This will be fun, p.25
This Will Be Fun, page 25
They were engaged in the same when Elowen and Beatrice emerged from the cave, blinking in confusion. While Elowen looked unenthusiastic to meet the morning, Beatrice’s expression transformed. She burst out laughing, her smile catching the bright sunlight.
“Well, this is adorable,” she commented. “May I meet him?”
“Of course,” he greeted her. “He loves new friends.”
His headache disappeared. He suddenly felt twenty years old. Invincible, joyful, hopeful. Falling in love was easy, and Clare Grandhart felt strong enough to challenge an entire mercenary camp single-handed.
* * *
They rode for the Straits of Baldon under the unrelenting sun.
The landscape changed. The forest ceded to the dusty stone of the east. Eventually, they found one of Mythria’s endless every-purpose roads, wide enough for lanes of wagons carrying commerce or families or entertainers or whatnot. In recent days, Clare speculated, they would’ve run hectic with Festival of the Four–goers. Now, though, word that Queendom was in mourning must have spread fast. The road was deserted.
The ground flattened, the rocks disappearing onto open flatlands. On they journeyed, waiting for the first glimpse of the watery straits past coastal cliffs.
Wiglaf’s presence improved everyone’s spirits, even Vandra’s. The eagle flew with them half the day, then grew bored, setting off on his own feathery quest—though not before Beatrice had surrendered half of her jerky over to his eager beak.
Watching her stroke his head, Clare found himself imagining the future overmuch.
He could not help himself. Was he fundamentally hopeful in nature? He feared he was. Yet when he watched Beatrice, effortlessly caring for the little creature who shared his home, it was like . . . It was silly, he chastened himself.
It didn’t work. Watching her, it was like he could hear strains of romantic songs playing over his own personal conjuration of imagined memories.
It would never come to pass, he reminded himself. Not long from now, he would part from Beatrice and Elowen once more. Nevertheless, he clung on to the possibility that their relationships perhaps did not need to remain . . . like they were. Perhaps he could invite them to his home for—dinner parties, or concerts, or whatever they preferred. Or he could plead with Thessia to send them on more quests! He’d quest wherever she wanted if he could do it with his friends.
He just knew he was not ready to say goodbye to them yet.
Every mile their horses walked carried them closer to where Hugh was held hostage—to the inevitable end of their journey. Whether they ended the quest as heroes or failures, they would need to return home.
“Hold,” Vandra uttered.
The word pulled Clare out of his wandering malaise. He followed her gaze out to where—a lone man was walking down the road in their direction.
His clothing was ragged. His head was hung low in exhaustion. His gait was weary, until he looked up. When he saw their questing party, he started running right for them.
“Ambush?” Vandra queried, reaching for her weapons.
Clare raised his hand. “No—” He peered forward, scrutinizing the running man.
It was impossible. Or, no, merely very unlikely. Yet with every step closer the stranger made, Clare’s certainty grew.
He hopped off his horse.
“Hugh!”
The man who reached them with huffing paces was, indeed, the future king of Mythria. The object of their quest. Clare’s friend, furthermore. Clare studied him, looking for—magical interference? He didn’t know. Sir Hugh Mavaris looked exactly, wonderfully right. Bronze skin and thick black swooping hair. Crooked nose, straight mouth. World-ready roughness encasing the gem of kinghood.
While he was filthy and his normally perfectly trimmed beard had grown out, he looked, incredibly, uninjured. Clare welcomed him, and they clasped forearms.
“You’re alive,” Clare marveled. “You’re—you’re rather okay, it appears.”
Hugh ignored him in desperation. “What’s the date? Have I missed my wedding?” he asked with urgent horror.
Clare laughed, pleased to deliver happy news. “It’s in three days. Fear not, my good man.”
It left Hugh literally weeping with relief. His friend really was exhausted, Clare noted. They would need to help him rest on the return to Queendom.
The return to Queendom. Clare’s mind shifted to what the fortunate happenstance meant. They’d . . . finished their quest. Were they heroes?
Or were they just . . . done?
While he was very happy Sir Hugh was safe, Clare decided he could not ignore the disappointment he felt. The quest hadn’t offered him the chance to prove to himself he could live up to Galwell’s legacy. To prove he was, when needed, the hero he pretended.
What was he left with instead? Cheap victory and the road home. He would return to Farmount and his daily existential shadows.
“How did you escape?” Vandra asked Hugh.
Clare felt instantly embarrassed. The question was imperative. Was Hugh pursued? Was the Order near? He should’ve covered the important details. Galwell would’ve. Instead, he’d lost himself fretting over how unfortunate his comfortable, famous life was.
“I didn’t,” Hugh replied. “They let me go.”
The hollowness in his voice was haunting. It left everyone concerned.
“Why?” Beatrice pressed. “You didn’t give up the location of the sword, did you?”
Hugh’s face fell.
“I didn’t need to.” He spoke with grave hesitation. “Myke Lycroft, he . . . he had this dagger. Coated in dried blood. While he held the weapon, he explained, he himself could use the magical gift of whoever’s blood was on its blade. Holding the dagger, he . . . went into my memories. He saw the sword’s final location for himself.”
Horror descended over them. He went into my memories, Hugh said.
In Clare’s hurtling thoughts, the past days rewrote themselves. They did not escape the Order in the crystal caves. The Order got everything they needed. Myke Lycroft did not need Beatrice. He just needed Beatrice’s magic.
Myke, forger of the Sword of Souls, was a magical weaponeer whose hand magic could create weapons with enchanted properties.
He’d had one on him yesterday. One he slashed Beatrice with, allowing him to use her magic.
They’d journeyed out to where Hugh was held, imagining they had the Order on their heels. Instead, the whole while, Lycroft had exactly what he wanted. They’d played into his hands perfectly.
They’d failed.
Except we didn’t, did we? Clare remembered. Their quest was the retrieval of the queen’s fiancé, who was with them now, protected, entirely safe. They may have failed in the quest they should be on, but they’d succeeded in the quest they’d set out on. They could go home.
Which they would, he knew in his stomach with queasy dread. It was hard enough getting the four of them to venture out to rescue Hugh. When it came to defending the whole realm? He would need to content himself with—with victory, he supposed.
He heard himself speak up. “We have Sir Hugh,” he said. His voice was low, bent under the weight of Mythria. “We could take him home to Thessia. It’s what each of you signed on for. I know I cannot expect more—”
Elowen ignored him.
“Where is the sword, Hugh?” she demanded.
“Can we retrieve it before the Order?” Vandra joined in.
Clare felt a lump grow in his throat, deeply moved. It was, he promised himself, the last time he would ever underestimate the nobility of Elowen True or Vandra Ravenfall.
Hugh shook his head. “They’ve already obtained the sword. Worse, they . . .”
He gazed out over the desert landscape. When he continued, the calm in his voice sounded practiced from his soldiering youth, learned on fields of carnage.
“They massacred the closest village. The Sword of Souls was dead. It needed sacrifices,” he intoned. “Now, it’s powerful once more.”
The stomach-churning horror of the Order’s work was nearly incomprehensible. Sacrifices? The entire village? “It’s done, then? They’ve raised Todrick?” Clare asked shakily, forcing the words.
“No . . . not yet. Soon.” Hugh hesitated like he could read danger in their eyes. “I know where they plan to bring Todrick van Thorn back to life.”
The group’s gazes went to . . . Beatrice, the only member of their party who hadn’t spoken up. Who was injured, Clare reminded himself. No matter his gratitude for Elowen’s and Vandra’s vengeful zeal, he would not begrudge her the right to end her own quest here.
In the moment she stepped forward, Clare knew her decision instantly. She’d never looked hotter, he found. Like their fucking conquering general, commanding the field.
“Tell us where,” she said. “We will stop them.”
25
Elowen
“Bit of a bummer, isn’t it? The bad guys tossing me off the moment they figured out how to get their realm-changing weapon. Makes a man question his own worth,” Hugh said.
Elowen didn’t want to laugh. But Hugh’s fullhearted grin—and the bravery of asking such a question while the five of them were quite literally trudging through sinking sand—worked in his favor.
“I’ll say,” Elowen responded.
If Hugh had been smiling widely before, his whole face broke open then, bright as the moon at its fullest. Elowen had expected him to be dull—or worse, egotistical—but she found he was neither. He had a humbleness about him that surprised her. More than once he’d had to ask for help getting out of the sinksand, and he always said a gracious thank-you when Clare, or Vandra, or even Elowen, came to wiggle his leg so that he could pick up his foot and step forward.
It pleased her very little to admit that she liked Hugh. The joke he’d made at his own expense had lightened the tense mood. Realizing its effectiveness, he kept up the bit as they trekked toward the place where he swore the Order was headed.
“Death by sinksand would be a most embarrassing way for me to go,” he said. “Especially since I’m the one who said we should travel this way. I see now why the Wagons-For-You drivers never use this route, though it’s technically faster.”
“When are you ever using Wagons-For-You?” Beatrice asked him, not hiding her shock.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Whenever Thessia and I desire a quiet night out, Wagons-For-You drivers have been far more discreet than our royal ones.”
Quite frankly, Hugh was their missing puzzle piece. In a literal sense, of course, but also, on an emotional level, the group needed his presence. Without him, the sinksand of their own relationship drama threatened to pull them under. Having an outsider around allowed all of them to focus on him instead of each other. Hugh didn’t complain, not even when the sand opened into a vast expanse of punishing dunes, dry heat blazing down on them. He withstood everyone’s questions with impressive ease, keeping the conversation light by always finding ways to make himself the butt of the joke.
Thanks to Hugh, the journey flew by so quickly that Elowen did not notice the shift in landscape until they’d arrived.
Vermillion Vale glimmered in the near distance, a glitzy, sparkling stretch of attractions and accommodations. Whether it was a skyscraping obelisk meant to evoke the Pillars of Askavere, or a shimmering fountain as large as the Waterfalls of Crestrose, Mythria’s most impressive history had been replicated to stunning effect in Vermillion Vale, each building crafted with one goal in mind—entertainment. Mythrians came to this city to see the realm’s past in the most carefree light, so far removed from the original context that it was easy to keep the drinks flowing and the fun never-ending.
Fun. There was that complicated word again, burdening Elowen anew. It was fitting to be in the realm’s premiere fun location with her fun questmates. But what did fun have to do with the bleak task at hand?
“This is where the Order plans to resurrect Todrick,” Hugh explained. “They want to gamble in the city’s largest inn first.”
“Of course they do,” Elowen sneered.
She peered down at her clothes. Her cloak was covered in dirt and sand, and her hands had a thin layer of grime on them. She looked as she felt, worn down. When she glanced over at her four travelmates, they seemed the same. They’d all been through it.
“We do not give off the appearance of people who are ready for a raucous day of gambling ourselves,” Elowen noted. When no one responded, she couldn’t help but remind them of the obvious. “Plus, while we are all recognizable, Hugh is the most famous person in Mythria right now.”
At the use of his name, Hugh put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Fear not,” he said. “We are far from the weariest-looking bunch to stumble down the pathways of the Vale. But you make a good point about my fame. Luckily, I’ve learned things from my time with the queen. There are many ways to hide in plain sight.”
“’Tis true,” Clare confirmed.
Elowen could not tell if Clare was jealous of Hugh or admired him. Clare tended to be the most famous person in any room, what with his decade-long commitment to upholding his public image. But Hugh’s fame was royal. When he started dating Thessia, the gossip pamphlets became obsessed with dissecting every morsel of knowledge they had on him. And they really were morsels. Hugh was a bit of an enigma to the public, which only heightened the intrigue. They knew he’d grown up in Paramar Bay, and as a young boy he’d survived a usually fatal sledgeling bite while playing hide-and-seek with his brothers. But no one in his family was willing to talk to the scribes and provide any more information on his personal life or how it was that he’d ended up a Mythrian foot soldier in the first place.
Clare procured a horseball cap from his bag, then tugged it over Hugh’s dark mop of hair. “There,” he said. “He is disguised.”
Elowen arched an eyebrow. Hugh looked exactly the same, only now he had a ridiculous ballcap on his head.
“Thank you, my friend. I am,” Hugh assured them. As he scanned the group, Elowen sensed a melancholy feeling from him. It reminded her of a child longing for their parent. Or perhaps when someone realized they’d eaten the last bite of a meal before mentally preparing to be done with it.
“What is it?” she asked.
Hugh cocked his head in confusion.
“Forgive me if this is untoward. I just sense some sadness from you,” Elowen explained.
Hugh brightened at this notice. “My own bachelor party was unfortunately cut short by my kidnapping. We were supposed to celebrate here in the Vale.” He scanned the group again. “Would you all mind if I thought of this as my bachelor party?”
Elowen stifled another laugh. Hugh’s bachelor party was composed of a grumpy recluse, her dangerously charming former assassin questmate with benefits, her struggling divorcée ex–best friend, and Clare Grandhart.
Seeing the humor for himself, Hugh smiled again. “It’s a bit untraditional, but since you all traveled far and wide to save me, I’d be honored to have you among my party.”
“Of course,” Clare replied with his signature enthusiasm.
“Delightful,” said Vandra. “I’m in.”
“Sure,” confirmed Beatrice.
Elowen was the last to respond. “We’d love to,” she told Hugh.
He threw his arms around his nearest questmates, which happened to be Elowen and Clare. “Incredible! Let us indulge in some well-intentioned debauchery before I commit to a wonderful life with my true love.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, though no one besides Elowen and Clare was close enough to hear it. “Also known as finding out exactly where the Fraternal Order plans to resurrect their evil leader.”
He gained the laugh he hoped for. He’d certainly earned it.
Hugh led them to Vermillion Vale’s most expansive inn. It was built out of a white quartz that made the building shine brightly under the sunlight, though inside, there were no windows at all. Day was indistinguishable from night, which seemed to be the point, for it was not long past noon, and every gambling table was occupied, with patrons nursing bottomless drinks. There were people dressed in bright colors, people dressed in very little, and even people dressed up as famous people. Anything was possible in Vermillion Vale. The hustle and bustle was so overwhelming that Elowen almost missed it at first because of all the feelings she accounted for with her heart magic. It was only when Beatrice gasped that she noticed.
There were Clares.
Everywhere.
Someone was dressed as Clare on the very day that Todrick was slain. Another was Clare from any of his six Sexiest Man Alive cover shoots. There was Clare’s ridiculous shadow play cameo character, when Clare must have believed that a goatee suited him.
Every time Elowen blinked, three more people dressed as Clare would spawn. Two of them—Spark’s Sport Potions Clare, and a Clare that had somehow merged with his eagle, Wiglaf—were sparring with foam swords, yelling “Good form, sir!” at each other over and over.
Among the sea of Clare impostors, the real one’s face paled. If it was possible, he did not look himself, despite a hundred different echoes of his existence filling every corner of the inn. “It appears as though we’ve stumbled upon the annual Clare Convention,” he said, self-consciously wiping sand off his tunic.
“Annual Clare Convention?” Elowen repeated, hoping that saying it again would somehow make the situation less absurd.
“It’s usually later in the year. With the ten-year-anniversary of the Four and all, it seems the Clares moved it up,” Clare said sheepishly.
“That makes sense,” Hugh told him.
Wiglaf Clare paused his jesting to examine the real Clare. Elowen’s stomach dropped, thinking them exposed. The longer Wiglaf Clare looked, the clearer it became that he did not comprehend what he was seeing.
“He’s trying to figure out which Clare you are,” Elowen muttered in amazement.
“How about the real one,” Beatrice deadpanned.
“This is good,” Vandra said. “They will assume all of you are impersonating the Four to pay homage to Grandhart. And that I’m doing a jaw-dropping impression of the cunning new woman from the latest quest.”
