Disclaimer: Edmund and Peter Pevensie and all the characters and situations in the Chronicles of Narnia belong to C. S. Lewis and not to me.

COZENAGE

I wish I had worn my boots.

It was an odd thought to have, and perhaps her last one, but maybe if she had on her sturdy boots instead of these frivolous velvet slippers, she might have been able to kick out the cabin windows. Still, it didn't seem so urgent now. The dark water seemed inviting, not terrifying, and Lucy let her tired legs drift under her, let her suddenly heavy dagger slip out of her grasp, let her eyes flutter closed.

Something creaked and shuddered behind her, and she was pulled against a solid, sleekly muscled chest by strong, sleekly muscled arms. With a dreamy smile, eyes still closed, she nestled into them. Of course he would come for her. He always came for her.

"Peter."

The word floated in little bubbles out of her mouth.

OOOOO

It was late when Edmund and Phillip reached the western end of the Archenland border. Just beyond, where the trail turned north into Narnia's Western March, there stood a pavilion, its silk the vivid red of the Lion's standard. Before it, ruddy with the rays of the setting sun, stood the Centaur Prophet.

Stormseer's coat was a rich golden brown, as was the hair that fell thickly over his back and shoulders. There was a stern nobility in his bearded face, and his eyes, as silver as Lucy's Eastern Sea, spoke of solemn wonders and the wisdom of Aslan.

Still some way off, Edmund dismounted and approached on foot, bowing when he came close.

"Greetings, Stormseer."

"Hail, King." The stoic Centaur bowed in return, his voice deep and rich. "Aslan's blessings upon His chosen. And hail, noble Horse. Will you come in and refresh yourselves?"

With an uncertain nod of his head, Edmund led Phillip inside. Stormseer's Faun attendants brought the Horse a bucket of oats and led Edmund to a table laid with a bountiful banquet. Thanking them, Edmund sat but did not eat.

"The food does not please you, King Edmund?" The Centaur crossed his brawny arms over his chest. "I am told I must proceed no further until Your Majesty has eaten well."

Edmund suspected he heard a snicker from the vicinity of the oat bucket, but he did not smile.

"I am grateful for your hospitality and for Aslan's provision," he said, "but, first, Aslan said I must ask you about the prophecy you sent to Cair Paravel. To the High King and to the Queen Susan, my sister. I assume you remember the message."

Stormseer nodded gravely. "I remember it well, Lord King."

. . . he was an Adder still.

The pain of those words washed over Edmund afresh. How could it be? Yet Aslan had called this Centaur His faithful prophet. The creature was steeped in His fragrance, lit from within with the knowledge of Him. How could his message have been anything but true?

"Then how is it," Edmund asked, "that you yet call me King?"

"And should I not, Sire? Did the Great Lion set you upon your throne in any measure less than He did our gracious Queens or the High King himself?"

"Then– what did it mean?"

Stormseer lowered his head in reverence. "Aslan alone gives meaning, Lord King. I merely tell the visions He sends."

"But, if I am the Adder–"

"Adder, Sire?"

"The Adder you wrote of," Edmund said. "Nestmate of the three Eagles."

The Centaur's silver eyes flashed. "There was nothing of Adders or Eagles in the message I sent to Cair Paravel. Who has made such a claim?"

"Windswift, the Falcon, brought the message from you." Edmund felt such a flood of bewildered relief, he could hardly form a coherent sentence. "He was killed bringing it. Peter cut the parchment from his leg himself."

"And I myself placed it there. Yet someone has dared replace it with another and proclaim in Aslan's name and in mine a vision the Lion has not sent." The Prophet's face was grim. "Windswift was a worthy soldier of Narnia, and I am sorry to hear of his loss. It is a grievous wrong, Majesty, and not one the Lion will suffer lightly."

"There have been many grievous wrongs of late, good Stormseer." Edmund hesitated a moment, still a little dazed by the realization. "Might I– Might I know the message you did send?"

The Centaur inclined his head. "The Great Lion revealed to me this, Lord King: Mighty Paws have planted the Oak and the Ivy, the Birch and the Holly, but there has also sprung up in their shade a hardy and fair Yew. If the Oak and the Birch are cut down and the Holly uprooted, let the Ivy remember that, though the Yew seems a sturdy support, its bark is deadly."

Edmund glanced over a Phillip who was watching him with wide eyes. The Oak, the Ivy, the Birch and the Holly. Could it be any more plain? And the Yew– Who had sprung up in the shade of the Sovereigns, hardy and fair, smooth and gracious and oh so willing to lend his support?

Edmund did not ask for more explanation. It was Stormseer's place to tell the vision, not interpret it. Lips pressed tight, he turned back to the Centaur.

"Aslan said you would tell me what I must do once I was here."

Stormseer's expression softened. "First, Sire–"

"I know. I know." Edmund stuffed a piece of buttered brown bread into his mouth. "I'm eating. Please, tell me."

"As you say, Lord King. In the morning, I will lead you to a mountain that stands not far from here. At the top of this mountain grows a tree, and it is the fruit of this tree, or rather its juice, that will work against the potion poisoning the High King."

"And it will have fruit this time of the year?"

The Centaur nodded. "It is called the Canicule Tree. It is always green, and the winter does not harm it. It blooms once each summer and once each winter, though the winter fruit has a thicker rind, keeping it fresh despite the cold. There is healing in it."

Edmund nodded, committing the words to memory.

"But the fruit is not abundant," Stormseer said. "You must gather all you can. Fill your flask with the juice if you wish to have enough to do good to the High King. There will not be more until summer comes to the mountains."

The Centaur stopped, looking expectantly at him, and Edmund forced himself to eat some of the beef pie and roast potatoes that had been set before him. He also forced himself to stay seated where he was. The night was falling fast, and there was no use trying to set out in utter darkness. No use letting impatience overmaster wisdom. He took another bite of the beef pie.

"And this juice will cure him? For certain?"

"It will begin to cure him, Sire," Stormseer said. "But know that, if the Xerasthenia has been given to him too long or in too great a dose, even the Canicule cannot save him."

The tender beef in its gravy and flaky crust was suddenly sawdust in Edmund's mouth, but he forced himself to swallow it down. "We will leave at first light?"

The Centaur bowed. "So please you, Majesty. For now, strengthen yourself for what lies before you."

Edmund ate what he could of the banquet's bounty, though he tasted none of it. Phillip finished his oats, and even the Centaur ate heartily. Afterwards, Stormseer bowed once more and left with his attendants to contemplate the night sky. Edmund only paced, considering the words of Stormseer's true vision. He would not make a judgement without proof, but this certainly added to the suspicions he already had, suspicions that had seemed groundless and petty when he was at home. With his way seemingly clear, perhaps by now this Yew had stretched out his hand further than he could safely draw it back. Perhaps now he felt secure and wasn't so careful to hide his tracks. Perhaps now there would be solid proof against him.

And, oh, Susan! She had been friendly enough to this interloper, but that was only out of politeness, wasn't it? Surely she wouldn't be taken in by such a smooth-talking snake. Peter was sick and confused, Edmund knew, but he would still look after her, wouldn't he? The Xerasthenia hadn't overcome him yet. And, Lucy, bless Aslan, Lucy had recovered from that strange freezing illness. Edmund knew his valiant sister. She would never stand for any mischief making while she was there. She would protect their sister, even if the Gentle Queen were to be deceived by an overly solicitous nature and a handsome face. Besides, Susan was the logical one. The practical one. She couldn't–

"Edmund."

Edmund turned to see Phillip lying down, legs under him, next to the thick pallet of bedding that had obviously been laid out for Stormseer's royal guest. The Horse nodded his head towards it.

"It is getting late, My King, and we will have much to do come morning."

Edmund drew a hard breath and lifted his eyes to the few stars he could see through the flap of the tent.

"Aslan, oh, please, Aslan, keep them all safe until I can get home." He pressed his trembling lips together. "And help me get there soon."

He took a moment to steady himself, and then, bidding Phillip goodnight, he extinguished the candles and stretched out on the pallet. He was still certain he wouldn't sleep, but he knew he was expected to try. After tossing and fidgeting for what seemed like hours, he finally exhaled heavily.

"Phillip?"

The Horse made a half-startled huffing sound in the darkness. "My King?"

"If Stormseer himself sent Windswift on his way, then the message must have been changed after the Falcon was shot down."

Phillip seemed unfazed by the abrupt conversation. "True."

"It never occurred to me that the one we got might be false."

"But who had the opportunity to change them out, My King? I heard that Windswift was brought at once to the High King."

"No. I hadn't thought of it before, but the body was first brought to my sister, Susan, and then to Peter."

Phillip didn't ask who had brought it, who had fetched it from where it had first fallen. Edmund didn't say. They both knew. How easy it must have been to switch the message from one that would warn the Sovereigns of the deadly Yew to one that would divide them and advance his evil plan. How well prepared he had been and how well supported. Someone had to have been waiting in the wood, waiting for the Falcon to come. Before that, someone must have sent word to Cair Paravel that Windswift was on his way from Stormseer with a message.

Edmund sighed and stared up into the darkness. "It's all been carefully planned, hasn't it? Even more than I already suspected."

"It would take all that and more," Phillip said softly, "to convince the High King you had turned against him. To convince him he had to send you away."

"The poison."

Edmund turned over and laid his head against the Horse's side, knowing the torment Peter had suffered, was suffering still, thinking Edmund had betrayed him and the girls, probably thinking that betrayal was due to some failure of his own, fighting sickness and nightmares and confusion, even fearing he was incurably mad. Oh, Aslan, be with him.

With a shuddering breath, Edmund pressed closer to Phillip's side. The Horse nickered softly and rested his head over Edmund's shoulder.

"We're going to help him, My King. And the Queens are with him. He is not alone."

Edmund reached up to stroke the thick mane, managing a smile in the darkness before he settled down to sleep. The girls were there. Peter wasn't alone. And even if Susan was deceived, Lucy would never be. Brave Lucy was there to look after them both until Edmund could get back home. Thank Aslan for Lucy.

OOOOO

Susan winced at the afternoon sunlight that poured through Peter's chamber windows. Her eyes were raw with weeping, her throat raw with sobs and her heart–

Her heart would never be whole again.

We didn't want to lose you, too.

It was one of the last things she had said to Lucy. To laughing, golden-haired Lucy. To stubborn, loving, precious Lucy. To Lucy who had gone down when the storm hit The Morning Dove, down into the silver sea that she loved. Into the east. Into Aslan's country.

Susan didn't like to think of Aslan now. Edmund was gone and Lucy, too, and Aslan was silent. Peter lay burning and insensible in her arms, and Aslan was silent. How long had it been since she had thought to call on Him? It didn't seem right to do it now. It seemed rather obvious that He had no interest in her life or her grief anyway.

He had loved Lucy though. Everyone always knew that. Maybe that ought to be enough now. Wherever she was, she was safe. She was loved. She wasn't abandoned to the cruelties of this world or any other. Not like–

Susan felt Peter shudder against her, and she drew him closer. He grimaced in pain and his chapped lips parted in a silent scream, but she didn't try to wake him. Edmund could have, even Lucy might, but Susan never could. She could only hold him and pat his hot face with a damp cloth and wait for the nightmare to pass.

He was never awake now. If he wasn't lying still as death, almost translucently pale and gleaming with sweat, he twitched and moaned in delirium, calling for Edmund or sometimes Lucy, sometimes, from some impossibly distant place in his memory, for Mum or Dad. Once in a while he startled Susan, her name a piercing cry on his lips and his eyes open, wide and blue and terrified. He would clutch her arms, her dress, and try to tell her something, something obviously and desperately urgent, but the words were garbled, and she could never make anything of them. Finally, frustrated, exhausted, he would sink back against her and be still again. And she could only weep.

For him. For Edmund. For Lucy. And, yes, for herself.

How could she not? Everyone she'd ever depended on was gone. Edmund had betrayed her. Lucy had left her. And Peter– Peter her rock, her protector, her guide, the one who had always been there, her High King, she was losing him, too.

But at least, as well as he could, he had provided for her. With his last coherent act, he'd made it possible for Gil to look after the kingdom. He'd made it possible for her to mourn in private, for her to have no duties but watching over him and wondering how she was to survive when he, too, was gone.

When Oreius and Sootquill and the other advisors and counselors had come to offer their sympathies at the loss of the Valiant Queen and the continued decline of the High King, she had thanked them with her accustomed grace. When they had expressed concern for the unilateral power Sir Gilfrey Becke suddenly wielded, she had directed them to the last document Peter had signed, the one that made plain his desire that the Knight should step, at least temporarily, into his place. And when the Knight himself had made the oh-so-delicate suggestion that a more permanent alliance between him and herself might still their objections and allow him to continue to see no kingdom concerns were allowed to trouble her, she didn't say yes.

But she didn't say no.

OOOOO

Edmund clung to the rock, catching his breath, waiting for his pounding heart to slow before he moved on, feeling the two empty pouches he carried swing from his shoulder. He had almost slipped, but just almost. It wasn't the first time. It likely wouldn't be the last. For once he was glad to be lighter and lankier than Peter.

He'd been forced to leave Philip and Stormseer behind where the trail ended. The Canicule Tree grew much higher up, above the clouds, rare and hidden and precious. It would save Peter, it had to, and Edmund would make his way up to it somehow. Even alone, he would.

The wind up here was cold, though the sky was clear and the sun was shining its winter best. He was careful to avoid the slick patches of ice that covered some of the crevices and the little pockets of drifted snow, and he kept alert, too, for something he was supposed to find along the way.

"When you are above the clouds," the Centaur had told him, "you will see among the rocks some yellow flowers, no bigger than your fingers' ends. Fill one pouch with them and bring them down with you. You will have need of them when you return to Cair Paravel."

Edmund had only nodded, knowing the Prophet would tell him what he needed to know when he needed to know it. No need to ask why such flowers would bloom in the snow. They did, and he needed them. That was all he had to know. That and Aslan.

He climbed another fifteen feet higher before he saw the first one, small and yellow, as Stormseer had told him. He plucked it and brought it to his nose. It had absolutely no scent. Even the leaves and the milky sap from its broken stem were completely odorless. He stuffed it into his pouch, adding handfuls more when they grew more abundant as he climbed higher.

By the time he reached the top, the first pouch was full. The second would hold the fruit that was the object of his climb. He took a moment to catch his breath and whisper a thankful prayer, and then he hauled himself over the last of the rocks for his first glimpse of the Canicule Tree. Its gnarled branches twisted out from its slender trunk, spreading out rather than up, the tree itself low and solitary on the mountaintop.

Leaves, blossoms and fruit, it was stripped bare.

Author's Note: Thanks again and again to OldFashionedGirl95 for reviewing and to Laura Andrews for all her help.

–WD