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bedlamsbardThis is, I suppose, a prologue of sorts to "Old Timber to New Fires" (working title), the Caspian in the Golden Age story, and refers to the incident where Peter was missing for a year and change, lost his memory, and became a Natarene mercenary. Thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
reni_m for help with the tarot aspect. Notes about Narnian playing cards can be found here. Warsverse timeline here, as always.
Edmund goes into his brother's tent on cat feet. As expected, Peter looks up when he comes in, but he looks down almost immediately, continuing his business without acknowledging Edmund.
Curious -- the maps that usually adorn the tent's dominating feature, the big, solidly built wooden table in the center, have been pushed to the sides -- Edmund approaches, drawing up a chair across from his brother.
Peter's playing cards. The deck is a Narnian one, seventy-three elaborately painted cards, but the game is unfamiliar. They're spread out in a perfect semi-circle in front of Peter, seven stacks of three cards each, with another five stacks, these with four cards, straight on the edge of the semi-circle. Another nine cards are laid out in straight lines from the top of the circle and both ends. Peter has the rest in his hand, flipping them out from the stacks in front of him and shuffling them around until all that's left are seven cards face-up in the semi-circle, the rest stacked beneath. He sweeps them up with the side of his hand and taps the deck on the edge of the table to straighten it.
"What is that?" Edmund asks.
"Eirigreine," Peter says, and then frowns, seemingly unaware of the way Edmund's fists are clenching in sudden, sharp anger. "Sunrise, in Narnian. It's easier with fifty-six cards, the way the Natarenes play it."
"Oh?" Edmund says flatly.
"Yes," Peter replies, without seeming to recognize Edmund's tone. He sets the deck aside. "What do you want?"
For a long moment Edmund doesn't answer, studying his brother's face. It's the same it's always been -- except for the new scars, the ones he didn't see Peter get. The ones Peter didn't get, but Breakneck did. "You don't remember, do you?" he asks at last.
Peter's jaw works silently, then he says, "You'll have to be more specific."
Edmund doesn't have to be; that's all the answer he needs. They'd all thought so -- but they hadn't known, not for sure. This is the closest thing to a confession they're likely to get from Peter, because he's good at pretending, better than they'd ever thought he was or could be. Before -- and now there's just "before" and "after" -- Edmund would never have guessed that Peter could lie the way he's been lying to them the past seven months. He's not sure even he could keep up a disguise for that long.
The words hang in the air between them. Edmund watches the heat rise to Peter's cheeks, but his brother doesn't look away. It's Edmund who does that at last, the faint blush of shame coloring his conviction that knowing the truth is absolutely, positively necessary. Forcing Peter to admit his weaknesses isn't something he's comfortable doing, but it's something he has to do. They need to know if the High King they're entertaining is Peter of Narnia -- or Breakneck the Natarene merc wearing a mask.
"It doesn't matter," Peter says, his voice rough. He speaks Narnian without an accent. His Eschmoun is likewise perfect. "I know who I am."
"Do you?" Edmund asks.
For an answer, Peter holds out his hands. Narnia's signet -- an engraved ruby set in gold -- gleams on his left ring fingers, with his own personal seal -- gold and rubies again -- matching it on the right. "I know," he says.
Edmund closes his fists beneath the table, where Peter can't see. I don't know, Susan had told him in her study, her voice panicked. It's him, but I don't know if he's -- if he can -- but there's no one else.
Peter never used to be this good of a liar.
"Don't look at me like that," Peter says sharply. "I know who you are, I know who Lu and Su are, and I know who I am."
"That's not enough," Edmund tells him, his voice quiet. "Out there --" he waves at the entrance to the tent, "-- they all think you're the King of Summer, that you're Peter Bittersteel, that you're High King Peter the Magnificent. If you're not --" He hesitates, then says it flat-out. "If you're not, it's their lives you're playing with."
Peter slams his fist down on the table, making the cards jump and scatter. "God damn it, Ed!" he snarls. "I know who the hell I am. It's been seven months, seven months of you and the girls treating me like glass, seven months of all Cair Paravel tiptoeing around me and trying to abuse the privilege of having the High King back on his throne. What the hell does it take, little brother, interpretive dance? Or would that have the opposite effect, because I might use a Natarene step, and where would Narnia be then? I was there for more than a a year; I'm not going to go back to being who I used to be just because I remember who that is. Things change. Would it help if I sent out heralds proclaiming that fact?"
"No," Edmund says slowly, reaching out across the table to straighten the cards. "But that outburst might."
On a whim, he spreads out the first seven cards on the top of the deck face-down in front of Peter. It's not a reader's deck like Gaesa Ganting taught him on, but she'd also taught him how to read from any deck of cards.
Peter eyes him warily. "I'd forgotten you did that," he says, suddenly uneasy. "Second from the left," he adds, reluctantly, and Edmund flips the card over.
"Three of Axes," he says after a minute where he has to stop and count cards, comparing the deck in front of him to the one he'd learned on. "War and conflict."
"I could have told you that," Peter grumbles. "Third from the right."
"Maiden of Stones," Edmund says. "That's subtle," he adds sarcastically. "Any reason you're so jumpy? You never used to care."
"Things change," Peter says again. "First on the right. Ossian and I and some of the 'Hawks went out one night, when we were over the border in Salicar. There was a bone reader there."
"Nine of Stars -- er, that's the, er --" he racks his brain, trying to remember. "That's the Broken Castle. What did your Salican bone reader say?"
"Second on the right," Peter says, and runs a hand distractedly through his hair, the flicker of light in the lanterns glinting off his signet ring. "Betrayal," he says at last. "She said I'd be betrayed and my house destroyed -- but that I'd live forever. It didn't make any sense at the time."
"Seldom does," Edmund notes. "Ace of Ships. That's a journey, I think. Did you believe her?"
Peter drums his fingers on the table, expression uneasy. "Not at the time. Now, though...fourth from the right."
"Six of Arrows -- that's the Widow. Why now and not before?"
He shrugs. "Does it matter? First on the left."
"King of Axes. If I didn't think it didn't matter, I wouldn't have asked."
"You're the one who believes in this stuff, not me," Peter says. "That I remember."
Edmund turns over the last card. "Seven of Stones," he says. "The Felon --"
Peter puts his hand down over the cards. "I don't want to know," he says firmly. "I've had my future foretold often enough before, and I'd rather not know."
"Who says I was telling your future?" Edmund says.
Peter raises his eyebrows. "Isn't that what you do with these things?" he asks lightly.
"Mostly it's for answering questions," Edmund says. "Or that's what Gaesa taught me, anyway."
His brother's face darkens. "And what question exactly were you asking?" he demands.
"I wasn't," Edmund snaps back. "You picked up nervous ticks from Natare, I picked up nervous ticks from Telmar. Don't give yourself a complex or anything; you're not the only one of us who's ever left the country."
"No," Peter says, "but I was the only one who was someone else then."
Deliberately, Edmund flips out the bottom cards, face-up. The two of Stars, the ace of Stones, nine of Arrows -- the Resurrected King, eight of Stones -- the Gated Garden, the seven of Axes -- the Traitor, the Knight of Ships, the six of Ships -- the Sailor.
"Ed," Peter snarls.
Edmund sweeps the remaining cards out in front of him, face down. "Finish it," he says. "Pick one. Otherwise the story won't have an ending."
Peter sweeps the cards off the table with the side of his hand. "I don't want to know," he repeats, voice harsh.
"Maybe I do," Edmund says.
Peter shoves his chair back from the table and storms away, his back to Edmund, illuminated by the burning lanterns. He drags his hands through his thick hair, flickering light glinting off his signet rings, and speaks to the scarlet silk before him. "If we were meant to know the future," he says, "what would be the point in getting there?"
Preventing it, Edmund wants to say, but he knows better than most that the future can't be prevented, just ensured. He contents himself with keeping quiet and gathering up the cards. He turns the last one over: the seven of Stars, the Wanderer.
"Where did you learn to lie?" he asks, sitting back down and shuffling the cards absently.
Peter turns back towards him, face shadowed by the lamplight. "For the love of the Seven, Ed, I'm not fucking lying."
"Yes," Edmund says, "you are. You never used to be able to lie -- or don't you remember that?"
"I was a king, Ed, of course I knew how to lie," Peter says flatly. "Am. Am a king. Trickster damn it." He sets his jaw and glares furiously, daring Edmund to comment on it.
It's a slip, but it's not the slip Edmund was looking for, so he spreads all seventy-three of the cards out in front of him in a smooth parabola and then runs his hand over the top, flicking cards right-side up at random. The Wanderer, the ace of Ships, the Executioner, the Masked Man, the Sailor, the two of Ships, the Knight of Stones, the five of Arrows, the Dragon of Stars, the Maiden of Stones, the Broken Castle, the ace of Axes, the King of Stars, the three of Stones, and the Thief. He's reading for himself now, not Peter, and that's a lot of cards to have in common. Not in the same places, but out of seventy-three cards in the Narnian deck, that's five in common.
The Wanderer. The Ace of Ships. The Sailor. The Maiden of Stones. And the Broken Castle.
Disquieted, he sweeps the cards back up and shuffles them again before straightening the deck and putting it off to the side, glancing up to see Peter looking up at him.
"Bad news?" he asks.
"Thought you didn't believe in this," Edmund replies, pushing his chair back so he can stretch his legs.
Peter shrugs.
"I don't," he says, and Edmund can see on his face that he's lying through his teeth. At least that's something like the Peter he knew once. The believing, though...that's not.
The bells on the outside of the tent jangle before he can call Peter on it, and Peter says, patient and unhurried, "Yes?"
Ziazan, captain of the Zohar troop of centaurs from the High Reaches in the North, pulls back the flap and says, "Majesty, all is prepared. We are ready to move at your command."
"Good," Peter says. "I'll be out there in a few minutes."
Ziazan bows his head solemnly to Peter, again to Edmund, and then backs out of the tent. Peter turns from Edmund and goes to the weapons rack in the corner, taking down Rhindon, a pair of hatchets, a long-bladed dagger, and a hand-crossbow.
"Move where?" Edmund says, standing.
Peter glances at him as he kneels down to slip the dagger into his boot; his hunting knife is already hanging off his belt. "Just to pay a little visit to Belden's camp," he says lightly. "Quick and quiet. Intelligence. Maybe a little sabotage."
"And you couldn't have mentioned this to me at any point in time?" Edmund says flatly.
"It's my command," Peter says, straightening up and reaching for a little bowl of charcoal, streaking it over his face with the tips of his fingers.
"And I'm your second, and you're taking troops out, and you're the High King of Narnia, you can't just --"
"Yes," Peter says. "I can, and I'm doing so. You may not have noticed, but this is exactly what I've been doing for the past two years. It's a little thing called experience." He finishes smearing his face and puts the bowl aside, wiping his fingers clean on his breeches before pulling on a soft black cap and a pair of black gloves, then picks up the crossbow.
Edmund crosses his arms over his chest. He can't stop Peter; Peter is still his older brother and his king, whatever's happened in the past. That doesn't mean he can't tell him off for it, because someone has to. "You should have told me," he says. "Considering the fact that I'm the one who's going to have to explain to Belden that no, you weren't over the border into Belgarion, and really, he had problems? What a shame, but nothing to do with us."
"You'll come up with something," Peter says.
"Of course I will. It just would have been nice to have a little prep time," Edmund says sarcastically. "And to know where my brother and my men are going in the middle of the night."
"And now you know," Peter says. "We'll be back before dawn. Don't worry."
"I'm not," he snaps. "Trust me, I'm not."
Peter flashes him a quick smile, teeth very white against his darkened face, and heads towards the tent flap. Just as he reaches it Edmund says, "What don't you remember?"
Peter hesitates, clenching the fabric of the flap between his gloved fingers. "The book I was reading on the train from London," he says. "The rules of cricket. Our parents' faces. My middle name. Who taught me how to fight. How I take tea. Lucy's favorite color. What spices Susan likes in her wine. What an aeroplane looks like. The tenets of the last treaty with Archenland. The name of the minotaur you killed in the Lone Islands." For a moment he stands still, then he says, "I'll see you in the morning," and leaves.
Edmund stays standing, fists clenching at his sides, then he goes to pour himself a cup of wine from one of the bottles at the side of the room, next to the map rack. He sits back down and spreads out the cards again, this time in a king's cross spread the way Gaesa taught him instead of in a curved row. He turns them over one at a time.
The Wanderer. The ace of Ships. The Executioner. The Masked Man. The Sailor. The two of Ships. The Knight of Stones. The five of Arrows. The Dragon of Stars. The Maiden of Stones. The Broken Castle. The ace of Axes. The King of Stars. The three of Stones. And the Thief.
Each one exactly the same as it was before. Edmund stares at the spread before him, and gulps down his wine without tasting it. Something's coming.
And whatever it is, it's not good.
reni_m for help with the tarot aspect. Notes about Narnian playing cards can be found here. Warsverse timeline here, as always.Edmund goes into his brother's tent on cat feet. As expected, Peter looks up when he comes in, but he looks down almost immediately, continuing his business without acknowledging Edmund.
Curious -- the maps that usually adorn the tent's dominating feature, the big, solidly built wooden table in the center, have been pushed to the sides -- Edmund approaches, drawing up a chair across from his brother.
Peter's playing cards. The deck is a Narnian one, seventy-three elaborately painted cards, but the game is unfamiliar. They're spread out in a perfect semi-circle in front of Peter, seven stacks of three cards each, with another five stacks, these with four cards, straight on the edge of the semi-circle. Another nine cards are laid out in straight lines from the top of the circle and both ends. Peter has the rest in his hand, flipping them out from the stacks in front of him and shuffling them around until all that's left are seven cards face-up in the semi-circle, the rest stacked beneath. He sweeps them up with the side of his hand and taps the deck on the edge of the table to straighten it.
"What is that?" Edmund asks.
"Eirigreine," Peter says, and then frowns, seemingly unaware of the way Edmund's fists are clenching in sudden, sharp anger. "Sunrise, in Narnian. It's easier with fifty-six cards, the way the Natarenes play it."
"Oh?" Edmund says flatly.
"Yes," Peter replies, without seeming to recognize Edmund's tone. He sets the deck aside. "What do you want?"
For a long moment Edmund doesn't answer, studying his brother's face. It's the same it's always been -- except for the new scars, the ones he didn't see Peter get. The ones Peter didn't get, but Breakneck did. "You don't remember, do you?" he asks at last.
Peter's jaw works silently, then he says, "You'll have to be more specific."
Edmund doesn't have to be; that's all the answer he needs. They'd all thought so -- but they hadn't known, not for sure. This is the closest thing to a confession they're likely to get from Peter, because he's good at pretending, better than they'd ever thought he was or could be. Before -- and now there's just "before" and "after" -- Edmund would never have guessed that Peter could lie the way he's been lying to them the past seven months. He's not sure even he could keep up a disguise for that long.
The words hang in the air between them. Edmund watches the heat rise to Peter's cheeks, but his brother doesn't look away. It's Edmund who does that at last, the faint blush of shame coloring his conviction that knowing the truth is absolutely, positively necessary. Forcing Peter to admit his weaknesses isn't something he's comfortable doing, but it's something he has to do. They need to know if the High King they're entertaining is Peter of Narnia -- or Breakneck the Natarene merc wearing a mask.
"It doesn't matter," Peter says, his voice rough. He speaks Narnian without an accent. His Eschmoun is likewise perfect. "I know who I am."
"Do you?" Edmund asks.
For an answer, Peter holds out his hands. Narnia's signet -- an engraved ruby set in gold -- gleams on his left ring fingers, with his own personal seal -- gold and rubies again -- matching it on the right. "I know," he says.
Edmund closes his fists beneath the table, where Peter can't see. I don't know, Susan had told him in her study, her voice panicked. It's him, but I don't know if he's -- if he can -- but there's no one else.
Peter never used to be this good of a liar.
"Don't look at me like that," Peter says sharply. "I know who you are, I know who Lu and Su are, and I know who I am."
"That's not enough," Edmund tells him, his voice quiet. "Out there --" he waves at the entrance to the tent, "-- they all think you're the King of Summer, that you're Peter Bittersteel, that you're High King Peter the Magnificent. If you're not --" He hesitates, then says it flat-out. "If you're not, it's their lives you're playing with."
Peter slams his fist down on the table, making the cards jump and scatter. "God damn it, Ed!" he snarls. "I know who the hell I am. It's been seven months, seven months of you and the girls treating me like glass, seven months of all Cair Paravel tiptoeing around me and trying to abuse the privilege of having the High King back on his throne. What the hell does it take, little brother, interpretive dance? Or would that have the opposite effect, because I might use a Natarene step, and where would Narnia be then? I was there for more than a a year; I'm not going to go back to being who I used to be just because I remember who that is. Things change. Would it help if I sent out heralds proclaiming that fact?"
"No," Edmund says slowly, reaching out across the table to straighten the cards. "But that outburst might."
On a whim, he spreads out the first seven cards on the top of the deck face-down in front of Peter. It's not a reader's deck like Gaesa Ganting taught him on, but she'd also taught him how to read from any deck of cards.
Peter eyes him warily. "I'd forgotten you did that," he says, suddenly uneasy. "Second from the left," he adds, reluctantly, and Edmund flips the card over.
"Three of Axes," he says after a minute where he has to stop and count cards, comparing the deck in front of him to the one he'd learned on. "War and conflict."
"I could have told you that," Peter grumbles. "Third from the right."
"Maiden of Stones," Edmund says. "That's subtle," he adds sarcastically. "Any reason you're so jumpy? You never used to care."
"Things change," Peter says again. "First on the right. Ossian and I and some of the 'Hawks went out one night, when we were over the border in Salicar. There was a bone reader there."
"Nine of Stars -- er, that's the, er --" he racks his brain, trying to remember. "That's the Broken Castle. What did your Salican bone reader say?"
"Second on the right," Peter says, and runs a hand distractedly through his hair, the flicker of light in the lanterns glinting off his signet ring. "Betrayal," he says at last. "She said I'd be betrayed and my house destroyed -- but that I'd live forever. It didn't make any sense at the time."
"Seldom does," Edmund notes. "Ace of Ships. That's a journey, I think. Did you believe her?"
Peter drums his fingers on the table, expression uneasy. "Not at the time. Now, though...fourth from the right."
"Six of Arrows -- that's the Widow. Why now and not before?"
He shrugs. "Does it matter? First on the left."
"King of Axes. If I didn't think it didn't matter, I wouldn't have asked."
"You're the one who believes in this stuff, not me," Peter says. "That I remember."
Edmund turns over the last card. "Seven of Stones," he says. "The Felon --"
Peter puts his hand down over the cards. "I don't want to know," he says firmly. "I've had my future foretold often enough before, and I'd rather not know."
"Who says I was telling your future?" Edmund says.
Peter raises his eyebrows. "Isn't that what you do with these things?" he asks lightly.
"Mostly it's for answering questions," Edmund says. "Or that's what Gaesa taught me, anyway."
His brother's face darkens. "And what question exactly were you asking?" he demands.
"I wasn't," Edmund snaps back. "You picked up nervous ticks from Natare, I picked up nervous ticks from Telmar. Don't give yourself a complex or anything; you're not the only one of us who's ever left the country."
"No," Peter says, "but I was the only one who was someone else then."
Deliberately, Edmund flips out the bottom cards, face-up. The two of Stars, the ace of Stones, nine of Arrows -- the Resurrected King, eight of Stones -- the Gated Garden, the seven of Axes -- the Traitor, the Knight of Ships, the six of Ships -- the Sailor.
"Ed," Peter snarls.
Edmund sweeps the remaining cards out in front of him, face down. "Finish it," he says. "Pick one. Otherwise the story won't have an ending."
Peter sweeps the cards off the table with the side of his hand. "I don't want to know," he repeats, voice harsh.
"Maybe I do," Edmund says.
Peter shoves his chair back from the table and storms away, his back to Edmund, illuminated by the burning lanterns. He drags his hands through his thick hair, flickering light glinting off his signet rings, and speaks to the scarlet silk before him. "If we were meant to know the future," he says, "what would be the point in getting there?"
Preventing it, Edmund wants to say, but he knows better than most that the future can't be prevented, just ensured. He contents himself with keeping quiet and gathering up the cards. He turns the last one over: the seven of Stars, the Wanderer.
"Where did you learn to lie?" he asks, sitting back down and shuffling the cards absently.
Peter turns back towards him, face shadowed by the lamplight. "For the love of the Seven, Ed, I'm not fucking lying."
"Yes," Edmund says, "you are. You never used to be able to lie -- or don't you remember that?"
"I was a king, Ed, of course I knew how to lie," Peter says flatly. "Am. Am a king. Trickster damn it." He sets his jaw and glares furiously, daring Edmund to comment on it.
It's a slip, but it's not the slip Edmund was looking for, so he spreads all seventy-three of the cards out in front of him in a smooth parabola and then runs his hand over the top, flicking cards right-side up at random. The Wanderer, the ace of Ships, the Executioner, the Masked Man, the Sailor, the two of Ships, the Knight of Stones, the five of Arrows, the Dragon of Stars, the Maiden of Stones, the Broken Castle, the ace of Axes, the King of Stars, the three of Stones, and the Thief. He's reading for himself now, not Peter, and that's a lot of cards to have in common. Not in the same places, but out of seventy-three cards in the Narnian deck, that's five in common.
The Wanderer. The Ace of Ships. The Sailor. The Maiden of Stones. And the Broken Castle.
Disquieted, he sweeps the cards back up and shuffles them again before straightening the deck and putting it off to the side, glancing up to see Peter looking up at him.
"Bad news?" he asks.
"Thought you didn't believe in this," Edmund replies, pushing his chair back so he can stretch his legs.
Peter shrugs.
"I don't," he says, and Edmund can see on his face that he's lying through his teeth. At least that's something like the Peter he knew once. The believing, though...that's not.
The bells on the outside of the tent jangle before he can call Peter on it, and Peter says, patient and unhurried, "Yes?"
Ziazan, captain of the Zohar troop of centaurs from the High Reaches in the North, pulls back the flap and says, "Majesty, all is prepared. We are ready to move at your command."
"Good," Peter says. "I'll be out there in a few minutes."
Ziazan bows his head solemnly to Peter, again to Edmund, and then backs out of the tent. Peter turns from Edmund and goes to the weapons rack in the corner, taking down Rhindon, a pair of hatchets, a long-bladed dagger, and a hand-crossbow.
"Move where?" Edmund says, standing.
Peter glances at him as he kneels down to slip the dagger into his boot; his hunting knife is already hanging off his belt. "Just to pay a little visit to Belden's camp," he says lightly. "Quick and quiet. Intelligence. Maybe a little sabotage."
"And you couldn't have mentioned this to me at any point in time?" Edmund says flatly.
"It's my command," Peter says, straightening up and reaching for a little bowl of charcoal, streaking it over his face with the tips of his fingers.
"And I'm your second, and you're taking troops out, and you're the High King of Narnia, you can't just --"
"Yes," Peter says. "I can, and I'm doing so. You may not have noticed, but this is exactly what I've been doing for the past two years. It's a little thing called experience." He finishes smearing his face and puts the bowl aside, wiping his fingers clean on his breeches before pulling on a soft black cap and a pair of black gloves, then picks up the crossbow.
Edmund crosses his arms over his chest. He can't stop Peter; Peter is still his older brother and his king, whatever's happened in the past. That doesn't mean he can't tell him off for it, because someone has to. "You should have told me," he says. "Considering the fact that I'm the one who's going to have to explain to Belden that no, you weren't over the border into Belgarion, and really, he had problems? What a shame, but nothing to do with us."
"You'll come up with something," Peter says.
"Of course I will. It just would have been nice to have a little prep time," Edmund says sarcastically. "And to know where my brother and my men are going in the middle of the night."
"And now you know," Peter says. "We'll be back before dawn. Don't worry."
"I'm not," he snaps. "Trust me, I'm not."
Peter flashes him a quick smile, teeth very white against his darkened face, and heads towards the tent flap. Just as he reaches it Edmund says, "What don't you remember?"
Peter hesitates, clenching the fabric of the flap between his gloved fingers. "The book I was reading on the train from London," he says. "The rules of cricket. Our parents' faces. My middle name. Who taught me how to fight. How I take tea. Lucy's favorite color. What spices Susan likes in her wine. What an aeroplane looks like. The tenets of the last treaty with Archenland. The name of the minotaur you killed in the Lone Islands." For a moment he stands still, then he says, "I'll see you in the morning," and leaves.
Edmund stays standing, fists clenching at his sides, then he goes to pour himself a cup of wine from one of the bottles at the side of the room, next to the map rack. He sits back down and spreads out the cards again, this time in a king's cross spread the way Gaesa taught him instead of in a curved row. He turns them over one at a time.
The Wanderer. The ace of Ships. The Executioner. The Masked Man. The Sailor. The two of Ships. The Knight of Stones. The five of Arrows. The Dragon of Stars. The Maiden of Stones. The Broken Castle. The ace of Axes. The King of Stars. The three of Stones. And the Thief.
Each one exactly the same as it was before. Edmund stares at the spread before him, and gulps down his wine without tasting it. Something's coming.
And whatever it is, it's not good.