This will be fun, p.21
This Will Be Fun, page 21
In meager mercy, Vandra slowed her mount. She leapt from the horse, still laughing to herself.
“The bad news,” she went on, “is I’m afraid we are nowhere near a Harpy & Hind, nor are we near anything at all. When villains select a location for their evil lair, they tend to prefer seclusion.”
“Don’t act like villains don’t love foamy milkbrews as much as the rest of us,” Beatrice muttered in her discontent.
“You just know the Fraternal Order has pumpkin-gingerroot cream on tap in every one of their lairs,” Elowen joined in.
Beatrice snorted with laughter. Elowen did the same—until each woman remembered herself. Embarrassed, they darted their gazes elsewhere.
Beatrice’s heart pounded. Did they just joke together? It felt painfully like childhood, when they would poke fun at the often exceedingly literal Galwell. When they were friends, close to sisters.
When they loved each other.
“The good news is,” Vandra continued, enthusiasm audible even in her hushed voice under the forest canopy, “we have reached our destination!”
She swept her arms aside—gesturing, the group saw, in the direction of the mountainous ravine where the mouth of a dark cave opened.
Vandra’s pride in her presentation went undiminished when no one reacted with cheers, relief, displays of undaunted vigor or other common quest-like reactions. Indeed, Clare frowned. “Wait, we’re . . . here?” he mustered, like comprehension itself was an unwelcome labor in the morning light. “Already? I expected our journey would get more . . . I don’t know, epic,” he groused, dismounting from his horse with wincing movements. Elowen and Beatrice followed suit. “We weren’t even beset by monsters. Or betrayed! What material will there be for the songs?”
Vandra shrugged. “I followed the Fraternal Order after they attacked in Keralia. The first night, I overheard them discussing their plans while they camped. Mentioning a chair lashed down with ropes. Pretty customary hostage stuff,” she clarified, perhaps without need. “They said they were headed for crystal caves in the east. Of the three crystalline formations in the realm, there’s only one cave complex large enough for occupancy of over three people, the one east of Mount Mythria. I feel certain they have Hugh here,” she concluded.
“Easy in and easy out,” Elowen replied. Something prickled in her voice, something Beatrice could recognize but could not read, like the writings of Old Mythria one could find on walls in old villages like Elgin. “The faster we find Hugh, the faster we can go home,” Elowen went on. “Perhaps we’ll reunite for another quest in ten years, but I shall savor the time apart.”
The mere mention of the prospect made Beatrice frown involuntarily, reminding her of the pain in her joints and the hammering in her head. “A quest at thirty is unpleasant enough,” she declared. “I shan’t do forty.”
“You have aged poorly,” Elowen retorted, and there it was—the point of the prickle. It was obvious she was making up for their moment of mirth with redoubled viciousness. Yet, Beatrice found she did not care, for Elowen’s overcompensation only reminded her of the short lapse in their enmity. Of how, for just one moment, Elowen forgot her hatred and laughed with Beatrice.
“Yes, well, I’m certain ten more years of isolation will only improve your sociability,” Beatrice replied, unable to muster the other woman’s disdain. The memory of their companionship lingered with her like a favorite song stuck in her head.
“Ladies!” Clare sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Stop with the squabbling, my Ghosts above. We’re about to save a man’s life. The fiancé of our dear queen! We’ll be heroes! Again!”
“Actually”—Beatrice nodded with her chin—“looks like Vandra will be the hero this time.”
Everyone followed her gesture. Yes, down the ravine, the erstwhile assassin was proceeding on her own, undoubtedly fed up with her questmates.
“Well, shit,” Clare murmured. Not even four hours of orgasm-free sleep could vanquish the quiet delight with which Beatrice watched the long-legged man jog in pursuit of Vandra. “I shall lead us!” he called out in reminder.
She shot Elowen a wry glance—which she was startled to find returned. Indeed, she could swear Elowen almost smiled. No grudge withstood the appeal of mocking Clare Grandhart’s vanity.
They chased his long stride. “I should lead,” Elowen challenged. “I deserve vengeance for my brother.”
“Personally, I feel I should lead,” Beatrice ventured. “Because . . . well, because why not? I would do an excellent job.”
They entered the mouth of the cave, which was only a small rocky space with a narrow tunnel leading down into unseen depths. Clare sped down the terrain, and the women followed, sending stones flying under their feet.
“Perhaps Harpy & Hind could sponsor your leadership,” Elowen returned. “‘The Great Mythrian Milkbrew Quest, brought to you by—’”
She was cut off by a very vexed-looking Vandra, blocking their path. “Literally, how did you ever foil me? You three are helpless,” she said, sounding exhausted. “Please be dears and shut up as we sneak into the bad-guy lair.”
Clare, Elowen, and Beatrice muttered chastened apologies.
Silently, they continued down the tunnel. Where it flattened out, the ceiling was low, causing the group to crouch and crawl toward an opening. When finally there was space to stand, Beatrice found Clare’s hand offering to help her up. She prepared a rejection, but the words died on her lips, for the chamber they found themselves in was the most stunning place she had ever seen.
Crystals covered the enormous cavern. Everywhere they glittered, amethyst, aquamarine, pure glass like diamond. They captured the light entering down the tunnel from the cave entrance, illuminating everything. Stalactites, jaggedly geometric, descended like gleaming fingers from the ceiling, which was covered in sharp, perfect gemstones.
They reminded her of Clare’s eyes.
Gawking, she was hardly conscious of putting her hand in Clare’s to rise. The room—did caves have rooms? Chambers? Hollows? She did not know—was massive, with winding ridges of rock proceeding down into the depth of the cave, where Vandra waited.
“Quick question,” Beatrice whispered. “Where are the bad guys?”
“We must proceed deeper,” Vandra replied.
“I’m not certain that’s a good idea,” Clare huffed.
Elowen rounded on him. “Galwell wouldn’t lose his nerve.”
“I’m not scared,” he replied hotly.
“I still say we get brews in us first, honestly,” Beatrice interjected. “The caves could go on for miles. I require energy.”
Elowen ignored her. “If you’re not frightened, what is it?” she demanded of Clare.
He rubbed his hand, either remembering Beatrice’s touch or the sharp rocks they climbed over. “Galwell would have posted one of us outside to ensure no one cuts off our exit,” he explained. “I forgot.”
“If you could just shut up, we could do the raid my way,” Vandra said, frustration returned, stronger than before. “Stealthily. I’m quite good at doing these kinds of things on my own, if you haven’t heard.”
“Yes, but four draws more attention than one,” Beatrice pointed out. “You’re not on your own right now. You’re part of a crew.”
While she intended the point practically, she noticed the revelation’s effect on Vandra, who looked stunned, perhaps even moved.
“I’ll go guard the cave entrance,” Elowen grumbled. “It was always my job anyway.”
While Galwell always left Elowen on guard duty—protective of his sister—Elowen’s mood indicated she wished she could do more. Beatrice found herself pulled to protest for Elowen, then remembered the gesture would probably not endear her to Elowen.
She did not, unfortunately, get the chance. None of them did.
Like magic, seemingly summoned by Clare’s warning, men emerged on the outer rim of the cave, their silhouettes sharp in the sunlight. The four heroes were closed in.
On instinct, they gathered, back-to-back, defending each other from exposure. Beatrice found herself facing where the cave continued deeper into the rock.
No one moved, however. The Order members confining them did not press in.
The reason came in the echo of footsteps from within the cavern. No. Her eyes were deceiving her. The man who approached was a ghost walking forth from her nightmares, a wraith wrought of her worst memories. While her hopes for the quest were not high, she could hardly contend with the new depth of their peril.
From the darkness stepped Myke Lycroft.
His emergence made horrible sense. He’d gone into hiding after the Order was defeated and his best friend and leader Todrick was slain, remaining unseen despite the queen’s efforts to visit justice on him for the forging of the Sword of Souls and his role in the Order’s dark ploy. His reappearance now was . . . well, worrying was one understatement Beatrice would not permit herself. The possible coming of the end of the realm as they knew it was closer to the truth.
He was older, like all of them. Hiding had hardened him. He no longer looked like the young man in his friend’s shadow. He looked like he’d spent the past decade planning . . . this.
Nevertheless, what had unnerved Beatrice on their earlier encounters unnerved her now. His predecessor Todrick van Thorn had looked villainous, with his rapier smile, his inky swoop of hair.
Myke Lycroft—he looked like a hero.
His golden hair was silky straight, even, dared she say, fluffy. His grin was winning, even welcoming. He looked like he would help you mend your fence or join your horseball squad if you were short one player. Like he would win your confidences or cheer you when you were upset.
In most men, she would have found his charm inoffensive. In one whose heart she knew held such wickedness, it horrified her.
“Finally!” he chided them. “What a reunion!”
He strode into the cavern, clearly enjoying each step.
“I was going to let you get farther into the caves, you know,” he informed the unfortunate heroes. “But the four of you are more incompetent than I expected. I mean, my word! I’ve waited here for days! Do you know how miserable it is with nothing to do except play Ogre’s Chess with your henchmen for days? I was starting to worry you wouldn’t find the witness I left you.” He fixed impish eyes on them. “The one I knew you would use your magic on.”
He spoke to her. To Beatrice. Dread hit her like stone.
It was a trap.
With presence of mind she could concede was impressive, Clare called out, “Let Hugh go!”
Myke laughed darkly. “Grandhart, stop pretending you’re a hero,” he sneered, with whip-crack disdain cutting his charm in half. “It’s fucking embarrassing. I can’t take you seriously.”
He swept his eyes over Elowen and Vandra like he was noticing them for the first time.
“Indeed,” he went on, instructing Clare casually, “why don’t you grab Miss Elowen and the Deathrose Guild assassin and save yourselves.” He waved his hand. “I won’t need the rest of you. I’ll have my men escort you out.”
Miss Elowen and the Deathrose Guild assassin. The rest of you.
His eyes landed on Beatrice, and ice froze in her veins.
“Welcome to your capture, Beatrice de Noughton,” Lycroft said.
21
Elowen
Beneath the fear, of which there was plenty, Elowen sensed embarrassment.
They had strolled—no, argued—their way into this setup, and worse, they hadn’t made a single plan. This was exactly why Elowen had spent the last ten years in the trees. Up there, no one was ever at risk of being kidnapped by a vengeful twit who looked like his favorite activity was spitting on his own shoes so that they better reflected his cloying smile.
Clare moved to protect Beatrice, pulling a sword from his scabbard and leaping in front of her. “You’ll never take her,” he said menacingly. “I won’t let you.”
Myke put a hand over his heart. “That’s sweet.” He turned to one of his henchmen and whispered, “He’s a poor excuse for a hero, but I do love when romantics make their grand gestures. Chokes me up a little, I can’t lie.” He wiped a real tear from his eye.
“I’m not . . . This isn’t romantic,” Clare said, sharpening his scowl. “Not a single one of us will let you take Beatrice.”
Elowen and Vandra exchanged a glance. They were outnumbered and surrounded on all sides. Elowen figured the best thing they could do was stall until someone came up with an idea. She forced herself to speak in the hopes of buying some time.
“What exactly do you want with Beatrice anyway?” she asked Myke.
Beatrice, still behind Clare, peered over his shoulder to examine Elowen. Elowen gave her a glare that said What? then went back to scowling at Myke, who seemed to appreciate a chance to lay out his plan.
Myke took out a small, spiraling dagger and pointed it at Beatrice. “She will use her magic on Hugh to get into his memories,” he said, using his strange little weapon as an accessory to his storytelling, swooping it around to emphasize his points. He was so broad with his use of it that some henchmen had to duck out of the way as he gestured. “Turns out, he was one of the young foot soldiers who helped hide the Sword of Souls ten years ago. And since we knew he wouldn’t use his big-boy words to tell us where it’s at, we decided to take matters into our own hands.”
As far as everyone knew, the Sword of Souls had been vanquished, though it dawned on Elowen how naive she’d been to believe that. Of course it wasn’t the kind of weapon that could be destroyed—it was powered by the pain of hundreds of trapped souls, after all—but she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief that she’d accepted that narrative without further examination. Elowen should’ve known better than anyone that adventures didn’t have neat endings. There was no real resolution. Much like the Fraternal Order, the sword was never actually gone, just out of sight.
“Once we know where it is, we will use it to bring back Todrick.” Myke paused to smile, relishing in the horror settling across the room, a choking vine weaving through everyone’s understanding of the situation, squeezing tighter with every passing second. “Yes. You heard me right. Todrick van Thorn will rise again, and he and I will use our combined powers to rewrite this realm into the place we’d always envisioned together.”
Myke spoke like this would be a good thing. In his mind, it was. He had warmed since mentioning Todrick. It was the same way Clare got when he brought up Galwell, a fondness and respect coating every word—though Clare looked up to Galwell, and Myke saw himself as Todrick’s equal. He genuinely believed reuniting with his best friend and using their magic to take over the realm was an ideal scenario. They could finally be the worst versions of themselves, and not a single other person would be strong enough to stop them. Their dream for the realm was a nightmare to everyone else—a place where their men ruled with infinite power and little compassion, forcing Mythrians to comply at all costs.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Myke chided. “Did you all really think I would spend the rest of my life as a failure? That I would hide away in my grief, never to be seen again? No, my foes, after years of listless despair, I began planning. Without Todrick, I am half as happy, half as interesting, and half as powerful. Why would I ever want to live this way forever?”
Elowen schooled her face to remain calm. She’d done exactly what Myke had not. She’d hidden. And now the worst person on this side of the Ghost’s Gate was showing her how wrong she’d been to go on like that for as long as she had. Ten whole years she’d spent adrift, the same as Myke Lycroft. But she had never started plotting a way to return to her glory. If anything, she’d been shrinking herself smaller and smaller, desperate to be seen as nothing at all.
Myke pressed a hand to his heart. “Now that I finally know how to bring Todrick back, nothing will stop me from doing just that.”
Sword extended forward, Clare dashed toward Myke to engage in combat.
The henchmen reacted not by capturing Clare, or even Beatrice, but by grabbing Elowen of all people. What did she have to do with this? Even Myke had said she was expendable! One of the men wrapped his gloved hands around her arms while another pressed a cold sword to her throat.
“Make one more move and I’ll have them slash her throat,” Myke warned.
Clare stilled, torn. Vandra’s keen eyes darted back and forth, searching for a solution. Beatrice’s face, which had been rather stoic, fixed itself into something that looked almost like remorse.
Myke clearly believed that the remaining three of the Four still had loyalty to each other. He didn’t understand how fractured they’d become. This was a mess in all ways it could be, and now Elowen had somehow gotten herself tangled up in the heart of the battle when all she’d meant to do was kill time until a viable plan emerged. If she ever got freed, the first thing she was going to do was lay into Lettice for ever letting her believe she was capable of going on another quest.
“Take me, then,” Beatrice said, offering her wrists for tying. “If you leave Elowen alone, I will go without resistance.”
It was Elowen’s turn to give Beatrice a look of shock, and Beatrice took the opportunity to return the same What? expression and continue on with her business. After a nod of approval from Myke, the two henchmen released their hold on Elowen to saunter toward Beatrice instead. They could have committed a little longer to being interested in Elowen, but this wasn’t the moment for her pride to interfere.
“No!” Clare shouted. His features darkened as his desperation morphed into anger, surely remembering how Beatrice had tried to sacrifice herself in the last quest. It struck Elowen how cruel their shared history was, destined to repeat itself over and over.
Within that same history, Elowen saw a solution.
Impulsively, Elowen dashed over to Myke and shoved him toward Beatrice. Beatrice grabbed him by the hair in an instant, thrusting herself and Myke into one of his memories. It was so fluid it looked planned, another echo of their past. The henchmen paused, confused, as Myke thrashed about, his dagger swinging in every direction until finally, he surrendered.
