This will be fun, p.19
This Will Be Fun, page 19
18
Clare
“We, the remaining three of the Four, accept your quest,” Clare announced. “We will ride out from Queendom and rescue Sir Hugh for our queen and for Mythria.”
He wondered if there was some manner of officially signing up for royal quests. Galwell had always handled the logistics. Was there some registry or something? Otherwise, how would the queen know who she had dispatched on what quests and ensure their progress? Not important, he reminded himself.
He settled for lowering himself to one knee.
He felt awkward. Never more like an impostor. He muscled past it, welcoming the feeling’s familiarity—if he did not know how to play noble hero, he’d learned in long nights on dungeon floors how to deal with discomfort. Someone, he reminded himself, had to hold them together.
He did not share how much the very fact of a them surprised him. Reuniting the group after the women’s departures from this very room yesterday had felt like grasswalker wrangling—unwise, unless one wanted to get one’s head chomped off.
Instead, Elowen had appeared in his quarters late last night, stating she had changed her mind and would join the quest. Predictably, she offered no explanation for her new resolution. He was reminded of when she’d complained for weeks about quest foodstuffs, only to announce she’d come to consider the flatbreads they rationed one of her favorite foods. Clare, of course, had not questioned her.
He had, however, noticed the happy flush painting her cheeks. He wondered who’d done the painting.
For her part, Beatrice had not even looked at him once today. He understood her disdain. He’d awoken the old Clare yesterday—rude, forward, uncompromising. The rogue, not the hero. He’d promised himself and promised her he would embody nobility and gallantry, and instead he confronted her in her washroom.
If he were a worthy man, perhaps he would not have abandoned her after the funeral. Perhaps he could have handled the revelation with grace, even care. Even love.
Perhaps they never would have hurt each other the way they did.
He could not know. He just knew he meant every word when he promised her this quest was their only hope of healing.
The queen gazed upon them with recovered composure. “Queendom thanks our noble heroes for their valiant efforts,” she stated. “Rise.”
Noble heroes? Valiant? Isn’t she laying it on a little thick? Clare could not help wondering. People only called him valiant when they were joking.
Nevertheless, he rose to the queen’s command.
The moment he did, Thessia dropped her regal demeanor, her shoulders slumping in relief. “Oh! The three of you! Working together! I’ve had no rest, not one wink, for days. Last night, just with the possibility of the greatest heroes in Mythria venturing to save Hugh, I was finally able to get some sleep. I know you three will bring him home.” Thessia laughed, pacing in front of her throne.
Clare could not help smiling. He recognized her response. He knew how real, soul-salving relief could hit one with giddy delight. He’d skipped home when Farmount’s wisest animal healer had informed him Wiglaf’s cloud-cough was curable.
“We’re going to get some grand songs out of the quest, I know it.” In her enthusiasm, the queen was now digressing. “‘Four Face the Darkness’ is quite familiar now. Don’t get me wrong, I love Sir Noah Noble’s songwriting. I just worry he’s rather a one-ode wonder, you know? Well, then,” Thessia went on eagerly, “what is your strategy? Your magnificent plan?”
No one spoke.
Several moments passed until Clare realized the question was for him. Which was unfortunate, for his mind was entirely empty, clear like the cloudless Mythrian summer.
His companions rounded on him. Elowen did not conceal her impatience. Beatrice offered him nothing except her smirk. “Go on,” she urged. “You are our leader, Sir Grandhart.”
He felt Thessia’s eyes dart expectantly among them. “If I may,” the queen finally prompted with impressive delicacy. “I’m no hero, but perhaps you would wish to speak with the last man to see Hugh—his Man of Honor for our wedding.”
Clare pulled his gaze from Beatrice, desperately wrestling away the memory of how she’d looked last night, naked and dripping wet. It was one of the hardest fights he’d ever faced.
Perhaps Thessia should lead the quest, with how poorly he was doing. Yes, he was certain there was a quest registry somewhere, and his name would get a demerit mark or something. Perhaps a skull or a picture of gryphon droppings.
“Yes. Yes,” he concurred hastily. “Is he here? Witnesses shall serve as our first recourse.”
“Why, yes,” the queen said. Clare ignored the gentle edge in her voice. She gestured to a guard, who left the room. When she returned to her throne, she regarded the group. “You must be eager to get underway,” she went on. “How fun it will be to go on a quest together again! Tell me you’re not thrilled. I’m thrilled, and my fiancé is literally missing. He’s going to be so delighted when you three rescue him.”
Clare coughed. He did not want to speak dishonestly to his queen.
Beatrice took a deep breath.
“Oh, if only you had my heart magic,” Elowen spoke up, experiencing none of their compunctious discretion. “Pure eager joy fills the room.”
“Yes. Quite,” Beatrice said, not to be outdone in dry disdain.
The queen narrowed her eyes. However, she did not have the chance to interrogate them further, for her guard reentered the hall. The brown-eyed man he escorted looked nervous—until his gaze fell on the heroes. His expression changed to one of starstruck wonder.
Finally, Clare felt on firm footing. He could do this part—winning over fans. Grinning like they were old friends, he clapped their witness on the shoulder. “Good sir,” he said warmly. “What is your name?”
“Arthur. Great Ghosts,” the man replied. “You’re really Clare Grandhart. You’re even more handsome than the portraits depict.”
Clare could practically hear Beatrice rolling her eyes. He grinned gracefully, used to unprompted compliments. “You flatter me, Arthur.” He went on. “I understand you’re a good pal of our man Hugh, and you were with him the night he was kidnapped. What can you recall of the eve in question?”
The mention of his friend sobered Arthur. He stood straighter, his expression solemn. “I remember . . . men joining our party. It was the night of Hugh’s bachelor party,” he clarified. “We were . . . fairly deep in our cups by then, though.”
Fighting flagging hope, Clare looked Arthur right in the eye. “Is there nothing you can remember?” he pressed. “A description? How many there were?”
Arthur hesitated. “We were playing Drinking Swords,” he confessed. “Sir Hugh is . . . very good at Drinking Swords.”
Clare winced, understanding the import of the revelation. The game involved participants walking the length of the courtyard or room with shots of liquor perched on their weapons’ flat edges, compelling opponents to drink whatever they could keep up without spilling. It was favored among university students for the enjoyably high-stakes opportunity to get very drunk, very fast.
He was racking his mind for new approaches when he heard Beatrice sigh. She strode past him, speaking with sharp haste. “Arthur, you know who I am, right?”
“Of course,” the man replied rapturously. Clare would’ve reacted the same way, he knew. Her assertiveness was, quite sincerely, his favorite of her many marvelous qualities. His resentment of her decisions would never let him forget how his heart would pick up, his entire life sharpening, when he got to watch her this way.
Over the course of long nights on their decade-old quest, she’d shared her past with him. He knew what her upbringing had made her, even if she didn’t—strong. When the Four had faced challenges, she was often the first to propose they fight, doing what was difficult or daunting. She would volunteer. She was relentless. She was deeply selfless.
It scared him sometimes. It never failed to fill him with wonder. Part of him desperately wished to tell her what a hero he saw in her.
It was why, when he’d realized she’d seen herself as nothing more than a sacrifice, disposable, something irreparable had snapped in him. It enraged him—it was like sacrilege, he felt, how she had disregarded her incandescent life.
The memory of their last kiss seared into him. How she’d squabbled with him in the cave where they’d camped. How she’d pulled his lips to hers. It wasn’t hungry need or hasty fear. It was perfectly her—decisive. Determined.
She’d left him with the most hope he’d ever felt in his life. Until the coming days. The funeral. The revelation of what she’d intended. Even if he could forgive her, deeper within himself, he knew he could not cope with the fear. He didn’t know how he could gaze into her gorgeous eyes without remembering how close his heart had come to collapsing.
He’d done wrong, he knew he had. He just couldn’t imagine doing otherwise.
When she smiled, welcoming Arthur’s reception, he found himself irrationally jealous. He hadn’t seen her smile once in the past days in his company.
“Arthur, may I use my magic to view the night through your eyes?” she asked gently.
Inspiration lit Arthur’s face. “Yes! Of course! Anything for Hugh.”
Thessia smiled softly at his words. Her fiancé was a well-loved man.
Which only heightened Clare’s nervousness. One way or another, they had to find Hugh. He watched anxiously while Beatrice grasped Arthur’s hands. Invoking her magic, she closed her eyes, and Clare found himself utterly fixated on the notch between her collarbones, moving steadily as her breathing deepened.
No, he chastened himself. What had they reminded each other? This quest was not about them.
Emerging from her magic, she straightened, newly urgent. She spoke to Elowen. “Come here,” she said. “Watch this.”
Clare was prepared to mediate, expecting Elowen’s resistance to physically touching Beatrice. Yet whatever had colored Elowen’s cheeks evidently persisted into leaving her mood downright pleasant (by Elowen standards). Without protest, she crossed the room and clasped the other woman’s hand. They closed their eyes and entered the magic.
“Well?” Beatrice inquired when moments had passed and they opened their eyes. “Did you notice what I did?”
Elowen straightened her sleeves, stepping back from Beatrice. When she nodded, she was the very image of grave contemplation. “Yes. The men who took Hugh are same men who attacked us in Keralia.”
Clare realized what the revelation meant. “We have a lead!” he exclaimed.
Elowen frowned, and Clare could tell it was not mere Elowen-iness darkening her mood. He realized the connection to the attack in Keralia did not strike her with the fortune of coincidence. “Yes?” he prompted her warily.
Elowen sighed in reluctance. “Vandra was able to ascertain the men who attacked us were members of the Fraternal Order.”
Vandra—the reference caught Clare’s interest instantly. In order to have shared her findings after following their attackers, Vandra must’ve spoken with Elowen recently. Last night was the only night Clare was not with Elowen. Which meant . . . Vandra was the reason for Elowen’s ebullient mood!
The next moment, he realized he was the only one grinning.
Oh—right, he realized, his excitement dying. It was not regular kidnappers who took Hugh. It was the Fraternal Order.
The queen had gone deathly pale. Not even the ghost of her good cheer lingered. “No,” she uttered. “No. Not them.” Clare recognized the anguish of fear stretching her delicate features rigid. He knew what she was remembering—who she was remembering. “Not Hugh. Please no.”
The rest of the group unfortunately shared her dismay. “This is no meager rescue quest,” Beatrice said.
“No,” Elowen added gravely. “If the Order has Hugh, it is for a plot.”
He could not find fault with his companions’ conclusion. Attacking them first, and now abducting the future king from the heart of Queendom itself? Not the acts of resentful Fraternal Order members wreaking restless vengeance. Whatever the Order was up to, it was real. It was purposeful.
Which meant it was very, very dangerous.
“Todrick van Thorn is dead,” Thessia protested, her voice wavering. “There is nothing more they can do.”
“Desperate men do not think that way,” Elowen replied quietly.
“If . . . I don’t . . .” Beatrice was retreating, her ferocity vanquished. “We can’t face them again.”
Watching his once-dearest friends wrestle with their fears, Clare was gripped by a force he’d never felt. Part panic, part passion, part fury. He was not fully in control of himself when he strode into their midst.
“No, don’t you understand? It must be us,” he insisted. “Each of us needs to face the Order.” He stared right into Beatrice’s eyes, reminding her of their conversation. “For peace.” He looked next to Elowen. “For revenge.” He rounded, facing the queen. “For Galwell and for Hugh.”
He swept his eyes over his companions, a hush following his gaze.
“We faced the greatest danger the Order ever posed,” he reminded them, his voice low with power. “And we destroyed it. We can pick off their splintered remains. We are three of the Four,” he finished, “and in provoking our vengeance, the Order has sealed its doom.”
He practically felt the reverence descending over the room. Everyone looked—inspired.
He’d done it. He’d given the speech!
For once, Clare felt he had honored Galwell’s legacy. He’d finally, if only for a moment, lived up to the greatness Galwell, for whatever reason, had seen in him. He could lead them. He could help his friends.
He could even, perhaps, find the hero he sought in himself.
Despite not wanting to get his hopes up, he started imagining everything the coming days could hold. They could fight fierce raiders or grotesque monsters—song-worthy stuff. Perhaps, he contemplated, he would even face someone in single combat. In the days of Mythria’s founding, heroes often settled whole battles in one-on-one duels, the height of epic challenge.
Elowen spoke up. While her wry delivery offered little in the way of enthusiasm, Clare knew her well enough to hear the new vigor in her voice. “I . . . may know someone who could lead us to the Order,” she announced. “Someone who recently followed and spied on them. We’ll need to add a fourth to our quest.”
The number rang out a little painfully. Nevertheless, Elowen continued, dauntless.
“Vandra,” she said.
19
Elowen
Hope colored the mourning Queendom.
Hundreds of Mythrian citizens had gathered to see their heroes reunited. On the castle’s main balcony, Vandra and Thessia stepped into the shadows while Elowen, Clare, and Beatrice remained in view of the reverent audience. It should have been awkward, or agonizing. Somehow, it was peaceful. When Clare reached for Elowen’s hand, Elowen accepted. So did Beatrice on the other side. The three raised their clasped fists to the sky as the crowd below them bowed.
This gathering was once planned as a celebration of what they had accomplished ten years ago, defeating the darkness and ushering Mythria into a new era of prosperity. This was the anniversary of Galwell’s death. Of Mythria’s renewal. It was meant to be the biggest Festival of the Four yet.
And now, amid flags and festival floats done up in their honor, it was the start of an entirely new quest. Elowen could not focus for long on the emotions of the crowd because her own feelings were so potent. Beneath her sadness, and her uncertainty, she felt something very surprising.
She was proud.
Elowen did not want the responsibility bestowed upon her. Yet, thanks to her heart healer—as well as the night she’d shared with Vandra watching over her—somewhere deep down, Elowen finally recognized she needed it. There had been an ellipsis at the end of their last quest, and for ten long years, Elowen had lived inside it, forever waiting for what would come next.
Next was now, finding Hugh. There was a symmetry to it that satisfied Elowen. No matter what happened, she would not be solely defined by having saved the realm ten years ago. Perhaps she’d be defined by failing to rescue Hugh, or by being eaten alive by stingbugs. There were infinite possibilities ahead.
Which was why, when they reached the first overnighter of their new quest, the distinct anti-glamour of camping did not put Elowen in poor spirits. Quite the opposite. The inky sky was lit by a full Mythrian moon, casting a serene glow. The grass that grew where they intended to set up their tents for the night had a pleasant roughness to it. Exfoliating, almost. Elowen saw all of it as an opportunity. Years alone in the trees had trained her for this. She could put to use her hard-earned patience and her ability to make the most out of very little.
Importantly, though, she was not alone anymore. That in and of itself was a large source of excitement. Elowen had gotten Vandra to join their rescue team. They were officially on the same side, and if all went well, everyone in Mythria—but especially Vandra’s parents—would know Vandra as the source of good she’d always been.
“Do you have a preference for where you’d like our tent to go?” Elowen asked Vandra. She believed herself to sound very casual. In reality, she vibrated with anticipation. She’d been tired the night before, worked up by all that had unfolded. Now she had the time and energy she needed to pay full attention to Vandra, and she was consumed with wondering if, when, and how they would come together again.
Vandra scanned their surroundings. When she’d agreed to join the quest, she’d retrieved her beloved black horse, Killer, who now stood a few paces away, grazing. They’d picked a heavily wooded area for obvious reasons. Lots of trees meant ample cover. It did not leave them exposed to the elements, or worse, an attack. “Somewhere private,” she said, and Elowen’s heart raced faster.
What else would they need privacy for?
Beatrice trudged past them with her hands in the air, attempting to conjurate something. “The spell service here is terrible,” she announced despairingly.
