Anvard, Archenland.
Drinian.
The woman who entered was perhaps the most stunning creature he had ever seen; her beauty outshone even that of that Star Queen.
She was clothing in a gown the colour of the most beautiful emeralds, her hair an unbound river of darkened copper down her back, held back from her ethereal face by a band of silver that could almost be called a coronet. The sort of beauty that inspired the ballads sung before the King; she stood tall and proud, as if she owned the ground she walked upon.
Drinian was not one to lean towards poetry or whimsy, and he could not paint.
But he would paint her.
Oh Aslan.
He would use pigments of copper and gold and cocoa for the colours of that hair. The creature of beauty, whoever she was, had stepped out of every man's deepest fantasy. Her face like one of the High Queens of old, her face too lovely, that glint in her eyes too fierce for her to be any common maid.
He had travelled to Archenland upon the slim chance that Rilian had found his way there, hidden amongst the commonfolk of Anvard. But even before he'd seen the castle of Anvard – the only populated region of the small Kingdom, he had known the prince was not there. For the prince would not have stood to be surrounded by such hideous things – for he had shared his mother's love for beauty, in all its forms.
So, he'd left the letter with the kings' sigil in his bags, choosing instead to mix in amongst the visitors. He blended seamlessly into the crowd, with the commoners who were allowed to visit court and appeal to their king. And from his position at the front of the crowd – where none would question an old man wanting to gaze upon the king – he'd had a perfect of the woman when she had arrived.
Upon sighting her, the king had immediately straightened on his throne, his eyes fixated upon her form.
As she passed, the sickly-sweet scent of rose followed her, burning Drinian's nose. And as beautiful as she was, everything in Drinian told him not to trust her for that perfectly pleasant smile she wore did not reach her eyes – which remained as hard and flat as the jewels their colour so perfectly mimicked.
"State your purpose," the court speaker's voice was weary, perhaps from saying the same thing over and over that day. For the sun was high in the sky, the poor man must have been exhausted, his throat already sore.
"I seek a treaty with the great King of Archenland. A treaty to join the Kingdom to Narnia once more," her voice was a melody – a tune that wound the sweetest of songs.
What?
Drinian straightened a frown upon his face, his eyes boring so hard into the back of the woman's auburn-locked head he wondered if she could feel it.
The king did not react, instead just raised a quizzical brow. "And who are you to seek such a thing?"
"I am the future Queen of Narnia; the betrothed of Prince Rilian, Crown Prince of Narnia."
What the fuck?
…
Harfang Castle.
Elias.
He kept to the shadows, for they had always been his friends, sitting on his pretty little cushion behind the thrown that dwarfed him. He adjusted his seat, subtly tugging upon the golden chain that ran from the bracelet on his wrist. He rued the day he's fallen into one of the giant's witch-trap. He'd been distraught, barely paying attention to his surroundings.
Running from persecution from a Narnian noble only to find himself bound in servitude to the loathsome giants.
"Why have you brought those filthy things into our halls?" It was the Queen's voice, high a piercing, nearly a shriek.
Elias's ears perked and he peaked around the gold-gilded chair that served as a throne; the voluminous skirts of the queen's skirts hindering his view somewhat. But he could see the bodies that the giant scout hand laid out.
Narnians.
Dead Narnians.
Interesting.
Whilst the golden bracelet hindered his magic somewhat, he could still use a simple spell of enhanced vision that turned his eyes into that of an eagle.
There were no wounds upon the bodies, but they were very much dead. They bored no injuries, nothing that would tell the tale of how they had lost their lives. It was as if their hearts had simply stopped beating within their chests. But he could see what the giants could not. He could see the remnants of magic lingering upon those bodies, like a thin blue veil.
"We found them at the border," the gruff voice of the scout said, as he kneeled before his king and queen with his head bowed. "Stone-dead at the edge of the moor where the forests began."
The nightrose forests.
Elias did not open his mouth and he doubted the queen, though she was slightly smarter than the king, would make the connection.
He felt the slight tug on the chain a moment before he was yanked forwards, sent sprawling upon the cold stone floors. His face scant inches from the faces of the deceased.
"What do you see, witch?" He did not turn to look upon Queen Hilaria's face. Perhaps he had realised what those bodies had been so close to. "Is this the work of your kind, sending us a message for working with the Emerald Witch?"
He did not think so, letting his mind wander as he 'examined' the bodies. For he would learn nothing more from them. He already knew their killer, though he'd met her but once. Witches felt no sense of kinship to each other; preferring instead to vie for power than work together.
He highly doubted that these bodies had anything to do with the giants, but more so what grew on their lands.
Yes, witches coveted nightrose, for in the right dose it enhanced magical power.
And yes, he knew that tint of magic – similar as it was to the Emerald Witch.
The Sapphyre Knight, they called her.
The Emerald Queen's Champion.
He could add bandit-killer to her accolades.
And though their bodies were splattered with blood, it was not theirs.
And he did not want to rise the ire of those sisters.
For deep down, he knew he feared them more than he feared the giants.
"I do not know who killed them, my queen. But it is a dark magic that claimed their lives."
A snort. "Burn them. Outside."
Another tug and he was back behind the throne.
He had no love for the giants he had lived with for years. No feeling of kinship. And he had no wish to join the Narnians who would be burnt upon a pyre.
…
Somewhere in the city around Cair Paravel.
Diamande.
The establishment she took him to was not one he had visited before, but from where he sat in the small alcove, half-hidden by the heavily embroidered velvet curtain, he had a perfect view of everyone in the main room, lit by crystal chandeliers and crackling hearths.
Beyond those high-arched windows, night had fallen upon the city.
The city had come to life, a side he'd not yet explored, embroiled as he was in court politics.
Gold and silver embroidery featured heavily on the waist coats and hemlines, jewels scattered here and there. Skirts draped exotically over plush chaises, dainty laced boots visible, small peeks of pale ankles. It had once been an establishment for males only, where they could discuss their business and enjoy other…pleasures. But since the new owner, who had introduced herself to him as Eithne, had taken over, she allowed entry to anyone who could pay.
In that room he recognised Lady Evalynn, seated prettily beside her elderly husband, with eyes of a cool spring and hair of the palest gold. The other females he could not name, but he could boldly assume that they were not wives of the men present. They held themselves aloof, chattering to one another in the alcoves, half-hidden by the draping curtains that allowed for only a small amount of privacy.
They would allow for nothing untoward to happen within the main chambers.
Diamande knew that there were private chambers up the narrow staircases for that; for he had seen more than one man pass coin to the workers and disappear with a lady or two.
He watched as Eithne spoke to one of the blue-coated men who carried pitchers of a golden-brown liquid, the colour almost like honey. A quick reply and then the man was making his way towards a group of what he could only assume were merchants by the way they were speaking to each other in hushed tones. They accepted the offered crystal goblets with barely a glance at the man who gave it to them.
The hefty price they paid for entry to the exclusive Parlor covered any and all drinks that those men carried.
"Try not to overhear too much," Eithne murmured to him, as she sunk into the lounge by his side, and he tried not to take too much notice of her teeth – sharp and pointed, like a wolf or a lion. "It is bad for business."
"If you own this place, why were you singing in the street? Surely you have no need for the coin."
The woman glanced at him sidelong. "Because I enjoy it. Must everything be about coin?"
Diamande narrowed his gaze, turning his attention from the room and to just her. Most would squirm under his scrutiny, but she simply walked him back. With eyes so dark he could not tell where the pupil ended and where the iris began.
What was she?
The girls began their dance, and to Diamande every movement was full of poetry, dragging his gaze from their mistress. They advanced, retreated, swayed, their arms waving in gentle movements. Beguiling. Enchanting.
The dancers moved like water, transformed by the music, flowing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion. And all eyes were fixated upon them, commanding attention in a way he only dreamed he could. Their dance was not simple movement, they were creatures blessed by the Aslan Himself.
All had the same dark eyes as Eithne, the same chestnut hair that faded to gold at the ends.
"They are my pod-sisters. They go where I go."
Ah, a selkie.
He had read about them.
He'd never had the pleasure of meeting one.
And watching them dance it truly was easy to forget that they were predators.
"Where did you learn the song?" He had asked her on the street, but she'd simply given him a time and a place to talk.
"A woman helped by mother long ago, she helped her find her coat," dark eyes watched him. "It was a song she sung to me. I was hoping that you would be able to help me locate her. For she was not of this world."
She must have assumed that he would know her mystery woman. Perhaps that was truly why she sung it upon the street corner, hoping that someone would recognize it.
An Atlantean.
He and his sisters were not the only ones from their world in Narnia.
"And you invited me to your establishment in the hopes I knew who she was?"
She gave him a wry smile that Diamande found refreshing. "Indeed."
"What did she look like? What colour were her eyes?"
For all Atlanteans were born with eyes void of colour, until they called to them one of the magical jewels of their home-world. The jewel that would denote their magical aptitude and the Path they would be most suited for.
"She looked much like you do, my mother said. Creamy skin, hair like a flame. But her eyes, she said, shone like rubies."
Rubies.
A priestess perhaps, if she was not one who took a different Path. One Blessed by the Heart.
It would not be so hard to locate another of his kind in that world – for they had a very particular magical presence.
"I will help you, Eithne."
For it would help him also.
He would have an ally against his sisters, who lurked somewhere in Narnia; plotting.
Eithne smiled at him with those unnerving dark eyes and tilted her glass towards him.
…
The Dark Castle.
Sapphyre.
She felt weightless, as if she floated upon the clouds themselves and so she opened her eyes. She was surrounded by a soft glow, an almost warm light that reach out to her, bathing her. It caressed her body, settling deep within her bones and she felt stronger than she had in years.
Wait.
She sat upright, unbound curls wild as she turned her head.
Emerylda's Enchantment Chamber.
Below the Tower of Light.
Why was she there?
Her heart ached; but not in a pained way. It ached with a need to reach up to the jewel suspended from the ceiling. The same jewel that gave light to Underland.
The Heart of Atlantis.
The beautiful blue stone that called for her to touch it, to allow its magic inside her.
Who had brought her here?
"Sapphyre?" his voice was groggy, his voice course.
Sapphyre's head snapped to the side, noticing his presence. Her mind, absorbed by the presence of the Heart, had not even registered his body beside her side. Unshaven and unkempt, he crushed her body to his.
Another warmth spread through her. Banishing all thoughts of the Heart from her mind.
He stroked her hair, over and over and she became aware of the words he murmured. "You're okay. Thank Aslan you're okay."
What had happened?
She wracked her mind. The last thing she remembered was…
A shudder ran through her.
"Where is Neve?"
"Neve?" Rilian pulled back, though not quite letting go of her, his face but inches from her own, his eyes boring into her own.
"The young frost-fae. The one that follows us around sometimes."
"The knights found you at one of the entrances to Underland, hidden in some bracken. It looked like there had been a struggle."
Neve must have carried her from the moors.
Neve must have hidden her.
And the young frost-fae must have been captured. By comrades of the bandits who had attacked them.
"Why did you bring me in here?"
Only he would have.
The knights would have taken her to her rooms.
"You were barely alive, Sapph. Nothing was working."
And Neve had been taken. Bubbly, curious little Neve who had done nothing wrong but followed her.
Sapphyre drew a shuddering breath. Weapon-less, she'd killed the bandits with her magic.
"What is wrong, Sapph?" He was still so close, her face in his hands as he brushed over her cheeks. Brushing away the tears that she hadn't realised were falling. "What happened?"
"My magic, Ril," she closed her eyes. Unable to look at him, unable to look away from him. From his eyes. But unable to resist the pull of the Heart that wanted her to look at it, that wanted her to touch it. To give herself to it and embrace that deep, dark well within her. "I can't control it. I thought I had control. But I killed them. I killed them all."
She knew she was rambling. But she couldn't stop. It was as if the floodgates had been shattered open. And Rilian did not say anything, he did not stop her. The Heart lowered the defences around her mind. "No, that's not right. I can control it. That's what makes it so much worse. It makes me do things that I don't really want to do. But I do want to. Its too easy to cause pain. I told myself I'd never use that magic again.
"But there was a merchant. I enchanted his mind. And there was bandits who attacked me and Neve, in the forests to the north. And I used that magic."
Her lashes fluttered open, and she anchored herself to his gaze, barely moving an inch. For when she attacked the bandits, it had been as if the magic had been ripped out of her; in a way that had been far too familiar. But she could not tell him that. She did not want to see the pity in his indigo eyes, that seemed almost violet in the light of the Heart. She could not tell him of how she had attacked her own brother, of his blood-curdling screams as he'd been taken away to the healing halls to stop his face from melting off entirely.
And she had not meant to attack him, she'd just wanted him to stop.
And so, her magic had stopped him.
That was why she had to leave the chamber. It was why she jumped at every chance to leave the Dark City.
For the Heart of the City boosted her magic, it wanted her to release it.
It tempted her to. In that eery way it had, without words.
And it was why she had chosen a different Path; choosing instead the way of the knight. For knights stood for control and discipline. She would not let something else control her.
Rilian still did not say anything, he simply pulled her back to his chest, stroking her hair. He simply listened, though she knew he had questions he stayed silent, lightening to her without judging her. And that had to be enough.
She would never betray her sister.
She could not, not after everything.
She would turn all her attention to finding Neve. And she would hurt those who had taken the frost-fae, she would kill those who dared to harm her people.
And in that moment, she knew that those thoughts were her own and not the thoughts of the Heart.