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GROWING UP in the Telmarine palace, I never had the chance to learn who I was. Every hour of every day in those cold, stone walls, I was Sefisenia: the Professor's daughter. The servant girl.
Even with the Narnians, I stumbled and fell and ran deep into the trees in search of whoever I might have been, trying to find myself past the title of my kind: the last chimæra. The forms I practiced and mastered for years in secret were merely byproducts.
I've spent my life building new skins and shedding them over and over again in the hopes of finding the one I was meant to wear; as if the solution was only a matter of crafting the right body. I was convinced it was that simple. And up until now, I've had no doubts about who I am. I thought I'd found Arryn amidst the Narnian wood and beneath its wild sky.
I've never been so wrong.
From the moment I fled the castle all those nights ago, a thread I hadn't noticed began to unravel — knot by knot, frayed ends and all. And the more it came undone, the less, I've realized, I truly know about myself.
I try to ward away the thoughts and sudden emotions and tell myself this is the last thing I should be worrying about when an army is gathered across the plains to kill us. I try to forget my conversation with Cornelius and focus on Edmund's brief, but it's not easy when I have him and Caspian staring at me like I might collapse at any second. And when Peter and Glenstorm start to take notice of the king's divided attention and I can't stand it any longer, I send a sharp I'm fine down the connection without even thinking.
For a second, I'm not sure if it worked and wonder where the idea came from. Then I get a response, like a soft caress in my mind that whispers no words but sympathy and regret. An apology.
A part of me is dumbfounded that we can communicate empathically, but the other part is indifferent; like it's no more exceptional than walking. Then I start to wonder — in the middle of a meeting I should be paying more attention to — if we've been sharing our emotions without meaning to from the start. If this two-way link is the reason we can connect and understand each other so well.
No. That line of thought is cut before I can disappear any further down it.
Priorities, I remind myself. War first, weird magic later.
So I pour my focus into the careful map of the Telmarine camp Edmund is drawing from memory, listening to his descriptions of the guard placements and foliage cover and soldier activity. I commit as much of it to my memory as I can. I'm going to have to know all of it if I want to stay undetected among their ranks.
I requested to accompany the party earlier to scout the camp for myself, but Peter refused on account that I needed more time to recover from the White Witch ordeal. Being all too familiar with the High King, I knew his mind was made up and made no attempt to argue. Besides, if I saw Miraz and his council of tyrants after what they did to my friends last night, I might have tried to kill him right there.
