chapter 13

                                    

                                          
Chapter 13
It's Been A Long, Long Time
The world can change completely in 1300 years. Narnia certainly did. Only one fixture of their history remained mystically stagnant. The stone walls around her eroded and moss crept through the cracks of what had become her temple, but Lady Dahlia Fey was untouched by time. Phases of the moon passed over her even though she could not see them. Her sometimes silver eyes of the ancient stories remained shut.
As time preserved Dahlia, it too preserved the offerings made at her altar. Hundreds of paintings and tapestries had been made of her de-aged body floating in a honey-yellow riding dress. Piles of new gowns, blouses, and trousers surrounded the base of the Stone Table. Undying candles flickered around Dahlia in memory of her radiance. Straw dolls of her likeness had their own section. Red and orange yarn was sewn onto the hands to represent fire. A sliver of the silver moon was often painted on the doll's clothing.
A large portion of the offerings were from Maeve Blackwood. She had been the keeper of the sleeping mage since before Aslan's How was constructed. The last quarter of her life drew her shrouded in black at the foot of the Stone Table. Her largest basket of gifts was now covered in her lace mourning veil. Now that her ashes belonged to the sea, she no longer had need of it.
Maeve was among the first generation of faithful Narnians who worshipped Dahlia as a deity of old. Through millennia of rises and falls, many creatures still believed that Dahlia would awaken to save them. A fair number were more cynical. They had good reason to be. Narnia fell to Telemarine rule after the end of the Golden Age. Cair Paravel was destroyed and many records of the ancient days were lost. Narnians were forced underground, hoping that their mage would survive the age of darkness.
And so she did. Without the need to eat, drink, bathe, or do anything but breathe, Dahlia remained undisturbed in the How. For those 1300 years, Dahlia's beloved Narnia fell to ruin without her knowledge. She never moved. She never dreamed. Until one night, when deep within the forest, the lost horn of Queen Susan the Gentle was blown, and the mage's mind woke up.
***
Dahlia sat up in a field of flowers. A full silver moon cast the blooms in a ghostly light. She basked in the glow of her familiar companion and dug her fingers into the grass. None of the earth's magic rose to greet her. Dahlia looked at her hands. They bore the same unnatural glass-like appearance of the flowers. "This is a dream, isn't it?"
"Wise as always," Aslan rumbled beside her, "even after a thousand years." He curled up among the flowers with the grace of a much smaller cat. For a beast so great, his intrusion in Dahlia's mind did not alarm her. She had known he would come. He'd promised he would when the time was right. This moment had taken longer to arrive than Dahlia realized.
"A thousand years?" she echoed.
"Since the kings and queens left Narnia for their world. Your soul could not manage the distance. They have returned, now, for a noble purpose. The five of you have been called to reclaim your kingdom."
"Called by who?" Dahlia clutched fistfuls of her skirt. "Reclaim it from what? Who has taken Narnia?"
"Patience. There is naught to be done from here, but I can show you what you ask." Aslan moved his regal head closer. His breath fanned Dahlia's face. 1300 years of history was displayed like a gallery in her mind. Her shrinking from thirty-two to seventeen and the dryads carrying her away. Maeve overseeing the construction of the How, dying at the altar of her closest link to motherhood, and being committed to the sea. A gruesome slaughter of Narnians by Telemarine invaders. Their destruction of her beloved Cair Paravel. Years of tyrannical rule, a brief stab at peace by King Caspian IX, and his sudden demise. The conniving cruelty of his brother, Lord Miraz, and the birth of his son. Miraz's attempt on his nephew's life and the prince's desperate cry to the ancient guardians in the woods.
Aslan and the field slid back into focus. A glassy teardrop rolled down Dahlia's cheek. Her home, the world she and the Pevensies had tended to for years, was gone because her prophecy-bound soul kept her in chains. The protection of Narnia was their one duty. Though the Pevensies' departure was not intended, it had caused them to fail. The great lion lifted Dahlia's face with one massive paw. "No tears, child. What's done is done. You and the Pevensies did not abandon Narnia out of malice, but because of fate. You know it well. What matters now is the prince. He waits for you at the Dancing Lawn where a group of your people need a push towards his cause. Go to him."
"But–"
"The kings and queens will come to you in time. They are in good hands." He nodded to her necklace. "You would know if they weren't. Safe travels, Dahlia. This is where I leave you."
***
Dahlia jolted awake in mid-air. She drifted down to sit on the Stone Table and squinted into the faint candlelight her people had left for her. Her dress draped over the cracked platform, a golden splash on the dark stone. The crumbled remnants of columns surrounded her resting place. Every wall of this circular shrine was carved with Narnian creatures. Aslan's glorious likeness was the largest among them.
The mage slid off the table. Her riding boots landed beside a basket draped with black lace. It was all that remained of Maeve. Dahlia curled up beside it and gathered the fabric in her arms. Narnia had mourned her for centuries. Surely it could spare a moment for Maeve. The image of her, hunched and wrinkled before the Stone Table, was haunting. Dahlia's only solace was that the woman had died here and not in the siege of Cair Paravel.
A small leather pouch rested at the top of Maeve's basket. Dahlia recognized it as her own traveling stash of dried herbs. She sifted through the magically preserved leaves for peppermint and set a few on her tongue. The sharp sweetness was revitalizing, though they reminded her of the homemade mint tea Maeve used to brew. Dahlia pressed the veil to her lips and set it aside.
Heartbeats to her had been ages for her people, and there were mounds of gifts to be sorted through. They would have to wait. Dahlia exchanged her old riding dress for a crimson one Maeve had left her. She traced the gold details on the waist and neckline where her caretaker's gentle fingers had worked. The black lace veil caught her eye. Dahlia fastened it around her shoulders like a cloak with a gold lion pin from another admirer. When she reached up to smooth her hair, she felt the sturdy gold vines of her crown. She wondered where the other four had ended up.
She strapped on her sword that had been propped against the Stone Table. Its familiar weight on her back grounded her. Her brown leather boots were still in good condition, so she did not bother changing them. Dahlia flexed her fingers. She pulled at the musty air in the How. Her tokens of worship were wrapped in a gentle breeze and piled in the corner to be revisited later. For now, she had to seek out the prince.
Murals lined the walls out of the How. Dahlia stopped at one of the coronations. The four Pevensies stood tall before their thrones. She held her position, as she always had, between Peter and Susan's seats. White and grey brushstrokes joined over their heads to depict the arches of Cair Paravel. At least something remained in memory of its beauty.
Dahlia could have lingered there until she grew roots in the cracked earth and let the How reclaim her. Prince Caspian pulled her away. He was a boy no older than her, alone in the woods with a band of Narnians oppressed by his people. If the Pevensies would not reach him soon, Dahlia would have to. Surely an endorsement from the mage of old could take a few blades off the prince's throat.
The mage broke out into a run. Normally her muscles would have groaned in protest. Now they rejoiced at moving for the first time in 1300 years. Dahlia faltered when she burst through the How's stone archway. Dusk spared her eyes from straining. She opened her arms to the Deep Magic and felt it ripple through her with the warm evening breeze. Sheer wings sprouted from her back. She took three long steps and launched into the air.