This will be fun, p.32
This Will Be Fun, page 32
Staring at herself in the mirror over the fireplace in her room, Beatrice now found herself wishing he’d never had the chance to ride in Thessia’s tournament.
Clare himself had chosen her costume. Why he’d chosen this one, she had no inkling. However, she suspected it was the leggings.
“We’re going to be late,” Clare added.
“You can’t be late to a party,” she called out in weak protest.
“Fair point, but you can be late to the resurrection of dark evil,” Vandra replied.
Beatrice frowned at herself. Vandra had her there.
“The carriage is here,” Clare exhorted her, restraining his eagerness poorly. “It’s time we depart.”
She groaned.
“Fine,” she submitted. Standing in front of her door, she prepared herself. This was undoubtedly worse than walking into combat. “No one can laugh,” she warned.
Forcing aside reluctance, she emerged into the suite.
She found her crew seated in the spacious sitting room. Everyone—well, everyone stared. Vandra and Elowen were not in costume, needing none for their part in the plan. Clare was dressed in his non-deluxe Hero Card costume, having wished for flashier garb but grudgingly conceding the common costume would disguise him best, and Hugh was happily decked out in the rustic stylings of the character Clare played on As the Realm Spins.
“Oh, Beatrice,” Elowen said. “The wig . . .”
“I know,” Beatrice replied peevishly. “The rest of you better not let me die looking like this.”
“It’s not so bad,” Vandra consoled her, grimacing.
Clare rose from his seat.
Ignoring them, he strode up to her. The man certainly could stride. With one gentle, rough finger, he lifted her chin. “You . . . look . . . magnificent,” he said.
She forgot herself entirely. Her costume. Even, if she was honest, her fear of what the night held. She went utterly weak.
“Is it weird I’m incredibly turned on right now?” Clare went on.
Only the deep kiss he swept her into rescued the moment from ruination. The crew responded in customary form. Vandra wolverling-whistled. “Okay, can we finally stop pretending we didn’t know you were together now?” Elowen remarked. Self-conscious, Beatrice pushed Clare off her gently. “I mean, heart magic here,” Elowen continued. “I knew all along, but still.”
Hugh sniffled.
Everyone found the future king crying. No one knew what to say. “Hugh, we’ll get through this,” Vandra ventured. “You have a wedding to make. Fear not.”
Hugh shook his head. “No,” he clarified. “I don’t fear for us. I’ve just rooted for Claretrice for . . . so many years.” He wiped his cheeks, overwhelmed with joy.
Beatrice rolled her eyes, yet found she could not muster her ordinary disdain for the nickname.
Clare, of course, grinned in delight. When she caught sight of his expression, she could not help smiling in return.
For the past decade she’d struggled with what she had lost when the Four had won against the Order. She’d spent the past days wondering what she might win or lose if they vanquished their foes once more.
Perhaps, she considered now, the very presence of the people in this room meant something else entirely—victory against the phantoms of the past, no matter the outcome of the impending fight. Happiness. Friendship. Even love, perhaps. The spoils of the war won in her heart.
It gave her courage. If she could face the darkness within, she could face the darkness ahead.
“Well, shall we save the realm?” she invited them. “Again?”
* * *
The carriage was long, sleek, and luxurious. Lacquered paint the color of night reflected the shining magical lights of Vermillion Vale.
Beatrice had only ever ridden in one like it once, when Robert had booked one to carry them home from a feast where he’d wished to impress the inviting lord in the neighboring village. He’d nodded off in his cushioned seat, and she had stared out the window in grateful silence.
Now the group piled in, everyone jostling with nervousness. The spacious interior fit them and their weapons roomily—and, they found, compartments in the doors held sparkling wine and chocolate-covered nightberries. Enchanted lighting illuminated the space in changing displays of pink and purple.
It was, she would say, not quite the war chariot she’d expected.
Clare, evidently feeling similarly, looked to Hugh. He held up a wine bottle in unspoken inquiry.
“It was part of the carriage rental package here,” Hugh explained sheepishly. “And . . . well, I wanted one. This is my bachelor bash, after a fashion.”
“Personally, I could use a drink,” Elowen volunteered.
“Me too,” Beatrice chimed in.
Clare shrugged, clearly finding no fault with the premise of pre-combat libations. He poured the bubbling drink into the provided glasses.
While he passed them out, the carriage started down Vermillion Vale’s wide main road. Outside their windows, sparkling color shows and spelled tavern signs lit up the night. The clamor of crowds joined with the echo of music in one exhilarating chorus.
Beatrice found herself strangely moved. Vermillion Vale was nowhere poets wrote of, yet . . . she found so much beauty in the night surrounding her. The Vale overflowed with expression, with hope and struggle. With people. With life.
“To heroes.” Hugh raised his glass.
Clare nodded. He hoisted his drink. “To us.”
“To Galwell,” Vandra offered solemnly.
Beatrice looked to Elowen. “To friendship.”
Elowen smiled. She raised her glass in everyone’s waiting silence.
“To tomorrow,” she said.
They downed their drinks. To tomorrow. Yes, they would fight for tomorrow like they would drink to tomorrow.
The Night Dragon was not far, the luxury inns of the Vale closely located for easy passage of guests from one to others. With the carriage drawing them closer to their fate, everyone fell silent.
If they failed, it would fall to other heroes to defend Mythria, if other heroes even remained. If they failed, the people Beatrice cared for most in the realm would be gone. The inspiration she’d just felt changed into desperation. It was easier, in a way, living in Robert’s manor, never having anything it would hurt to lose. Just days ago, a silly robe was the most important thing to her.
Now . . .
She met Clare’s eyes. While he likewise looked lost in dark contemplation, he managed a wink.
It comforted her. If Clare Grandhart could still wink, everything was not lost.
She reached for one of the chocolate-covered nightberries. She loved nightberries. Enjoying the pop of sour sugar in her mouth, she faced the group.
“So what does everyone want to do tomorrow?” she asked cheerfully.
Elowen laughed. Clare did the same. “I was envisioning massages and manicures,” he joined in with eagerness. “Spa day. I haven’t gone this long without a visit to my favorite manimagician in years.”
Vandra grinned. “I was hoping to catch a concert,” she shared, reaching for the nightberries. “I hear the Brethren are playing.”
“I would be interested in that,” Elowen said meaningfully.
“It’s a date,” Vandra replied.
“Well, I would like to go shopping,” Beatrice declared. “I’ve recently lost all my possessions in a divorce.”
“How dreadful,” Elowen commiserated.
Hugh watched them, openmouthed.
“Is this . . . what it’s always like?” he asked.
Beatrice offered him one of the nightberries. “What what’s like?”
“I’ve never saved the realm before,” he explained. “I guess I didn’t picture it like this.”
The other four exchanged amused glances. In some respects, their current situation didn’t resemble their first venture in saving the realm. Instead of dark clouds over castles, they rode through the glittering lights of entertainment. Instead of road provisions, they enjoyed luxurious delicacies. Otherwise—in the important ways—
“Yeah. This is pretty much what it’s like,” Clare said.
Hugh remained skeptical. “If I didn’t know you’d done it once before, I’d be a tad worried,” he confessed.
His concern charmed Beatrice. Hugh was good-spirited, even jovial—yet she knew Thessia would not love him were he not cautious and gently inquisitive when needed. In his position, she would likely feel the same.
She clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Hugh, we’re the experts on the subject,” she promised him. “Our professional advice? Have as much fun as you can.”
On cue, the carriage slowed. They had reached the Night Dragon.
In the ironic echo of Beatrice’s words, the group’s companionable cheer faded into somberness. “Well, this is where we depart,” Vandra noted. “We’ll see you inside.”
Beatrice fought to hide the way her stomach sank to the carriage floor. Vandra opened the door, revealing the Night Dragon’s unceremonious rear entrance, then proceeded nimbly out. Elowen followed. As she was halfway out, however, Beatrice grabbed Elowen’s hand.
Elowen halted. Her eyes gleaming like the lights of the Vale, she found Beatrice’s gaze.
Beatrice did not know quite what she wanted to say. She only felt the wretched reprise of their first quest, remembering when last they’d parted from each other for battle. She’d pushed Elowen away, forcing them to fight, in order to conceal her deception from Elowen’s heart magic. She’d hurt her friend.
“You know, these past days,” she said, knowing she needed to hurry, “it’s been . . . an honor to be your friend again. I—”
Elowen squeezed her hand.
“I know,” she said. “I feel the same.”
Beatrice was certain she did. “Be safe out there,” she implored Elowen.
The other woman’s lips quirked. “I will, as long as you don’t do anything foolish like—I don’t know, try to sacrifice yourself?”
Grateful, Beatrice returned her friend’s smile. Elowen released her hand and leapt down into the luminous night.
When the carriage started once more to move, carrying them to the main entrance, Beatrice sat back in her seat, allowing herself the comfort of leaning into Clare. He wrapped an arm around her, his scent enveloping her—journeys and magic and home in one.
It did not last long enough.
The carriage drew them around to the front entrance. The inn’s liveried footman opened the door gracefully. Outside, the Night Dragon waited.
What she could not offer the place in commendation of its design, she could in the properness of its name. The luxury inn looked like none she’d ever seen. Where others sought to invite with glittering gold or promise peace with lush waterfalls, the Night Dragon was sculpted of swooping, stabbing contours of ebony rock. The place wanted to intimidate, hoping the provocative intimation of danger would entice guests looking to revel on the edge.
Very subtle, she wished to say to the Fraternal Order.
From the look of the gathered crowd, the ploy was working. The inn was flush with guests, young revelers wearing every manner of expensive or flamboyant clothing. Nighttime spectacles hid eyes unfocused with drunkenness or edged with magic indulgence. Drum-heavy music pounded from within.
Waiting off to the side, the flank of costumed Clares stood. The real Clare, who’d coordinated with Cris earlier, had shared this was where the impersonator troupe had planned to meet up for their Night Dragon event. More Clares were walking up, joining their compatriots in the growing crowd. It was the logical location for Beatrice, Hugh, and Clare to rendezvous with the Clares, they’d decided.
With Hugh, she followed Clare over, joining the impersonators. To the cadre’s credit, they looked ready, jaws set, eyes clear with vigor.
They would need it, she knew.
Near the front of the group, Beatrice spotted the man she kissed yesterday, standing proud with his compatriots, hand on his sword. Their conversation died when the three drew nearer.
Clare Grandhart, the one and only, stepped forth, squaring his shoulders. While she loved the rogue most, Beatrice found she didn’t dislike the commanding posture he struck.
“Fellow Clares!” he called out. The conquering knight. The captain in charge of himselves. “Let’s get this revel started!”
34
Elowen
The revel room packed in more bodies than Elowen had ever seen inside a single place. Clares had been hired to pass out drinks and work the bar in character. She couldn’t make out Beatrice, Hugh, or the real Clare among them. Live musicians used a magical amplifier that made their tunes so loud Elowen’s body actually shook with every note. It smelled like body odor and perfume oils had gotten into a war that neither side could ever win. And the entire room was green from the crystal lights that shot out like swords, slicing through the tightly packed crowd.
On a raised platform, Myke Lycroft made sure he was visible to everyone in the entire space. He held the Sword of Souls, delighting in not just the physical weight of it, but the heavy emotions inside. It disgusted Elowen to sense the joy he felt. He lifted the sword up to the crystallized lights, downright aroused by its power, then tilted his head down to chat with someone below him.
Elowen nearly fainted when she realized who was on the other side of the conversation. Todrick.
The corpse of Todrick.
His body had been charmed to hide signs of decay, but even that could not erase the uncanny stillness of him. The strange sheen of his cheeks. The brittle dullness of his lifeless hair. He had been rendered to smile, frozen in a state of horrific bliss.
Elowen and Vandra had only a moment to compose themselves before their uncostumed presence would become notable. Elowen could not afford to panic. Instead she grabbed Vandra’s hand, squeezing her fingers quickly beneath her cloak.
“May the Ghosts keep us safe,” she whispered.
“We don’t need the Ghosts. I will keep you safe,” Vandra replied. And then she cleared her throat and burst forth, dragging Elowen by the wrist. “Myyyyke,” she sing-songed, raising her voice to be heard over the chaotic music. “I come to you bearing gifts!”
Elowen did not have to pretend to resist. She channeled her every anxiety and fear into this moment, and her body reacted as it normally would, by pulling back, desperate to recede into the shadows.
“Vandra Ravenfall,” Myke said back. “To what do we owe this misfortune?” He gestured down to Todrick as if Todrick was an active participant in the conversation.
“It’s only misfortune when I’m not on your side,” Vandra cooed once they reached the ground, where dead Todrick sat with his hollow half-smile, staring at them with empty eyes. “Lucky for you, I’ve seen the error of my ways, and I’ve come to pledge my devotion to the Fraternal Order. To prove I’m honest with my word, I’ve brought you something valuable.”
Vandra’s voice was sinister in its sweetness, but Elowen knew the heart of the woman behind the deception. She didn’t need to feel Vandra’s emotions anymore to know that the love between them was strong enough to withstand whatever lengths they had to go to for access to the Sword of Souls.
Elowen—fearing her comfort with the situation showed on her face—started tugging once more against the grip that Vandra kept on her wrist.
“I heard you wanted one of the Four to be the last soul killed with your sword before you resurrect Todrick,” Vandra continued, lassoing Elowen closer. “What better member than Galwell’s little sister? She’s so surly, isn’t she? Perfect for the job.”
“Let me go,” Elowen hissed.
“Never,” Vandra replied.
Myke clapped in delight. “Fantastic!” he cheered. “No, poetic. She’s just the person indeed. It would be like murdering Galwell all over again. They even have the same hair. But I know someone who would delight in killing her even more than I would, which is saying a lot.”
“Is that so?” Vandra asked carefully. Elowen sensed her confusion. She also shared it. Someone wanted to kill her even more than Myke Lycroft?
Myke leapt off the platform in rather impressive fashion, sailing to the ground and landing in a fighter stance. Then he dusted off his tunic and turned to Todrick. “My brother from another mother,” he said, kissing Todrick on the forehead. “Welcome to your party.”
Myke plunged the Sword of Souls into Todrick’s torso.
In the blink of an eye, souls began coursing through Todrick, reanimating his lifeless frame. His ghastly skin regained color, starting at his ankles, visible in the gap between his shoes and his too-short pants. There was also a dark glow around him.
This was what happened when life was born from pain.
For a startling moment, everyone froze, transfixed by the ominous glow. It was oddly fascinating, how unnatural it was. When realization dawned that Todrick returning to this realm meant only terrible things, chaos soon followed.
The army of Clares surged forth, brawling with members of the Fraternal Order. A captor wrenched Elowen away from Vandra. Everything happened within seconds, devastating their entire plan in the blink of an eye.
As the captor drew Elowen further from the crowd, surely escorting her to some locked chamber until Todrick was rested enough to end her life, Elowen still radiated calmness. She’d spent years anticipating something as awful as this. Somehow, living it did not scare her. She knew the depths of her own fears with breathtaking intimacy. She could catalog them by their scent, their taste, their color. They were hers to hold forevermore. They would never be removed. Not entirely. But she’d worked so hard to push past them and live. She would not let the Fraternal Order send her back to the depths of despair with one swift capture. Not easily, at least.
Not without a fight.
“Hello,” she said to the burly man who held her by the arms. “Wow. You’re so handsome. Can I ask you a question?” She played docile, appearing friendly. Charmed, even. A move straight from Vandra’s playbook. If she never got to see Vandra again, Elowen would always find ways to keep her close.
