28 - A Lesson Learned
Edmund was on his feet by the time Jadis stormed back into her cabin. He made certain he wore the glassy, dazed expression she expected of him, which was damned difficult considering the exceedingly satisfying way she fumed.
Clearly, she'd noticed she was a few ships short of a battle.
Stop smiling, he ordered himself. Shoulders slack. Eyes blank. Don't let her think you can think.
When her glare landed on him, though, it was little trouble to shoo away the parts of himself with feeling. A spy's work was lonely stuff. Any show of emotion while undercover could cost lives ... especially one's own. Over the many years of his Narnian life, he'd learned that to survive, he must be able to bury what was important to him when necessary.
And now, as he watched the White Witch approach him, he knew it was more necessary than it had ever been.
The boy inside him squirmed and wanted to cower before her. The man remembered that Aslan had chosen him for this, and stayed on his feet.
Jadis circled around him, trailing a hand over his shoulders. She paused behind him, and he just managed not to recoil when her icy hand touched the back of his neck. "You have a scar there," she murmured in his ear. "A stinger?" When he didn't answer, he felt her nails dig into his skin. "You will answer me."
"A needle," he said without inflection. "Someone tried to poison me."
"I'm glad they didn't succeed," she said, circling around to his front with her hand still trailing over his tunic. "It would have denied me the pleasure of seeing you again, even though I tried to kill you myself. How is that stab wound doing, actually?" She curled a hand around the back of his neck and jerked him toward her for a bruising kiss. When he didn't protest, she loosened her grasp and frowned at him. "Not even a little fight, sweetheart?"
"Why would I fight you?" he asked, still with that same monotone. "You've won. You have everything."
"Not quite everything," she purred. Again she kissed him, even more bruising, so hard her teeth cut his lip and he tasted blood.
And still he didn't fight, because he could feel the Lion growling in his head. A warning to stay absolutely still, for the cobra might strike at the slightest provocation. He commanded his body to remain slack and pliable. I trust you, Aslan.
Jadis jerked back from him with rage in her eyes, then shoved him away so hard he slammed against the opposite wall. His blood stained her lips, shocking red against the white of her face. "Damn you! Your upstart brother showed more fight when I was killing him at Beruna."
We both know how Beruna ended, Jadis, he thought, steadying himself on his feet. And then, seeing the cold anger on her face, he paused. Not because he feared her next move. Not because he still doubted whether he could hold her off from chasing The Phoenix to Narnia. Not even because the boy inside him was still shaking so hard his knees knocked when he looked at her. No.
He pitied her.
That could have been me.
The realization was so startling that for a moment he did no more than stare at her.
When he'd entered Narnia, he was selfish, thoughtless of what he already had. He'd felt trapped between a younger sister beloved by the whole family, and two older siblings—one beautiful beyond compare, and the other so charismatic that people gravitated to him wherever he went. Someone else was always kinder, more attractive, more admired. Without his father to turn to, and without his harried mother to call him to account, he'd nursed that same snake in his heart until finding Narnia.
All Edmund had ever had was cunning, and he'd used it—tried to—to claw open a place for himself in this world, so fresh with possibility and unexplored riches. He'd wanted something for himself, a prize of his own—wanted it so fiercely that he'd been ready to exchange his family for it. He'd wanted to prove that he was the best at something, the most successful, the one everyone else looked to. To conquer, to win, to stand above others.
But when you conquered everything, what was left to you? Especially when, as Jadis would, you lived forever?
How sad you are, he thought, watching the cruelty—the emptiness—in her eyes. How sad that I could have been in your place.
Yes, Son of Adam, said Aslan in his head.
Can't she be turned from this, even now? Ed wondered.
The Lion made a sorrowful noise, somewhere between a purr and a growl. No, Edmund. She has nothing left. That is why she devours. She seeks to fill that hole inside her with distractions from what she's made of herself. When I ended her at Beruna, I sought to give her the only peace she might find, so far gone. Her people tore her out of that and returned her to the world. I do not believe she wanted it. Her hatred is a suit of armor, protecting nothing.
Edmund opened his mouth to say something aloud, but stopped. As he watched Jadis glare at him, he stood up straight and tall. At last, the boy inside him stood tall too.
He no longer feared her. He no longer had to. In a wash of clarity, he realized what he now had to do.
Aslan gave a great resounding purr that warmed Ed through. Well done.
He felt the Lion leave him. He and Jadis were alone now, but of the two of them in this cabin, he was certain the Witch was the only one who felt it.
She paced toward him once more, until she had him almost pinned against the wall. "You will not fight me?" Her fingers flicked restlessly, as if seeking her wand.
He shook his head, still without ferocity, but now with an air of compassion that he couldn't hide even as it surprised him. "I see no point, Jadis."
Her lashes fluttered. He wondered if it was the first time in centuries that anyone had dared call her familiar, let alone speak to her in a tone of anything less than terror. Her cold eyes flickered between his own eyes and his mouth. She traced his lips with her fingers, looking almost disappointed.
An instant later, the frozen mask of her hatred was back in place, as if no other expression had ever existed. "You are as weak as the rest of them." She whirled toward the door.
As she laid her hand on the latch, Edmund almost regretted speaking, because he knew she'd take the bait. "You're not interested, then, in the riches The Phoenix has amassed in more than a year?"
She turned back. "Why would I be?"
"Ruling a country takes a great deal of wealth. Ruling a world ... probably more, I'd guess." He angled his head. "A lot of that gold started out being yours."
"There's plenty of time for that after I've leveled Cair Paravel to its very foundation," she spat, then turned back to the door.
"I don't doubt you'll do it," he said, "but to punch a hole from Cair to Anvard, you're going to need an army on the ground." She turned to him once more, and he shrugged. "From there, it's only a matter of time to fight through Archenland into Calormen, or spread west to Telmar over the mountains, or north to Ettinsmoor. Connect your allies, build reliable channels for orders to pass through unfriendly country. Foster local support. All of that takes gold."
She smiled like a child with a new toy. "You have grown."
He met her gaze, steady and unflinching. "It seems I have."
He felt a shiver inside him, an echo of Asha's fear as she sensed him about to leap off the edge of the abyss. No fear, he reminded himself. This was what he'd been toiling for all his years in Narnia. This was the lesson Aslan had taught him, the lesson he'd been whispering in Ed's ear every day since the Battle of Beruna. That not only could Edmund make good on past wrongs, he could turn those injuries into the sword and shield that would protect his country and loved ones, even when he was weaponless with his worst enemy staring him in the face. He could forgive himself, because he had never been, and would never become, the creature standing before him now.
The guilt that had been on Edmund's shoulders for more than half his life vanished, like smoke, like magic. He approached the White Witch slowly, still watching for her to withdraw her wand but doubting she would. He knew her. He could almost guess her every move, and the sensation was powerful and heartbreaking. She would never learn and grow and bear children and love and get old and die. She had made a prison of herself.
Stopping before her, he looked her in the eye. The traitor's lie fell easily from his lips. "You have the rest of your life, Jadis. Why are you in a rush to finish this when we both know how it will end? And I ... I have learned when to stop struggling."
Her cold eyes roved over his face—searching for treachery?—and then she smiled again. "Show me where you've hidden the treasure."