My name isn't really Violar. That was my mother's name.

I still remember the days when I was simply Zephina Wildfire. The memories are but faded autumn leaves now; shadows of a time long ago. If I close my eyes, I can still see the sheltered glade I shared with my parents, Eolas and Violar Windsong.

We were outcasts. Most centaurs - the respectable ones, that is - live at the Council Ring, a great circle of stone protected by a hedge of blackberry bushes buried in the heart of a dense forest on the western side of Narnia. The vast majority of Narnian centaurs live and die there. There is a security the herd provides that all centaurs crave, even as we love our independence. But my parents had strong convictions: The Council had become too proud, and the reverence with which other Narnian creatures treated us tended to go to the centaurs' heads. Instead of going along with the institution and pretending that nothing was wrong, Eolas and Violar Windsong left the Council and chose to live in another secluded part of the forest.

Although centaurs have trouble conceiving, I was born in that glade just one year after my parents became lifemates.

I inherited my mother's silver-gray eyes and dark hair, and I got my cantankerous mischief and my more sensitive, poetic nature from my father. But my bright palomino coat was all my own. It was a deeper gold rather than yellow, and my white tail contrasted sharply with my black hair.

What a wonderful life we led! The three of us were so close. I think my parents wanted more children, and I would have enjoyed a younger brother or sister. But centaurs do not have many foals, which is why there are relatively few of us. And my parents were not as young as they could have been, though my mother had nearly 40 years on my father.

My parents were very deeply in love. My mother was very striking: Although she was nearly 300 years old, her coat was still midnight-black, though her dark hair was streaked with gray. I thought it made her more beautiful; apparently my father thought so, too.

Eolas' chestnut fur tended more towards a brown hue than a reddish one. He was strong, well-built, and slightly taller than my mother. He wore his long brown hair swept back, crowned with ivy, and a thick waterfall of a beard the same color as his fur spilled down his chest. His brown eyes were warm and thoughtful and expressive, and one glance from him - no matter what mood he was in - never failed to touch my heart. He was playful, for a centaur, and I loved the wild tales he made up about kingdoms of animals who couldn't speak. He turned the dumb foxes into lordly dukes and the stately deer into kings and queens, and we would greet them with deep centaurian bows and high words.

"Good day to you, Lord Fox," my father would declare. "What tidings do you bring from the north?"

The fox would stare blankly, blinking as if puzzled, and Eolas would lean close and whisper his response in my fuzzy golden ear.

"He says that unless we bring a gift to his court - a stewed rabbit, perhaps, with a string of sausage links - he will tell us nothing!"

His impressions would have me in fits of giggles.

In the autumn he used to chase his shrieking daughter through the flaming red and yellow trees, making claws with his hands and galloping after me until we collapsed in the golden grass, breathless and laughing like a couple of foals. My father taught me to fight with swords, and I still remember the day I landed my first scratch in his chestnut fur.

"Ow!" he yelped, stumbling backwards with his hand pressed over a gash on his equine shoulder. His hand came away stained red. I stood, horrified at the sight of his blood, but he laughed. "Come on, Zephina. Let's go surprise your mother."

I was so upset that I was nearly crying, and Eolas took pains to ruffle my hair and stem the endless flow of apologies. "Your mother has beaten me up far worse than this," he said to me, and I had to laugh. Violar was an excellent warrior, though the only fighting she had done since she became Eolas' lifemate was in playful spars with my father and a handful of other trusted creatures.

My mother whirled with a gasp when she saw us enter the glade, Eolas stumbling like a wounded soldier and leaning heavily against me with one arm draped around my neck.

"What in all of Narnia?!" She was by our side in an instant, her hands gentle and supportive as she took Eolas from me and lowered him to the ground. "What happened?"

My father was hiding a grin in his thick beard: From my sideways vantage point, I could see it, and it was all I could do to keep a straight face.

"I was attacked," he announced in dire tones.

"What?!" My mother was horrified. She settled in the grass beside him, running her hands carefully over his fur, feeling for broken bones.

"Yes. A terrible opponent," Eolas told my mother gravely while Violar inspected him, finding only the little scratch while searching for a much more serious war wound. "I couldn't stop it, either. There was nothing I could do..."

"In the name of Aslan," my mother exploded, glaring up at him with sharp silver eyes. "What was it?"

Eolas grinned at her flash of temper. "Old age!"

For an instant Violar stared at him in shock, caught between anger and incredulity. Suddenly she caught onto the joke, and the surge of mirth inside of her caused her silvery eyes to sparkle.

"Eolas Windsong," she said in her warning tone, causing me to lose my grip on my giggles, "I'll patch you up and get you back on your hooves, and then I'm coming after you myself!"

That put my father on his feet. "Not if I catch you first!"

Violar squealed and galloped around the glade with Eolas in hot pursuit. They burst out of the glade and took off galloping through the forest, and their laughter faded in the distance. I had the glade all to myself for a little while. I buckled my legs and rolled on my back luxuriously in the soft grass, delighted with life. My mother would tell me later to wash off in the river, but I didn't mind. A good roll was always worth a little dirt.

That night, as we sat around the crackling fire in the darkness after a sizeable centaur supper, Eolas related something to me.

"I told your mother, before you were born, that you would one day give a werewolf a black eye." I blushed; my mother laughed and nodded. Eolas continued, "It follows logically that I should be first."

My mother taught me all she knew about healing. Violar wore wild roses in her hair: The bright pink blooms livened up her otherwise colorless features - her black-furred hide and silver eyes and the white streaks in her dark hair. But wild roses were also an antidote to certain kinds of poison. She showed me how to roast baneberries - which were, eaten raw, very deadly; but when cooked properly, they made a powerful medicine. There were so many kinds of herbs to learn about and the ailments each treated, and I thought it was all marvelous. On our infrequent trips to the eastern side of Narnia, we would stop at the apothecary in Sted Cair, and I was allowed to practice my treatments under the watchful eye of my mother.

I loved taking care of sick creatures, and I cannot tell you how proud and warm I felt when I delivered my first litter of baby rabbits. The tiny, hairless creatures squeaked softly as I held them in my trembling hands: Little lives with a whole world ahead of them to explore. I carefully settled each blind baby on a large pillow by the exhausted but happy mother's side.

"Three boys and two girls, Mirienne," I whispered as the new babies suckled, my voice thick with emotion. "You have your paws full for sure."

Mirienne gave me a tired smile, and her soft paw touched my hand. "Thank you for my family, Zephina."

I was too choked up to answer.

One of the most important cures Violar taught me to make was a cherry cordial. The cordial was originally given to our valiant Queen Lucy Pevensie by Aslan, but the healers of Narnia had experimented diligently until they produced the recipe for the potion. There wasn't any real magic in it, I don't believe: A mixture of herbs works with the body's natural healing processes and accelerates rejuvenation. It can bring a wounded creature back from the brink of death within minutes, but it doesn't alleviate soreness, and it works too slowly with headaches.

One of our family's sources of livelihood, besides selling furs from our hunting endeavors or taking fish to markets in the dwarf village of Madderholt and to the fauns in Bergdale, was my mother's ability to make cherry cordials. The ingredients were scattered far and wide, and Violar always kept a good supply of cordial for our own family and our patients in the glade. But she made plenty more to sell.

"Zephina, find your father and bring some Edelweiss down from Mount Tor," she would say once a week. Thrilled, I would canter out of the glade and track Eolas through the woods. When I caught up with him, we were off on our adventure.

Occasionally I was left out. There were deep and meaningful looks that passed between my mother and father, full of secrets and love. While I snuggled securely between them and gazed sleepily into the mesmerizing fire on star-pricked nights, I often felt that they were speaking in a foreign language - albeit a silent one - that I couldn't understand. After 33 years of marriage, my parents were still learning that language.

It was a language I longed to know, yet I was content to live life where I was: At home in that small emerald glade I shared with my parents. I was fully grown, but I loved my family: They were my herd. I could not find another centaur who spoke the language of my heart. Although I scorned the pride I saw in the young male centaurs, I was - ironically - too proud to choose any of them for a mate.

But I had time. I was a young centaur yet: Only 32 years of age. Centaurs generally live around 600 years, so I could afford to be patient. My mother didn't meet Eolas until she was 263, and it was clear right away that they were meant to spend the rest of their lives together.

Sometimes, you just know. I felt the harmony between them more than I understood it. Often, when I came home from hunting with a buck or a brace of rabbits slung across my back, I would find them dancing in the glade, their faces glowing with an inner light as they looked into each other's eyes. It was too beautiful to interrupt, and I would wander off into the forest again, leaving them alone together.

I knew, without knowing, that I was different - that my song would be different. I was looking for a mate who had the sensitivity of my father, but there were other things I wanted. Violar found Eolas when they were both broken, and they made each other strong. I was born in the midst of that strength, and I wanted a mate who was stronger than I. These things I knew, but the image was blurred: There was so much I didn't know. I only knew that I had to search, and that I would know what I was looking for when I found it.

"Momma, look what I caught." I came trotting into the glade one fine afternoon with a string full of large white perch, already cleaned and ready to fry.

Violar gave a merry laugh. "Right, that takes care of supper, I suppose. Your father is in Lantern Waste, purchasing some much-needed supplies - including sacks of flour. That means-"

"Pies tonight!" I shouted it out gleefully, then laughed. I had been that excited about pies since I was a foal, and my mother thought it was adorable - along with my habit of referring to her as "Momma." So I kept at it.

Violar chuckled. "Exactly. Want to help me pick blackberries?"

Did I ever! I never missed an opportunity to pick berries, because I was entitled to eat half of whatever I picked. Blackberries were a personal favorite of mine.

Moments later, with large sacks slung around our shoulders, my mother and I were picking blackberries only a short distance from the glade. We were talking and laughing about everything under the sun, and we had just worked out the details for an impromptu evening concert with the three of us playing our respective harps when a robin named Swift fluttered frantically into the bushes, out of breath. Puzzled, I tucked one last berry into my sack and held out a hand to the little bird, but he shook his head vigorously.

"Come quick," he gasped. "He's... it's Eolas..."

A chill ran through me. My mother was at my side in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"Injured," panted Swift. "Werewolves..."

I clapped a hand over my mouth in horror, and my mother stifled a scream. "Where is he?"

"Council Ring," finished the exhausted little bird, his wings drooping.

I threw my sack of blackberries to the ground and tore off after my galloping mother. It was all I could do to keep up with her. The Council Ring was a good distance away through dense forest, but we were there within minutes. We burst into the Council Ring and found him on the ground, a mess of blood and mud and torn fur tended by two grave-looking centaurs. Violar and I threw ourselves to the ground beside him, and wordlessly the centaurs made way for us. My mother took his hand, and I pressed his forehead. His whole midsection was bandaged, and blood soaked through anyway. His breathing was deep and labored. I'd never seen my father look so pale.

"Papa?"

His familiar brown eyes rolled, unfocused, then tried to find me. "Zephina?"

Everything inside of me wrenched. I looked up at the dappled gray centaur who had bandaged my father and found his face set like a statue's. I felt like I was pleading with stone as I gazed up at him through a blur of tears. "Please... will he be... alright?"

The noble centaur hesitated, his gray eyes faltering from mine. Ever so slightly, he shook his head.

He might as well have stabbed me in the heart. A guttural cry tore out of me. "No..."

I snarled like an animal in pain and I buried my face in my father's shoulder. I broke down and sobbed, holding his weak, cold hand in mine.

I could feel my mother's agony. She was frantic, begging for something else to give him. Not even the cordial could repair the damage fast enough. I heard her pleading with Eolas, as though to stop a small boat that has passed the point of no return and is rushing with the merciless current, about to crash over a waterfall.

"Don't leave me, please," she begged him, and she was crying as hard as I was. "I love you..."

I heard my father answer in a strained whisper. "I'll never leave you, Violar."

His fingers twitched in mine, and with an effort he touched my hair and called my name. I looked up at him, blinking past my tears to see his face.

"Zephina..." Weak fingertips touched my cheek, and I clutched his hand for dear life. "My sword," he whispered, and everything inside of me cried out in protest. Not this... Not now. Don't leave me your sword, Father. "My Lady..."

The last of my composure gave out, and I fell against him. My Lady was the name of his harp, and he was giving it to me. I wasn't looking at him, but his next whispered words were for me, I knew: "Take care... of her..."

Eolas gasped once, then lay still.

The wild, yowling cry of anguish from my mother still haunts my dreams. My memory of what happened after that is fragmented: For a long time, I cried beside my father until strong hands lifted me away. I felt as weak as Eolas' hand had been, and one of the lady centaurs - I don't even know who - half-carried me into the darkness of the stone sanctuary. Pillows were put under my head, and a huge blanket was draped over my body, and I was left alone. Centaurs drifted in the background like ghosts, and I could hear their whispers: "They never should have left the Council Ring... None of this would have happened if..."

I wept brokenly until my pillow was soaked through. For an eternity I was alone; later, I was vaguely aware that my mother had been brought close to me. I felt her arms around me, and I burrowed deep into her embrace, seeking comfort from one who had none to give.

They buried my father that night in the Council Ring by the orange light of the bonfire. The assembly was solemn, and the centaurs stood so still that they looked as if they'd been standing there unmoving for thousands of years. My mother and I stood close together, leaning against each other for support, staring at the still form lying in the dark hole, half-illuminated by flames. My wonderful father was gone, and I was left holding only memories - and his sword.

The ceremony ended without a word. No one but my mother and I shed tears: The other centaurs didn't know him well enough to cry at his departure. Violar and I could not bear to stay while they buried him, and when I looked up, I found sympathy reflected in the blue eyes of one cream-colored lady centaur. She had motioned for the other centaurs to wait, and they heeded her word. At least someone understood.

Violar knelt by Eolas' side and remained there a long time, stroking his hair and his beard and whispering words no one could hear. When she kissed his cold lips, an iron pang shot through me, and I turned aside to brush away fresh tears.

Silently my mother and I departed the Council Ring. I couldn't accept that he was really gone, but when we arrived at the glade, it was like waking from a nightmare - only to find that the nightmare had become reality, and darkness had stolen into every corner of my life. The once beautiful glade was cold and empty as Eolas' grave, like castle ruins. It was no longer home to either of us. Those bright, happy days were over, and we were walled out, and the gate was locked.

What I wouldn't have given for one more day like yesterday... just one more yesterday. Why did it all have to end so soon?

My mother and I never said a word to each other. We couldn't stay there that night, and we both knew it. Gathering what few supplies we needed and what few belongings were too precious to leave behind, we left the glade and wandered southward, aimless and disconsolate.

I carried My Lady on my back, as well as Chickadee - the harp Eolas had carved for me. His sword was buckled around my waist, his bow and mine were slung across my back, but the weight of the memories I carried was enough to crush my soul.

For days my mother and I wandered, not knowing where we were going. We cried more than we ate. When we stopped to rest, our sleep was punctuated by weeping and dark dreams that I can't remember. We spoke little, each swallowed up in our own grief. But we didn't need words: We clung to each other, because my mother and I were all we had left.

Then, one morning, I woke up - or rather I opened my eyes and stared dully at the surrounding forest. I was too deep in mourning to care about life, and the only world I had ever known was shattered. I lay there for a long time, flat on my side, my chin resting in the grass as I gazed ahead at nothing.

When I finally stirred and glanced at the black form of my mother, I noticed that there was something... unnatural about her. I rubbed a hand over the dirt smudges on my face.

"Momma?"

She didn't answer. Wearily I dragged myself to her side and sat there for awhile, waiting for her to wake up.

Breakfast, I thought. Perhaps I should go hunting.

Hunting reminded me of my father. I had avoided it for as long as possible, but our dried meat had run out two or three days ago. Some latent instinct for survival told me that I needed to start moving on, that I had to begin living life again... and hunting was a tiny step in the right direction.

I had to get started as soon as possible to catch the deer during their early morning feeding time. I looked down at my mother again.

"Momma?" I touched her hair and yanked my hand away with a gasp. My mother was ice cold.

She had died sometime during the night. I fell slowly into the grass and cried for hours. I was an orphan - a 32-year-old orphan, but an orphan nonetheless. There was no one else I could turn to. The centaurs of the Council Ring shunned us because we shunned them.

I had heard that Aslan was a friend to the lost and lonely, but where was he now? For years I had taken for granted that he was there - just as I had taken my family and my comfortable life for granted. Suddenly it was all gone, and when it came time for Aslan to follow through with his promises... where was he?

A spark ignited inside of me: Anger. It caught dry, bitter tinder and swiftly spread until it was pure fury, all-consuming rage. I beat the grass with my fists and snarled, then sat up, my face tear-streaked and dirty and twisted with resentment.

"I hate you, Aslan," I growled. "You did this to me, and now where are you? I hate you! Just... stay out of my life and leave me alone! I can take care of myself. I don't need you!"

Who needed that Lion anyway, when this was what he did to those who followed him? And I had followed him! I didn't consider myself close to him, by any means, but we were outcasts of the Council Ring because we believed it was the right thing to do. What about that? Was this the reward we deserved? Was this the reward I deserved? After all, I was the only one left to punish.

That anger fueled my will to survive: I would show Aslan that I could live without him, that I could take care of myself. I didn't need anyone.

I buried my mother deep in the Great Forest, alone. I am the only one who knows where her grave lies. I placed inside that mound her harp, Vixen, along with My Lady and Chickadee: It seemed right, somehow, to give her our harp family. I never wanted to hear their music play again. I gave her Eolas' bow and quiver, though I kept all the arrows, because I would need them. And I took her sword to keep a part of her with me.

Then I took her name, to keep her alive.

That day, I buried the wrong centaur. Zephina Wildfire had died, and a bitterly angry palomino centaur named Violar - simply Violar - left those dreary woods behind. She wandered further south into the Calormene desert and struggled to survive there for six years before her strong will broke, and she again cried out to Aslan. When he melted out of the darkness, what she found in his golden eyes was not condemnation... but sympathy, understanding, and love.

He let me pour out all my hatred - hatred for him - into those desert sands like blood from a broken heart, and then he gave me the courage to begin tearing away that mask. Ever so gently, he began prying from my grasp the hatred I lived on, and he gave me another reason to live: Love.

Seeing how much it hurt him that I'd lost my parents did something to me. I hadn't been close to him in those early, beautiful days, because I hadn't needed to be. Now I needed him, and I needed to learn to love. Aslan is love, and in order to understand love, I needed to walk a path like his.

Aslan's path had led him to the Stone Table. So he took me there. From that point forward, my journey into love began.