"Who was she?" Lucy asked in hushed tones.
Beaver shook his head. "None can say for certain. She's been raised close by Aslan, but is not always in his company. She's on our side, though. Or, more appropriately, she's on the side of the trees that aren't dark and the rocks that aren't too far gone and the earth that longs to grow good things. And the spirits of the things that live in the woods and rocks and earth."
"That's non-sense," Susan said, pouting a bit. "She seemed quite spoiled and ill-mannered to me."
"That follows, my dear," Mrs. Beaver put in. "She is rather spoiled. And her manners are what she's made them. Comes from having been an orphan, if one believes that story."
"What other tales can we choose from?" Peter asked.
"Some say she's a princess enchanted. Or an enchantress herself-a spell weaver brought here for protection. Some say she's otherworldly-part sprite or some such thing. Some say, too, that she was brought forth by the elves from the land. Her ears aren't quite the part for that, though, if you ask me."
"Does she fight in battles?" Lucy asked. "She had a sword and a knife."
"If she does she's as like as not to use a bow. And there's no telling where she'll go next. She'll report tonight to Aslan-she travels fast and silent. After that, who's to know?"
"She doesn't like me," Peter said.
"She's not had an easy road, Son of Adam. She comes slow to trust, slow to change. Her faith in mankind is weak. And she's forgotten how to be open to hope. Too many times she's seen it fail her."
"How old is she? I thought her quite young."
"Yes, Peter. But that doesn't make her less able to command an army or-"
"No, she seems quite capable of anything to me," he admitted.
"Don't let it sting. She was wrong to speak so." This from Mrs. Beaver.
"But don't tell her that," Mr. Beaver laughed.
"I did so, just then!" Mrs. Beaver cried. "And the child didn't turn me into a toad or skin me or call down the wrath of the heavens. Shush now, and speak no more ill of her. It's high time we were all abed anyway."
Tired as he was, when Peter lay down he couldn't stop worrying. Things had gone amuck since his mother had placed his brother and sisters in his charge. Not a week away from her and they were in the middle of a strange land inside an old wardrobe hoping against hope to rescue their brother from an evil witch with the help of a lion and other talking animals. Whose side in a civil war he saw and agreed with.
Two nights later he saw her again. He couldn't sleep. Aslan had made things aright in regards to Edmund and they were in some strange holding pattern. The great King had spent the day pointing out where he should place troops and what orders he should give in any given situation. The camp had been moved and settled again and now was quiet. Peter slipped out of the tent he shared with his brother and stood in the night air. He wore only his undertunic and breeches. Thinking to go for a walk to clear his mind he reached back inside for his boots and pulled them on in the dark, damp night. Briefly he considered grabbing his cloak, but he opted to go without it. If he became cold he could just return to the pavilion-and probably sleep better for it. So he wandered in this new land of summer. For a time he walked, looking without seeing, and let the night air flow over him. He went away from the hub where sounds still rang out-an occasional laugh or shout and the clangs of armor and such. His steps took him again to the crest to look down toward the sea. His footsteps weren't quiet and his woodcraft lacked practice. Still, Ganna didn't hear him until he'd nearly stepped out over her. She'd come to sit on a ledge overlooking the vista he'd been shown by Aslan that afternoon. The rocks cradled her, the tall grass camouflaged her, until he was nearly on her.
"Excuse me," he said softly when she jerked. Then he, too, came fully into the moment and saw her. Gone were the traces and armor of the day before. Gone was the weapons belt and the cloak and the warrior's demeanor. Replacing the tough tunic and breeches and boots was something filmy and whimsical. It made him think of a child's bedtime poem or some Irish lullaby. She'd braced herself as she turned. In truth, she'd done some inner cursing of herself for having let herself be found in a spot from which there was no easy escape. As she turned and tucked her legs beneath her he reached out, crouching, to offer her a hand.
Manners dictated she take it before she remembered that she'd been avoiding him.
"What were you doing down there?" he asked. The moon was full-and bright enough to read his expression of wonder and concern.
"Dangling my feet in the air. It's been long since any of us could walk barefoot in the grass." She gathered the loose, flowing skirts of sheerest silk and stepped up onto more solid ground. He held her hand and backed a few steps away from the ledge.
Her gown was one after the design of her mother's people. It was the most basic of sheaths-raw silk covered with two thinner, lighter layers overtop. The under dress had straps so thin they could barely be seen in the dark. It was of a pale silver and cut squarely below her collar bone, revealing nothing it shouldn't, before falling straight to pool at the tops of her feet. In the back the material began just below her shoulder blades. The sheer overlay hung in four panels-each a darker hue of blue, the darkest of which was only that shade of winter sky. Two in the front covered her only as much as the dress itself. The two in back were higher, attached to the high point of the straps and draped across the tops of her shoulders. Her hair had been gathered in a wreath of some vine. Around her neck was a chain forged from links of silver and gold and pewter and copper. Hanging from these-low, low on the dress-were several heavy charms. He would ask about them later and learn much about her ways and her thoughts and her hopes and dreams and fears. For now he simply tried to breathe.
He realized he had trapped her hand only when she moved to pull it away. He let it slip from his grasp.
"Have you been waiting here to apologize to me?" he asked.
She smiled a wicked smile. "For what? I've said nothing new to offend or impugn you."
"Just that I was not fit to be king."
Her face grew serious. "I shouldn't have said that. I doubt that any man is fit to be what we think a king should be. You took up this yoke with reservations. I should have respected your stance."
"And now?"
She shrugged and turned away to stare at the ocean. She loved the sound that carried here.
He moved to stand behind her. "What makes you hesitate?"
She glanced back over her shoulder at him. He was close enough for her to see the way the wind moved his golden hair. To appreciate both the maturity and the youthful promise in his face.
"Are you still so sure that I can be of no use to your land?"
"It isn't my land," she told him, meeting his eyes. "It's yours."
"I only just arrived."
"And I was never meant to be here." She smiled at him. Then she raised her arms over her head and spun gracefully away from him, dancing on the edge of the cliff. It had him sucking in his breath and reaching for her again. She finished with an elaborate curtsy, bowing low with one long, smooth leg extended in front of her.
"How can you do that?"
"I'm not of this land, either," she told him. "I'm the product of an allegiance between elves and faeries. And I was sent here to be kept safe when my mother died and the world outside went to war."
"You know about the war in England?"
"I know about the Americans being sent to fight battles in places their families can't pronounce. I know about Irish and Scottish going to the mainland and coming home only to be laid in the ground. And about French digging in to stand their ground in colonies around the world. And about Canadians placing their feet where their fathers and grandfathers placed theirs in the last war. England is under siege. Germany would rather fight to the death than retreat this time. There will be no quick end. So much, so many, will be lost."
"In a year I'll be able to join."
"You choose to do so?"
"To you it may be a newspaper article with a map and a list of names. It is my neighborhood, my schoolmates and teachers and family. How can I not volunteer when someone already fights to keep me safe?"
She nodded.
"Not to say that I'm not terrified," he laughed self-depreciatingly. She reached up to cup his cheek.
"Fear isn't a weakness."
His hand came up to cover hers as their eyes linked again. "I have to survive this one first."
She nodded. "They need, desperately, for you to survive. This one, plus your own if you must go back for it."
"That's a bridge I'll cross when I have to. Like I said, I just turned seventeen, so Narnia can have me with no reservations for ten more months." His face eased closer to hers. "Am I forgiven?" he asked.
"For what?"
"For disappointing you."
She smiled up at him, then rose to her tiptoes to kiss his other cheek. "It is I who felt any disappointment. You and Edmund were wonderful." She dropped her hand, pulling his with her as she turned to where the stars were rising in the darkness over the woods. "You were willing to send them back and stay alone to help us. He insisted that he help repay his rescue. He couldn't imagine leaving us in the lurch. And Susan stepped up. Lucy has been for us since the beginning. I think my disappointment was unfounded. Again I beg your forgiveness."
He rested his chin beside her temple, wrapping his free hand around her waist. It seemed easy and natural to pull her closer. It seemed easy and natural to lean back and let him be the strong one.
"I find no fault to beg forgiveness, so there's no reason to ask or grant it." They stood like that for a long time. None of the stars looked familiar and he asked about them. It led to a discussion of the myths and legends of this land. Which led to an explanation of the talismans she wore. They ended up against a thick tree, him braced against the trunk with her cradled between his legs. It was there that the wood sprites found them, there that they gave word of Aslan's demise.