Le Disclaimer: I do not own Narnia. 'Nuff said.

Le Author's Note: The Writer's Block is over! Yay! No more Writer's Block=No more reader's suffering though dry dialogue and uneventful chapters...Ok, so here's the chapter after Chapter 18...which is Chapter 19. This is another one of those "on-a-whim" chapters, so buckle up and prepare to...read. :) Enjoy!

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Chapter 19 ~ An Accomplice

The funeral was like that of any other king's—it was raining, of course. It had been raining when Miraz's uncle and grandfather died. Caspian the Eighth carried on the tradition, Miraz thought with bitter humor. The ceremony was in the courtyard, with many of the townsfolk present; those who did not like Caspian coughed and shuffled their feet, looking like they didn't care. Miraz stood in front next to his brother, the only relation he had left except for the odd cousin or uncle that lived in some unknown lordship or dukedom in the mountains.

His father would be put to rest in the Hall of Kings far below the castle, where torches were the only light, casting shadows of the grave, silent stone faces of the carved out likenesses on the caskets. Miraz had journeyed down there many times, especially as a boy or with Doctor Cornelius, who would tell him the great feats of each king they passed. Miraz looked upon every grave face as coldly as their tapestry pieces looked at him. He knew that he would never rest in the Hall of Kings. The princes were not given any grand burial—usually they burned.

Miraz would no longer visit the Hall of Kings, now that his father rested there.

The ceremony dragged on. Many nobles close to Caspian spoke testimonies in flat, monotonous voices that were long and dreary, especially in the rain. Miraz's legs ached after standing so long. If Caspian's were as stiff as his, he didn't show it; his eyes remained straight ahead, drinking in each word that was spoken, reflecting on the memories of his father. He knew what would happen in only a few days.

A coronation.

Miraz stole a glance at his brother. A small tear was traveling down his face. Was that tear for father, or for the trials ahead? Caspian knew he would have enemies. A lot of them, especially with the Mountain barbarians barking at his heels and Terebinthia an assumed enemy that his father had overlooked. Miraz knew that Caspian was a little selfish, but he had loved his father, and he probably loved him now more than ever. What would he do now? Who would he look to for guidance as a king?

Miraz?

If he did, Miraz would surely give him advice: Don't worry. No one's going to try to kill you. You reside within the strong walls of a great castle and you come from a line of powerful warriors. Who would want to get in your way?

Except for, perhaps, one on the inside?

But Miraz would not tell him that. To say that would put his plan in jeopardy. And besides, a king always was happy to hear what he wanted to hear. Miraz might find a noose about his neck were he to say something that the king thought was a lie.

Miraz spotted Glozelle standing close to him. His features looked grave and sad, but Miraz saw that his eyes were cold and perhaps angry…and also a little relieved, as if he were glad that Caspian was dead. It was only the truth—Caspian had not treated Glozelle in the way that he should've been treated. He had been beaten and whipped mercilessly only because Caspian had waved his hand—but it was the debts of Miraz that Glozelle had been paying for. But his eyes were cold and stony nonetheless, and it wasn't Miraz who was dead.

After the ceremony all of the peasants walked quietly out of the courtyard to finish the day. Miraz retreated up the steps to the terrace, watching as Sir Steiphen and others took the body of their king down to the caverns of the castle. The bells in the belfry high above him were ringing four o'clock in the afternoon—the ceremony had sprawled across four hours. No wonder Miraz was so weary. Four hours of standing stiffly while nobles rambled hoarsely on about the life of their king.

Glozelle walked past hurriedly, but Miraz caught him as he passed by speaking to him.

"Glozelle." He said simply.

Glozelle met his eyes. "My lord prince." He said quickly, almost guiltily, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. Was he guilty of thinking hateful thoughts toward the king?

"What did you think of the ceremony, Glozelle?" Miraz inquired, his voice far to innocent and casual to be mistaken for an accusatory interrogation.

"It was…pleasant, my lord prince." He said hastily.

"Was it? I thought it was rather a bore."

Glozelle stole a second glance. "A bore, my lord prince?" Glozelle was sure he was being tested. "No, sir, I think it was a funeral…er…fit for a king."

"Really? Speak the truth, Glozelle. I will listen, I assure you."

Glozelle's mouth hung open, but nothing came from it.

"You think me such a tyrant that I would hang every man who spoke their mind to me?"

Glozelle, beginning to believe Miraz and yet still skeptical, replied, "Well, sir, I agree, it was rather long, but…"

"What do you think of the king himself, Glozelle?"

Miraz saw it. After the flash of dismay in Glozelle's eyes, he knew what he saw, and he wasn't being tricked—he saw anger. Only a brief flutter of it, but it had been there. He was sure. But it was soon tide over with remorse and regret, as if he sensed that the prince had seen it.

"Speak up, Glozelle. You won't be branded a liar if you tell the truth."

"I—I—" Glozelle stammered, the remorse widening. He looked about nervously. "He was a fair king—"

Miraz raised his voice. "Speak the truth! You are lying to me. Was he a good king?"

Glozelle was afraid that his life would soon be over. "Sir, well…" The anger returned. His voice steadied. "He was not, my lord prince. I swear to you that I tell the truth when I say that he was a cruel king."

"Do you want the future king to be better, Glozelle?"

"Aye, my lord prince."

"Do you believe that Caspian the Ninth will be a better ruler than his predecessor?"

"Aye, my lord prince."

"You are mistaken."

Glozelle's anger left his eyes, but it was still eminent in his voice. "Mistaken? Why?"

"I know Caspian in a different way than you do. He is not fit for the role as king. If you believe in a great, peaceful empire, you do not believe in Caspian the Ninth." Miraz said coldly.

Glozelle was silent. Miraz must have said it well, for he knew himself that he was lying. He needed accomplices. But many people believed in Caspian. If he stretched the truth…

"He will bring us all to our deaths, Glozelle. He will send the men off to war and we will all be dead before the end of his rule."

"What will you do, then?"

"Me? I cannot go far alone. But if I had accomplices…we could thwart this evil before it even begins."

TO BE CONTINUED