Western Wilds.
Sapphyre.
The fire hurtled towards her as a golden ball, igniting the night like an inferno.
And Sapphyre dove to avoid it, spiralling downwards as she cursed inwardly.
The witch had spotted her.
She let her form shift, change as the ground rushed to meet her. And she landed, her boots touching the grass like a lovers' touch as her wings spread behind her. She had no weapons; nothing but the clothing upon her back – remnants from her home world that stayed with her. The threads, spun with magic as they were, would not protect her from the balls of fire the witch blasted at her.
And so Sapphyre tucked her wings tightly to her back and she danced. Twisting and leaping as the flames shot past her, edging ever-closer to the witch who rained fire down upon her.
Sweat beaded on her brow, her legs ached.
And she grinned.
Knights did not enjoy fights; they did not seek the pounding of their hearts or the thrill of the challenge.
Knights duelled in embroidered splendour, upon war horses with fanfare following their every move, for honour, for their lieges. Contests to settle the scores of egos and perceived slights, while those they swore to protect died of petty and preventable causes.
And she was no longer a knight.
Her grin did not fade as she reached the witch.
Sparks fettered in outstretched palms and beneath that deep hood, Sapphyre saw the woman's mouth open in a soundless 'O'. She imagined those eyes were tracing her wings, poised for flight as she gripped the witch's hand. She could only imagine what her face looked like as the last of the flame disappeared – her face alight like one born of the fiery pits of Bism.
And it was as if she moved slower than she ever had before – time suspended in that moment, or perhaps she moved faster than time itself. As she twisted the woman's arm behind her back and pulled off the hood with her other hand; her foot swept the woman's legs from under her.
And with her face pressed into the ground, with Sapphyre's knee pressed to her spine, the woman gasped. Sapphyre used that moment to study the witch, for even in the darkest of night she could see. A shock of wispy curls, of a colour she could not discern (but looked somewhat pale), a pretty face with a full mouth twisted into a grimace, a shining silver band across her brow that burned to Sapphyre's magic-sense.
It was not a face she knew.
A stranger then.
Who had sensed her presence, even in her shifted form. She must have been powerful; if not in the traditional sense, for Sapphyre felt no outpouring of magical energy from her.
"Who are you?" The witch's voice was light, airy; not what Sapphyre would have expected.
"Not exactly in a position to be asking questions, are you?"
Another twist of those lips. "I won't attack. Please let me up."
"I would ask for you word. But I do not trust the word of strangers." Nor the words of not-so-strangers, she thought to herself, even as she let the witch up.
The witch brushed herself off. "Join me by my fire."
"What fire?"
A grin. And then the clearing flared with light, a campfire crackling merrily. And Sapphyre was able to see what she'd only glimpsed earlier from above. The witch had a small caravan, a horse tethered nearby.
"My name is Ardisia." The witch sat, cross-legged before the fire and gestured for Sapphyre to do the same. "I will not attack you."
Sapphyre sat, her wings folded to her back. She would not shift completely. Not yet. "How do you know I won't attack you?"
The witch – Ardisia – shrugged, and in the light of the fire, Sapphyre saw her eyes were a strange violet-blue. "I don't. But I figured, if you do, I would rather be comfortable. For clearly I am no match for you."
Ardisia pressed a cup of liquid into Sapphyre's hands, and a small sniff revealed it to be mead; not of the finest quality, but she took it nonetheless. Could she be a potential ally for Emerylda? The balls of fire that she can cast had been quite impressive, and if she knew any more offensive magic, she would indeed be formidable on the battlefield.
"Do you travel West, to heed the call?" Violet-blue eyes held unabashed curiosity.
"Not yet."
And then they fell into silence, the crackled of the campfire was all that could be heard. Flames sent red sparks dancing into the soft breeze, the smoke twirling heavenward. And Sapphyre found herself closing her eyes, allowing the heat of the blazing fire to simmer over her face and neck. She knew Ardisia was watching her, she knew there were questions on the tip of the witch's tongue. Just like Rilian.
"What are you smiling at?"
Sapphyre cracked an eyelid and smoothed her face into one of cool indifference. As she thought, Ardisia was watching her carefully. "Have you no mind magic, witch? Can you not pluck the thoughts from my mind?"
Even with mind magic, she would not have been able to – for not even Emerylda could pass the barricades she'd placed around her mind. But Ardisia snorted. "I have no magic of the sort. And witch is no insult. The Narnians call anything they do not understand a witch; they would say the same of you."
Ah, so it was apparent she was no Narnian. "Then your magic is simply of the fire kind?"
Ardisia narrowed her gaze and raised a brow. "I will tell you of my magic if you tell me of yours."
"Deal."
The woman grinned at her then. "I'm afraid there is not much to tell." She held out her wrist, showing Sapphyre the delicate bracelet that adorned it. Plain silver save for some sort of inscription that she could not discern. "This helps to channel and hold my magic, for I can really only hypnotise and enchant. The fire spell you saw earlier took me years to learn, the spell imbedded in these bracelets for I cannot simply call it upon a whim. And the circlet upon my brow allows me to see magic."
Perhaps the witch was a fool; or was simply incredibly naïve to share such information with a stranger. Either scenario was likely to get her killed.
Sapphyre inspected the bracelet with interest. Could Emerylda use a similar thing? Something that could hold her enchantments so they would stick? Unease tugged at her heart as Rilian's empty eyes flashed through her minds' eye. Pushing it down, she looked into the witches eyes. "Enchant me."
"What? What?"
"I want to see it. Enchant me."
"Are you sure?" Ardisia bit her bottom lip, her brows furrowed.
"Quite."
And then without preamble, Ardisia closed her eyes and Sapphyre watched with piqued interest as a violet-blue mist rose around her, like the colour of the sky just before dawn. It settled around her, ghosting across her skin. And then Sapphyre felt the fluttering against her mind, like the touch of a birds-wing, or a butterfly's kiss. Soft but insistent. Probing, seeking her mind.
Seeking to learn her secrets. Her past.
Her history.
But her walls would not crumble. But that violet mist did not reach that far.
"By Aslan, what is happening?" Ardisia's frustrated voice brought her to herself, and her eyes snapped open, looking into those pretty eyes. Sweat dotted the witch's brow, and her hands where they lay in her lap, trembled. "This has never happened before."
"What has not?"
"My enchantments always work. I can't do other things very well. But my enchantments always work."
Sapphyre stifled a grin. "Do not be disheartened. My sister is a great enchantress and even she cannot get through my defences."
Another groan. "I do not think it is that. I cannot even get to your defences. I cannot even feel your mind."
Interesting. It was something she would ponder later with Emerylda – perhaps it had something to do with how her magic was not as strong in Narnia. Or perhaps Emerylda was correct in her theory that the magic of Narnia and the magic from other worlds worked against each other. "What would you like to know about me?"
"Are those real?" The question seemed to burst forth, and once again her eyes were riveted on Sapphyre's wings, her magical endeavour seemingly forgotten.
Sapphyre fluttered them slightly, stretching them out and then folding them back to her back. "Of course."
"They are not an illusion? Not magic?"
Sapphyre allowed a small smile to touch her lips, a very small smile. Perhaps the night would not be so bad. Perhaps the witch was a little naïve, but Sapphyre felt no ill-intent.
…
The Shuddering Wood.
Drinian.
The fauns waved as he turned on his steed, one last look at his men who would go no further. A visit to an old friend was all he told the Court, but his true motives would be revealed to none. The fauns had told him disturbing tales from the Western Wilds, of witches who gathered, who travelled together. They had hold him in hushed tones, with trembling voices. Such a thing would bode ill for Narnia. For a lone witch was trouble enough, but for them to work together…
His gaze turned forward once more as he supressed a shudder, comforted in part by the gentle rocking of his steed beneath him.
While he was no longer young in years, there was none other he would trust with such a task, for the hearts and minds of men were easily swayed. He had learnt that many, many times over the years.
Perhaps the prince had been taken to wherever the witches gathered.
It was the only place left unexplored.
For he knew his prince would not be with the Giants of Harfang, he'd heard many tales of their King and Queen. He knew of the seasonal feasts, he knew how sons of Adam were treated – with a seasoning of thyme and rosemary. He could only imagine what recipes they would concoct with the idea of star-flesh.
So he turned his steed towards the West, steeling his mind against the witches he was sure to encounter.
…
Cair Paravel.
Diamande.
Fanfare filled the air, breezy and light, as the crowds cheered – louder than the clashing of sword on sword, louder than the whinnying of the horses, louder than the sound of lance crashing against armour and shield.
Diamande watched as the knights fought, sweat beading dripping from proud brows. Eagerness and determination lined their faces. For far more was on the line than being given the title Knight of Narnia, though in itself that was an exemplary achievement. No, their faces were lined thus for the whispers told that the winner of the tournament would be named Knight Commander, a position that was given to the Heir to the Throne of Narnia.
Such a thing would have been unheard of on his world – but the King of Narnia had lost his son and had no family left. And so, a competition it was, to decide the fate of the land. And yet Diamande knew that not all knights were honourable. Not all knights followed the code they so boisterously preached. He'd seen far too many deaths at the hands of so-called knights. The King of Narnia was bold to place the fate of his country to the outcome of a tournament.
He had seen many tourneys over the years, and the one he watched from the shadows was no different. There was one knight the crowd blatantly favoured – from the boisterous chants of his name and the banners they waved as he fought. With great skill did he fight, Diamande had to admit. And with his cocksure grin and easy grip on his sword, he put Diamande very much in mind of another young knight he'd watched rise through the ranks of his own home.
Both had the same surety in their stance, the same skill of blade and Diamande knew that this knight would be the one to win.
Blood did not spill on ground around his feet, unlike some others. And Diamande knew, knew from watching so carefully, from watching the others, that the knight was holding back. He showed restraint. He did not fight to maim, just to disarm. To win without killing his fellow knights.
Honourable.
Sir Dustan.
The King, whose closest advisor was conspicuously absent, watched the proceedings with keen eyes. For the sake of Narnia, he could not choose his Knight Commander incorrectly. And more often than not, the King's eyes were drawn to Sir Dustan.
Perhaps not bold, as he first thought.
Desperate.
The King of Narnia was running out of options. And running out of time.
But Diamande could not reveal himself, not yet.
Not until he was sure of all the players in the game.
And until then he would wait, and watch from the shadows.
And watch he did, as Sir Dunstan felled his last opponent to the thunderous approval of the crowds.