Small village somewhere near the Cauldron Pool.
Edmund.
The townhouse would be crowded, they had been told by the man who stood, taking silver and names; but the hearth would be burning all night, and they would each have a space by the door.
Until Arianna had flashed him the gold pieces and a room above the inn had suddenly become available.
They'd entered through the front door, very much assured that in that small village there would be none who would recognise either of them. Not for the first time he was glad of his own aversion to all things courtly – for had he been as visible and as easily recognisable as Peter or even Susan, they would never be able to travel as they did.
He did not doubt had Peter walked through the same door, despite the noise, all faces would turn to gaze upon him. They would know him, from his face to the way he walked.
But the tavern was not what he was expecting to say the least.
The sharp smell of the mead wafted towards him, like black plumes billowing from the windows of a burning house. That was expected.
The bar curved into the room, brightly lit from the heartily crackling hearth. The windows, the diamonds of glass panes, trickled the sallow light of the just-lit torches outside. There were flower garlands strung everywhere for the celebration, bright blooms in every colour. That, too, was expected.
There was a girl leaning on the bar, her dark curls lying over one shoulder of her woollen dress. She lolled her head to one side, pushing out her rouged lips a little. She wasn't drunk yet, Edmund thought, but she looked like she was. The barkeep was there to take her order in a flash, eyes dropping only momentarily to her low-cut chemise and large swell of bosom visible over that prettily embroidered hem. That was expected. The village whore perhaps? Every village seemed to have one, and perhaps even that little village was no difference in that regard.
It was the wall facing the entrance that caused his eyes to widen a fraction. Wings pinned to the wall. The snowflake wings, as wide as a man was tall, pinned like trophies. Three pairs, each a slightly different shade of pale silver-blue, each catching the light of the fire and casting it back on the patrons that sat at the tables, drinking heartily. That was unexpected.
And he could feel Arianna's rage.
Frost-fae wings.
Her allies.
Her friends.
Somewhere on the other side of the crowded, noisy room, someone tortured wheezy 'music' out of a small flute; a sounded that grated against his ears and nerves. But those that surrounded them seemed not to notice, feet tapping along to something he would never deign to call a tune. He could only imagine what Susan's reaction to such a spectacle would be.
Most of the villagers huddled on low wooden benches that ran long either side of three long tables. There, they drunk from earthenware mugs and either argued or laughed loudly with their neighbours – oblivious to the distasteful glances from the merchants who very clearly were not regulars in that village. The villagers all looked somewhat similar – with dark hair and dark eyes, their skin darker than Edmund's own, though a different cast than Arianna's golden-brown. More russet.
Calormen blood, or even that of Archenland.
He had found some time ago that the closer one got to the border the more human the inhabitants. There was not a faun in sight, nor a centaur. The dryads were the only true Narnians he could see, and even then it was quite clear that they did not live in the village.
The noise did not abate as he and Arianna threaded their way through the crowd. No one turned to look at them, but Edmund's shoulder blades prickled.
Something was slightly off.
Or perhaps it was Arianna that was putting him on edge.
The meal that was given to them was basic – soup and bread that could have passed for a brick. To think he'd been excited to go to the south, he'd had better bread in the wild lands of the north which had no miller in sight. He glanced upwards, placing a hand upon Arianna's gloved hand which was clenched into a fist. He knew that beneath that soft leather her hands would be white-knuckled.
He was surprised that her magic had not reacted to her rage, and that there was no water suddenly leaping out of tankards or barrels bursting as it felt her anger.
He glanced up into her face, for though she'd not yet thrown back her hood, he was close enough to see each and every plane of her beautiful face. From the dusting of freckles across her nose, to the blazing fury that burnt in her emerald eyes, he drunk it all in.
His wife. He supressed the smile that arose at the thought. To think at one point she had been an enemy, perhaps the greatest he had ever faced; or ever would again. "We do not know what happened here," he murmured, reigning his thoughts back to the present and away from the woman before him. He could appreciate her later. He would appreciate her later, preferably in that nice warm bed that they had procured for the night.
She nodded, tersely.
He knew she wanted to rage. To demand answers. To know why those wings were pinned to the wall. But it was not the time. They were trying not to draw attention to themselves.
Edmund offered her a grim smile and put the bread in the soup, hoping that perhaps it might soften the fare.
And as his wife turned her attention to their food, he cast his gaze around once more.
Lia, the young dryad that he had helped that morn when her cart had gotten stuck in a ditch, was twirling her dagger in front of a group of men. Laughing. The barkeep threw her another and she caught it deftly. She put him in mind of mummers, performing for a crowd. She twirled both daggers at the same time, throwing them as she went. Almost juggling.
And he had thought, perhaps, that the dagger she'd worn at her belt had been for appearances.
She handled them almost as well as Arianna did her blades. But he could not imagine the dryad drawing those blades upon another, nor could he imagine her ending a life with them.
He frowned.
For what reason did a dryad wield a blade?
…
Arianna.
She felt it the moment before the tavern door banged open once again, she felt it like someone had struck her with a hot poker. Lia – the young dryad's – eyes flicked to the door, making note of the tall pale-haired man who entered. And she became aware of that distinct feeling, the prickling of magic, building and building. Perhaps the dryad felt something similar in the way that the nature spirits of Narnia could, and for that split second, her mind was not on the blades. "By fucking Aslan's mane," the dryad cursed as the second dagger thudded to the floor, a bead of red blood welling at her sparkling fingertip.
Anger swelled within Arianna at the snickers that followed, at the scoffs they directed at the young dryad. She doubted that those 'adoring' men could do what she had been doing with a single blade, let alone two.
Edmund touched a gentle hand on her shoulder with a small shake of his head. "Don't get involved."
And then someone had plucked a lute from somewhere and had begun to play. Arianna grimaced, the tune was an easy one, one that was played in taverns and inns across Narnia. Another musician started tapping the soft drumbeat on the table before them and the villagers made quick work of clearing benches of bowl and mug.
Something in the air shifted, as smiles lit across faces, as eyes crinkled in merriment.
The few women began the dance in the centre of the tavern, those watching stomped their feet in rhythm.
Arianna watched the dancers, curious as another two dryads joined Lia, and all three wound around each other in that pretty way that dryads danced. Perfectly in sync, perfectly attuned to each other. Knives and drinks forgotten, their feet kicking and tapping, their hands flicking perfectly. She certainly wasn't the only one who watched them either. She watched as the pale-haired man kept his eyes fixated upon them, as a hunter watched its prey.
And she knew that it was he who had strung those frost-fae wings up.
Her eyes narrowed and her hand twitched, as if that one movement could summon her dagger to her hand.
She would make him pay.
They would not leave that village until she had answers.
…
Lia.
She twirled and twirled and twirled, unable and unwilling to let her small falter as she danced with her sisters.
Excitement was heady in the air, so palpable she could almost taste it.
The feast would begin soon.
She laughed as the music wove itself around her. The music moved her as if she were a puppet on a string, her body not quite her own as the drumbeat reverberated in her soul. She had always loved dancing, in the way that all dryads did, it was how her soul and heart grew, it was how she connected with her tree-sisters.
And that night she would dance as she never had before.
It was her May Day.
She could finally join the celebrations once the children had gone to sleep, to join the villagers as the fires fanned higher and higher, to join as the mead flowed freely. It was the side of Narnia that those in Cair Paravel and those in the great manors did not experience. It was not a celebration for slippers and cumbersome skirts – it was a celebration for bare feet and stomping in the grass.
It was a night where they could cast caution to the wind and let their more primal desires take over.
Her sisters always spoke about the night in hushed whispers, blushes adorning their cheeks, bright beneath the sparkling pigments of their kind. And she did not have to wonder what they spoke of, for their tree-mother had given her that talk many, many moons ago.
May Day was an old celebration for the dryads – to celebrate life and fertility and the coming summer. The houses in the village had already been decorated with garlands and flowers and ribbons. But it was the fires and the dancing and everything that followed that many looked forward too.
She paused for a moment, taking a drink of the honey-mead that was offered to her. Leaning against the bar, she smiled as her sisters continued their dance, skirts flaring wide as they twirled. And she could not help but notice the longing in the glances that were thrown their way. No, more than longing. It was desire. Unfettered desire.
She look a larger gulp of the alcohol.
She would need it.
She observed the two strangers who had each helped her earlier in the day – strangers that stood out to her, even when the village was filled with unfamiliar faces.
There was something about them that drew her gaze, beyond the nondescript clothes they wore, dusty and travel-worn. It had nothing to do with the weapons they carried – such a thing was not uncommon so near the border. The man had both dark eyes and unkempt dark hair – handsome in a brooding, mysterious, if not entirely her type she could still appreciate the figure he cut. A warrior, she knew, by the way he moved, by the way he held himself as if he were ready to leap into action at a moment's notice. Or ready to leap in front of the woman by his side, though she did not look like she needed any protection. For she wore the same dark leather armour as he did, and it was just as worn. But her face was the one that drew Lia's gaze – a small face, a dusting of freckles across golden brown skin, and full lips that did not look as if a smile came to them often. But she suspected that when one did, it would light up her impossibly green eyes, framed with thick lashes and tilted at the corners, almost like a cat.
Contrasting and yet complementing each other perfectly.
They did not speak, but Lia saw them talking in the way she had observed in only a few in the village talk – with their eyes, with small movements of their hands, the slightest movements of their heads. They moved as if they were part of the same whole.
Oh, by Aslan, she wanted that.
Maybe she would find someone that night?
Unbidden, a smile came to her face.
"I daresay, they both look quite taken-enamoured-in-love, sister-Melia," her sometimes-friend-sometimes-enemy elbowed her side, snickering. Speaking in the very dryad way of one that did not often leave the grove. It had taken her a long time to stop speaking like that, for she did not wish to live the rest of her life in that grove. "Not for the likes of thee."
"That's not what I –" Lia cut herself off, throwing her arms up into the air.
Vela joined them then, leaning back in a way that would draw anyone's gaze to her bosom and her slim waist if they so desired. "He will be mine."
"Who?" Lia raised a brow at her sister. Was she talking about Cyrus again? How could her sister fancy such a revolting character of a man, even if he was pleasant to look at. How could she fancy him when he said the words he did?
"The man with the dark eyes. Do not even look at him."
"I don't think–" she began to say, then shrugged. When did Vela ever listen to her? "He looks very much already taken."
"Who would want a woman who dressed like a man. Mark my words, sister, he will be mine. I only need to–" Her sister's words were cut off as she let out a startled cry, looking down at her dress in shock as the stain seeped through the material. The now-empty tankard lay on its side next to her, though no one had been near to knock it over.
Lia almost snorted and looked around to see if any had witnessed her sister's embarrassment and for a fleeting second she locked gazes with narrowed eyes the colour of emeralds before the woman looked back at her companion.
A tiny almost-smirk tucked into the corner of her mouth.
…
Arianna.
Edmund could not admonish her if he had not seen. He would not have been able to see the small twitch of her fingers as the liquid within the cup jumped at her will.
Let the dryad try.
She would fail, just as many others before her had.
Princesses, ladies and nymphs of Narnia, all had failed.
So, Arianna held her tongue and watched as food was brought out, piled upon the tables that had been moved to the side. Simple compared to what they would serve in the Cair, but the villages eyes lit up. From what she had seen earlier, they had each brought something to share with those around them.
All she had wanted was a soft bed to spend the night in Edmund's arms rather than on bedrolls on the forest floor. She wanted to immerse herself in a tub and relax for but a moment. For though the dryads offered their protection and bowers, she needed to rest. Her gaze flickered back to the wings on the wall.
They could not leave the village just yet, not even to resume their mission.
For one of their spies had told them of a meeting between the giants of the north and an unknown party – one who they had followed to the south-western border. Their spy had then lost them in the mountain range. And so, Arianna and Edmund had gone themselves, to uncover whoever it was who was plotting with the giants. For if someone were inciting the giants to move against Narnia, it bode ill for them all.
And there was no love lost between Arianna and the giants – not since she'd beheaded their king some years passed.
She snorted into her cup.
And then the young knife-wielding dryad was before them, offering her a smile and her hand.
Lia.
"Allow me to get you ready for the feast," she said with a smile. "It would be my honour. A thank you for saving me earlier."
…
Lia.
She'd not really expected the woman to say yes, but she smiled as she brushed out the woman's locks, marvelling at the silken texture. It reminded her of the hair of a naiad, so soft, though very much not the right colour. It was a dark brown, the colour of an oak tree.
The woman, though only slightly shorter than herself, barely fit into the dress she had given her. Her own May Day dress, a dress of grass-green, with simple embroidery at the hem and neckline. In Cair Paravel they would be parading about in coloured silks and stunning jewels – and she thought the woman would not look out of place, even dressed as simply as she was.
"Are you staying just for the night?"
"A few days, perhaps," the woman murmured. The woman's brows were drawn into a frown. "The silver-haired man. Who is he?"
Lia's hands slowed slightly. Why did she want to know about him? "Cyrus. He is a hunter. The best in the village."
"The forests did not look like they were full of game."
Did she know?
Had the woman guessed?
Lia swallowed, wetting her mouth as it became dry. She glanced at the door. The small room was empty save the two of them, but it was not a private room and any moment another could walk through the door.
The dryad stepped back, smoothing the front of her wrinkle-free gown. "I appreciate you helping me earlier. I do hope you enjoy the celebrations."
And the woman, the stranger, stood as she stepped towards the door. As if she had anticipated Lia's own movements. As if she were going to intercept her. But the woman did not touch her, nor did she raise a hand. And when she spoke, her voice was soft, at odds with everything she'd observed of the woman thus far. "Tell me what it is you're so afraid of. Tell me how I can help."