Author's Apology: Um… hi. You may not remember me; I'm Roxie, I'm the one who was writing this story about Alice and Tarrant's daughter before I up and disappeared for two months? –wince- I'm really sorry, guys. I know I've been gone forever. I could default to the standard excuse of absentee authors, that real life got in my way. And that's true. In the past couple of months I have begun and ended a relationship, work got Mad, I moved into my own apartment, I had a theatre gig and had no time… But it's also true to say that my muse packed up and went on vacation without informing me. For a solid month, I didn't touch any part of this series- not the editing for Book Two, no writing Book Four, nothing. Not only did I have writers' block, I just simply lost the story. I had no idea what was going on, all my characters had run away, and I was just left high and dry.
To be entirely honest, that's still somewhat true. I'm still not sure if my muse has come back from vacation yet, or if we're even speaking right now. However, I am committed to this series. I will not leave it unfinished. It may take me absolutely forever, but I am going to finish all four Books and the companion piece. I promise.
Author's Note: So, about this chapter. I thought it was decently good when I first wrote it. It was while I was originally writing this chapter that I changed a lot of the plot for the latter half of this book. Originally, Tarrant organized an escape from the Nazari, Niall was making stupid tactical errors that weren't in character at all, and the climactic fight I had planned absolutely didn't work with the rest of the story. I blame Dafydd for the edits to the plot. The more I worked through this book, the more I realized that Dafydd is the main character of Book Two, and the plot isn't so much about rescuing Regina as it is about Dafydd working through his emotional baggage.
So yeah, I had a decently good chapter written. Then it came time to edit it for posting… and I got stuck. I needed to add the first scene, completely change the second, and make a pretty severe change to the third. Making all those changes was really difficult for me, especially after a month-long case of writer's apathy. So what I'm saying is, I have no idea if this is a good chapter or not. I don't know if it accomplishes what I needed and wanted it to. But, here you go.
Special Thanks: Many thanks to my shiny beta, Thirteen Thorns. I much prefer her thoughts on why I dislike this chapter [ie, it's due to writer's paranoia caused by the long interval since the last time I wrote anything] to mine [ie, that it's simply a bad chapter].
The inside of the tent was dark, illuminated only by the firelight that flickered around the edges of the tent flaps. The air was dark; warm from hours of occupation, thick with tension and despair. Though sounds of celebration could be heard outside, the interior of the tent was deathly, somberly quiet.
Alice's eyes were closed, and had been for hours; defeat was written in every line of her form. She sagged listlessly against the ropes she'd been bound to the tent pole with, and her legs had long since gone numb from inactivity. She didn't care. What did her discomfort matter? The fact that she felt the discomfort meant that she was still alive, whereas her daughter would never feel anything again.
They had languished in the tent all day, abandoned and forgotten. For a long while they'd all- Lily, Alice and Tarrant- been together. It had been a comfort knowing the others were nearby, though Alice was barely able to see them through the gloom, let alone attempt to break out of her bonds and touch them. Tarrant had been unconscious all morning, and even in the dim light Alice had been able to watch the bump on his temple swell, the bruise travel along the entire right side of his face. If she got a chance to lay a hand on Dafydd, she would make him regret the day he ever crossed the Border Mountains and charmed his way into Regina's confidence…
He had woken up in the mid-afternoon. As soon as his eyes had opened, Tarrant had started straining against his bindings, screaming Outlandish curses at the people they could hear moving outside the tent. Almost immediately, Dafydd and Ioan had walked into the tent. Alice hadn't seen what Dafydd had done, but when he stepped away Tarrant had slumped over again, unconscious, and the two young men had carried him away. Alice had screamed after them, demanding to know where they were taking her husband, but they hadn't answered. And since then, no one had come to the tent. Alice had no idea where Tarrant was, if he was still safe or even still alive. After all, the Nazari had killed Regina; what was to stop them from murdering Tarrant, as well, before coming to finish Lily and Alice off?
Since the bastards had taken Tarrant away, Lily and Alice had been left alone. All day, she had heard the sounds of celebration mingling with the sounds of preparing for war. All day, Alice had been trying to think of a way out of this nightmare- while the entire time wondering if it was worthwhile to even attempt escape. What did it matter if she somehow magically got out of the Outlands? Her marriage was still broken, her daughter was still dead, and all her dreams were irreparably destroyed. What did escape matter? Better to die; at least then she could see her daughter again.
Fates, this hurt. Alice sighed heavily, tilting her head back to rest against the wooden post she'd been tied to. She didn't know how to deal with emotions this intense anymore. She had spent eighteen years hiding from all vestiges of emotion as the Black Queen; she wasn't sure she knew how to experience what she was feeling. She longed for the peace Mirana could give her. Upon Alice's re-emergence from the shadows of Marmoreal, Mirana had begun brewing what she called Tea; medicines that worked to heal the emotions. What Alice wouldn't give for some Peace and Calm right now…
"Alice."
She blinked, her brain belatedly registering that Lily had been speaking her name for some time now. Alice shifted wearily; she wasn't sure she cared to hear anything the over-energetic Princess might have to say.
"What is it, Lily?" she asked, her dull, uninterested voice hanging heavily in the air.
"Alice, we have to get out of here," Lily said, her every word sapping Alice of even more energy. "I have everything we need hidden in my sleeve, if I can just wriggle it out-"
"And if we were to escape? What then?" Alice countered. "What's the point?"
"The point is defending your queendom," Lily said blankly. "The Nazari are about to march on your home-"
"Let them," Alice shrugged dismissively. "I don't care anymore."
"But you must care," Lily argued. "You're the Champion!"
Alice flinched away from the word, wincing. There was no honor in that honorific, and no pleasure. That word, which once had been worn proudly, unfurled like a banner in the wind, was now a windless sail, a slur; a summation of Alice's failures as a wife, as a mother, as a queen. Yes, Alice had been the Champion, and as such she had delivered pain and disappointment and failure and abandonment. Champion, indeed.
"I was the Champion, once," she finally said.
"Once a Champion, always a Champion," Lily retorted, echoing Alice's own arrogant words back to her. "You cannot give up now."
"Lily, it's over," Alice said, finality in her tone. "There's no shame in admitting defeat."
Alice wasn't sure, but she thought the pregnant pause might have been Lily rolling her eyes.
"Someday, you really must explain how you find it so easy to lose hold of your muchness," the princess said impatiently.
Alice smiled bitterly. Aye, she had lost herself again, hadn't she? Ah well, no matter. Very soon, everything would cease to matter.
Alice barely bothered to pay attention as Lily started shuffling around. She heard the distinct sound of rope being sawed through, and then suddenly Lily was right behind her, cutting through her bonds.
"Lily-" she started.
"No," Lily cut her off edgily. "I'm not going to listen to this, Alice. We are getting out of here, we are freeing Tarrant, and we are going home. You owe it to Gigi's memory to get out of here alive and stabilize her queendom."
Alice drew a deep, shuddering breath. Much though she didn't want to think about it, Lily was right. With Regina dead [oh, how her heart twisted at that horrible, hateful word!], there was no one to rule Crims. If she and Mirana didn't stabilize the country, Crims would once again fall apart, as it had in the years after Iracebeth's exile. Alice had failed Regina in every possible way; she could not fail at this final task.
"You're right," Alice said grudgingly. "I assume you have some sort of plan?"
Grinning, Lily tossed Alice a small vial of pishalver. Alice wrinkled her nose as she drank the nasty stuff; she had never gotten used to the taste of the drink. Within moments, she was shrinking down to the size of a mouse, watching in fascination as Lily shrank their clothing along with them with a few drops of pishalver. At Lily's silent, satisfied nod, they crept towards the tent wall, slipping beneath it and out into the dangerous open space of the Nazari camp.
Alice blinked in surprise to see her Bandersnatch tethered to a spike in the ground just outside the tent. Either Lewis had suddenly become a much more delicately treading animal, or Alice truly had been lost in her own mind, because she hadn't heard a peep from him at all. Though Lewis growled at everyone who dared approach, he seemed unharmed. Well, this would certainly help the escape attempt…
"Explain to him, Alice," Lily hissed, before darting over to the tether keeping Lewis pinned.
Alice stared up at the behemoth mountain of fur that was her Lewis. How was she supposed to catch his attention when she was this small? Frowning, she clambered onto his paw, tugging on a lock of tangled white hair. Lewis snorted in surprise, then lowered his head down between his paws. Nodding in satisfaction, Alice climbed up onto his snout.
"We need to get out of here, boy," she explained to him. "Can you help Lily break the rope?"
She watched Lewis' eyes sparkle, and she was fairly certain that beneath her, he was grinning. Smiling, Alice clambered up onto the Bandersnatch's head, holding tight as Lewis rose into the air. He leaned back as far as the rope would allow him, and then he raised his paw, unsheathing his claws and swiping through the tether with a single snick. Innocently, Lewis lowered his head again as a Nazar strolled by, both concealing the cut rope and allowing Lily to clamber onto his back.
As soon as the Nazar was gone, Lewis bolted, only barely keeping from howling in delight. Alice held Lewis' fur in a death grip, fear nearly getting the best of her as the Nazari shouted in alarm at seeing the Bandersnatch loose. Men instantly grabbed their weapons and gave chase; beneath her, Alice thought Lewis might be laughing. He hallooed excitedly and sped up, easily outstripping his captors and leaving the Nazari camp in the dust behind them.
"What about Tarrant?" Alice yelled to Lily.
"Ioan's doing that part!" Alice barely heard Lily reply. "Tell Lewis we need to get to the oasis oueast of here!"
Alice relayed the information to Lewis, burrowing into his fur as he changed directions. For you, darling, she whispered to herself as the Bandersnatch carried them away from the sight of Regina's demise.
Gregan Nazar was well versed in the art of being unseen.
His da called him a natural-born spy; he'd always had the gift of being there one moment, gone the next. He found it easy to slip away from people, to slither through an entire camp of people unseen, and to hide in a corner and pick up all kinds of interesting tidbits. As a matter of fact, his da had utilized this talent of his before, sending him into the Red King's tent to work as a pageboy so that he could gather information and relay it back. Sometimes, though, Gregan would sneak about and listen to conversations simply because he was curious. That was the reason that he'd left the feast the clan had whipped together, and was instead slipping through the shadows, headed for his tent.
It wasn't difficult to find the ceann-fine's tent; it was easily the largest in the entire camp. Tonight it was even easier to find the tent, as it was ringed by armed guards. Gregan's face screwed up in displeasure; how was he supposed to spy on the Hatter if he couldn't get close?
He thought quickly, then nodded to himself, walking around to the back entrance and trying to look as innocent as a twelve-year-old boy possibly could as he approached the single guard posted at the tent flap.
"What're you doing here, Gregan?" Caradoc asked. "You should be enjoying the party."
"Maman sent me to fetch her shawl," he improvised quickly.
Caradoc nodded. "Get it then, and be quick," he said. "Stay out of the main tent, your da doesn't want you near the Hightopp."
"Alright," Gregan nodded easily.
He grinned to himself; that had been almost too easy. He slipped into the tent, making a pretense of rummaging through a couple of boxes, before quietly sneaking closer to the flap separating his parents' room from the main chamber.
He heard the main tent flap opening, the sounds of someone striding across the chamber, a soft clinking as something was set on the ground.
"Good even, your Majesty," he heard his da say. "I bring you sustenance."
"Isn't it foolish to waste food on prisoners we're just going to kill tomorrow?" someone- was it Uncle Dafydd's second, Ioan?- asked, sounding bored.
"Tush, Ioan," Niall chided him. "That's not until tomorrow. Until then, we're happy to share our bounty."
Gregan had to work hard to bite back his scoff. It was wintertide; they were lucky if they found enough game to hunt to stretch into a week's worth of meals. He pressed his face to the gap in the tent flap, but from this position he couldn't see what "bounty" his da had brought for the Hightopp. He could, however, see that the Hatter had been tied to the central support pole of the tent, that Ioan stood beside him, his twin swords unsheathed, and Niall squatted before the Hightopp so they were face to face. Gregan shivered; he'd heard the guards muttering to each other this afternoon, about how the Hightopp was lost to Madness. He wouldn't want to be as close to the Hatter as his da was right now.
"All the abundance of the Outlands, offered now to you," Niall said, an ugly note of bitterness in his voice. "After all, it's only right for kin to share their fortunes. It's a pity you won't be able to join us tomorrow for the Welcoming Feast…"
"Welcomin' Feast, indeed," Tarrant scoffed. "Ye can barnie aw ye loch tae claeem th' lain, but th' Brae will ne'er claeem ye. Th' Nazari turned their backs oan their ain fowk, cest themselves aff frae th' Hightopps. Th' Brae willnae ken ye. Only th' Hightopps noo belang tae Witzend."
Niall smirked. "We are Hightopps still, Tarrant. Dafydd and his men could feel the Music of Tearmunn. She will know us, and welcome us home." He stood, smiling again, and considered the bound royal. "Enjoy your meal," he said, before leaving.
Gregan waited a long moment after Niall stood and walked out of the tent. Even after Niall was gone, Gregan remained where he stood, biting his lip uneasily as he mulled over what the Hightopp had said. Was he right? Had Tearmunn really forgotten the Nazari? Granted, his da sounded confident that they would be welcomed home with open arms… but what if? Could his da be wrong? And what did that mean for them, if he was? What if they got back into Underland, only to find that they would never get home? Would they be driven back into the Outlands- or would they be killed?
Frowning, Gregan backed away from the tent flap, absently grabbing the first shawl he could find before quickly walking out of the tent. He could only think of one person he might ask about this question, one man who might know if the Hightopp was bluffing or not. The question was, where might Uncle Dafydd be hiding? He'd noticed that the Hassasseen leader had been unusually withdrawn tonight. Usually, a party would see Dafydd drinking and laughing with his fellow soldiers, or pulling a pretty lass out to dance. Dafydd had always loved clan gatherings; family was the heart of the Nazari, and Dafydd had always had the biggest heart of them all.
And yet, Dafydd was nowhere to be seen. The soldiers drank and partied, but Dafydd wasn't among them; nor was he on the dance floor [and from what he could see, Dafydd's onetime Betrothed Afanen took his absence as a personal insult]. He wasn't dancing attendance on Grandmaman, or wheedling another huckabumpkin pasty from Eilwen. Dafydd had simply vanished.
They'd been talking about Uncle Dafydd earlier today, his da and grandmaman. This conversation he truly hadn't meant to overhear; they'd simply been in the room and hadn't noticed him. And who was he to interrupt the adults when they were talking about his favorite uncle?
"I'm worried about him, Niall," Grandmaman had said. "He's not eating, and he hasn't spoken since he got back."
"I'm sure he's just tired, Mathair," Niall replied, sounding unconcerned. "He's had a grueling time of it, being trapped with the Puppet and all."
"I think it's more than that," Grandmaman had protested. "He's not acting like himself. He won't even speak to Ioan. He's been like this since you told the Hightopps about their daughter-"
"What, you think he's mourning her?" Niall scoffed. "Unlikely, Mathair. He told me himself he just needed time on his own. I'm sure he'll be fine tomorrow. And even if he's not, Tearmunn will heal him."
Gregan had always looked up to his Uncle Dafydd. His own da was often busy, and he was ceann-fine and all; Gregan had always looked on him with a mixture of respect and awe. He didn't remember much of his Uncle Andras; he'd only been seven or so when that uncle had died. But Uncle Dafydd had always been there. Dafydd had been the one to teach him to shoot a bow and arrow, how to track game; he'd been the one Gregan had wrestled with. In many ways, Uncle Dafydd was like his second da. Gregan had missed him in the last year, and if there was something wrong with him as Grandmaman feared, Gregan wanted to fix it. And then ask him about Tearmunn.
So, step one: Find Uncle Dafydd. Clearly he wasn't enjoying himself with the rest of the clan, and it was unlikely Niall would have asked him to stand guard so soon after coming home. That meant he was probably somewhere by himself. He hadn't erected his tent yet, so he couldn't be hiding in there… maybe he'd gone for a walk in the desert?
Following that line of thought, Gregan made his way to the far edge of the camp. This was an area where the Nazari frequently wintered, so he was familiar with the land. They were close to the river, maybe Uncle Dafydd had gone there to think? Hoping his hunch would be right, Gregan headed out towards the river, keeping one eye on the camp behind him and one eye overhead. No need to be snatched by a Siren or a Harpy because he felt like a moonlit stroll…
Sure enough, he found Dafydd at the river, sitting on the ground and staring up at the moon, hanging full and red in the dull maroon night sky. Gregan bit his lip in apprehension; Dafydd's face was twisted with ugly emotions, pain and rage being the two most clearly identifiable. There was a third as well, plain as the other two but not as easy to name, and this third emotion was frightening; it had turned his fun-loving, laughing uncle into a cold, hard statue.
"Uncle Dafydd?" he asked softly.
"You shouldn't be outside the perimeter, Gregan," Dafydd said, without turning. "It's not safe out here. Shouldn't you be at the party?"
"Shouldn't you?" Gregan asked, sitting beside his uncle.
Dafydd smiled to himself, a twisted, knife-edge smile that sent chills up Gregan's spine. "Parties are no place for Mad men," he said softly.
Gregan wanted to protest the point, argue that Dafydd wasn't Mad, that he would never lose control like that. But one look at his uncle's face silenced him. He had never seen Dafydd's Madness, and his family certainly hadn't discussed it when they knew he was there. But Gregan had heard the stories, from other men in the camp; how Dafydd's battle lust could consume him, leave him unstoppable and dangerous. Was that the Madness Dafydd was referring to? But why should he be struggling with it at all?
"Afanen will be disappointed," Gregan dared to say in an attempt to lighten the mood, earning himself a cuff upside the head.
"Aren't you a bit young to know about that sort of thing?" Dafydd asked gruffly.
"Not so very young," he reminded his uncle. "You were younger than I was when you underwent the Manhood Rites."
"Aye," Dafydd said absently. "Too young."
They sat in silence for a long moment, Dafydd staring out blankly into the Outlands while Gregan watched Dafydd. Yes, something was very much wrong with his uncle, Gregan decided. Perhaps he was Mad after all; he looked as though he had lost the world, which was odd considering they were being given the universe tomorrow.
"Uncle Dafydd?" Gregan asked. "Is it true that you heard the Music of Tearmunn?"
Dafydd shook his head. "I didn't hear it," he said. "But I did feel it."
"So the land will know us?" he asked hopefully. Dafydd turned to look at him, frowning in confusion, and Gregan hurried to explain. "I heard Da talking to the Hightopp," he admitted. "The Hightopp said the land wouldn't accept us, because the Nazari were traitors."
"It's a long story, Gregan," Dafydd said.
Gregan shrugged. "We have time."
A small, cheerless smile quirked Dafydd's mouth. "Aye, I suppose we do." He tilted his head back, his eyes tracing patterns in the stars as he spoke. "The Nazari used to belong to the Hightopp clan, generations ago. We broke away when King Aleric started his warmongering, because we didn't believe he had the right to invade as he was. For that, we were cast out of clan and home."
"So… so we're related to the Hightopp?" Gregan asked, eyes wide.
Dafydd nodded. "Distantly, now, after so many generations. But yes. We're properly Hightopps. That's why your da thinks the land will still know us. But because we were cast off… that's why Tarrant says we'll never belong to Tearmunn again. We could go, but we wouldn't hear the Music. The laird of the Hightopps would have to recognize us and accept us back into the clan, and only the rightful laird can revive the Music. As much as Niall might wish he was, Tarrant is the Hightopp laird."
Gregan sat still, his mind reeling. All his life, he'd been told that the Nazari would have to fight their way back home, that they had to destroy the Hightopp usurpers. But if they were related…
"But that's so simple!" Gregan exclaimed, jumping up. "All we have to do is ask the Hightopp to accept us!"
Dafydd looked up at Gregan, dark shadows behind his eyes. "Do you really think he'll accept the people who murdered his daughter?" he asked, his voice tightening as that third unidentified emotion erupted over his face.
"We can try, though!" Gregan pressed on, excitement blinding him to all else. "You can speak to him! He can accept us, and we can go home and hear the Music!"
Dafydd looked down at Gregan, his sapphire eyes hard. Gregan suppressed a shiver, trying to keep a composed face, but it was hard; whether because of the murky lighting of the Outlandish night or because of his Madness, Uncle Dafydd looked more dangerous than Gregan had ever seen. Would he even listen to Gregan in this mood?
"It probably won't work," Dafydd warned Gregan. "But it could be our only chance to keep this from becoming a bloodbath."
"So you'll do it? You'll ask him?" Gregan asked, hardly daring to believe that his idea was being taken seriously by an adult.
"I'll ask," Dafydd nodded. "I don't think Tarrant will agree, but I'll ask."
He glanced down at Gregan as they stood, his face set in lines Gregan was very familiar with. His da had the same face; this was the look he had when he was thinking and plotting. If Uncle Dafydd was anything like Da, Gregan was about to get his marching orders.
"I want you to find the Elders," Dafydd said. "Quietly, mind. Don't draw any attention to yourself. Just ask them if they'll meet with me in your da's tent. Be quick about it."
Gregan nodded and hurried off, grinning to himself. He couldn't believe his luck. He was still counted as a child among the Nazari, not worth listening to, and yet his uncle- who was one of the leaders of their clan!- was willing to listen to him and try his ideas. And if it worked and they got home… it would all be due to him. He would be the hero of his clan. And all before he'd achieved the Manhood Rites!
The Crow had been flying all day. He had been commissioned by the Nazari ceann-fine to bear one of the Nazari and his prisoner out to the Death Gulges, a journey of no mean distance. To now be asked to carry his passenger all the way to the Border Mountains… that really was too much to ask. Yet, how exactly did one argue when one's passenger was pressing a bloody knife to one's neck? Especially when one had watched one's passenger use that very knife to kill their enemy? No, there was no safe way to refuse in such a situation. So the Crow ignored his aching wings, his fierce desire for a meal, and merely concentrated upon bearing his rider to the mountains.
"Yoo're stallin', Spyug," his passenger accused him.
"It's only that I've been flying so long," the Crow attempted to defend himself. "If I might be permitted to rest-"
"If Ah permitted ye tae rest, ye woods lae me in th' middle ay nowhaur an' return tae th' Nazari wi' th' bark 'at Aam still alife," his passenger retorted. "Yoo'd best coorie if ye don't want tae begin losin' bluid."
Suppressing a groan, the Crow soared high on an updraft, beating his wings. "Are all Upland girls such trouble?"
His passenger smiled grimly, gripping the hilt of the dagger as her topaz eyes took on a deadly gleam. "Only those whose parents ur Champions ay Underlain."
The Crow squawked in relief when he saw a dark smudge looming in the distance, the red sky overhead abruptly changing to blue. He beat his wings hard, taking advantage of every tiny gust of wind in an effort to reach the mountains even a second earlier, so he could be free of his demanding little passenger.
"Fin' the ben pass 'at leids intae Witzend," she ordered him, leaning forward.
The Crow acquiesced, spying a winding footpath among the craggy mountain walls. He landed on the ground, allowing his passenger to scramble off his back.
"My payment?" he asked archly.
She glared at him. "Yer life shoods be payment enaw," she snapped.
She leaned down, struggling to unwrap the large bundle she'd balanced on her lap since that morning. When he saw the flash of a shiny silver button, the Crow leaned down and picked it up in his beak, before cawing and flying off, happy to be away and free from the Champions' Daughter.
Regina watched the Bird fly away for a moment before looking down and rummaging in the pack again. Making a sound of satisfaction as she found what she sought, she swallowed the crumb of upelkuchen, blinking in disorientation as she adjusted to seeing the world normally again. After checking to be sure her tunic still covered everything essential, she rummaged through the pack, pulling out everything. Right. Berries, nuts and water, check. Boots, check. Breeches, check. Additional dagger, check.
Without wasting any time, Regina got to work. She slithered into the breeches, grabbing her knife and hacking off the extra material. She tied them around her slim hips as tightly as she could, leaving the tunic hanging loose. She stuffed the extra material she'd cut into each of the boots, then tugged them onto her feet. Still a bit loose, but they'd have to do. She repacked the food, water skin, and extra dagger into her pack, then slid it onto her back before hurrying off down the path. She didn't have much time…
"Reit," she muttered. "Next gonnae-go, Berserka."
She winced as she moved too quickly, one hand flying to the still-bloody cut on her torso. Regaining her right-proper-size had caused the wound to begin bleeding again, but she had neither the time nor the resources to deal with it. She'd simply have to ignore it, she thought grimly; she had more important things to worry about. Like preparing Witzend for war.
She tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but her Madness-addled head was pounding, memories chasing each other around in an exhausting Caucus race. As much as she wanted to ignore everything that had happened, the events of the past few days- and just how long had it been?- weren't content to stay locked up in the darkness of the back of her mind. The faster she walked, the more easily her thoughts caught up with her.
She had tried to put up a fight when Taran came for her this morning, but it had been useless to struggle. As the pishalver slid down her throat and she'd begun to shrink, she had made one last desperate attempt to free herself. The only thing her efforts had gotten her was a slash across her ribs as Taran's knife hand jerked. She had tried to snatch at one of her hairpins, hoping to use it as a weapon in her smaller state, but finally had settled for covering herself as best she could with a fold of her dress. Niall had slashed at the dress, crafting her a surprisingly serviceable short dress, while Taran drank his own share of pishalver. Niall had set Taran, Regina, and a pack of supplies on the back of a Crow, and the journey to the Gulges had begun.
Unlike his cousin, Taran hadn't bothered being courteous to Regina, for which she thanked him. Niall's courtly manners had irritated her, knowing that he meant to kill her. At least Taran called a spade a spade.
But that didn't mean that Regina had meekly accepted her fate. The second the Crow had landed on the dry, sunbaked ground, Regina had lunged at Taran, the surprise move knocking him to his feet. She had known time was of the essence; there was no way she could win a sustained fight against him. She had felt the Haziness growing and buzzing in her brain, and for once she welcomed it; if the Madness could help her stop thinking and act quickly she'd be grateful for it. The Fates had smiled upon her; in the course of their struggling, Taran's dagger had fallen out of his belt. Regina had grabbed it and plunged it into Taran's neck. His eyes had widened in surprise, and then pain, but it was too late to save himself. Without a moment's hesitation, Regina had dragged the knife across Taran's throat, sparing him any further pain and drenching her hands in blood.
She had stared at his corpse, but she had still been lost within the icy haze of the Madness. Without pausing to let herself think, she had grabbed his pack and pulled the dagger from his neck. Then she had returned to the tree where the Crow waited, and promised him the shiny Nazari button Taran had worn in exchange for passage to the Border Mountains.
She had been walking too fast; she had to stop. She leaned against the craggy rock face, one hand pressed to her bleeding torso as she struggled to breathe through the stitch in her side. She stared down at her injury, watching her blood mingle with Taran's as the Madness grew dark and hot and overpowering. Oh sweet Fates, she had killed again. And not just a Someone, but Dafydd's cousin. She had killed before, it was true, and it had been such a horrible experience that she'd sworn to herself that it was never to be repeated. Yet, without even a moment's hesitation, she had plunged a dagger into Taran's neck and ended his life. What kind of person was she, that at the time she hadn't thought twice about killing him? Did he have any less right than her to live? No, of course not. And yet, she had killed him. What kind of person did that make her? She had the blood of two men on her hands, how was she fit to rule?
Her shoulders shook with a dry sob. Oh, how was she going to face Dafydd after this? How would he ever forgive her? How could she forgive herself? She frantically scrubbed her hands down her thighs, as if she could wash the blood away.
"As Absolem says, nothing is ever accomplished with tears."
Regina's head jerked up with a gasp, and her eyes darted around seeking the source of the voice. When her eyes focused on the Cat, she whimpered in relief, sliding down the cliff face and collapsing on the ground.
"Witzend," she gasped through the tears of pain and Madness.
"Oh, Mistress, you are in a sorry state," Witzend purred sympathetically, disappearing in a puff of smoke before reappearing in Regina's lap. "And we have no extra Time to deal with that."
"It doesnae matter, Witzend," Regina said, drawing shuddering, painful breaths. "Ye hae tae tak' me tae Berserka. Ah need tae prepaur th' army."
"Yes you do," Witzend murmured. "You'd best be on your way, then."
"What's th' best way?" Regina asked, trying to steady herself.
"Some prefer the short way, others the long," Witzend replied. "But as for me, myself, I prefer the short cut."
Regina didn't move as Witzend disappeared, reappearing in the limbs of a dead, twisted tree a few feet ahead. Humming to herself, Witzend pulled on a branch, grinning as part of the trunk fell away, revealing a path straight to the Cerulean Castle. Regina stared at the doorway, drunkenly weaving and lurching to her feet.
"You'd better hurry, Mistress," Witzend warned. "He's gone Mad, there's no telling what he'll do."
Regina blinked, frowning. He? Had her da lost control of himself again? She really didn't relish having to deal with a Mad Hatter; the last time she'd been face to face with his Madness he'd nearly taken off her head. Then again… perhaps he would be more manageable, since they were both Mad…
Regina nodded grimly, forcing herself to walk forward. She passed through the tree trunk, then staggered towards the castle, keeping her eyes focused on the front doors. She had no time, she had to hurry… she was late…
She was panting by the time she reached the front doors, and for a moment she simply slumped against them, leaning her forehead against the cool wood. She raised her fist, pounding weakly once, then twice more, her blood-slicked hands sliding down the door. She groaned as the doors swung open, nearly losing her balance.
"My word, Princess Regina!"
She looked up blearily as she was caught securely within the arms of a large, fearsome-looking Bear.
"General Koda," she sighed in relief. "We hae tae coorie. Ootlanders ur plannin' an invasion ay Witzend."
"What?" the acting Ace of Clubs exclaimed. "Where did you hear this?"
"They kidnapped me, General," Regina shook her head. "But ne'er min' 'at noo, we huvnae th' time fur tales. Ah want a body battalion ay Clubs left haur tae protect th' castle; lae will travel wi' me tae Iplam."
"Princess, you're injured," the Bear said, frowning in concern as he stared at the smear of blood on his paw. "And you're not well," he added, taking a good look at her sickly topaz irises.
"Ne'er mind!" she snapped. "It will keep. If we dornt gie tae Iplam, we'll lose th' entire queendom. Noo gie th' army ready, I'll be doon as suin as I've pit oan mah armur."
General Koda wasted no more time in arguing; he remained only long enough to ensure that Regina was firmly planted on her feet before taking off to prepare the army. Regina nodded grimly as she heard the alarm bells tolling; the sooner they were off, the sooner they could stop this insanity. Breathing shallowly, she staggered through the castle, one bloody hand pressing against the walls to keep herself upright.
She burst through the doors to her suite, ignoring Clover and Azalea's startled gasps. "Mah armur," she gasped, collapsing onto a couch and biting back a cry of pain as she leaned down to remove her boots.
"Lamb, you're hurt!" Azalea exclaimed, rushing forward.
"Aye," Regina said grimly, grunting as she kicked Taran's boots off. "Gezz me somethin' fur th' pain an' wrap me up, Ah hae tae lae."
"You shouldn't be going anywhere when you're hurt, and absolutely not in armor!" Azalea objected.
"Dornt argue wi' me," Regina barked, glaring at her maid. "Th' army is leavin' an' they need a Champion. Mathair an' Da ur thrang, sae I'll hae tae dae."
Azalea's lips pinched in displeasure, but she didn't try to argue any further. She helped Regina strip off her blood- and sweat-drenched clothes, gingerly washing off the long, shallow cut on the left side of Regina's torso. She spread a foul-smelling, thick green paste on it, and even before she'd finished wrapping a long bandage around Regina's torso she was sighing in relief as the pain receded. She quickly stepped into the thin tunic and breeches she wore beneath her armor, then stood impatiently as Clover and Azalea buckled on all the pieces. As soon as she was ready, she took off, strapping her short swords around her waist as she went.
The last time Regina had worn this armor, she had felt ill-equipped and unprepared for the task that was being asked of her. This time was different. This time, Regina was hell-bent on acting like the Champion she was supposed to be. She was a Champion begat of Champions, and she would prove it today. She would not allow the Nazari to succeed in their attempt to take over her home. She would fight to defend what was hers.