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"I NEED to–"
"What you need," Nyssa interjects hotly, "is to have that wound cleaned and dressed before it gets infected and you have to go about asking Queen Lucy a third time for her Fire-Flower medicine."
I ignore the fact that I never asked either of the two times Lucy gave it to me and continue my hopeless argument. "But I need to talk to Caspian," I say again, this time managing a whole sentence without getting cut off. "I..." I have so many things I need to tell him. "...Please just let me go find him."
"You're acting like this isn't going to take a few minutes," she grumbles. "You have less patience than a cub."
I relent with a quiet sigh, leaning into Edmund's side tiredly. He reads my disappointment quite easily and bends down to whisper in my ear.
"I'll find him," he tells me. "Don't worry."
I relax a little at his reassurance. "Thank you."
Edmund squeezes my arm as we follow Nyssa into the medbay. It's almost entirely empty, save for a few medics milling about or treating scrapes and bruises. Lucy was kind enough to use her cordial on any of the wounded Narnians who escaped the Telmarine palace, including me. A few with only minor injuries managed to dissuade her and receive basic treatment instead.
I don't see Caspian or Peter anywhere, despite Susan having told all of us to see a medic. Bastards, I think angrily. How did I get dragged here?
Nyssa glances over her shoulder at me to make sure I haven't somehow slipped away. I take the opportunity to send the cheetah a pointed glare. She ignores it and continues toward one of the wooden examination tables, this one unoccupied and tended to by a bay centaur with rich, brown braids. Hearing us approach, they turn around — she. Starlock.
Her silver eyes bore into me like knives. This time, though, I don't shy away. I stare right back. You knew. You let it happen.
As if blind to my death glare, Starlock inclines her head to Edmund and waves us to her work table. "Come this way."
Nyssa obeys without question while Ed hesitates, appearing to mirror my unease. His muscles are tense and he curls his fingers firmly around my arm, pulling me closer against him. By his body language, he seems inclined to keep as much distance between us and the centauress as he can. I would feel the same way if I weren't so angry. All this time, she knew.
"I have to talk to her," I explain in a low voice, pulling him reluctantly along.
"Who is she?" He hisses.
The question bothers me. Do I know who she really is? Or has she lied about that, too?
