Daggers of Ice

Chapter 1

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Arianna.

She did not smile as the spires of the Cair rose in the distance, its multitude of torches making it near-glow against the dark expanse of sky. For though those same spires inspired awe in many, always reaching for the skies, the sight of them did nothing but bring out a sneer from Arianna. For how could they live in such opulence, in such grandeur when so many of their subjects went without even a roof to cover their heads? Kings and Queens, Lords, and courtiers.

"We're here but for one thing, my Lady." It was a simple sentence that he murmured to her, but Arianna heard the warning. Do not let the anger blossom, do not let her emotions take over. There were very few who would dare to counsel her, even who would dare to utter an opinion that differed to her own; to almost scold her. It was a counsel that she valued, though they were not words that she'd utter aloud. So she stamped down the rage that simmered, as if she'd dipped those flames into the frigid waters of the North. And though it was covered by a delicate filagree mask of gold, she schooled her face into an expression of perfect indifference.

You are cold. You are ice.

He'd been hesitant when she'd revealed her plan to perform the task at hand herself.

He'd wanted to send the naiads.

He always wanted to send the naiads.

'Naiads got things done.'

And when she'd said no in a tone that brooked no argument, he'd insisted he accompany her himself. Then she had further quietened his protests when she'd informed him that her little whisperers had revealed that King Edmund the Just had not yet returned to Cair Paravel. His distaste for all things frivolous was well known and her whisperers had seen him heading South – a routine inspection of the mountainous region that bordered with Archenland. He would not return for many weeks, conveniently missing all of Queen Susan's planned festivities. And those festivities were exactly the opportunity that Arianna had been waiting for. Not even Raenor, who had stood as General of the White Witch's Army dared to oppose her completely. So the wolf watched her, amber-yellow eyes glinting in the light of the half-moon. Watching her as closely as any wolf would watch their prey.

But prey she was not.

Not to the werewolf who'd helped to train her use the daggers she wore strapped inside her gown.

He said nothing more as she urged the mare forward, a pretty thing the colour of careless seafoam. And her heat beat steady and even; a constant in the ever-changing magical land that was Narnia.

She did not smile as they approached the golden gates of Cair Paravel, but schooled her eyes into merry emeralds, shining like the stones they so perfectly mimicked. Crinkling at the corners in the way a lady of the Court would allow. And she presented the invitation, the perfectly curling gold script written by Queen Susan herself. The lady to whom it had been addressed lay in a shallow grave many leagues away; her body probably cold, the blood unmoving in her veins.

With naught but a cursory glance at her perfectly selected outfit and the wolf by her side, the faun let her inside.

And she let a small smile crack her lip.

...

Edmund.

Edmund sat in his chambers, a scowl upon his face, glaring at the mask that Susan had sat upon his dresser. Another party, another frivolity in what was naught but a string of useless displays of wealth. Susan's Season, with a capital 'S'. Chance after chance for the empty-headed courtiers to throw themselves at him – for men it was a chance to get in his ear, for women, his bed.