father's…" She clears her throat. "The pension, for your father's service. We have enough."
"If we have enough, then why do I need a boy?"
Mum's chair creaks as she leans forward, eats the bread left in her bowl. "I want you to try, at least. Get used to the idea. I don't want you to be alone."
"You said that already." Addie stands and stretches the soreness from her knees. Mum's deflecting, but Mum's also gone for hours after Addie gets back from school.
If Mum won't tell her, she'll find out herself.
Addie's sorting the week's laundry - quiet work so Mum can sleep in - when she finds it.
A handkerchief spotted dark red.
Mum's been coughing more, but she didn't think it was…
"Addie! Ready to leave?"
Addie throws the handkerchief into the pile of whites and rushes downstairs. Josie's early today.
She finds Josie at the kitchen table with a tin of shortbread in her hands. As always, Josie's blonde pin-curls sit perfectly coifed under her pillbox hat - a bright, ostentatious purple Josie's mother hates, which is precisely why Josie wears it.
"You're early." Addie hurries to hug her and breathes in Josie's perfume. Josie always smells like wildflowers and tea cakes, sweet and inviting. "Piano lesson cut short?"
Josie kisses her cheek and rattles the shortbread. "Oh, I skipped today. Open up."
Addie obeys, and the taste of butter, sugar, and a hint of vanilla fills her mouth. Josie crunches a biscuit too and sucks crumbs from her fingers. She loves her indulgences, and it's a joy to share them.
Josie only ever brings shortbread after a fight with her parents.
"You're skipping piano lessons for the library?"
Josie pinches out a smile. "I like your stories better than the piano."
"You like everything better than piano." Addie licks the butter from her lips. Josie wipes the corner of her mouth, her lacy glove scratchy.
"Almost," Josie says. "I like piano better than boys."
So that's the fight Josie wants to distract herself from - marriage talk. Josie's complained of her parents' blatant attempts at matchmaking for the last year or more. It's to be expected - Josie's almost eighteen, pretty, well-off, educated, never gone out with a boy (refuses to, more accurately), and her parents want grandchildren someday.
It's also not what Josie wants.
Addie swipes another shortbread from the tin. "Lucky for you, the library doesn't impose either one."
"Exactly." Josie leaves the tin on the table - food isn't allowed in the library - and loops their arms. "Let's go be bookish spinsters together."
After a trek through the neighbourhood, past narrow houses still scarred from the wartime bombs, Addie and Josie pass through Mitcham Library's double doors and the musty scent of old books, dust, and wooden bookshelves wraps around Addie like a cocoon. Outside these doors, life is full of school and chores, Mum wanting her out of the house, and an empty spot at the dinner table where Dad should be.
In here, with books and quiet, friendly librarians keeping order and Josie for company, none of that matters. Here, Addie pores over fantasy tales with Josie and lets herself pretend there's more to life than London and getting a job after school's end. These walls are lush with stories to read, fantasies to imagine, places Addie can lose herself in.
Places to disappear.
Sometimes, on rainy days when the sky is dark and they find twin chairs by a window, London's streetlights blur into candlelight.
Sometimes, if Josie's buried in a book and Addie lets her mind wander, she sees brown eyes so dark they look black. A warm mouth, hands in her hair, a heartbeat not her own.
Josie jostles her back to the present. "Tell me about the thief again. I like that one."
Of course she does; Josie likes any story about two people at odds until they're not.
Addie fights a grin and shakes her head. "With the fire poker?"
"No, the midnight snacks. But make the prince a princess."
"Anything you want."
It's nice to tell a familiar story a different way.
As Addie finishes the tale, the turbulence fades from Josie's eyes. She sits slumped over the table, chin in her palm and hat akimbo.
"It almost feels real," Josie says. "The way you tell it."
Addie shrugs. "Maybe somewhere it is."
"Don't say that, or I'll go looking for it." Huffing, Josie stands. "Come on, my turn to help you. Which shelf today?"
"Folklore and fairy books," Addie says. They finished combing through children's fairy tales last week, to no avail.
Josie starts at the far side, where dim sunlight filters in through the windowpanes, while Addie goes to the end shrouded in shadow.
It's been years of searching; she knows she won't find the stories in her head. But it feels wrong to stop looking.
Addie pulls the leather-bound book from the shelf, tracing the silvery, embossed title - A Collection of English Fairy Tales - before flipping to the table of contents. The Lady of the Fountain, The Children in the Wood…
"Can I help you find something?"
Addie startles and finds herself looking into a shock of ice-blue eyes behind glasses. She's seen him before, this librarian, but she rarely speaks to anyone but Josie.
"I'm not sure," Addie blurts. "I don't really know what I'm looking for."
The blond boy leans in, peering over her shoulder. "Here, let me."
Wordlessly, Addie hands him the book. It's an accident, brushing hands.
The boy adjusts his glasses and scans the list of stories with a long, pale finger. He's tall, his shoulder as high as her cheekbone, and her nose tickles with the scent of old books and citrus.
"How do you feel about witches?" he asks, humming to himself.
Addie fights a shiver. "Not my favourite."
The boy's finger skips down a few lines. "Magical objects? Peasants and royalty?"
Addie breathes through a sudden pang between her ribs. "I like those," she answers quickly, "when done well."
With a half-smile, the boy points to a story. "Try this. You'll like it."
Addie follows his finger. The Magic Ring - it sounds interesting enough.
"Thanks, I'll start there."
She starts to walk away, book in hand, but the boy turns with her and smiles wide, flashing straight teeth.
"I'm John. I'm here every Friday and Saturday. Working, that is."
"Addie." She shakes his hand to be polite. His fingers are too long, skin too smooth and cool, more akin to marble than a person.
"Thanks again," Addie says, and hurries over to Josie.
Her hand is still cold where he touched her.
In a murmur, Addie reads The Magic Ring to Josie sitting under the window, their legs entangled. It's a longer story than she thought; Addie's throat goes hoarse halfway through for need of water.
It's also not the story she's looking for, but she wasn't expecting it to be.
The beginning is alright - fast-paced like most fairy tales she's read. The main character, Martin, is sympathetic - a poor young man who spends his mother's last florins saving a dog and a cat, probably a lesson on the virtues of kindness and compassion. As Addie guesses, the dog and cat rescue Martin from a hopeless situation later, but by then, she likes Martin much less. From the moment Martin said he wanted to marry a king's daughter, Josie scowls and grumbles for the rest of the story.
"At first I liked him," Josie whispers. "Until he just up and decided he wanted a king's daughter with no thought for her feelings on the matter. Why should she be forced to marry him?"
"According to the tale? Because the king gave his word," Addie says. "Maybe Martin was thinking of the king's daughter he saved. She did say she loved him."
"Then he should've had the decency to say so. I know she said to ask for the ring, but why didn't he just ask her for her hand, and then ask her father?"
Addie thumbs to the page in question. "The story would've been shorter."
Josie harrumphs. "Would've spared his mum a spot of terror. I thought she was mean at first, but by the end I just felt sorry for her, caught up in her son's hunger for grandeur."
"Big words," Addie says, toeing Josie's ankle.
"How would you put it, then?"
Addie traces the letters and swallows against her tight throat. "I think he regretted leaving the princess, and he was afraid of what she'd say if he returned asking for her hand. So he sent his mum instead."
Josie cocks her head and pokes Addie's knee. "I thought it was a different king's daughter. She acted like she didn't know him."
"I thought they were the same," Addie says. "Martin says he wants the hand of the king's lovely daughter in marriage."
"Different king, different daughter," Josie counters. "Martin's mum goes to a palace, not the underground kingdom. And that king and his daughter were very rotten. Who did they think they were, tormenting Martin and his mum like that?"
"Did they need a reason?" Addie shrugs and picks at a hangnail. "Some people are just like that."
Huffing, Josie crosses her arms. "Well, they shouldn't be. And when did you get so blasé about it?" Josie pokes her arm, rapid-fire and imprecise. "You tussled with Ollie and Henry at the farm just for tickling me, but now you're quiet."
Countryside days long gone, little more than mixed memories glossed into nostalgia by time.
"We were younger back then."
"You were a lot younger." Josie tilts her head, appraising. "Now, sometimes you seem older than me."
What's got into Josie? Next thing she'll be echoing Mum, saying she's restless.
"Don't be ridiculous." Addie waves the book between them. "Back to the story."
Josie leans against the bookshelf, bumping her knees together as she does when she's concentrating. "I'm still stuck on why Martin didn't ask to marry that princess. The one who turned into a snake."
"Maybe he wasn't ready," Addie says. "He missed his mum. But you're right that he should've stayed with the serpent princess instead of the wicked one."
"Exactly," says Josie. "I mean, she said she loved him. But when Martin got it in his head to get married, he forced someone else who didn't even want him. He got greedy, wanted everyone to see him wealthy and princely."
Addie nods. "I don't think his mum would've liked being underground, either."
Josie snorts outright and earns a glare from a nearby patron - a schoolgirl with a tower of books a foot tall on the table.
"Better than being tarred and feathered," Josie whispers. "Well, being threatened with it. I know Martin's mum was harsh, but she didn't deserve that."
"Harsh but fair," Addie says. "Martin's soft heart meant they went hungry. I would've been angry too."
Josie's brows knit together. "He saved their lives, the poor animals. Though I see what you mean; Martin didn't tell her why he bought them, just that he did."
The lump in Addie's throat grows. Martin's half-truths drove an unnecessary wedge between him and his mother.
"Yes," Addie says. "But would she have been less angry if Martin told her?"
"I would," says Josie, shrugging. "But I've never gone hungry." She sighs dramatically, ringlet curls bouncing. "Why don't these stories have real happy endings?"
Addie closes the book, thumb tracing the embossed title. "Happy endings are relative. Martin lived happily ever after."
Josie snorts. "I bet the king's daughter - Martin's wife - didn't."
Neither did the serpent princess, who said she loved Martin and then never saw him again when he left with the ring.
"The serpent princess didn't either." At Josie's nudge, Addie continues. "She said she loved him and she'd go with him through the world. But then he left." Addie shrugs and stares down at the book. "Actually, I guess it is a happy ending for her. She's better off with a kinder suitor."
"True," Josie says. "But he didn't try going back to her either."
"So?"
Josie pinches Addie's knee, but her gaze is serious. "So, Martin might've been a better man if he had."
Caspian
Another year, another campaign. Caspian trudges out of the armoury sticky with sweat and stinking of horse, leather, and metal. Falmus trots at his side through the bustling courtyard, reciting a litany of reports and Caspian's scheduled meetings with the council, his advisers, and Trumpkin (his Lord Regent during his absence), and Doctor Cornelius, his Lord Chancellor.
"And the Giants?" Caspian asks. "Any news?"
After the Ettins' surrender, Ettinsmoor has lain quiet. Villages - expanding Telmarine settlements - dot the foothills, slowly rebuilding after the Ettins' incursions. If ever the Ettins would break the treaty, it would be when Caspian and most of his army was engaged in the south, defending Archenland's southern border from Calormen's attempted invasion across the Great Desert.
"No incursions," Falmus says, pulling a double-barrelled scroll from the pile precariously balanced in his arms. "Lady Opheodra reports all is well."
Caspian tightens his hair tie and takes the scroll. He considered adopting the close-cropped style of the Telmarines, but he prefers feeling the wind in his longer hair. In illustrations and carvings of Golden Age, both Peter and Edmund always had hair to their shoulders.
After all, he is sworn to be a Narnian king.
Caspian skims Lady Opheodra's letter. Her new general has maintained patrols along the Great Northern River, and the southern villages have begun trading with the Marshwiggles along the River Shribble. Spindly, long-legged, web-footed creatures that hid in Narnia's northern marshlands for centuries, the Marshwiggles are expert fisherman, archers, and water navigators. Caspian's commissioned a small team of them to build a sea-worthy ship with a Galman expert on oceanic seafaring.
The Marshwiggles also know the northern lands best. Caspian has an arrangement with a Marshwiggle trader to send his own reports of Ettinsmoor. Lady Opheodra - Duchess, now, but she still signs her letters as The Lady of Ettinsmoor - is still new to her role, and she once delayed too long in asking for aid.
"And the treaty with Telmar?" Caspian asks, glad to be inside the blessedly cool castle. "How fare the negotiations?"
"Ongoing," says Falmus. "The Lord of Telmar wrote to welcome your proposition of a diplomatic visit."
A good sign - Caspian wasn't certain he would. Though the Telmarines in Narnia share ancestry with Telmar - a former Calormen colony that fell to anarchy and was later claimed by the pirates from Spare Oom that Aslan spoke of - there's been little interaction between the kingdoms since Caspian the First invaded Narnia. The few Telmarines who remained in Telmar during the famine keep to themselves, though Caspian suspects they maintain ties with Calormen. They wouldn't have survived on their own without aid.
Caspian nods greetings as he winds his way to his chambers. After the long journey north, his current attire is far from presentable. He needs a quick bath before he spends the rest of his day in meetings.
"I will write to expect a diplomatic party's arrival, myself included, when the leaves change," Caspian says.
Falmus plucks the white feathered quill from behind his ear and scribbles a note. "So soon, Sire?"
"Yes," Caspian says. "Else we must wait until the spring thaw. I'd not leave this alliance unsecured for so long."
Two months will be time enough to stabilise the treaty negotiations between Narnia, Archenland, and Calormen. Any later, and his diplomatic trip would risk being trapped across the western mountains by an early snowfall.
With Calormen's defeat, it's imperative he secure Telmar as a friend to Narnia. The Calormen Tisroc accepted defeat with passable grace, but his son is young, reckless, and seething with bruised pride. Allied to Calormen, Telmar would give the Calormen prince a direct path through the Western Wilds, Cauldron Pool, and into Narnia. Caspian's ancestors once took the same route.
Caspian reaches the polished double doors of his chambers. Falmus deposits the stack of reports and missives on his immaculately kept desk and takes his leave.
Alone at last.
Caspian sinks into the settee at the foot of his bed and braces his hands on his knees. The southern campaign lasted four and a half months; it's been too long since he slept in his own bed.
It was worth the trouble. Calormen's warmongering has been dealt with, Narnia's alliance with Archenland is more secure than ever, and the last threat of all-out war is no more. In two years, Narnia is the closest to peace as anyone could have hoped.
Stretching, Caspian twists his spine until it pops and turns to lie on the settee. King Nain of Archenland even proposed an alliance of marriage with his eldest daughter, Princess Idern. Caspian gave his word to consider it.
It's been two years. He can only delay for so long.
Fortunately, King Nain took no offence at his hesitation. "I do not propose this lightly," he said, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. "Weigh my offer, but know the friendship between our kingdoms will live on in treaties if not marriage."
Caspian agreed, the tight knot in his chest easing that King Nainshared his solemnity. Marriage, whether for alliance, love, or both, is no small undertaking. Especially when uniting kingdoms as well as two people.
The double doors bang open again, and in bustle a retinue of servants headed by Caspian's manservant, a brusque faun named Durus. What Durus lacks in subtlety, he makes up for in efficiency.
"Welcome back, Sire," Durus booms, arms wide in an exaggerated flourish. "No time to waste!"
With two sharp claps, he sends the retinue scattering - six to the washroom bearing steaming water jugs, two to the walnut vanity Caspian still finds excessive, one to Caspian's wardrobe, and two to Caspian himself.
Caspian swallows the sigh in his throat and attempts friendliness as he submits himself to their assistance. He can wash and clothe himself, but these attendants are much quicker. Durus only brings the full entourage when there's haste to be had.
The only things Caspian misses about princehood are the quiet, solitude, and -
No matter. If a little personal peace is the cost of setting Narnia to rights, it is well worth it.
In the last month of summer, Caspian plans his trip to Telmar. Lord Bathulum, Telmar's leader, refused to become a colony of Narnia, but there could still be an alliance. Telmar badly needs the coin and trade route access Narnia can offer, and Caspian needs a secure alliance to the west and another buffer against any Calormen incursions. If the desert country must expand its borders, better they turn south or further west. Their attitude toward the Narnians is dangerous at best.
If his history books spoke true, Telmar's people still have not recovered from the famine that sent Caspian I and his followers east into Narnia. Lord Bathulum seems to command more authority than a figurehead over anarchy, but the only way Caspian can know for sure is to visit himself.
The sooner Narnia is secure to the west, the sooner Caspian can turn his eye east. Galma has sworn allegiance - the Duke still writes every quarter to invite him for another diplomatic visit, as much to meet the Duke's daughter as to discuss trade - but the Great Eastern Ocean lies beyond Galma, unexplored and full of secrets. Caspian has yet to visit the Lone Islands, and they have made no contact with Narnia in his lifetime.
Almost two decades ago, the Seven Lords, his father's closest advisers, fled to the Lone Islands and there the paper trail ends. It's not impossible that they've survived all these years; they could have started new lives.
Caspian shakes aside dreams of rescue missions and adventures on the waves. There will be occasion for sea voyages later.
"The Calormen prince's spy got here first, Sire. At least two of Lord Bathulum's council have hosted him this season. I think it will come to battle."
Caspian braces against the balcony, grey stone so like his own castle cool beneath his palms. If Velho, a Talking Owl with a parliament of owls well-suited for spying with their silent wings and night vision, thinks battle will be necessary, Caspian will listen, but Velho is no general.
There has been enough war.
"If I summon the army outright, Lord Bathulum will see it as a provocation," Caspian says. "Continue gathering intelligence."
Velho blinks wide, yellow eyes and plucks a folded parchment from his wing. "With all due respect, Your Majesty, assassins are due before week's end."
Caspian's eyebrows lower. An assassin would be a bold move, and a foolish one. Lord Bathulum is obstinate and self-interested, but from what Caspian can ascertain, he is no fool. He does not have the air of an imminent betrayer, as Lord Arlian did.
Caspian reads the letter and finds that Velho spoke true. This is not written in Lord Bathulum's hand, but it could be one of his council.
Fortunately, he has survived assassination attempts before.
"Return this letter exactly where you found it," Caspian instructs. "No one must know it was missing. Find blueprints of the manor and bring them to me."
Velho bows, wings wide as he takes the letter in his beak and flies into the velvety dark.
Caspian does not sleep that night, even with his guards close at hand.
Four nights later, Caspian lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling as the sleeping hours crawl by and a thunderstorm echoes in the distance.
Negotiations with Lord Bathulum have stalled once again. Caspian offered food and aid to lift Telmar from the lingering effects of famine if it becomes a territory of Narnia, and still Lord Bathulum hems and haws. First, he said Telmar was a proud people and could accept no foreign aid, then he said Calormen beat Caspian to the offer, and then he clammed up altogether.
Lord Arlian, too, contradicted himself before the end.
The shadows by the glass door to his room's small balcony stir, the heavy curtains undulating. A chill whispers up Caspian's arms.
He latched every window and door.
A hand already under his pillow, Caspian slides his dagger hilt into his palm.
A beat of silence.
By the time he hears the crossbow's click and the familiar thunk of a bolt into a headboard, Caspian is already rolling off the bed.
Curtain rings scrape and moonlight floods the room as a masked figure jumps from the shadows, scimitar gleaming with the promise of a quick death.
Not today.
Caspian throws his dagger to buy himself time as he yanks his sword from the scabbard tucked under the mattress.
The assassin is quick as a sand viper, but by now Caspian knows how to survive betrayals. The man is dead in moments, impaled on Caspian's sword, and all it costs is a shallow cut to his sword arm - easily concealed, a muted sting.
Caspian drags the assassin to the balcony, heaves the body into the moat below, locks the door, checks the windows, and cleans his sword. He ought to summon Glenstorm, perhaps wake Lord Bathulum and force a conclusion to negotiations, but a half week of minimal sleep turns his limbs to lead.
In the morning, Caspian promises himself. In the morning.
He wakes at sunrise in a cold sweat. His breathing is shallow, his heart galloping too fast, his skin afire, and the cut he dismissed last night is swollen an angry red with pale veins snaking from the torn skin.
Lion's Mane, he should have known.
Poison.
Caspian tumbles out of bed trying to find the nightstand. His legs fail him, his vision wavers, but ah, there, the drawer. Inside, the cordial. Doctor Cornelius insisted he not travel without it, and thank the Lion he listened.
He struggles with the gold cap, his grip weak, and he wonders if she would mourn, wonders if she will even know, if she will miss him, if she thinks of him at all, if she would ever -
A drop of fireflower coats his tongue in sunlight and floral spices. Caspian's eyes focus, his heart slows, and he is alone in this strange bedchamber, his nightshirt stuck to his skin.
The face he's sworn to forget fades as clarity returns.
There is only his kingdom.
Caspian rises from the floor, splashes off the sickly sweet sweat, and dresses. Telmar will be allied with Narnia by sundown, or there will be war.
At dinner with Lord Bathulum and his courtiers, Caspian watches his taster carefully - a luxury of being king - and waits longer to eat.
"Is the wine not to your liking, Your Majesty?"
Lord Bathulum lifts his wine goblet and drinks deeply, eyes trained on Caspian over the rim.
With a polite smile, Caspian swallows a bite of venison roast and does not drink. "I fear I am in no mood for wine tonight. Recent events trouble me."
Lord Bathulum's High Chancellor, Lord Derevon, shifts in his seat.
"Recent events?" Lord Bathulum sets aside his goblet, frowning.
Caspian pulls the assassin's arrow from his sleeve, holding it aloft for everyone to see before placing it onto the navy tablecloth. He is growing tired of being shot at in bed.
"I had hoped for peaceful negotiations, Lord Bathulum. Is this the token of goodwill you would extend to me?"
Before Lord Bathulum can answer, the Lord Chancellor's chair scrapes as he leaps to his feet, an accusing finger jabbing over the table.
"Peaceful negotiations, you say, when your army prowls our forest! If you feel yourself unwelcome, it is you who made yourself so."
"Sit and calm yourself, Lord Derevon," Lord Bathulum snaps, elbows braced on the table. "We will discuss this matter in a civilised fashion."
Caspian sits tall in his chair, shoulders square and left hand at his belt. Impolite as it is to attend a meal with his dagger secreted at his waist, he is glad for its familiar weight now.
Slowly, the Lord Chancellor takes his seat again amid the courtiers' hushed murmurs. Caspian drums his fingers on his belt. Any moment.
"Now then," says Lord Bathulum, dabbing the corners of his mouth and moustache with his gold-embroidered napkin. "Lord Derevon, as you leapt so adamantly in defence of this arrow, I can only assume you were involved in commissioning its bow-master."
Caspian glances between the two men, Lord Bathulum the picture of composure and the Lord Chancellor visibly sweating. He assumed Lord Bathulum sanctioned the assassin; perhaps the court politics here run as murky as Miraz's court.
It's also possible Lord Bathulum is posturing.
"Speak frankly," says Lord Bathulum. "Your position depends on it."
The Chancellor hesitates, glancing around the table.
"I shall," he answers. "In three hundred years, what use have the Caspians been to us? What has their dynasty brought to Telmar? Nothing."
The courtiers murmur, nodding among themselves. Caspian scans the room for betrayers, but these distant Telmarine kin are rife with something else.
Exhaustion.
"This visiting king, Narnian or Telmarine or whatever he calls himself," continues the Lord Chancellor, "is no different from his ancestors. Caspian the First abandoned us true sons of Telmar here, seeking the greener shores of Narnia. In our hour of need, who sent us soldiers to tame our unruly populace? To fill our empty larders with salted fish and lentils and flatbreads? It was not the Caspians!"
"Calormen provided barely enough aid to stabilise us," argues a grey-bearded lord to Caspian's left. "The moment we were not starving, they withdrew everything but their soldiers. Their temporary generosity is a yolk about our necks."
"We have fared better with Calormen as our guide and protector than we ever did under Caspian the First," says Lord Derevon, resting a clenched fist beside his fork. "We have never gone hungry."
Across the table, a grizzled lord with a scar cutting from his left jaw to his brow picks his teeth with his meat knife. "You have not, Lord Chancellor. Your peasants wither by the day."
Lord Derevon reddens, jaw tense. "The protection of the Calormen army has no equal."
Caspian straightens. "I defeated the Calormen army not two months ago. You will not find their protection so unshakable now."
"An unfortunate development," says Derevon, lips curled in a snarl. "No doubt a machination of your demon lion."
"Careful, Lord Chancellor," says another lord with a snub nose and gravelled voice. "Being a Calormen colony has not served all at this table equally, and Narnia has much to offer."
Lord Bathulum surveys the room calmly as many of the courtiers voice scattered agreements. A shadow flickers by the window.
A slippery smile slides over the Lord Chancellor's narrow mouth.
"It has served us well enough. Perhaps greater acquaintance will ease your mind, my lords."
At Lord Derevon's gesture, the double doors behind Caspian bang open. Caspian stays in his seat, fingers curled around his dagger hilt as dozens of armoured footsteps march into the dining hall. Derevon's smile vanishes.
"What is this, King Caspian? A conquest?"
Caspian turns to his host as the small company of his men - only enough to secure the manor, though the full might of his army waits at the forest's edge - spreads along the wall, their hands on their as yet undrawn swords.
"I should hope not. Their only role is to guard against treachery," Caspian says evenly. "Lord Bathulum, the time has come to complete these negotiations. I fear any further delay would cause a frightful shortage of assassins."
Lord Bathulum stands, his lips pressed together. "That would be most unfortunate."
By first light, Telmar is officially an independent territory and ally of Narnia. Lord Derevon is imprisoned awaiting execution, his lands requisitioned, and his network of assassins broken and awaiting justice. Caspian and Lord Bathulum sign treaties promising military aid should the need arise, and Caspian promises food aid for the next three years to help Telmar recover from the famine, so long as Telmar alerts Narnia of any Calormen scheming and makes every effort to repel any invaders - with Narnian military support - should they attempt another colonisation.
Caspian doubts they will. If the Calormen prince is here, he will soon have to return to Tashbaan and face his father's anger for his failure. The Tisroc will not risk a third defeat so soon.
By week's end, Caspian is back in his own castle reviewing the restoration progress at Cair Paravel and finalising the ship that will carry him and a small crew east in a year's time.
Narnia is now surrounded by friends, if only in name. At last, the time of peace is upon them.
A/N: Well, Addie and Cas are close to the same age now... just 2-3 chapters left until Part 4! What do you think of Caspian's ruling? He's not quite the naive, puppy-eyed prince anymore... 😈
Chapter 59 will go up on Monday next week since I won't have access to my computer on Sunday. I thought about skipping a week but honestly, we're all anxious for Addie and Caspian's reunion, so I couldn't do that to y'all ❤
Also, the story Addie and Josie analyse is an actual fairy tale, same title of "The Magic Ring," that I dug up in Andrew Lang's Fairy Books.
Chapter 59 Preview:
"I'd rather not be with anyone than be with the wrong ones."
Mum scoots the neglected teacup across the table. "How do you expect to find the right one if you don't look?"