well behaved women

Buried Queens
Chpt. 3

Susan Pevensie has been living alone in London since her siblings died, alone with her grief and determination. She's long since abandoned childish fantasies, but her recent dreams of a great lion give her comfort where nothing else does. And then she is catapulted into Narnia again; but a very, very different Narnia indeed.

Two chapters in one day. Call it a Christmas present!



The long tunnel of trees that snaked up along the back of the curve of the rocky bluff was hard to find but easy to travel along, the dirt road hard-beaten and only rarely interrupted by the protrusion of roots arching up from the ground. Around it was completely surrounded by thick trucks and heavy knotted fans of thorns and branches, cutting off light from the sides, only a gentle dappling of golden light drifting in from above, between the thick canopy. Her feet caked with mud, she moved in a rush, nearly running up the slope. She'd plunged the umbrella into the branches when she first came into the corridor and now ran holding only her high heels, leaping over roots and catching herself occasionally on tree trunks.

Straight up to the rocks and out, she ran across the brief open space and then plunged down, into the Eastern woods. If the Narnian armies were sequestered here they would not be in the narrow spike of stone that barred the first path through. They would be in the bee's-hive network of deep caves in the foothills and against the sides of the line spine of mountains.

When she reached the forest proper she had to slow. Even without any booby traps that might have been set, this was a treacherous place, full of sink holes, unexpected pits, burrows, slopes and caves. The air hummed with life, something that should have been welcome, but the eyes of the trees on her, if that was what it was, felt ominous instead of comforting. A threat.

Susan caught sight of the first sign, marked pale against the dark of the drunk, overhung by moss, when she was circling around the telltale sweep of leaves, a little too even to have fallen in layers. A booby trap, clearly, but not visible from horseback and therefore still useful.

She hesitated, then left it behind. It was too old to be of any use to her.

But the next one was just as old, bark already growing over the broad, camouflaged sweep of the symbol for broached territory. Susan stared at it, the skin on the back of her neck beginning to prickle, and stopped hurrying, instead examining trees, ground, stone and plants for those signs.

All of them old. Some of them so old she could only barely recognize them, like a dialect of a language might evolve. The oldest were simplest ones, like territory and poor hunting, and those that used military symbols were still far too old to be current. She marked areas that were marked over, some that had been lost and then won again, warnings and messages and directions to a camp she was now sure was long gone under a commander whose name she did not recognize.

There were no Narnian insurgents in these woods. Or at least none that communicated. It could be they were trapped, as they had been in Aslan's How, with no need to communicate with marks outside of their camp.

Her skin was crawling full force by now, an uneasy writhe of fear down the back of her neck.

But she still pushed on, following a trail she recognized dimly. She hadn't often ridden or travelled deeply into this area; most often they came onto this land when the darker of Narnia's folk were breaking the laws of Cair Paravel, and when the circumstances allowed it Susan had preferred to stay within Cair Paravel's walls rather than plunge herself into the meat and grief of the battlefield.

But she remembered it as beautiful and it was still beautiful, this path, though much wilder.

Wildflowers sprawled over the remnants of a trail, thick green grass providing a more giving carpet; some grass could be as raspingly unpleasant as stone, but this was soft and forgiving and she wiggled her toes in it, bending her head forward and breathing in deeply so that the scent of the woods filled her up with the smallest measure of peace.

The trees rose tall around her, and a climbing rose twined around a fallen one, blooming heavy and pink with gold-tipped petals. In some areas the plants did not pay attention to the constraints of season and traditional habitat. She found mushrooms in the shelter of the same fallen tree, but they were poisonous and she didn't have the time to stop and make a meal anyway.

Susan moved on. If she remembered right, this should lead to an opening in two rock walls that led through to--

There had, unmistakably, once been such a opening to slip through. But as the ages had betrayed Peter's memory, it had betrayed hers, and an avalanche had long ago buried the path, so long ago that small hardy trees had begun to take root in the dangerous tumble of stone. Susan froze, staring at it in dismay, and backed away slowly, blindly feeling for the way out.

Trapped.

Hoofbeats stopped her. Evidently she'd beaten the Telmarine soldier, but not by enough. She wheeled and directed her eyes desperately back up the slope. There--where the rocks had fallen from, there was an evening out and a group of trees that went on for sometime and fanned out on either side before sloping back down to the forest floor. It would hide her, if she could clamber up the slope fast enough to reach it.

She shuddered at the thought of getting caught halfway up, winced at the thought of relinquishing the softness of the grass, and reached the edge of the stones in barely a moment.

Her feet skidded more than once, and she was afraid one of those times that she might have torn a nail entirely away, but she couldn't bear to look and wasn't wiling to stop. The young trees eking out life among the rocks served as that she could pull herself onto and stretch up off of, bracing herself. A burst of pure fear drove her up the last length, and, panting, she reached even ground and the twilight shadows of the trees.

Susan backed behind the trunk, listening to the hoofbeats and almost catching a glint of sunlight of off armor, right before hard arms closed around her from behind like steel bands.

Instinct drove an elbow back, but it clipped off mail, sending a spike of pain up her arm, and she forced herself still as the rider came further toward the avalanche, frowning slightly--it was visible even from here, under his helmet--and seeming to search for something. Had he seen her? Or was he simply looking for the insurgents.

The man behind her, warm bare hand over her lips, didn't signal him. He couldn't be a Telmarine, then, so he must be one of their foes.

Human foes? But who?

Dragging her back, even deeper, he took one arm from her waist and lifted it, beginning to signal to someone. She didn't recognize the hand movements she could catch from a corner of her eye, but that didn't mean much. She could, however, guess. What she'd come to prevent was going on under her nose.

Susan sank her teeth into his hand.

That brought her a hissed curse in a language she didn't understand, and she hurriedly released his flesh as he tore his hand away. Before he could gut her or knock her out, she whispered rapidly, "if you kill him, they'll know you're here."

At least she knew he wasn't signalling anymore; the arm was back around her body in case she tried to run. But he'd obviously heard her; he'd frozen, and was holding her too tightly.

"If the soldier doesn't return in a day, his compatriot will go to a General with the location," she relayed quickly, still as low as her voice could manage. "They were talking in the gorge. You mustn't kill him."

She was holding her breath. His grip loosened, but only fractionally, and she thought the silence might be considering. They watched the horseman turn his mount and ride back slowly, watching the trees, and her captor pulled her with him as they tracked him, her feet moving in a quiet awkward shuffle, he making no noise at all.

If she wasn't mistaken, by the time he was finally allowed out of their eyesight, he looked--upset. Disappointed, even.

And the man holding her had not given the order to shoot. Her breath whooshed out in shaky relief.

Before she could relax or even properly get her footing, she was being dragged backward. He kept her in front of him and marched through the trees and into a half-concealed cave mouth, where light quickly became virtually nonexistent. He slowed at this point, though she suspected it was out of courtesy for her, since she was limping and nearly tripped twice. The tunnel curved perceptibly after a while, and he followed it, guiding her with a steely grip on her shoulder. He moved so quietly her only way of knowing he was still there was his hand on her and the warmth of his breath against the back of her neck when she slowed too much and he stepped too close.

After a few moments the dim, cautious flicker of torchlight protruded on the shadows. And barely moments after that, they emerged into weak sunlight and a camp of grim-faced men. One was bent over with his hands on his knees, out of breath.

And they were--distinctly, clearly, and obviously--all Telmarines.

"My Lord," an older, scarred soldier said with that distinct accent. "What has happened?"

"A woman has penetrated our patrols," announced a voice so familiar she was left reeling, and she was shoved to the ground. Susan twisted over onto her elbows to stare up at Caspian the tenth, who had one hand on his sword and a cold, dark stare directed at her.

"Caspian?" She said incredulously.

In a split second his sword was at her throat, and a great deal of others were at least half drawn. One of the soldiers gave a soft hiss of surprise.

"An explanation is certainly in order," Caspian said softly, no recognition at all in his face. Rather than the armor and loose white shirt he'd worn during their war, he wore close-fitting clothing that was a dusky gray, nearly black, and his hair brushed its collar. His teeth showed in a mirthless wolf's smile. "You have me at a disadvantage, my lady. Who are you?"

Oh, no.