This will be fun, p.12
This Will Be Fun, page 12
“Doing what?” he managed. For hours? Sleepless? Regardless of whether he could forgive Beatrice, he was discovering his instincts toward her hadn’t changed. Worry pulled him like storm winds on perilous mountain paths. Unless he entrenched himself, remembering she cared nothing for him, they would push him over the edge.
Vandra shrugged. “I’m an excellent spy, but even I can’t see inside someone’s head. Memories, I’d imagine.”
Memories.
Clare had been in his memories last night, too, but not like Beatrice. He knew his were only fumbling, forced-up recollections, nothing like the renderings Beatrice could revisit, yet they devastated him—which reminded him of the horrible power Beatrice possessed. How vividly she could see every failure, feel every loss.
His ordinary memories were enough—combined with the uncomfortable floorboards—to forestall hours of his own sleep. He’d found himself remembering the last time they were together, united on their journey. The quest. He remembered how Galwell’s death drove them apart. If Galwell could, impossibly, have known what his death would do to them . . . Clare knew the fallen hero, their dear friend, would have been heartbroken.
He would be disappointed.
The conviction had given Clare new resolve. He’d woken in his upstairs room with a hurting hip and a new plan for the coming days.
It was why he’d invited Vandra here. He leaned forward, hiding none of his hesitation, none of his self-doubt. If Vandra felt he was only acting cavalierly, she would feel less of an imperative to go along with his plan. She needed to know he was serious.
“I was . . . hoping the four of us could travel to the palace together,” he proposed.
Vandra’s eyes narrowed, for once. She sipped her drink. “I’m not eager to forsake my one-on-one time with my prickly paramour,” she said.
He’d expected that point. “After Galwell’s funeral,” he elaborated gently, “Elowen and Beatrice had a huge fight. I feel they should . . . talk. Heal old wounds. It would help them. You said you have forgiven her. Yearned for her, even. Mending her past might help her . . .” He measured his words. He did not want to promise what he could not deliver. “. . . return to herself,” he finished.
Concern vanquished the cheer in Vandra’s expression. She set down her mug. “Of course. Of course it’s not just her brother’s death that drove Elowen into the trees,” she replied, pacing out each deduction in words. “Beatrice was her best friend. It must have hurt her horribly to lose not only her brother, but her oldest friend.”
Clare nodded. While he knew Elowen was the route to Vandra’s cooperation, he could not help considering how the rift had hurt Beatrice as well.
Oh, he didn’t sympathize with her. How could he, when she knew exactly how she’d shattered his heart?
He couldn’t, he told himself. He couldn’t wonder whether she would never have settled for her miserable marriage if she’d held on to her dearest friend. He couldn’t contemplate whether she would be less lost, or less inclined to losing herself in drink, if she’d had Elowen to hold on to. He couldn’t concern himself with whether she would be happier.
Not when she hated him the way she obviously did. He could entertain none of those caring questions about her. Even if he occasionally wanted to.
“Why do you want to push them together?” Vandra queried. “It’ll surely be a headache for us.”
Clare straightened. He did not know exactly how to respond. Or, he did. He just did not know exactly how to respond in his own voice, his own person. Putting honesty into words he usually only employed for performance.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he mustered.
He felt the inquisition of Vandra’s gaze on him, the full depth of her familiar scrutiny. She could see through him. How he postured greatness just to hold himself together. Hold everyone together.
She decided not to pry. The next moment, like the clouds parting in front of the sun, her cheerful resolve returned. “Very well! I like your plan, good sir. If Elowen and Beatrice can mend their own relationship, Elowen may more freely open her heart again. It is here resolved—we shall journey together on the road to Queendom.”
She stood, drink finished. Clare joined her.
“A road voyage,” she elaborated. “Road trek. Road trip. Road trip!” she repeated in delight. “That’s the one, isn’t it? Doesn’t it just sound fun?”
It did not, to Clare, in honesty. He would, however, hold the course. It was his plan, which inspired commitment if not confidence. Galwell had been the Four’s planner. Clare could only hope and welcome the presence of intercessors to his and Beatrice’s hatred. “Then,” he ventured, “we’ll just need to find a way to convince them to travel together.”
“Oh, we can’t do that,” Vandra replied instantly. “Fortunately”—Clare could only follow her out of the tavern, into the morning light dazzling over the greenery outside the inn—“I know what’ll work instead. Which are your horses?”
Clare pointed, wary. “Why?”
Promptly, Vandra went to the hitching post, where she untied Clare’s horse. Next, she loosed the obsidian-black mare. Exactly the one Clare had discerned! He made a mental note to tell Beatrice I told you so. In a very gentlemanly and noble way, of course.
Then, with one slap of the horses’ hindquarters, Vandra sent the horses running.
“Lead him home, Killer!” she called out sweetly. “Have fun, you two!”
Clare watched the dispatch with puzzled horror. “Vandra . . .”
“Trust me.”
He needed to now, he knew. He followed her, returning into the inn, where, with the growing group of guests waking up and hungry for dawnlark eggs, they found Beatrice and Elowen. The women were, naturally, standing as far from each other as possible while remaining in each other’s sights. They looked up in guarded expectation when Vandra strode into the room.
Vandra did not disappoint. “Misfortune, ladies! Our horses have run off in the night!”
Faces fell.
“We know not how,” Vandra continued. “However, we are in surprising luck, for the inn has chartered a coach for everyone going to Queendom. We can ride. Together!”
10
Elowen
Contrary to popular belief, Elowen did not take pleasure in being sour. Quite the opposite. Living a life attuned to everyone’s emotions meant feeling everything, all the time. And there was quite a lot to feel in the cramped wagon sandwiched next to a beaming Vandra, with a rigid Clare and an unpredictable Beatrice sitting across from them. Whenever Elowen glanced up, Clare offered her a winning smile, yet she sensed nothing but worry coming from him. He was admirable in his attempts to disguise it, pointing out every so-called exciting feature the road had to offer.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a flock of golden-tipped hamsterjays right there?” He leaned over to get a better look, pressing a hand on Elowen’s shoulder to steady himself. She felt every bit of his eager nervousness. It was as potent as drinking three foambrews in a row. “I haven’t seen any of those since I was a young boy. I thought they’d gone extinct.”
Elowen turned to the small window behind her. “Those are rodents,” she said.
Clare laughed good-naturedly. “Seems it might be time for ole Grandhart to make an appointment with a visionkeeper.”
“I’m Clare Grandhart, the newest face of Vision Glass,” Beatrice muttered, performing a rather uncanny impression of him. “With these spectacles, you, too, can see the world as a hero does.”
Clare deflected Beatrice’s mockery by pretending to hold a pair of imaginary glasses to his face. “I have been told on more than one occasion how striking I look in a pair of metal-rimmed lenses.”
Right then, an unfortunate bump in the road knocked Clare’s head into the roof of the wagon. He let out an agonized yelp, and Beatrice laughed heartily in return.
“It isn’t funny,” Elowen found herself saying. She did not mean to acknowledge the fraught relationship between Beatrice and Clare—or to acknowledge Beatrice at all—but she could not condone Beatrice celebrating Clare’s pain.
The comment silenced Beatrice with surprising effectiveness. She leaned back into her seat and closed her eyes as if fighting off a headache. Good. Let her stay quiet for the rest of this journey.
“Golden-tipped hamsterjays aren’t extinct,” Vandra announced to the wagon, pulling her bag onto her lap to rummage around in it. “They migrated after the Fraternal Order froze Pollenberry Lake. You can find them along the Mythrian River.” She held out her palm to showcase brightly colored candies, made to look like crystals. “Would anyone like a Sizzle Crystal?”
At least when Vandra attempted to soften tension, she came prepared with sweets. Elowen popped a handful in her mouth, appreciating how the crackling sensation required all of her attention. For a moment, she did not have to be the famed Elowen True of the Four, trapped inside a wagon with every living person who’d ever really mattered in her life. She was just someone enjoying a novelty candy.
“No Domynia costume today?” Beatrice asked, interrupting the peace as only she could. “I thought it flattered you.”
Elowen squeezed her lips between her teeth. Sizzle Crystals fireworked against the roof of her mouth.
Beatrice paid no mind to Elowen’s lack of engagement. “You know, they never should have brought Domynia back,” she said. “Why would Alcharis burst into tears at the sight of her? Her last act was betraying them, and they’ve spent the last however many years getting over that, and the moment they find out she’s alive, they’re happy?”
Elowen could bite her lip no longer. “They missed her!” she cried out, though the Sizzle Crystals made it sound more like They mish’d sher. She spit the candies into her hand so she could argue properly. “They were overcome with joy at the return of their long-lost love. It wasn’t the time to hold her accountable for past actions.”
“I don’t care if it was supposed to be a heat-of-the-moment reaction, she doesn’t deserve their forgiveness,” Beatrice argued back. “Not when they’ve spent all this time suffering because of her. They should have been furious.”
When they were young, Beatrice would come over so they could watch Desires of the Night together. She was always a more observant audience member than Elowen, spending hours considering the thoughts behind everyone’s actions, whereas Elowen focused on emotions alone. It used to make Elowen feel like a less-intelligent fan. Beatrice could see things that Elowen never once even considered.
It was Galwell who had helped Elowen get over her insecurity, chalking it up to their different magics. Elowen was ruled by the heart, Beatrice by the head. Now that Elowen had lived through some of the worst agonies life had to offer, she’d learned it had nothing to do with magic at all. Beatrice believed happiness had to be earned, and it upset her when someone received it without just cause.
“I don’t know why you’re arguing this with me of all people,” Elowen said. “As if my mind could ever be changed on the matter. Domynia is my favorite character, and she always will be.”
Beatrice muttered something low enough that Elowen could not make it out.
“What?” Elowen snapped. She was all the way in, ready to see this fight through.
“I said, Typical,” Beatrice told her, louder.
“What’s typical? That you don’t think anything good should happen to people who have made mistakes?” Elowen hissed.
“No. That you believe your opinion is the only correct one.”
“You know what they say about opinions?” Clare interrupted. “They’re like bums. Everybody has one.”
“Shut up, Clare,” Beatrice and Elowen said in perfect unison.
Vandra clapped her hands together. “Look at that. You two agree on something for once.” She held the Sizzle Crystals out once more. “Last call for candy.”
“I only meant to lighten the mood,” Clare said. “I don’t see the sense in being miserable at every turn. I recall a night around the fire when we pledged to have our nails charmed after the quest was over. Remember that?”
Of course Elowen remembered. And surely so did Beatrice. But it wasn’t the point. Elowen didn’t know what good came from pretending you were happy when you weren’t. All it ever seemed to do was make people believe you had a higher tolerance for nonsense than you did. Poor Clare may as well have been a rug the way he laid himself out to be walked over, all for the sake of keeping a peace that could never be maintained.
“It seems our problems only start when someone speaks,” Beatrice told Clare.
“Says the person who spoke first,” Elowen couldn’t help but remind her.
With a gusty sigh, Clare reached out his hand and accepted Vandra’s candy offer, throwing the crystals into his mouth to escape a response. Elowen’s own candy had melted into her hand now, a sticky swirl of colors on the inside of her palm.
“I was trying to make polite conversation,” Beatrice said.
“What’s polite about telling me my favorite character deserves a life of misery?” Elowen asked.
Vandra shifted in her seat. The quick brush of contact—Vandra’s bare ankle tapping against Elowen’s—showed Elowen how uncomfortable Vandra was with this. For some reason Elowen thought Vandra was impervious to the conflict in the wagon. Discovering that she wasn’t put a pause on Elowen’s fast-acting fury.
“You’re right,” Elowen admitted to Beatrice, much to the shock of everyone in the wagon. Even the man handling the horses up front fumbled the reins. “The problems start when we talk,” she continued. “So let’s take a pledge of silence, then. That will be better for all of us.”
“Fine by me,” Beatrice said.
“Very good.” Elowen removed one of the sticky crystals from her hand to use as a paint. “In fact, I’ll draw a line down the wagon. This will be my half, and that half will be yours.” Elowen used the colorful candy to mark their division. “This line will act as an invisible curtain, preventing us from needing to entertain whatever is happening on the other side.”
Beatrice folded her arms. “Wonderful. I don’t even see you over there.”
“Nor do I see you,” Elowen said back.
“Perfect.” Beatrice wanted the last word, and that irritated Elowen to no end.
She opened her mouth to get in one last jab—something clever that showed she used her mind just as well as she used her heart—when she remembered the greater power existed in silence. That was how she had survived the last ten years, and it was how she’d survive the next few days.
In fact, if she had her way, she would never speak to Beatrice again.
11
Clare
He was certain nothing in history had ever lasted so long.
In the legends of the Winter War, where men fought with fearsome wights in endless darkness, none had endured the way he did. In the Nine-Kingdom Quell, when the ruling lands withdrew from each other instead of risking conflict, none knew the emptiness of isolation like he. No, Clare was convinced the wagon ride in which he found himself now outlasted every recorded instance of the endurance of Mythrian peril.
While he knew only hours were passing, they were hours of the stiffest, coldest silence. Of glares tossed like daggers and sighs wielded like armor. Elowen sat opposite Beatrice, neither of them speaking.
Contending with the outcome of forcing them into one wagon, on one journey, Clare was forced to confront one immovable, unfortunate fact.
He’d made a grave mistake.
The wagon eventually slowed. Moments later, the driver came around the rear. “Gotta hold up for dinner,” he declared, sounding hasty to escape what was ongoing in his carriage. “There ought to be fun to be had in this village, though. Very idyllic, tourists say. Wonderful hot springs and decadent whitefish pies.”
Clare wondered if the village had posters like he’d seen in Farmount for simple summoning spells one could use for deliverypersons to carry the local delicacies right to whatever lodging one found. He loved a good fish pie, if he was honest.
“No,” Beatrice declared flatly. “No, we’re not vacationing for the night. We’re summoning Wagons-for-You.”
“Can’t,” the driver replied. “Not out here. Sweetwater messes with the spell.” He sounded proud, like he enjoyed pointing out the competing service’s limitations.
The remark, however, did not endear him to Beatrice. “Can we pay you to recruit a second driver and not waylay us this eve?” she inquired irritably. “I want this journey over with.”
In Elowen’s glare, Clare recognized the expression of one who did not wish to concede she’d had the same idea. “Do you have the coin for it?” she replied. “I heard you were destitute. Again.”
“Why don’t you send an eagle to your parents and have them drop off the farthings?” Beatrice shot back at Elowen. “Oh, wait, you no longer speak to them, right?”
Clare was holding dearly on to the notion of delivered whitefish pies now. Perhaps he could commission spicesalted fried potatoes alongside.
“Ladies, please!” Vandra cut in, her cheer drawn with strain like the highest strings on a lute. Clare’s spirits suffered further. If even the convivial Vandra was annoyed, the situation was dire. It called for . . . oh, withering Ghosts. It called for leadership. Something a chivalrous, heroic nobleman would display, whereas a knavish lout would only observe, dreaming of pie.
“No,” he interrupted, mustering his voice into what he hoped passed for respectful command. “No, each of you. Cease. We’re spending the night here. We will employ no secondary driver.”
His ex’s vicious gaze shot his way like venomed arrows from the nocks of the Forest of Vrast’s unforgiving defenders. It was, however, Elowen who responded.
“Who died and made you the leader?” she demanded. “Oh wait.”
Her gaze rounded on Beatrice.
Silence fell over the wagon. Beatrice did not rise to a retort. Instead, she wilted into herself. Where until now Elowen’s remarks had struck her like sparks onto kindling, this one snuffed out the flame of her spirit.
Vandra shrugged. “I’m an excellent spy, but even I can’t see inside someone’s head. Memories, I’d imagine.”
Memories.
Clare had been in his memories last night, too, but not like Beatrice. He knew his were only fumbling, forced-up recollections, nothing like the renderings Beatrice could revisit, yet they devastated him—which reminded him of the horrible power Beatrice possessed. How vividly she could see every failure, feel every loss.
His ordinary memories were enough—combined with the uncomfortable floorboards—to forestall hours of his own sleep. He’d found himself remembering the last time they were together, united on their journey. The quest. He remembered how Galwell’s death drove them apart. If Galwell could, impossibly, have known what his death would do to them . . . Clare knew the fallen hero, their dear friend, would have been heartbroken.
He would be disappointed.
The conviction had given Clare new resolve. He’d woken in his upstairs room with a hurting hip and a new plan for the coming days.
It was why he’d invited Vandra here. He leaned forward, hiding none of his hesitation, none of his self-doubt. If Vandra felt he was only acting cavalierly, she would feel less of an imperative to go along with his plan. She needed to know he was serious.
“I was . . . hoping the four of us could travel to the palace together,” he proposed.
Vandra’s eyes narrowed, for once. She sipped her drink. “I’m not eager to forsake my one-on-one time with my prickly paramour,” she said.
He’d expected that point. “After Galwell’s funeral,” he elaborated gently, “Elowen and Beatrice had a huge fight. I feel they should . . . talk. Heal old wounds. It would help them. You said you have forgiven her. Yearned for her, even. Mending her past might help her . . .” He measured his words. He did not want to promise what he could not deliver. “. . . return to herself,” he finished.
Concern vanquished the cheer in Vandra’s expression. She set down her mug. “Of course. Of course it’s not just her brother’s death that drove Elowen into the trees,” she replied, pacing out each deduction in words. “Beatrice was her best friend. It must have hurt her horribly to lose not only her brother, but her oldest friend.”
Clare nodded. While he knew Elowen was the route to Vandra’s cooperation, he could not help considering how the rift had hurt Beatrice as well.
Oh, he didn’t sympathize with her. How could he, when she knew exactly how she’d shattered his heart?
He couldn’t, he told himself. He couldn’t wonder whether she would never have settled for her miserable marriage if she’d held on to her dearest friend. He couldn’t contemplate whether she would be less lost, or less inclined to losing herself in drink, if she’d had Elowen to hold on to. He couldn’t concern himself with whether she would be happier.
Not when she hated him the way she obviously did. He could entertain none of those caring questions about her. Even if he occasionally wanted to.
“Why do you want to push them together?” Vandra queried. “It’ll surely be a headache for us.”
Clare straightened. He did not know exactly how to respond. Or, he did. He just did not know exactly how to respond in his own voice, his own person. Putting honesty into words he usually only employed for performance.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he mustered.
He felt the inquisition of Vandra’s gaze on him, the full depth of her familiar scrutiny. She could see through him. How he postured greatness just to hold himself together. Hold everyone together.
She decided not to pry. The next moment, like the clouds parting in front of the sun, her cheerful resolve returned. “Very well! I like your plan, good sir. If Elowen and Beatrice can mend their own relationship, Elowen may more freely open her heart again. It is here resolved—we shall journey together on the road to Queendom.”
She stood, drink finished. Clare joined her.
“A road voyage,” she elaborated. “Road trek. Road trip. Road trip!” she repeated in delight. “That’s the one, isn’t it? Doesn’t it just sound fun?”
It did not, to Clare, in honesty. He would, however, hold the course. It was his plan, which inspired commitment if not confidence. Galwell had been the Four’s planner. Clare could only hope and welcome the presence of intercessors to his and Beatrice’s hatred. “Then,” he ventured, “we’ll just need to find a way to convince them to travel together.”
“Oh, we can’t do that,” Vandra replied instantly. “Fortunately”—Clare could only follow her out of the tavern, into the morning light dazzling over the greenery outside the inn—“I know what’ll work instead. Which are your horses?”
Clare pointed, wary. “Why?”
Promptly, Vandra went to the hitching post, where she untied Clare’s horse. Next, she loosed the obsidian-black mare. Exactly the one Clare had discerned! He made a mental note to tell Beatrice I told you so. In a very gentlemanly and noble way, of course.
Then, with one slap of the horses’ hindquarters, Vandra sent the horses running.
“Lead him home, Killer!” she called out sweetly. “Have fun, you two!”
Clare watched the dispatch with puzzled horror. “Vandra . . .”
“Trust me.”
He needed to now, he knew. He followed her, returning into the inn, where, with the growing group of guests waking up and hungry for dawnlark eggs, they found Beatrice and Elowen. The women were, naturally, standing as far from each other as possible while remaining in each other’s sights. They looked up in guarded expectation when Vandra strode into the room.
Vandra did not disappoint. “Misfortune, ladies! Our horses have run off in the night!”
Faces fell.
“We know not how,” Vandra continued. “However, we are in surprising luck, for the inn has chartered a coach for everyone going to Queendom. We can ride. Together!”
10
Elowen
Contrary to popular belief, Elowen did not take pleasure in being sour. Quite the opposite. Living a life attuned to everyone’s emotions meant feeling everything, all the time. And there was quite a lot to feel in the cramped wagon sandwiched next to a beaming Vandra, with a rigid Clare and an unpredictable Beatrice sitting across from them. Whenever Elowen glanced up, Clare offered her a winning smile, yet she sensed nothing but worry coming from him. He was admirable in his attempts to disguise it, pointing out every so-called exciting feature the road had to offer.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a flock of golden-tipped hamsterjays right there?” He leaned over to get a better look, pressing a hand on Elowen’s shoulder to steady himself. She felt every bit of his eager nervousness. It was as potent as drinking three foambrews in a row. “I haven’t seen any of those since I was a young boy. I thought they’d gone extinct.”
Elowen turned to the small window behind her. “Those are rodents,” she said.
Clare laughed good-naturedly. “Seems it might be time for ole Grandhart to make an appointment with a visionkeeper.”
“I’m Clare Grandhart, the newest face of Vision Glass,” Beatrice muttered, performing a rather uncanny impression of him. “With these spectacles, you, too, can see the world as a hero does.”
Clare deflected Beatrice’s mockery by pretending to hold a pair of imaginary glasses to his face. “I have been told on more than one occasion how striking I look in a pair of metal-rimmed lenses.”
Right then, an unfortunate bump in the road knocked Clare’s head into the roof of the wagon. He let out an agonized yelp, and Beatrice laughed heartily in return.
“It isn’t funny,” Elowen found herself saying. She did not mean to acknowledge the fraught relationship between Beatrice and Clare—or to acknowledge Beatrice at all—but she could not condone Beatrice celebrating Clare’s pain.
The comment silenced Beatrice with surprising effectiveness. She leaned back into her seat and closed her eyes as if fighting off a headache. Good. Let her stay quiet for the rest of this journey.
“Golden-tipped hamsterjays aren’t extinct,” Vandra announced to the wagon, pulling her bag onto her lap to rummage around in it. “They migrated after the Fraternal Order froze Pollenberry Lake. You can find them along the Mythrian River.” She held out her palm to showcase brightly colored candies, made to look like crystals. “Would anyone like a Sizzle Crystal?”
At least when Vandra attempted to soften tension, she came prepared with sweets. Elowen popped a handful in her mouth, appreciating how the crackling sensation required all of her attention. For a moment, she did not have to be the famed Elowen True of the Four, trapped inside a wagon with every living person who’d ever really mattered in her life. She was just someone enjoying a novelty candy.
“No Domynia costume today?” Beatrice asked, interrupting the peace as only she could. “I thought it flattered you.”
Elowen squeezed her lips between her teeth. Sizzle Crystals fireworked against the roof of her mouth.
Beatrice paid no mind to Elowen’s lack of engagement. “You know, they never should have brought Domynia back,” she said. “Why would Alcharis burst into tears at the sight of her? Her last act was betraying them, and they’ve spent the last however many years getting over that, and the moment they find out she’s alive, they’re happy?”
Elowen could bite her lip no longer. “They missed her!” she cried out, though the Sizzle Crystals made it sound more like They mish’d sher. She spit the candies into her hand so she could argue properly. “They were overcome with joy at the return of their long-lost love. It wasn’t the time to hold her accountable for past actions.”
“I don’t care if it was supposed to be a heat-of-the-moment reaction, she doesn’t deserve their forgiveness,” Beatrice argued back. “Not when they’ve spent all this time suffering because of her. They should have been furious.”
When they were young, Beatrice would come over so they could watch Desires of the Night together. She was always a more observant audience member than Elowen, spending hours considering the thoughts behind everyone’s actions, whereas Elowen focused on emotions alone. It used to make Elowen feel like a less-intelligent fan. Beatrice could see things that Elowen never once even considered.
It was Galwell who had helped Elowen get over her insecurity, chalking it up to their different magics. Elowen was ruled by the heart, Beatrice by the head. Now that Elowen had lived through some of the worst agonies life had to offer, she’d learned it had nothing to do with magic at all. Beatrice believed happiness had to be earned, and it upset her when someone received it without just cause.
“I don’t know why you’re arguing this with me of all people,” Elowen said. “As if my mind could ever be changed on the matter. Domynia is my favorite character, and she always will be.”
Beatrice muttered something low enough that Elowen could not make it out.
“What?” Elowen snapped. She was all the way in, ready to see this fight through.
“I said, Typical,” Beatrice told her, louder.
“What’s typical? That you don’t think anything good should happen to people who have made mistakes?” Elowen hissed.
“No. That you believe your opinion is the only correct one.”
“You know what they say about opinions?” Clare interrupted. “They’re like bums. Everybody has one.”
“Shut up, Clare,” Beatrice and Elowen said in perfect unison.
Vandra clapped her hands together. “Look at that. You two agree on something for once.” She held the Sizzle Crystals out once more. “Last call for candy.”
“I only meant to lighten the mood,” Clare said. “I don’t see the sense in being miserable at every turn. I recall a night around the fire when we pledged to have our nails charmed after the quest was over. Remember that?”
Of course Elowen remembered. And surely so did Beatrice. But it wasn’t the point. Elowen didn’t know what good came from pretending you were happy when you weren’t. All it ever seemed to do was make people believe you had a higher tolerance for nonsense than you did. Poor Clare may as well have been a rug the way he laid himself out to be walked over, all for the sake of keeping a peace that could never be maintained.
“It seems our problems only start when someone speaks,” Beatrice told Clare.
“Says the person who spoke first,” Elowen couldn’t help but remind her.
With a gusty sigh, Clare reached out his hand and accepted Vandra’s candy offer, throwing the crystals into his mouth to escape a response. Elowen’s own candy had melted into her hand now, a sticky swirl of colors on the inside of her palm.
“I was trying to make polite conversation,” Beatrice said.
“What’s polite about telling me my favorite character deserves a life of misery?” Elowen asked.
Vandra shifted in her seat. The quick brush of contact—Vandra’s bare ankle tapping against Elowen’s—showed Elowen how uncomfortable Vandra was with this. For some reason Elowen thought Vandra was impervious to the conflict in the wagon. Discovering that she wasn’t put a pause on Elowen’s fast-acting fury.
“You’re right,” Elowen admitted to Beatrice, much to the shock of everyone in the wagon. Even the man handling the horses up front fumbled the reins. “The problems start when we talk,” she continued. “So let’s take a pledge of silence, then. That will be better for all of us.”
“Fine by me,” Beatrice said.
“Very good.” Elowen removed one of the sticky crystals from her hand to use as a paint. “In fact, I’ll draw a line down the wagon. This will be my half, and that half will be yours.” Elowen used the colorful candy to mark their division. “This line will act as an invisible curtain, preventing us from needing to entertain whatever is happening on the other side.”
Beatrice folded her arms. “Wonderful. I don’t even see you over there.”
“Nor do I see you,” Elowen said back.
“Perfect.” Beatrice wanted the last word, and that irritated Elowen to no end.
She opened her mouth to get in one last jab—something clever that showed she used her mind just as well as she used her heart—when she remembered the greater power existed in silence. That was how she had survived the last ten years, and it was how she’d survive the next few days.
In fact, if she had her way, she would never speak to Beatrice again.
11
Clare
He was certain nothing in history had ever lasted so long.
In the legends of the Winter War, where men fought with fearsome wights in endless darkness, none had endured the way he did. In the Nine-Kingdom Quell, when the ruling lands withdrew from each other instead of risking conflict, none knew the emptiness of isolation like he. No, Clare was convinced the wagon ride in which he found himself now outlasted every recorded instance of the endurance of Mythrian peril.
While he knew only hours were passing, they were hours of the stiffest, coldest silence. Of glares tossed like daggers and sighs wielded like armor. Elowen sat opposite Beatrice, neither of them speaking.
Contending with the outcome of forcing them into one wagon, on one journey, Clare was forced to confront one immovable, unfortunate fact.
He’d made a grave mistake.
The wagon eventually slowed. Moments later, the driver came around the rear. “Gotta hold up for dinner,” he declared, sounding hasty to escape what was ongoing in his carriage. “There ought to be fun to be had in this village, though. Very idyllic, tourists say. Wonderful hot springs and decadent whitefish pies.”
Clare wondered if the village had posters like he’d seen in Farmount for simple summoning spells one could use for deliverypersons to carry the local delicacies right to whatever lodging one found. He loved a good fish pie, if he was honest.
“No,” Beatrice declared flatly. “No, we’re not vacationing for the night. We’re summoning Wagons-for-You.”
“Can’t,” the driver replied. “Not out here. Sweetwater messes with the spell.” He sounded proud, like he enjoyed pointing out the competing service’s limitations.
The remark, however, did not endear him to Beatrice. “Can we pay you to recruit a second driver and not waylay us this eve?” she inquired irritably. “I want this journey over with.”
In Elowen’s glare, Clare recognized the expression of one who did not wish to concede she’d had the same idea. “Do you have the coin for it?” she replied. “I heard you were destitute. Again.”
“Why don’t you send an eagle to your parents and have them drop off the farthings?” Beatrice shot back at Elowen. “Oh, wait, you no longer speak to them, right?”
Clare was holding dearly on to the notion of delivered whitefish pies now. Perhaps he could commission spicesalted fried potatoes alongside.
“Ladies, please!” Vandra cut in, her cheer drawn with strain like the highest strings on a lute. Clare’s spirits suffered further. If even the convivial Vandra was annoyed, the situation was dire. It called for . . . oh, withering Ghosts. It called for leadership. Something a chivalrous, heroic nobleman would display, whereas a knavish lout would only observe, dreaming of pie.
“No,” he interrupted, mustering his voice into what he hoped passed for respectful command. “No, each of you. Cease. We’re spending the night here. We will employ no secondary driver.”
His ex’s vicious gaze shot his way like venomed arrows from the nocks of the Forest of Vrast’s unforgiving defenders. It was, however, Elowen who responded.
“Who died and made you the leader?” she demanded. “Oh wait.”
Her gaze rounded on Beatrice.
Silence fell over the wagon. Beatrice did not rise to a retort. Instead, she wilted into herself. Where until now Elowen’s remarks had struck her like sparks onto kindling, this one snuffed out the flame of her spirit.
