The Glass Garden, Cair Paravel.

Drinian.

"Will you join the King tonight?"

Drinian did not answer – though if one who knew him had been watching, they would have seen the tightening of his shoulders, the stiffening of his lips as he turned his attention to the roses before him. But the messenger did not know him; all he saw was a rough and stern man in a place surrounded by smiling courtiers.

He had discarded his fur coat at the door to the greenhouse, and though he could see the snow falling outside, it was as warm as a summer's day in that space between the two towers, surrounded by glass.

A giant dome of glass.

One of Caspians additions to Cair Paravel.

A present, of sorts, to Drinian. A bribe, he had always called it, to leave his sea-faring days behind him and join the King at court as his advisor.

A bribe that had very well work. For he spent every moment he could in the glass garden, tending to the flowers. And his favourites were the roses; as delicate as the silks of Calormen, and as vibrant as a rug from Archenland; the blooms filled the greenhouse with their perfume, the smell of the soil reminding him of simpler days.

Beautiful roses such a deep yellow one could have called them gold – a sunrise that stayed, blooming with determined brilliance. Each one was a glorious sun; the flowers of joyful days, of the springtime, of the summer and they filled Drinian with a sense of calm as his inner turmoil thundered.

He had returned to the Cair near a week passed, and he'd still not seen Caspian since the night of his departure.

For what could he tell his king? His friend?

Drinian paused with a sigh, his fingers stilling in the dirt. He had seen near seven-score years, and it was as if they were finally catching up with him. He felt weary beyond even his age. "Please tell His Majesty that I will not be able to attend him tonight?"

Perchance Caspian would not even notice, for Drinian had heard there was to be another ball that eve. The third one for that week and Drinian had attended none of them. The messenger nodded and left him there, with his hands in the dirt and his breeches covered in much the same.

He had failed once more.

For his search for Rilian had once more been in vain.

He would be a man by now, never more the youth that Drinian had known – a young knight barely turned two-score and filled with such laughter and joy. He'd been a handsome lad, with eyes like his mother and the face of his father; the very image of royalty. And Drinian had failed him, first when he'd allowed him to be taken by the woman when he'd known, he had known that something was wrong. And he had failed him once more, having not been able to find him.

He knew in his bones that the prince was alive still, no matter what the others said.

Rilian was not in the north, that he knew. The Ettinsmoor and the Wild Lands of the North, those he had searched. His mind was more than sure there was no where else he could look in the north. He shook his head, as for a moment the edge of his vision tinged with a deep blue mist, as if something were encroaching upon his mind. A pair of sapphire blue eyes and bright auburn hair danced through his mind, but he could not focus upon the face. But once he had shaken his head, his vision cleared, and the image was gone and try as he might he could not recall it.

His age was definitely creeping up upon him, he thought with a sigh.

But he was not quite ready to give up the search.

He had years in him still.

And then the sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see a group of knights, ostentatious in their silver armour and red cloaks. They moved as one, their footsteps perfectly in sync. Through the rows of unruly flowers, amid the flowering bushes they stalked, faces stern.

So, they are here for me.

There was no other reason for the Knights of Narnia to visit such a place of peace.

Hazel eyes fixated upon Drinian's face as they approached, the colour making them seem far warmer than the glint within them.

He had watched these new knights train under their new Knight Commander. Their swords had flashed, the ballad of blade hitting blade had rung throughout the hall, an orchestra he hadn't realised he had forgotten the sound to. It had been as if they were dancing; their weapons an extension of their bodies, blades cutting through the air.

And what a sight it had been.

He did not doubt that Sir Dustan had skill with a blade, and he did not doubt that he was skilled in training the other knights. But there was something that Drinian could not quite put his finger on that he did not like. And Drinian had learnt long ago to trust his instincts about the character of others.

"Our illustrious advisor, kneeling in the dirt like commonfolk. Not so grand now, old man." It was not Dustan who spoke, but the knight to his right – another stranger to Drinian and to Court. But the Knight Commander did nothing to dissuade the knight's words.

"Throw me your sword and perhaps we shall see how you fair against a mere advisor." He brushed off his breeches and stood, taking longer than he would have liked. It was not the unnamed knight that Drinian directed the words at. And he raked his eyes up the form of Sir Dustan, from his perfectly polished boots to the wide sweep of his shoulders, to the multiple braids that kept his pretty sandy curls off his face.

Dustan, Knight Commander of Narnia, assumed Heir to the Throne, snorted. "I am not fool enough to give you a blade, Lord Drinian." And his expression, as he looked down his nose at the older man, put Drinian in mind of a shrew. "You might accidentally fall upon it."

Yes, he could admire the way the young man fought. But that was the extent of his admiration. He did not like the arrogant knight. Exactly what had Caspian been thinking?

There was nothing in the greenhouse that he could wield, unless he was swift enough to snap one of the branches of the small trees. But they were too small, too supple and that would not do.

"The dirt suits you, my lord."

Had they come just to taunt him?

"Why, thank you." He would not be bested, not by these knights.

Dustan snarled, taking a step forwards. To yell? To intimidate? Drinian would never know, for the knight at his side simply touched his arm and he stilled. Drinian smiled. In those snarling hazel eyes he could practically read his thoughts, they were screaming. How he would have loved to run his blade through the 'old man'.

"Sir Dustan, it is time to change patrols," another knight said. A woman, with eyes the colour of the stormy sky outside. A not so subtle attempt to diffuse the situation.

"Enjoy your day, Sir Dustan. I do hope we can talk again."

"I hope for your sake it is no time soon," the knight made no attempt to hide his displeasure, but he stepped back abruptly.

The footsteps faded, but his irritation did not.

Drinian looked up to watch as the snow fell against the high domed roof. And then he closed his eyes, listening to the dulled sound of the storm that raged beyond the glass.

Why had Dustan sought him out?

What had he wanted to accomplish?

Surely they'd not made the trek to the glass garden simply to taunt him.

But Drinian was not entirely surprised; not when the knight had the emotional depth of a child and manners only a little better than a babe. Indeed, he had met children who were far more mildly mannered than the Knight Commander.

Or…had they simply been making sure he was no longer looking for the king's son?

To ensure that he was staying in the Cair.

And that, more than anything else told Drinian that he had to leave. He had to find Rilian. Narnia could not be left in the hands of Sir Dustan.

And so, Drinian would look beyond Narnia's borders.

…

Harfang Castle.

Emerylda.

She did not shift her form immediately, even as the giant-hounds barked in response to the bells that were still tolling in the distance. The Bells of Harfang. She let the sparse sunlight soak into her scales, allowing herself just that moment even as her serpent eyes observed the bodies that littered the ground.

She flickered her tongue out.

There was no life in those bodies, though the blood had not yet stopped seeping into the ground.

Five in total.

Witches.

Who had sought to encroach upon the giant's land. So, in a show of good faith, she taken care of them, exactly as she said she would. First, she had numbed their minds with the magic of her enchantments, making them docile, making them forget why they were there. And then she had shifted her form, into that of a great serpent.

The magic that rippled from them had tickled across her skin, like the warm glow from a fire she was standing an inch too close too. But their magic was nothing compared to hers, even as diminished as it was.

And there was no cure for her venom, and it delivered a swift and painful death.

It had been too easy, over far too soon.

Her heart was not even racing by the time the life left the body of the last witch.

She had almost wished they had put up more of a fight; then she wouldn't need the sun to warm her.

She tasted the air again.

The giants approached.

She shifted once more, regained her form, her green dress clinging to her form as tail became legs and arms, and she righted herself as her senses changed again. Her hair, dark auburn locks unbound, fell down her back. Her dress was perhaps the most simple she owned, but like Sapphyre's cloak, it was from their home-world, spun with magic and thread that mimicked the colour of her eyes.

There were no wrinkles, but she smoothed her skirts out, happy that there was no blood splattered upon her person.

Only upon the ground.

Deep red splattered upon dirt and rock.

Queen Haliria arrived first with the hounds, surprise upon her face.

And her little pet trailed behind her, not even trying to tug against the golden chain. As the queen silenced the hound and barked orders herself for her men to check the bodies, the captive witch turned his dark eyes upon Emerylda, rage burning in them.

"Kin-killer," he hissed, pitched low so the giants would not hear him. "You could have let them pass."

Emerylda laughed, a pearl of laughter at odds with the situation around them. She had never pretended to be anything other than what she was. "You are mistaken. For no witch of Narnia is my kin," she smiled, the taste of the blood of his kin still fresh on her tongue.

"You would fit right in amongst the cut-throats of Archenland or Calormene."

Emerylda blinked.

Oh, well that was an interesting idea.

…

The city around Cair Paravel.

Diamande.

Lord Drinian was gone once more, and the whispers of the Court said that he had intensified his search for the lost prince. But outwards Sir Dustan had not let it affect him; he did not let it show that the whispers said it was because the kings most loyal advisor did not trust him. And Diamande knew the knight was surely enraged, for the advisors actions made people doubt him and his abilities. For if he trusted him, why would he continue to search for the long-dead prince Rilian?

So instead, the Knight Commander distracted the Court whilst he tightened his hold upon Narnia's Knights. With celebrations, with feasts where they could lose themselves in their cups and in the skirts of the women that Dustan brought into the Cair.

Diamande found himself looking outside of the Court for answers; and that morning had found him in the city that surrounded the Cair, at the markets. For the people of the Cair had taken advantage of the lack of snowfall and though it was cold still, they braved the winter air.

The crowd had a life of its own, vibrant silk shining in the early morning sunlight, the people moving like enchanting shoals of fish. The Market Square was alive. Diamande paused at this stall and that, knowing there wasn't anything he would purchase. He listened to the chatter between sellers and buyers, haggling prices. He listened to the murmurs and the whispers, that the lower city had flood again, that the Narnia was going to ruin for the prince was gone and the king would surely pass soon.

He blended in with the crowd, moving any which way fancy took him.

A florist, somewhere amongst the semi-permanent stalls – for the heady scent of flowers drifted throughout the people. And here and there, the spark of magic, the tingle that prickled down the back of his neck.

There was a smile upon his face, as the people flowed like rivers, or in fact more akin to the canals that ran through the city. He wish he'd been born with the gift of a painter. For on that refreshing winter day, the alleys and the stalls of the city held the hues of artistic dreamtime, soft and somehow bold pastels.

The narrow avenues were lined with sparse trees, their branches naked to the winters cold, reaching towards the weak sunlight. The buildings grew skyward, like the great trees of the northern forests. It was a beautiful image, one of joy and happiness.

He watched everything as he walked, humming a merry tune, bowing his head at the ladies who wiggled their fingers at him through the open windows, with the shutters thrown wide. They did not may him much heed, however, for they did not know his face and he wore only a simple cloak over his nondescript clothing.

And though those ladies, with their sparkling eyes and scandalously low bodice's, were not as refined as the women of the Court, their hair not curled to perfect; there was something precious in their smiles. Something real in their laughter as they called out to each other through those open windows.

He felt a smile twitching on his lips.

And then he heard it. Over the laughter and noise.

A haunting song that rolled through the streets in sorrowful waves and almost unbidden, he followed it. Swells of power rose up in that voice, and he couldn't even discern the words. Her voice was music and grace, and the haunting feeling that her voice was carried by pain, her hand pressed to her heart where she stood on the street corner.

The melody poured out, piercing through, and engulfing his entire being.

She need not need words, he realised, and he watched as each passer-by stopped, enraptured. To listen. Though some very clearly had places to be, even the knights who paused in their patrol, watched her with rapt adoration. She wore a hood, her face cast into shadow. But he did not need to see her face to know her pain. Hers was a timeless tale of heartbreak.

It was a song he'd not heard since he'd come to that land so many years passed.

Who was she?