This will be fun, p.31
This Will Be Fun, page 31
For one, he could not stop humming one of the songs that had been written about him, a love ballad called “The Grandest Heart” that spoke of his yearning to give his heart to someone as grand as him. That would not have been odd alone. Clare always appreciated the art made about him in a very genuine way.
The odd thing was he would not—no, could not—stop patting people on the back. When Elowen salted her plate of dawnjay eggs? A pat on the back. Vandra bent over to relace her boots? A hearty pat on the back, and a “Those are great boots” from him.
All Beatrice did was walk into the room, and Clare not only patted Hugh on the back for it, he whistled, as if the very sight of her was worth celebrating. Elowen had assumed the perfume of love she’d picked up on that morning was her own. Love could tunnel your vision in such ways, she’d learned. Make you ignorant to your own surroundings. Which may have been why no one else noticed her cheer. They were in their own respective tunnels.
“Good morn, my beautiful questmates. I bring you fantastic news,” Clare announced once Beatrice had completed their assembly around the breakfast table. “Thanks to Beatrice’s incredible, magnificent, ingenious detective work, we know the resurrection will be held at a revel the Order is throwing at the Night Dragon tonight.”
“And I have figured out how to disable the weapon,” Elowen said, interrupting. Stealing Clare Grandhart’s thunder was not easy to execute, and it amused her to be the one capable of doing it. She appreciated that while the moment took him by surprise, she sensed no bitterness or resentment on him.
“How?” he asked, his curiosity overriding the initial shock.
As she explained her idea to absorb the pain inside the Sword of Souls, Clare and Beatrice grew so stunned, they stopped eating. Vandra did, too, but only to give Elowen her full attention and support. The only oblivious party was Hugh, who did not quite grasp how notable it was that Elowen was not only commanding the breakfast chatter, she was offering solutions. He savored his meal, even letting out small sighs of delight as Elowen spoke.
“That’s marvelous,” Clare said when Elowen finished. “I can’t believe none of us thought of this earlier. How did it occur to you?”
Elowen’s cheeks warmed. “It came to me when my girlfriend and I were watching the latest episode of Desires of the Night.”
It was Vandra’s turn to beam. She tucked her chin into her shoulder and gave a coy little wink like Who, me?
Hugh, once again just a bit tapped out of the whole situation, swallowed his last bite of stoneflour loaf and said, “Forgive me for not knowing this, but who is your girlfriend?”
The table laughed again, though not with the same verve, for Hugh did not deserve to be anyone’s target. The question itself was just too innocently amusing.
“Vandra,” Elowen told him. “As of last night.”
“Congratulations.” It was Beatrice who offered this. Elowen gave her a small nod in return. “And not to dampen the mood, but last night, Clare was jumped by the Order.”
“That does dampen the mood,” Vandra confirmed.
Beatrice gave her a wry glance before continuing. “They want to kill one of the Four with the sword as their final sacrifice before reviving Todrick. It will be a very dangerous affair to be caught at that banquet.”
“I know,” Elowen said. “Especially since I’m thinking that Vandra can pretend to turn me over to the Order so that I can get close enough to the sword to drain it.”
Vandra clapped her hands. “I am so good at pretending to be the bad guy. Many have told me my work is convincingly excellent every time I have done it. Just ask the queen herself!”
“That’s how I met Vandra,” Hugh offered. “She was pretending to threaten me. Turns out it was a test of my honor from Thessia. After everything she has been through, she can never be too careful.” He laughed it off. “Lucky for me, I passed.”
“You were great,” Vandra said. “Even when I started plucking your eyebrows.” She leaned in closer to him. “They’ve grown in quite nicely since.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Beatrice was frowning, Elowen noticed. Elowen had been so distracted by displaying her own competence that she nearly missed the fact that Beatrice was worried about her.
“We can pull it off,” Elowen said. The we she used was intentional. Uniting. They were on the same side for this. “Together.”
“How?” Beatrice asked, her concern growing. “We can’t exactly follow you into a Fraternal Order revel without being instantly recognized.”
“Worry not!” Clare said. He picked up a large satchel he’d tucked beneath his feet, and he stepped away from the table to open it. “Today is a very special day, for today is the day you tap into the Grandhart within.”
He reached into the satchel and pulled out what appeared to be a costume, tossing it into Beatrice’s lap.
“You and I will join the army of Clares invited to entertain at the revel. They don’t yet know they’ve been hired to work for the Fraternal Order. We can safely infiltrate the event, and no one will be any the wiser,” Clare said.
“What about me?” Hugh asked. He made no effort to mask his devastation at the exclusion.
“Hugh, my good sir,” Clare said softly. “You are about to be the king. We cannot risk your safety in such a way.”
Hugh straightened up. “I insist you do.” He looked around the table, making pleading eye contact with each person. “You are the greatest heroes Mythria has ever known, and I have no bigger dream than to assist you in this quest.”
“Ghosts, he’s good,” Vandra said quietly.
Grinning, Clare tossed Hugh a costume. It was very easy to charm Clare Grandhart into agreeing. Hugh ended up with a crumpled Clare outfit that Elowen recognized instantly from Clare’s guest spot on As the Realm Spins, a different shadow play that she sometimes watched. The ensemble came complete with a small patch of blond ready to be affixed to Hugh’s chin, and a rather floofy yellow wig to cover his dark curls.
For one stunning moment, there was complete silence. And then in a collective, loud and sudden as a flock of birds fleeing a tree, the group laughed. No, they roared. Tears spilled from Elowen’s eyes, she laughed so hard. Vandra had to grab her stomach, for she’d developed a stitch. Beatrice started clapping in delight. Even Hugh could not contain himself.
Clare, for his part, remained good-natured as ever. “Whatever do you find so amusing? Is it not a thrill to step into the expertly waxed boots of our realm’s most renowned mouthpaste sponsor? Have you never wondered what the tunic of a man who has modeled scandalous undergarments made of faux-grawk skin feels like?”
His comments were kindling to the fire, reigniting the laughter when it threatened to die out. Every single person at the table was united in their amusement. Somewhere beyond the joy Elowen felt, she ached with longing, like she was so fond of this moment she already missed it somehow, even though she was living it. It reminded her of all the past joys she’d had to hoard like precious rations, keeping her amused up in the trees when nothing else did. She let out a deep breath, her laughter renewing. She wanted to savor this unity as long as possible without letting her mind wander to what it would be like to lose it.
“Thank you, Clare. I look forward to seeing Hugh help save the realm in a goatee and neck scarf,” Elowen offered.
Everyone’s laughter died, spotlighting the kindness of Elowen’s words, trying to find the catch within them.
“I’m serious,” she said. Beneath the table, Vandra squeezed her thigh, boosting Elowen’s courage. “This is a wonderful idea, and I am very glad you’ve thought of it.”
In the same way he’d reacted when Elowen told him he’d aged well, Clare clasped his hand to his heart. “That means so much,” he said.
The table quieted again, considering the plan in full. It was highly dangerous. Yet so was everything else they’d ever done. There were surely reasons it shouldn’t happen, but saying them aloud seemed redundant. Everyone knew it was the best shot they had at defeating the Order for good.
Elowen would become the full hero this time, just like her brother had before her. But she wouldn’t let anyone misrepresent her as they often did with Galwell. She would write this story on her own terms, and she would live to tell the tale herself.
32
Clare
Clare had nearly wept when he saw a Harpy & Hind in the dining plaza of their inn.
It was ordinary, with no unusual features or reflections of the grandeur of Vermillion Vale. Clean counters of maple-colored wood, stained with rings where patrons had placed drinks. The same pleasant lute music from a youthful conjurated musician in one corner. One of countless H & H shops one could find everywhere in the Vale.
Yet for Clare, it could have been the Ghost’s Gate itself.
He had hardly slept, understandably. Bedding Beatrice—figuratively speaking, for in fact they’d wound up doing the deed nearly everywhere else in the suite—surpassed even the greatest dreams sleep could offer.
Nonetheless, flush with fulfilled passion, he’d met the morning with zeal. He’d even gotten in some exercises in the suite’s living room with the conjurated exercise coach he paid for on subscription.
Only in the lift down, facing the new day, did weariness hit him, weariness he knew only one restorative could conquer. He’d procured what he needed now. Steaming cup in hand, painted with Harpy & Hind’s ubiquitous insignia, he sat with the impersonator he’d punched yesterday.
Yesterday. Even the very concept felt enshrined in a golden glow. The greatest day of his life, he reckoned.
Yet it was no longer yesterday. It was today. Today demanded nut-milk caramel foam brew and a consultation.
The impersonator was named Cris, he’d learned. Clare and Cris. Their names even sounded similar. It was not the only connection—when he was not using his hand magic to resemble Clare, Cris honestly still looked like Clare, although his eyes were brown, not blue, and his nose was much straighter.
Cris held his own large nut-milk caramel foam brew. When they’d ordered, he’d confessed to having first tried the confectionary concoction knowing the drink was Clare’s signature brew, only to have genuinely loved it.
No surprise, Clare withheld from saying. Nut-milk caramel foam brew is the finest brew ever envisaged.
Clare sipped deeply. Cris sipped even more deeply.
Clare had explained they would face the Fraternal Order. Yes, the same evil men who had menaced Mythria in the Four’s first quest, possessed of the same powerful magic. “You can count on the Clares, Sir Clare,” the impersonator promised while they enjoyed their caramel foam.
Clare did not remark on the surrealism of the statement. Instead, the other man’s conviction made his stomach start to hurt, which admittedly was not difficult given what he was consuming. They had spent the morning strategizing and discussing what lay ahead.
“And remember,” Clare cautioned, “it’s going to get dangerous. When we’re in and the fighting starts, have your men get out of there.”
His new companion frowned.
Clare prepared himself for the worst. Since first approaching his erstwhile fist-fighting opponent with this perilous proposition, he’d been waiting for the moment the impersonator would get cold feet and withdraw from the venture.
“And leave you and Beatrice and Elowen? My lord, we would never,” Cris replied firmly.
Clare felt himself exhale with guilty relief. He knew he ought not cheer this man’s entry into danger. Yet, still, they were going to need all the backup they could get.
“We do not just dress up like you to stand for conjurers or sign autographs. We live in your example,” Cris went on proudly. “We’ll fight at your side.”
The stomachache returned. Perhaps he ought to have ordered plain cold water, just this once.
If Todrick rose to power, he reminded himself, it would not only be Cris and the Clares who would find themselves in grave danger. Oppression and cruelty would claim countless lives and ruin countless more. Without submitting Cris into peril now, worse consequences would be visited on the entire realm.
Would the notion have comforted Galwell? Perhaps.
It did not comfort him. All he could do was smile weakly at Cris, hoping his impersonator did not die tonight.
“You are a real hero,” Clare said in honesty. “Thank you.”
He rose from his seat, unable to withstand more of his new friend’s good cheer—just another reminder of the joy swords could strike down in combat.
He strode for the door, where Vandra waited, her expression questioning.
“They’ll get us in,” Clare confirmed. “They’ll fight, too.”
His recruiting counterpart studied him, her eyes sharp despite not partaking in Harpy & Hind. She was, he’d learned, one of those who loved to preach of how much finer she found brews produced by independent brewers. Very well, he’d replied, when the Hind designs commemorative drinks for our next victorious quest, you may request they exclude you. Vandra had humphed.
“This doesn’t please you,” she noted, reading his face.
They continued down the inn’s lane of vendors. Vandra carried the leather bag storing the weapons she’d sourced for them, the clang of metal inaudible in the din of music and guests.
“No, it’s good,” Clare replied. He could hear how he was convincing himself. “We need all the help we can get. The queen’s army would never reach us in time.”
Vandra nodded patiently.
In her silence, he recognized encouragement to continue. “It’s just . . .” he ventured. “I don’t like the thought of these men getting hurt just because they’re following my example. Who am I to lead people?”
Her laughter was not the reaction he expected. Okay, he knew he was no Galwell. Yet he did not imagine the idea of his leadership was downright humorous.
Or, not until now, he didn’t.
When Vandra went on, her voice uncommonly gentle, he realized he’d misunderstood her. “You followed Galwell into danger,” she pointed out. “Perhaps it was harder for him to lead you than you thought. He did sacrifice himself to save Beatrice.”
Clare fell silent for a moment. Vandra was right. Clare had been so focused on the ways he’d fallen short of Galwell that he hadn’t considered what parts of heroism Galwell himself might have struggled with. Perhaps, he realized, worrying he would not measure up to Galwell had carried him ironically closer to his glorious friend.
“Can I confess something to you?” he asked, emboldened.
“I’m no monk, Grandhart,” Vandra replied.
He paused. “Does that mean . . . no?”
“Oh no, please tell me,” she said eagerly. “I love secrets. I was just saying you don’t need to ask permission. Your life isn’t a burden to me.” She punched him on the shoulder, hard enough other men would have yelped. Clare recognized genuine love in the gesture. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smiled. “I’d say we are.”
While the corridor wound past vendors of shining masks, he found his words. Clare was no poet, scribe, or orator, no heart healer or philosopher. He’d had very little practice in confessing how he felt.
“I don’t know how Galwell did . . . any of it,” he started. “I woke up with Beatrice in my arms this morning, and I don’t want to go into battle with her. I want to take her and Elowen and you far from danger. I want to let someone else fight Myke.”
The words would not come easily now. Clare forced them, finding inspiration in the struggle. If he did not know how to speak, he did know how to fight.
“I’m not a hero.” He hung his head. “Those men costumed as me are closer to the real thing.”
Only several steps forward did he realize Vandra no longer walked with him. He stopped. Turning, he found her waiting—insisting they would go no farther until he heard what she had to say.
“Clare, heroes are great and all,” she said firmly. “But there are other things a person can be. Other destinies. Other legacies. Look at me, for instance.” She smiled, without wry charm or subtle sarcasm. “I’m not one for glory or nobility. I don’t always do good. But I try. I follow my own code. I’m no hero—I’m something I’d rather be instead. Myself.”
Meeting her gaze, he really listened. Vandra Ravenfall was, incredibly, not jesting. Not coy, not ironic, not making gentle fun of him. She was utterly serious.
It meant the realm to him.
Myself. He remembered what Beatrice had told him last night. How she wanted him, only him. One of his very favorite moments of the entire eve—which was saying something.
Of course, if Vandra wasn’t going to joke, he would have to. “I hate to break it to you,” he informed her, “but you’re absolutely a hero.”
Vandra shook her head, looking not displeased. “Take it back.”
He grinned. “It’s the truth. You don’t have to be here, but you are.”
The humor faded from Vandra’s expression. Her eyes locked on his, sword-sharp with intensity.
“And so are you, Clare,” she said. “What if you let that be enough for once?”
33
Beatrice
“Beatrice. Come out already.”
She knew she needed to heed Elowen’s demand. It was not unreasonable. Her friends could not defeat the Order if she did not get over herself—or, namely, the ridiculous garments she found herself wearing.
She would have chosen a knight’s heavy steel encasements instead of her present fashion. Thigh-high boots that took forever to lace up. Lightweight leggings. A flowing chemise in emerald green with billowing sleeves. Her hair under a short golden-colored wig, which had cured her of any desire to spell her hair blond.
She was “Horseball Clare.”
He’d volunteered to play in a charitable tournament Thessia had organized for Mythria’s renowned celebrities to flaunt their skill on the field. Beatrice had hated how, when she saw the news in scribesheets, she immediately knew how much the opportunity would have meant to him, having wished when he was younger to play professionally.
