Chapter Seven: Broken Compass (1)

[manniness]

OK, LJ says this chapter is too big to fit in one post.  Is that good news or bad news?  Hm...

 

*~*~*~*

He’d told them they were going the wrong way.

They hadn’t listened.

Leif glowers at the lot of them as they pull up short in front of the masonry blocking their path. He folds his arms over his chest and swallows back the four words that are clawing at the back of this throat: I told you so.

“Well,” the Hatter says with forced cheer. “You were correct, Leif. We won’t find Tarra on the castle side of the canal.” He tilts his head to the side and studies the abrupt end of their northward path. “I still maintain that it would have been rather poetic to find a band of revolutionaries encamped on the site of the slackush castle of Crims.”

Alice turns, following the lantern light as Irondirk pivots to retrace their path. “Perhaps they don’t appreciate poetry much,” she offers.

The Hatter scoffs. “Amateurs. All revolutionaries worth a mention in the history of history are noted for their poetry. Why, when I was the head of the Resistance, there was a Place for poetry and rhymes and look how far that brought us!”

“Shut it and leave it, Hatter. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s nothing here,” Leif announces on a growl, stomping along in the too-slowly moving glow of the lantern. “And in case you’ve forgotten, were are still looking for someone.”

“Two someones,” the Hatter has the nerve to correct him. “And I still say that poetry is exponentially helpful in the case of resisting tyranny.”

“That is utter nonsense.”

“Nonsensery is also a valuable asset to the aspiring rebel. I assure you.”

Alice cuts through Leif’s snarl: “I find that very reassuring.”

Leif just shakes his head and holds out a paw for the lantern. Irondirk hands it over without a word of protest. Miracle of miracles.

Miracles. Yes, he wouldn’t mind experiencing an example of that particular phenomenon right about now. Leif wouldn’t say No to having Tarra safe and sound in her chambers at Mamoreal, all this Champion business forgotten and everything back to normal.

And while he’s at it, why doesn’t he just wish for Tarra to stay six years old forever? Things had been so simple then. Or had they?

Leif frowns as he considers barefoot tea parties and hastily assembled search posses for lost wooden swords and...

Why couldn’t Tarra have stayed that way forever? The Tweedles are certainly giving that very goal their best combined effort. Those boys haven’t aged a day since they’d left school and refused to return, had refused any and all responsibility not related to games and adventure and arguments. They had lost themselves in childhood.

But Tarra had never tried. She’d always reached for more. She’d always pushed herself to be stronger, braver... more.

And he had let her.

Leif grits his teeth and breathes out a snarl. Damn his selfish soul, he had let her.

Dale is right.

But of course he is. Of course he is right: Tarra had made herself into a mate worthy of the King’s Champion. She had chosen him. And he had let her.

Unforgivable.

He cannot remember when it had happened, exactly, when he had started wanting that brash little princess to be his friend. He cannot remember when he had decided to be hers. Somehow, it had happened, though. One slowly passing day at a time they had fallen into a trap of sorts... and Leif had not noticed until she had donned the uniform of the Queen’s Champion, had smiled up at him with unmistakable pride and daring, had grown up...

… and had awakened a completely different kind of Wanting within him.

Leif remembers that moment. He had never been so horrified in his entire life. And he had certainly never expected to feel such shame. Unlike when he had betrayed his family to save Alice’s life on the battlefield, Leif had been unable to summon up even a twinge of righteousness, of honor. He had looked at Tarra – his Tarrash’rya! – and it had destroyed him.

Only later had he begun to realize the why of it.

He’d avoided the truth as long as possible. He had hoped Alice and the queen’s ruse to dissuade her from her chosen path would work. And only when it had become obvious that Tarra would sooner give up on him than becoming a Champion, only when he had realized she will do anything to prove herself, only when Dale had confronted him with his crimes – committed in ignorance, but crimes nonetheless! – had Leif finally faced the Truth.

He is the one who has allowed Tarra to come to this end.

And he will never forgive himself for it.

Nor can he forgive Alice for agreeing to train Tarra to be the next Champion. He has seen what the role had done to Alice. She knows the pain and suffering it entails. His heart aches to think of Tarra facing those horrors.

When she does, it will be your fault.

There is no arguing with the Truth, so he doesn’t even try.

“Leif,” Alice whispers. “Calm down. Your breaths are echoing.”

He wants to shout at her about the ridiculous order of her priorities: how can she care about the loudness of his breaths when they have not yet found Tarra?!

But his Better Sense stays his tongue. He clenches his jaw, nods, and focuses on taking shallow, measured breaths. The danger has not passed, after all. Tarra is down here, somewhere, and they need to find her... without risking her life in the process.

He imagines all manner of unpleasantness: Have they bound her? Are they intending to hold her hostage? Has that blighter Masonmark dared to touch her?

Alice bumps his arm and the lantern wobbles.

He renews his focus.

Irondirk’s stomach growls.

The Hatter counts off the paces left to their entry point under his breath in a lisping hiss. And, not for the first time, he has to admit that – in the Hatter’s case, at least – madness and brilliance are a pair well-suited to each other. As with all first-time journeys, the return trip seems much faster than the initial venture into the unknown.

According to the continuing countdown, they are only thirty paces away from the entrance that leads up to the orchard when, ahead, something flickers in the darkness. Even before Alice throws out an arm, Leif has skidded to a halt.

“Torches,” she mouths as a second then a third point of light glow to life in the distance.

Leif fumbles with the lantern, tries to turn down the flame before the approaching group notices, but his fingers are too broad and the mechanism too delicate. He reluctantly thrusts the lantern in Irondirk’s direction.

“Put it out!” he growls.

“It’s a Long-light Lantern,” he protests. “Won’ go out sae laung as it’s dark.”

Leif curses and moves the lantern behind him, trying to dampen the light. The Hatter takes it from him and there’s the sound of fabric flaring and then darkness falls.

“’Twill start burning through m’jacket soon,” he warns them. Leif crouches down and scuttles toward the wall. He can hear the others doing likewise.

“Retreat,” Alice orders as the sound of footsteps echo toward them.

Leif shakes his head. “No.” This may be their only chance. They will have the aid of Surprise. They might be able to end this now – right now! – and that is something he cannot back away from!

And then, suddenly, the torch bearers are close enough to be illuminated. Leif recognizes them even though he does not know their names. He’s seen them around town, in taverns and exchanging friendly, harmless greetings with Masonmark.

They look neither friendly nor harmless now.

They plow through the muck with practiced ease. The torchlight reflects off of the long knives they carry on their belts. Leif remains perfectly still; they have not noticed their uninvited guests yet.

And, of course, because he’d dared to think it...

“Sommun’s been ’ere!” a young man says, stopping and lowering his torch to the ground. Several others briefly study the tracks in the grime. (Perhaps there had been a symbol drawn into the muck that they had disturbed? Or perhaps it is their boots that are unfamiliar? But no! Leif realizes what it is they must be seeing: Bayto’s footprints. Of course! How stupid of him to neglect that!)

“Bluddy bulloghin’ brangergain! Search the tunnel,” a young man curses and commands. Leif recognizes Masonmark’s voice. He looks past the line of torchlight and spots the blighter... as well as the long knife in his hand and his grasp on Tarra’s unresisting arm.

“We can’t permit them to take the queen’s daughter,” the bastard reminds his fellows.

Leif bites back a curse. Luckily, the growl that emerges is camouflaged by Tarra’s protest: “You’ll find out precisely what the queen’s daughter can and will do if you don’t stop trying to manhandle me!”

Even though her burst of bravery soothes him, reassures him that she is still herself and well and unbeaten, Leif tenses. His paw inches toward his scimitar. His gaze moves over the approaching adversaries. They are children – nothing but children! – but they have Tarra!

What choice does that leave him except the only one he can bear to live with?

The scent of smoke, of smoldering fabric, reaches his nose an instant before the Hatter unveils the lantern and flings it toward the group. Gasps echo and bounce back and forth in the the small space. Bodies dive and stumble aside. Leif makes his move. He can hear Alice beside him as they race into the throng along the path the tossed lantern had cleared for them. There’s a brief flash of light on steel and he knows she has drawn her broad sword.

There is no time for dwelling on the Hatter’s brilliance – for in throwing the lantern away from them and into the group, he had preserved the mystery of their numbers and their identities – if Leif intends to take full advantage of the situation. And he most definitely does!

Fear freezes many of these young, inexperienced fighters in place as he and Alice bully through. Most have not even thought to draw their knives. Leif swings the scimitar, knocks the long knife from Masonmark’s hand even as Alice grabs Tarra’s arm.

For an instant, they are victorious.

And then...

“Fight! Stop them!” Masonmark screams and there’s a flurry of motion in the flickering torchlight. Somehow, Alice loses her grip on Tarra’s arm.

Masonmark retreats, stumbling and splashing, into the shadows with his hostage.

Leif glimpses Alice’s pursuit and then an instant later, a blur of shirtsleeves and auburn hair as the Hatter sprints after her. Leif turns to follow but comes up against a circle of blades.

He pauses, glances over his shoulder and past the knives being presented to his back. Irondirk has been backed against the wall, his sword at his side. Of course the bastard doesn’t want to fight. Neither does Leif! Their foes are nothing but children, after all!

But Tarra...

Tarra!

His fingers tighten around the scimitar. His gaze turns toward the darkness into which his Tarrash’rya has disappeared.

He can fight, true. And he can kill...

But these are children.

Leif cannot permit himself to cross this line. But the roar of fury...

That he does not deny himself.

It thunders down the tunnel, unsettling the knife-wielding obstacles in his path, but they do not drop their weapons. And he will be of no use to Tarra or the king or queen dead or injured.

His growls are composed of Shuchish curses as he stares into the darkness, unable to do anything more than hope that Alice and the Hatter will succeed where he has failed. And that, one day, Tarra may forgive him for surrendering without a fight.

Comments

[manniness.livejournal.com]

Leif demanded a moment to tell his side of things. He only gets two POV moments in OPK4 and I think he makes the most of them.

You're right about Tarra. Totally.

When I was writing this "team find-the-princess" scene I wanted more interaction between Tarrant and Irondirk, something vaguely reconciliation-ish. It didn't happen, though... which kinda makes the ending of Book 5 all the more... amusing.

(^__^)