The Heartland. Atlantis.
2792.
End of the Reign of Emperor Beril and Empress Opallyne.
Sapphyre.
The clang of metal on metal and anguished cries echoed through the rubble-strewn streets as commoners-turned-solders clashed with the trained men of the Lords. Smoke from the burning market district drifted on the wind, stinging Sapphyre's eyes as she surveyed the carnage from above.
Shifting mid-flight, she landed beside Emerylda atop the crumbling stone wall, her once-fine cloak tattered and stained with mud.
Smoke rose from the Palace, where their forces had breached the gates at dawn.
She gripped the bow handed to her tightly, knuckles white beneath her gloves. Never before had her cloak felt so heavy upon her shoulders.
The Lords and their own men had sided with the Emperor and Empress; the Knights and the commonfolk stood with Emerylda and Sapphyre. But that was not how they had intended. Brother fighting brother, countryman against countryman. The realm torn asunder by petty lords grasping for the power they did not want to lose to a Challenge – an outdated tradition, they said. For they knew the sisters would strip them of their land and their jewels and their gold
And their words did not change when their parents fell in the ensuing battle, both Emperor Beril and Empress Opallyne were found dead, crushed beneath the weight of a fallen pillar. Together even in death, clutching hands as they'd tried to flee their attackers, their crowns and rings stolen.
And as the streets ran red with blood, Diamande stepped into their place, the Lords rallying behind him.
And it was not long before Emerylda and Diamande had found themselves face to face upon the banks of the River of Jewels.
…
Harfang.
2352.
49th Year of the Reign of King Caspian X.
Emerylda.
"You wish to use my little witchling?" The giant queen chortled, her rings glinting in the light cast by the torches.
"Yes," Emerylda did not elaborate, but she was a hairs-breadth from unleashing her fury. Sapphyre had been taken. Her sister had been taken. Her Champion. Her sister. Her fingers twitched, clenched fists hidden by the voluminous folds of her riding gown. The fire she called in her rage did not burn as hot as Sapphyre's, but it would not be difficult to melt off the face of the smug giant 'queen', to turn that gaudy crown to molten gold and have it sear her face.
She could not scry, it was one of the lesser magics she had not bothered with.
Haliria pulled on that thin gold chain and her little pet witch stumbled forward, a bitter scowl upon his face. "Go on, pet. Find what it is that the Emerald Lady has lost."
Emerylda forced a smile. "I thank you, your majesty."
And then it seemed as if the queen cared not at all for her little pet, for she dropped the chain at Emerylda's feet and then dismissed them with naught but a wave of her hand.
"Find her," Emerylda's tone was cold.
The witch glared at her, his dark eyes looked as if they could burn a hole in her mind. But then they flickered behind her to where the queen sat. "Do you have something of hers, witch-slayer?"
It was a single blue feather – that she had always worn on a chain around her neck – that she placed in front of him.
And then she could not see his magic at work, but she could feel it. She could feel it in the prickle along her skin, in that oily feeling in her mind, and if she were trying to wade through thick, viscous mud. And time suspended between them – stretching, expanding.
"Something, someone, blocks my vision." There was frustration upon his face, a scowl that deepened by the moment, though Emerylda knew his gaze was not upon her. For those dark eyes had glazed over, his iris's had taken on a milky hue.
He was seeing something else, somewhere else.
Or trying to.
Useless.
And she was a fool for thinking a weak little thing like him could help her.
Fury ran through her, like a flash-fire. It would be so easy to shift into her serpent form and sink her fangs into that soft skin, or to envelop his mind in her mist and capture everything that made him him. Useless.
"She's been taken by a witch."
What?
What had Sapphyre told her all those moons passed? That the witches were gathering to the Far West?
"I can track her, but I would need to use more traditional means. I would need to go with you."
And so, in short work, Emerylda convinced the Giant Queen to relinquish her little pet. She'd laid on thick the flattery, the praise and the queen had quickly acquiesced, though with the warning that the witch was a tricky one.
Emerylda looked across at him, the rainfall falling upon his head.
He would not betray her.
She'd left the golden chain with the giant queen, her mist pressing upon his mind instead.
"I can feel you, witch-slayer," his hiss was uncomfortable, flinching as she tightened her hold slightly.
She had no qualms working with one so unsavoury if it got her sister back.
"King Titius was questioning me about you," he was trying to get her to open up, to fall into whatever trap he haphazardly attempting to lay. "About fire magic and what it looks like. About what sort of magic burns its victims."
Emerylda scoffed.
He would have to try far harder than that.
She did not even look at him as she answered, holding the reigns of Snowflake loosely. "I would never use such unrefined magic."
Elias – the witch – chuckled. "I did not think it was you. Yours is not the only magic in these lands."
Emerylda glanced at him sidelong.
Her own fire did not burn as flames.
Was there another witch in the north who dared to show their power?
…
Unknown.
Sapphyre.
It was a heavy throbbing that Sapphyre awoke to, her head aflame. And then as she forced herself to focus and open her eyes, she became aware of multiple things at once.
One. Her mouth was gagged with something that burnt the back of her throat and bought tears to her eyes. A poison of sorts, she surmised.
Two. Her wrists and legs were bound, by some sort of chain.
Three. Rilian was unconscious, his head lolling about. He was bound, just as she was, though with cloth it seemed.
And four. They were in a wagon, the light filtering through the rug that served as some sort of door, they were stationary, and she had no idea how much time had passed.
Where were they?
They'd been travelling for a few days – perhaps somewhere in the Western Wilds, or perhaps even beyond, for her sense of both direction and time were quite off-kilter. And she remembered only parts of the journey. Being fed a watery soup from a cracked, wooden ladle. A brush of skirt here and there.
But she could not bring to mind the faces of their captors.
She snarled, a guttural sound in the back of her throat emerging around the gag.
She felt trapped.
Her magic thrashing against the chains that bound her.
She could not shift her shape.
She could not bring forth her magic.
She was trapped.
And then darkness swept over her once more, that acrid stench filling her nose.
When she woke again, groggily at first, it was bound to a chair. Light pierced her eyes for the sky ahead was cloudless, the sun was high in the sky, though the air was brisk with winters kiss still.
It was a chair of silver that she was bound to, and she could feel the magic in it. She could feel it by the prickling along her neck and the heat that coursed through her veins.
The old ruins were the kind of grey that spoke of doves, and of sun-warmed seals. Between the crumbling walls, tents had been pitched. As brightly coloured as the rug that had served as the door to the wagon where she'd been bound.
They were ruins that she'd not explored.
And the stark trees did not speak of harsh sunlight and sands.
The ruins of the ancient witch city then, to the far west. Beyond the wilds and beyond the slumbering fire mountains.
Rilian was beside her, bound and gagged just as she; relief washing over his features as he registered that she had awakened and had some of her wits about her. A quick examination showed he had no injuries beyond the mottling bruise at his temple, and a cut on his upper lip. She surmised that the deep shadows under his eyes were echoed on her own.
Satisfied he was not in any immediate danger; she turned her gaze to the crowd assembled before them.
A ring of people, male and female both, all watching them. There was a ring of people around them, all watching them. A mixture of curiosity and rage, all fixated upon the two of them. Hair and skin of all colours, and Sapphyre would bet that if she could reach out with her own magic, she would sense that power in all of them.
Witches.
And then one of them stepped forth, a pretty thing with summer blue eyes, dressed in a gown of patchwork silks. But that pretty face was twisted with a sneer and burning hatred.
The gag was ripped from her mouth and Sapphyre drew in a shuddering breath, the burning in the back of her mouth still.
"You do not look well, murderess."
Coughing, Sapphyre snarled at her. If only she could shift. If only she could reach her magic. "And you would look better with a closed mouth, witch."
"You will pay for what the Emerald Witch did to my coven-sisters in the north," and with those words, Sapphyre's heart sunk. "You will find that those chairs channel magic. It boosts it, in a way that nothing else does."
The colour of the chair was familiar to Sapphyre, a mix between starlight and silver.
Atlantean.
Her rings were made of the same ilk.
But that knowing did not stop the burning – it did not stop the scream that tore from her throat as pain ripped through her body.
…
Cair Paravel.
Drinian.
His trip to Archenland had been pleasant, a break from the snake-pit that was Cair Paravel. He would visit the glass-garden promptly, to check upon his flowers and he wondered idly, when he would see the emerald-eyed beauty again.
The leaves in the stained-glass windows that he passed were the exact colour of her eyes, so bright and brilliant. Her hair he would see again in the fallen autumn leaves, for surely nothing else would compare. And, so lost in his thoughts he was, he was not on his guard as he entered into the Throne Room. And it was to a scene he never would have imagined in his wildest moments.
There was a woman on her knees, knuckles bloodied and bruised; the Knight Commander's sword levelled at her throat, forcing her to look at him.
And Caspian was watching it with weary eyes.
"The witch tells only lies, my King! She would have you send the knights on a fool's errand and take the Cair!" Sir Dustan's voice echoed through the room, his face twisted into a snarl.
"I have no wish for your castles or your land!" Tears were falling from ruby eyes, in a face a surrounded by short copper curls. "I cannot see another world ruined. I cannot sit by and watch them destroy Narnia!"
"What care have you for Narnia, witch?"
Drinian stepped forward, a frown upon his face. But Caspian still did not speak, barely looking upon the witch.
"My name is Rubi, knight," the tears had stopped falling, and it was as if some sort of resolve had settled over her face. She had realised that her words were not being listened to. "I was a fool to come. You cannot stop them. No one can."
Drinian found her in the dungeons later, shivering and shaking.
Either angry or cold, he could not tell.
And even when she raised her eyes to his, he did not know.
But then a weary sigh left her lips. "Her touch of magic is upon even you, my lord. I should not have come."
…
Rubi.
She was cold, and travel weary, but not angry at herself for trying. She knew that by then her witches would have Sapphyre, for she knew that if they could not stop the sisters, the next best step was to separate them.
She just needed to get out of there.
For though the witches of Narnia's magic would not work on the sisters, hers would so she had left them with some of her creations that she had been working on with Ardisia.
And then, a shadow peeled itself from the wall and a startled breath left her.
"I need your help, Priestess," he said, bowing his head to her. And her heart thudded at the title. One she had not heard in many years. "I need your help stopping my sisters."