Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! I am so happy you are all still enjoying this story :-) This chapter officially makes this story the longest I have posted here, though not the longest I have written. Exciting, right?

Getting into the city was rather easier than any of them had expected. They had set out at dawn; arming themselves with weapons taken from the dead guards, though Metelus protested loudly that Edmund was in no condition to fight and he himself did not know how. Trebonius had merely shaken his head and handed the faun a sword anyway. The only difficult bit was finding a cart low enough to the ground and moving slowly enough that they could scramble into the back of it, and it took several failed attempts, a good many muttered curses on Edmund's part, and over an hour before they succeeded in climbing, undetected, into a wagon of hay.

Edmund slumped gratefully against the side of the wagon heartbeat thudding erratically with the effort of keeping his breathing shallow and steady. His whole body ached, but it was his chest and back that pained him most. He wasn't entirely sure how he managed to get to his feet that morning, to walk with some semblance of strength he did not have, and to carry out his plan successfully, at least this far, but he had, and that was what mattered. Metelus put a hand on his shoulder, expression worried, and Edmund realised that, despite his best efforts, he had not fooled the wise old faun into thinking he was well enough to safely carry through with his plan.

Before Metelus could speak the giant pulling the cart slowed his pace, and Edmund knew they were nearing the gates. The three Narnians pulled their cloaks up and hid themselves as best they could in the hay as the cart jostled along the last few yards up to the gate.

The thudding of the giants' footsteps and the loud, harsh tones of their voices as they called out to each other seemed to surround him, threatening to drag him back into the memory of crushing blackness and the smell of blood. He clenched his hands into fists, fingernails cutting into his palms

"Your majesty, we must slip away now or we risk discovery." They were through the gate and Trebonius was whispering urgently in his ear, but the satyr's voice seemed very far away. He was trapped in the dark, unable to move or breathe, the weight of dead Narnians crushing him. Someone grabbed his arm, pulled him to his feet, and a moment later they were all three tumbling from the cart to the stones of the city street. The hand did not release his arm, instead it half dragged him for a few feet until he found his back against a wall. He forced his eyes to open, had not realised until that moment that they had been closed, and found himself facing a nearly panicked satyr and faun.

"King Edmund?" He shook his head and pressed his hands against his aching temples, trying to force his breathing to calm. What is wrong with me?! His hands were shaking, his breath came in uneven gasps, and the terror of the memory threatened to overwhelm him. "King Edmund?" Metelus was bending over him; Trebonius hovering in the background. "We must move; can you stand?"

Edmund nodded blindly and accepted the faun's help in regaining his feet. The giants bustled through the streets around them, but luckily no one had seemed to notice three, ragged figures falling from the back of a wagon.

They slipped, unnoticed through the streets until the castle walls loomed up before them, then turned aside before they reached the gates. The wall ran in a near circle around the keep and Edmund could only hope they reached the stable door before his legs decided to stop working and he found himself sprawled on the stones of the street. Trebonius steadied him with a hand on his arm when he stumbled, nearly falling, and Edmund nodded gratefully to him and didn't protest when the satyr retained his hold on his arm.

The sun was high in the sky when they at last saw the little door, nearly hidden behind a curtain of ivy that draped the castle wall. It looked like it had not been used in years, possibly even centuries. The sturdy oak was slowly rotting, though it still looked solid enough to withstand a good amount of force, and the iron reinforcements and handle were covered with rust. Nearly holding his breath and sending up a silent prayer to Aslan that he would not find it locked Edmund grasped the handle and pulled. Nothing happened; the door was stuck fast, not locked, for the latch lifted easily enough, but stuck nonetheless.

"The wood has expanded through years of damp," said Metelus quietly. "The door no longer fits the frame."

"We could try breaking it down," Trebonius suggested, lifting his heavy axe and stepping forward as if to try.

Edmund shook his head crossly. "We can't risk the amount of noise that would make." He tugged angrily on the door, throwing his weight backwards, and thought he felt it shift slightly. At the same moment, they heard the thudding footsteps of a giant, approaching from the way they had come. Edmund gave the door one last, frantic pull and it swung outward, hinges creaking alarmingly. The sudden lack of resistance sent Edmund stumbling backwards and his chest exploded in pain, cutting off his air, as his knees buckled.

Trebonius caught him before he could hit the ground and half dragged, half carried him through the door; Metelus pulled it closed behind them just as the giant rounded the corner. They slumped against the wall, holding their breath, or in Edmund's case trying frantically to breathe, and listened as the footsteps paused in front of the door. A moment later they moved on, slightly slower than before, as if the giant were still watching to see if someone would emerge from the ivy, but eventually they passed by and faded into the distance.

Suddenly Trebonius cursed and Edmund looked up, blinking away the dark specks that danced across his vision, straight at a terrified looking stable boy. He was one of the Green Lady's servants, maybe only twelve years old, and it was obvious to all three that if he could have screamed he would have. He stared at the intruders for a moment, a look of pure terror on his face, then turned and ran, disappearing into a door before Trebonius could stop him.

"He will be going to fetch his mistress," said Edmund grimly, staggering shakily to his feet. "We need to hurry."

"With all respect, my king, we must abandon our plan. It is my duty to safeguard the rulers of Narnia; I have failed you since the first moment, but I cannot now allow you to endanger yourself further." Trebonius bowed his head as he spoke, obviously expecting an enraged response. "Our whole plan hinges upon remaining undiscovered and we have just been discovered."

Edmund didn't even have the energy to glare at him; he knew the satyr was right, and admired his bravery in questioning his king, but they had not come this far only to turn back. He shook his head and stumbled towards the stables. "Accompany me if you will, turn back if you must, but do not attempt to prevent me from going on." For a moment, it seemed that Trebonius would argue, then he bowed slightly and followed, exchanging a desperate look with Metelus. Humans really were the most stubborn creatures either of them had ever met.

There was music when Peter awoke. It was not the haunting melody that had drawn him to walk the moors, but it was just as beautiful, a light, airy melody that made him think of sunlit glades and the shifting shadows of spring leaves. His head ached terribly and he was reminded of the first, and only time, he had drunk far too much wine at a feast. Edmund had laughed at him the next morning, obviously greatly amused by finding Peter even crosser than he usually was himself in the mornings. Edmund!

His eyes flew open, sudden terror flooding through his veins. The Green Lady set aside her harp, though the music seemed to remain, hanging sweetly in the air, and swept to his side. "Where's Edmund?" Peter demanded, remembering how he had stood frozen while his brother fell; remembering too Edmund's warnings about the Lady being a witch. I should have listened; why didn't I listen? "What did you do to me? I couldn't help them!"

The Lady put a cool hand against his forehead, pushing him back as he tried to sit up. "Dear king, you have been ill; I fear the shock has quite robbed you of your wits. Rest; you will be well again soon." Her smile was so kind, so beautiful, and Peter felt a strange drowsiness sweep over him.

He fought it, forced his eyes to remain open, trying to clear his mind of the echoing music. "Edmund was right, you are a witch!" He tried to push her hand away, but his limbs were leaden.

She laughed sweetly, genuine amusement dancing in her bright green eyes. "A witch, dear king? Yes, I suppose, though witchcraft is hardly the correct term for the few skills I possess. But surely," she leaned nearer to him, her hair nearly brushing his face. "Surely you cannot believe I would harm you or your dear siblings? I have merely tried to help you; do not be so callow as to betray my kindness with suspicion."

Peter tried to look away from her eyes, tried to blink, to push away the strange dreamlike feeling, but her eyes were fixed on his and the smell of apple blossoms that clung to her hair filled his senses and dulled his wits. Of course, she wasn't trying to hurt him; she was trying to help him. It was rude to suspect her of any dark intention when all she had done was try to help him; Edmund had been a fool to doubt her. He slumped back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted.

"There," said the Lady, picking up her harp. "That's better, isn't it? Would you like to know what has happened while you've been asleep? I fear it will be a terrible shock for you to hear."

Peter nodded, his head throbbing, as the Lady began to play her harp again, long fingers caressing the strings gently as music flowed through the air. "You have slept for the better part of two days, dear king, and in that time, we have discovered much." The music changed, growing darker, and Peter closed his eyes, strange, shadowy images dancing through his mind.

He saw Edmund and Lucy slipping through the gigantic hallways, their faces, which were illuminated by flickering candlelight, looked strange and fierce. Lucy carried a dagger in her hand and Edmund's sword was drawn. "Your brother and sister hatched a dreadful plot without your knowledge," the Lady said, her voice scarcely above a whisper and the music dark and brooding. The giant's Queen lay in her bed, her eyes closed in sleep and Lucy stood over her, dagger flashing as she drove it into the Queen's throat. Edmund stood watch at the door, and called a warning as footsteps approached. Lucy tried to tug her dagger free and blood soaked her hands; the dagger was stuck fast and Lucy turned away leaping lightly down from the bed.

"Lucy, your dagger! You'll be blamed instead of Peter if you leave it here!" whispered the shadowy figure of Edmund fiercely.

"There's no time," Lucy snarled back, sounding quite unlike her usually sweet self. "We'll come back for it; just go!"

"They killed the Queen, hoping you would be blamed for it, but they could not retrieve the dagger in time and we uncovered the whole plot through the use of my magic. Your traitorous brother is dead, and your sister awaits the punishment for her crime in the King's dungeons."

Peter shook his head weakly; it didn't make sense. Edmund wasn't dead; he couldn't be. Lucy, she couldn't, she didn't. Edmund wouldn't betray me; they wouldn't try to cause me harm.

"But Edmund was a traitor once," The Lady whispered softly. "Your siblings want to rule Narnia themselves; they don't want to live in your shadow forever, High King."

No! It isn't true, something isn't right. It doesn't make sense; why would I be blamed? But his mind was terribly sluggish, and the music was so beautiful, and the Lady would not lie. She was too good, too beautiful, too kind. She would not lie to cause him pain; she wanted only to help him. His eyes burned with tears. How could they betray me; how could Edmund? But Edmund was dead, and it was for his death, not his betrayal that Peter wept.

"Rest, dear king, you must accompany me to the feast tonight or it will be seen as a great insult to the King. You may yet avoid war between our two great nations," she laughed gently. "But you are weary, and we will speak of that later." The music turned wistful, took on a dream like quality, and swept him up, carrying him far away until he could not remember who he was or why there were tears in his eyes.

The Lady watched him, smiling, though it was no longer a gentle, sweet smile. Her eyes burned with a greedy light. "Soon, dear fool, soon your land will be mine, as it should have been from the first. Soon my mother will be avenged, and your soul will be mine." She brushed a strand of hair back from his face, almost tenderly, and set her harp aside. She did not need the music any longer; the High King was so deeply caught in her web of enchantment that the music was not needed to control his mind any longer.

The door burst open and one of her servants stared at her with horrified eyes. She looked at him in disgust, anger at being disturbed rising within her, and raised her hand to cast such a spell upon the boy that he would never dare approach her again. Then, as she looked inside his mind to find what had been so important to risk her wrath, she saw three figures, Narnians by their dress and bearing. One was a satyr, a massive axe in his hands, two swords strapped across his back, the second was a very old faun, terrified and shaking, but the third was the youngest king. The boy was pale, face streaked with blood and dark with bruises, lips nearly blue as he struggled to breathe, but in his eyes burned a fierce determination. It was the look of someone who would pursue her relentlessly, someone who would fight until his last breath for those he loved; she snapped her fingers and the servant's head snapped back, his neck broken. She watched him fall, but could not banish the unfamiliar, icy fear; there had been the look of death in the Narnian king's eyes, and it as her death as likely as it was his own.

She swept from the room, scattering frantic servants before her, as her feet carried her towards the stables. It would be his death; he should be dead already, should not have survived what the giants had done to him, but he would be dead soon. She vowed it silently as she walked, pushing back the fear in favour of anger. How dare this boy stand against her and disrupt her careful plans? Narnia would be hers; the boy would die, there was no other way it could end. She smiled.

Uh oh! Looks like nothing is going right; Edmund probably should have left while he still could...although he wouldn't be Edmund if he wasn't stubborn. And Peter, I know you're enchanted but how can you believe Edmund and Lucy would ever betray you! Oh wait, I'm the author...I feel like I shouldn't be asking these questions...Next chapter coming soon, and it will be a long one and will introduce, or reintroduce, another OC, so keep reading because this story is far from over! Leave me a review if you have time :-)

Cheers,

A