Cressida's whole world is one frozen prison.
The land of Narnia was long ago plunged into eternal winter by the White Witch, Jadis Queen of Narnia. The powerful sorceress who stole Cressida from her home and her people. Cressida is little more than...
When I finally release the hold on the magic, I let us drift softly to the ground, my knees nearly buckling as I adjust to the feeling of solid ground.
"I've never felt anything like that." Peter smiles.
"I don't even remember the last time my magic obeyed like that; with the winter, it's been like coaxing a weasel out of its burrow, that was like falling, swept away on a current."
"You're incredible."
I look at Peter, unsure what to say next, though my smile doesn't drop. He brushes his thumb over the back of my hand, and a thrill like electricity shoots down my spine. I could stay here suspended in time forever, it's so still, so quiet.
But it's not to be. A shiver runs down my spine this time, and I know something's wrong.
"It's her." I breathe.
"What?" Peter asks, his voice faltering as though snapped out of a trace.
"Peter, it's the witch, she's coming."
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We wait lined up to the left of Aslan's tent. A line of Jadis' soldiers stretches as far as the eye can see, the witch herself carried at the front of the procession, seated on an iron throne.
"Jadis, the Queen of Narnia," Ginarrbrik calls in his grating raspy voice. "Empress of the Lone Islands."
His helmet shines in the bright sun, and despite the heat, he still wears his fur coat. His proclamation is met with jeers and discontent from Aslan's Narnians while Jadis' soldiers snarl.
The witch's throne is placed on the grass, flattening the earth beneath its weight. Jadis stands, and her half-giant blood lets her tower menacingly over the crowd. She's even taller than some of the female centaurs.
"You have a traitor in your midst, Aslan." Jadis coos.
I can see Edmund bristle in my peripheral vision while Peter tenses his shoulder, hand around the hilt of his sword.
"His offence was not against you." Aslan remarks, quieting the murmurs of the crowd.
"Have you forgotten the laws on which Narnia was built?"
"Do not cite the deep magic to me, witch," Aslan growls, pawing the ground. "I was there when it was written."
"Then you'll remember well that every traitor belongs to me. His blood is my property." Jadis looks down at her nose at the great lion.
"Try and take him then." Peter says, drawing his sword effortlessly as he steps before his siblings.
It may be a useless gesture in the face of such a force, but it's brave nonetheless.
"Do you think that mere force will deny me my right, little king," Jadis sneers. "Aslan knows that unless I have blood, as the law demands, all of Narnia will be overturned and perish in fire and water; that boy," she turns a long slender finger to Edmund, "will die on the stone table. As is tradition. You dare not refuse me."
