“Methinks we may never get there,” he told Chism.
Chism didn’t answer.
Still upset that I won’t give up yet,
he thought. But whatever Chism’s reason for staying, Hatta was glad to have his company and his support.
After another minute through the maze of bodies, he said, “I thank you for staying, Chism.”
Still no answer. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Peering over his shoulder, Hatta realized with horror that he was alone. Had Chism abandoned him again? They were doing that to each other much too often. In desperation, he scanned the crowd, paying particular attention to the direction from which he had come. But even rising on tiptoes, Hatta was unable to see over the heads of the soldiers. Between Chism’s short stature and bland clothes that matched most of the conscripts, it was pointless. Another reason people should dress as individuals.
Struggling to slow his breathing, he muttered a nonsense poem. Deep down he knew it was only a distraction, that whatever he was trying to hide from was still every bit as present, but the verse soothed him nonetheless.
The tension faded somewhat, but he had to repeat the rhyme and recite another one before he felt strong enough to go on by himself. The red-clad soldiers continued their congregating, moving toward the edge of camp facing the White Army.
With head lowered, Hatta wedged through a wall of soldiers, and found himself facing a new color of uniforms—a circle of dark blue, surrounded a pace or two away by the grays and browns of townsmen. It was like a close up view of a single royal wildflower against a drab background of dead leaves and dirt, and he paused to take it in.
“Hatta?” One of the blue petals detached from the circle and approached him. “Hatta, how did you end up here?”
It was the Jabberslayer’s Fellow, about a hand shorter than Hatta.
Small. Small, smallie,
“Ollie!” His Elite, Tjaden, followed and Hatta greeted him as well. That name was easy since it started like Jabberwocky.
“So they drafted you, huh?” asked Ollie.
“Yes, but it was the White Army, and I was only a soldier for two hours which was more than plenty. Now I’m messenger to the White Queen. The White Messenger, that is.”
At mention of the Whites, Ollie and Tjaden glanced toward the other army. As they turned back, Ollie’s focus snapped back toward the meadow and the Whites. “Jay,” said Ollie, pointing to the dead man’s land between the armies, “doesn’t that look like Chism?”
The black-haired young man walking toward the White front lines was indubitably Chism, and Hatta breathed a sigh in relief. Until he realized they were hundreds of paces apart.
Why would Chism wander off to the Provincial Army?
“Of course it looks like Chism; who else would Chism look like?” said Hatta. “I was wondering where he runoffed to.”
With a quizzical look, Ollie asked, “You know Chism?”
“Yes, since I was five years or six years old.”
“I thought you were from Frenala,” said Ollie.
“When I was in Shey’s Orchard I was from Frenala, but when I was in Frenala I was from T’lai. Just like my brother,” he added with a smile.
“Brothers?” exclaimed Tjaden. “I don’t know if I’ve met two people more different than the pair of you.”
“Bizarre brothers both, but brothers besides,” added Ollie with a grin.
“And not only brothers, but friends,” said Hatta. “It would be fair to say that we care for nothing in the world more than we care for each other.”
“I know you’re peace-loving, Hatta,” said Tjaden, “but Chism was the instigator of the avalanche that led to this disaster.”
Hatta refused to acknowledge that. True or not, no good could come from believing critical remarks about a friend or brother. Forcing a smile, he said, “Speaking of Frenala, did you find Fletcher the fletcher?”
“Yes!” said Ollie, reaching over his shoulder to withdraw an arrow. “I was skeptical, but you were right. He makes the truest arrows I’ve ever shot.” He thrust the thick-shafted weapon at Hatta, who accepted it as he would a hissing adder.
It was Hatta’s first time holding an arrow, and it was much sturdier than he expected, as thick around as his pinky. For a weapon of war it had a bit of beauty, if he ignored the gleaming metal point. Two of the feathers were dusty red, like a sunset on a hazy day, and the other was the same dark blue as the Elite uniforms. The shaft was polished and smooth, a dark, grainy wood.
“What a difference good arrows make,” said Ollie, and Hatta willingly handed the arrow back. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Tjaden said, “You wouldn’t know it to hear him talk, but Ollie is quite possibly the best archer in Maravilla now. I never thought I’d see it, but he actually reached a point where his skill surpassed his mouth. After that he had no choice but to be humble.”
Ollie shot him a look that made Tjaden smile even wider.
“For soldiers such as yourselves this is probably great fun,” said Hatta.
Their smiles faded quickly and Tjaden said, “This is the worst possible scenario. If the nobles can’t work something out we’ll end up fighting against other Elites.”
Ollie added, “I don’t relish the idea of killing men who are like brothers to me.”
And Hatta understood; yet at the same time he was more confused than ever. Everyone he talked to opposed this war. Nobody wanted to kill and surely no one wanted to die. Did they? So why were thousands gathered to kill and be killed? Everyone blamed the selfish nobles and he thought of Cuora. But even her, with two stark personalities, couldn’t desire something like this.
“Isn’t there something you might be able to do, Tjaden?” Hatta pleaded. “It was you who killed the Jabberwocky, when other soldiers couldn’t do it for decades.” Someone had to do something, and Tjaden was as likely a hero as anyone he knew.
The Elite grunted. “I wish I could, but I’m just a soldier.”
The royal blue that Tjaden and Ollie wore started to fade, and looking around Hatta saw the reds on uniforms and green of the grass dampen as well. He was sinking again. It was time to move on. “Well, I’ll look into it, then. Luck to both of you.”
They bid him farewell as Hatta walked on, unsure of his options.
***
After Chism broke through the mass of goggling soldiers, he heard one ask another if they should stop him. “Nah,” said the second voice. “The boy’s anxious for battle. Let him find out how much fun it is.”
He mentally dared them to try to stop him. It had been so long since he’d resorted to violence and the thought was tempting.
The Provinces’ forces were gathered a half mile north of Queen Cuora’s army. Chism knew he was infamous in the Provinces and most likely hated by thousands. So what purpose would the cat have in leading him to his death? Other than abject madness. Yet Chism had no other hope of finding Hatta before he did anything extreme. Only a fraction of the meadow lay behind him. The walk would take a while, so Chism began counting to stop the tension from escalating inside his head. Before long the numbers were high enough to demand his attention, and he declined any shorthand method of tracking his march. Hundreds and hundreds of steps ate the meadow, and when he reached nine hundred he could make out the faces of individuals.
Enemy soldiers studied him as he approached, so Chism did the best he could to keep his face down, while still watching the Cheshire Cat. It was best to avoid recognition as long as possible.
Ten paces short of the front lines, Chism heard an order to halt, and he did so. Even without looking up he felt dozens of arrows trained on him. Thirsty begged to be drawn, but Chism resisted, knowing it would be his death. The time wasn’t right.
Standing still as soldiers approached, Chism glanced at the cat. The confounded creature sat bathing himself, unconcerned.
“What have you brought me to, Cat?” spat Chism. But the cat didn’t answer, and violent hands were on Chism, dragging him into the hostile camp.
From behind, the cat trilled in his boyish voice, “I’ll wait here, then. You won’t be long.” A few of the soldiers looked around for the source of the voice, but none settled on the camouflaged cat. Chism truly wished he could strangle the creature.
In desperation, he told the soldiers, “I’m looking for my brother; he’s the messenger to the…White Queen.”
Cats and colors!
he swore.
I’ll have to remember that one for Ander if I ever see him again.
“Tell it to the sergeant,” said one of the men.
Another added, “And you’ll keep quiet until then.”
“I’m a sergeant. He can tell it to me,” said a somewhat familiar voice at his right. Turning his head, he saw Lopin, the butcher from his hometown of T’lai. Backing him up were…fifteen other faces he knew. Ison, the innkeep, Jubal, a wheat farmer, and Jubal’s brother, Jakel, stood foremost.
With a sneer, one of the soldiers who held Chism said, “We’re taking him to a real sergeant. You’re just a conscript—“
“Who outranks you, Soldier. And I said we’ll take him from here.”
Chism wasn’t surprised to see Lopin as a squadron leader. People listened to Lopin like a child obeys a stern father. Even this haughty soldier would have no choice.
The soldier reluctantly thrust Chism toward Lopin and stomped away without speaking. The men from T’lai circled Chism two deep. The inner circle closed so tight they almost touched him, and Chism’s hand went automatically to hover over Thirsty’s hilt. His departure from T’lai had been hasty and as a prisoner. There were probably some people in town who thought he got off without sufficient punishment after the incident with his father. Blood pounded through his veins and his Elite training fought to take over.
Lopin stood in front of him in the inner circle. Growing up, Chism always saw him as just. But what was his idea of justice in this case? It was Lopin who first gave Chism lessons in swordplay, so in a way he had played a role in what happened.
“We’ve all heard about your adventures, Chism,” said Lopin in a detached tone. “Elite graduate, some successful campaigns, then the incident with Duke Jaryn.”
Chism forced himself to wait silently. Out of view, thumbs stroked forefingers frantically on both hands. He truly did not want to kill anyone else from his own town. Outsiders attempted to peer into the circle, but the men from T’lai stood too closely. They wouldn’t let anyone know what they intended until they were good and ready.
Lopin continued. “And we’ve seen enough of Duke Jaryn to know he’s a pompous snake who needs to be brought down a notch or two. You’ve been wronged most of your life, lad.” A few of the others grunted in agreement. “But what possessed you to march right into camp like you were invincible? Surely you didn’t expect the Provinces to accept you like a prodigal son.”
He was far from in the clear, but at least he had an ally. Maybe some of Hatta’s happenstance was rubbing off. “It’s Hatta. And…” he glanced in the direction of the cat in the meadow. That wouldn’t help. “He has a letter for Queen Palida. You know him, Lopin. He can’t manage in a place like this.”
Lopin cursed. “If Hatta’s here, he won’t find the queen. She’s not even in the camp. She’s scheduled to parlay with Lady Cuora, or the Queen of Hearts, as she calls herself now.”
Chism wanted out of the camp. It was insanity to come in the first place.
“That’s where Hatta will be,” said Chism. There was no doubt. “Get me back to the clearing.”
“I’ll do more than that,” said Lopin. “I’ll escort you to the parlay myself. It’s the least I can do for a friend.”
Friend?
There was that word again. He had never considered Lopin a friend; the man was nearly three times his age. Expecting glares and curses, he glanced around the circles. Every man nodded when he made eye contact, and a few reached out and slapped his back, causing Chism to shy away involuntarily.
The youngest of the group, Taylin, said, “I’ll go along, Sarge. I’d like to do what I can for Chism.” The rest of the group voiced their agreement, stunning him.
Friends,
he thought. He had grown so accustomed to solitude, even among other people, that it felt strange. The urge to get away from the Whites grew even stronger.
“No,” said Lopin, ending any argument. “Escort us to the meadow, but stay here. A whole squadron approaching the council could be the spark this tinder pile is waiting for. Jubal, get us to the clearing.”
The men of T’lai turned to face south, and with Jubal as spearhead, they sliced the ranks of soldiers. They only had to cover fifteen paces, but the curiosity over the strange newcomer made it a slow maneuver.
Like a bubble escaping the surface of a lake in slow motion, the squadron opened into the clearing. The detestable cat waited indolently. “Done so soon?” he asked, smiling that infuriating smile.
I should skin you and keep your teeth for a token,
thought Chism, but Lopin was too close to say it aloud. He started toward the center of the meadow with Lopin at his side.
“Can I talk you out of this, Chism?” asked Lopin as they walked. “You really should get away from here.”