This will be fun, p.6
This Will Be Fun, page 6
Relaxation emerged in the form of firelight, the feeling of crisp sheets under her. It was like she was physically transported in time, but in a dream, where she could only watch what she was doing from outside-inside of herself. Still, every detail was perfectly rendered. Every smell, every flicker of light.
In the memory, she was pressed close to a warm body. His smell weakened her instantly, instinctively. Deep, welcoming. Like dark woods under the night sky.
He was kissing the skin of her shoulder, where sweat lingered, his mixed with hers. Relaxation was no longer the word for what she felt. Supple warmth softened her limbs. The insides of her thighs welcomed the impression of fingers, urging her to unravel. Lips followed, in the same places. Gently rough.
The memory’s resonance returned to her now. While she’d been touched in those places since, she was certain she had never been touched in those ways.
Invitation on her lips, she lifted her head to face him, coming eye to eye with—
Clare Grandhart.
She jerked out of the memory magic forcefully, her head knocking into the wooden plank of the wagon behind her.
The hard thud caught the notice of the honeymooning couple, who paused their handsy proceedings, for which she was distantly grateful. Wincing preemptively, Beatrice could feel the very moment recognition flickered into the bride’s eyes.
“Ghosts alive,” the woman gasped. “I knew it was you.”
Beatrice shifted in her seat. Ugh. Even in the magic sex dream she was having in the middle of her Wagon-For-You, Clare was still managing to screw with her. Fate was being unkind to her.
“No, no,” she replied hurriedly. “We’ve never met. I’m just passing through.” Perhaps if she protested enough—
“No,” the bride insisted. She held up the magazine. “You’re Lady Beatrice of the Four,” the woman insisted, pointing to Beatrice’s conjurated image in her hand. “We’re traveling with a hero!”
Of course her voice shrilled with the final sentence. The predictable effect resulted. The groom’s eyes went round. The old woman next to Beatrice startled up out of her slumber. She now wished she were trapped in the stone prison under the Southern Sea instead of here.
Frustrated, Beatrice reached out, snatching the magazine from the bride’s hands. She rolled the glossy parchment up and stuffed the magazine into the pocket of her skirt. Confiscated, the pages could do her no more harm!
The starstruck woman offered no resistance. “Can I have your autograph?” she inquired eagerly.
“No, I don’t do autographs,” Beatrice replied.
When the disappointment of the dismissal flickered in the woman’s eyes, remorse hit Beatrice’s heart. She intended no disrespect—with her upbringing, she understood very well how it felt to be looked down on by those you looked up to. Clare loved doing autographs, she knew. Even so, she could only ever find them unsavory.
Why should she commemorate how she cost Galwell his life by signing something for a stranger?
“Wait.” Renewed exhilaration lit the honeymooner’s features. “Can you use your magic on us? I have a question about something in the past.”
Now Beatrice wished she could render herself invisible. Or even spontaneously combust.
Unfortunately, however, her magic of reverse prophecy was known throughout the realm—and throughout this wagon, apparently.
Exasperated, Beatrice foresaw hours of conversation just like this on the long journey to Queendom. She needed to procure separate transport, somehow. If only she had—
Wait.
“I’ll gladly use my head magic for your purposes,” Beatrice replied. “For a fee.”
The girl faltered. “Aren’t you . . . rich?” she asked.
“I’m in a wagon with you,” Beatrice pointed out. “Are you rich?”
Beatrice didn’t need Elowen’s gifts to see excitement spark in the bride nor the way her groom shifted uncomfortably when she shoved her hand into her satchel. “It doesn’t feel very heroic to charge commoners,” he ventured.
“You’re right, it isn’t,” Beatrice said. “It’ll be twenty-five farthings.” Not enough for conveyance to match the de Noughton carriage, but enough, she guessed, to pay some local farmer with spare time to drive her the rest of the way.
While the woman collected the coins, her husband continued to look nervous. “We saved that for our honeymoon, love,” he reminded her.
The observation earned him only his bride’s narrowed stare. “Hiding something, Kolton?”
“Yrice,” the man—Kolton—started, reaching gently for his wife’s hands. “The past is the past. We’re embarking on our future. The rest of our lives. I can’t wait to spend every day with you. It’s like I’m finally awake and everything that came before you was merely a . . . waking dream.”
He leaned forward, staring into her eyes. When Yrice did the same, Beatrice saw her chances for compensation melting like the mush in the couple’s gazes—
Until Yrice’s expression hardened. “It was no dream,” she said. “And I want to see it.”
Beatrice hid the smile she could not help. “I’ll need your hands,” she said. “Whose past will we be entering?”
“His,” Yrice replied. Her gaze rounded on Kolton, sword-sharp. “Give her your hand,” she ordered.
Kolton complied.
Holding one of each of their hands in hers, Beatrice repeated the psychological preparation she did with her own memories, closing her eyes, evening her heartbeat. She would enter his memory through her connection to him, bringing Yrice with her by the same means. “Is there a day or a feeling I’m looking for?”
“Helena’s banquet,” Yrice intoned.
Cracking one eye open, Beatrice caught Kolton gulping nervously. She clenched his hand in her grip, expecting his resistance. Not only did she need Yrice’s farthings—she was no great supporter of inconstant lovers.
With her magic, she delved into his memory, which produced forth the desired destination. Unlike with her own memories, which she could replicate more fully, when she entered someone else’s, the limits were more distinct. With the girl by her side, hands enjoined, they walked into the crowded, candlelit scene, separated from the events by gossamer distorting veils. Music was playing, lanterns strung up in the small square where couples were dancing. The edges of perception were hazy, outside of what surrounded past-Kolton himself.
He was dancing with Yrice, whose head rested on his shoulder. It looked rather romantic, until Kolton whispered in her ear, earning bashful giggles. Then it looked very romantic.
While Beatrice watched, though, the memory-Kolton separated from Yrice to walk from the dancing square to the drink barrels. Beatrice led Yrice by the hand, following him.
Beatrice knew what they would find. She knew what she would have found if she’d entered Robert’s room when he was “painting” village women he’d hired to “model,” too. She’d never much cared. She’d felt worse betrayals.
Yes, indeed, behind the barrels, they found Kolton. What he was doing with some flaxen-haired woman who was not Yrice—Helena, presumably—was decidedly not dancing.
Beatrice was relieved. She would get paid!
Without warning, the wagon lurched violently. The movement startled Beatrice out of the conjured memory. While Yrice in the wagon looked furious, the emotions of the memoryholder or the conjurist never interrupted the magic in this way. The cart really was rocking.
“I knew it!” Yrice cried, wrenching off her wedding ring. “With Helena! My best friend!”
“I can explain—” Kolton mustered.
He didn’t get the chance.
With sounds like hammer strikes, arrowheads slammed into the wood of the wagon, their tips piercing through the planks. Instinctually, Beatrice grabbed for Kolton’s collar, flinging him to the side just fast enough to evade the next volley.
“We’re under attack,” she said, fearing it was unclear.
When gasps went up from the other passengers, she stood, glancing over the wagon’s walls. The coachman was slumped over, his corpse arrow-riddled. She saw, surrounding the speeding horses, what her sinking heart had expected.
Outlaws.
The outlaws’ arrows flew past her—while she knew she was vulnerable, she needed to stop the horses. Springing forward, she seized the reins. When she pulled sharply, the creatures slowed but would not stop nor turn no matter how hard Beatrice pulled. When one outlaw rode up near them, sword held high, the steeds surged forth in uncontrollable surprise, the reins yanked from Beatrice’s hands.
With the iron-masked men surrounding them, she rummaged under the seat, grasping—yes. The crossbow she’d hoped the coachman kept on him for circumstances like this. Slinging the weapon up, she shot, her bolt finding her intended mark in the face mask of the nearest outlaw.
She was surprised by how readily muscle memory sprung to life in her. Drink-inclined divorcée or not, she possessed more combat experience than the gryphon’s share of the realm’s foot soldiers. Years of dinner parties, it turned out, could not vanquish the Beatrice who’d fended off the Order.
Still—glimpsing farther down the road, she saw other outlaws gathering. They intended to trap the travelers.
The horses did not slow. They charged forth toward the waiting brigands. Beatrice needed to get everyone out of the wagon.
Cradling her crossbow, she leapt back into the rear seating where she’d ridden. “Everyone, heads low!” she instructed urgently. Reaching for the old woman first, Beatrice looked for the softest patch of ground onto which she could toss her when—
When one horse, unlike the others, sped into the fray. Beatrice couldn’t help pausing, watching the rider cut down outlaws, his sword wheeling, cords of muscle stretching in his forearms. He fought dirty, yet made his maneuvers look like poetry, the combat equivalent of sultry rhymes slipped under your door—kicking up dust with his horse’s hooves, then using the diversion to grab the man nearest him, only to fling the outlaw with one powerful throw right onto the sword of the distracted outlaw next to him.
While Beatrice watched, he emerged from the dust cloud, the sun striking his stunning features. Beatrice faltered, realizing—it couldn’t be.
“Clare Grandhart!” Yrice shouted exuberantly.
Oh, Ghosts no.
“I think I may faint,” the young wife went on.
“It’s not that impressive,” Kolton grumbled.
Beatrice was furious. Three run-ins in as many days? None as terrible as right now with him looking . . . the way he looked. Like he was made for exactly this moment, his shining hair windswept in perfect waves, his lean musculature poised for combat.
Beatrice was surely cursed.
She prepared to jump from the wagon to the ground, figuring she could evade his notice if she slunk off stealthily, her heart pounding in her chest.
She was livid.
“Mythrians, fear not. I have rescued you,” Clare called out, his voice vaulting over the field like he practiced rescuing people. He pulled his horse up in front of the wagon. Of course, then the steeds stopped. What was Beatrice, chopped gryphon liver? “Is anyone injured?”
With his words, Yrice fainted—right into Beatrice, who caught her swoon. The movement unsurprisingly drew the eye of Clare. While Beatrice stood, helpless under Yrice’s sagging frame, the famous hero squinted in the sun, focusing on her.
“Why, hello again,” Clare pronounced, directly to her. Oh, how she remembered his unhidden pride. The way swordplay brought him to life. “We must stop meeting like this,” he remarked.
No, no, no.
Gently, she laid Yrice on the seat, where Kolton leapt on the opportunity to tend to her. Spinning on her heel, Beatrice leapt from the wagon and strode into the road.
While Clare urgently promised the other passengers he would return to them posthaste, Beatrice took off, storming down the incline—right for where she’d seen the outlaws gathering, intending to lay siege to their wagon.
“Is anyone left alive?” she cried out. “I’d very much like to be kidnapped now!”
5
Elowen
Elowen planned to flee. She really, really did. The first decent chance she got, she was going to hike up her cloak and sprint through the Mythrian countryside, escaping this situation for good. The problem was, while galloping on horseback together, Elowen had to hold on to Vandra. And when she held on to Vandra, she felt Vandra. And Vandra Ravenfall radiated bliss.
It had been hours since Elowen consented to being taken. Thanks to her very close proximity to Vandra, Elowen had since absorbed every last bit of Vandra’s good mood. To Elowen, Vandra’s feelings were already more potent than other people’s. Perhaps because she’d once touched every last bit of Vandra with not just her hands, but her mouth. She used to delight in all the ways she could unravel her. It was the best part of what was mostly a punishing endeavor, questing across Mythria to rescue Thessia and then save the entire realm.
Touching Vandra again felt like being pulled up to the surface after a life underwater. Elowen found herself doing ridiculous things such as marveling at the beauty of the sunset—a stunning pink, reminiscent of rhodolite—and adoring the caress of the wind on her face.
They were riding atop the same horse Vandra had ten years ago, a striking fellow named Killer, who was black as obsidian, from his coat, to his mane, to his eyes. In the past, the sight of him lit up Elowen’s heart. His presence indicated Vandra was nearby, which meant aside from the real trouble that lay ahead, some fun trouble awaited Elowen. That was what Vandra used to be—fun trouble. Near the end of the quest, Elowen and Vandra’s late-night adventures had become an open secret among the Four. It was a source of light teasing from Beatrice and Clare. They would make a game out of keeping Elowen from leaving for the night, desperate to get her to admit where she was going. Galwell was more earnest in his approach.
“Who is she to you really?” he’d once asked.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Elowen had responded.
“I never said I was worried.” Galwell leaned closer. “I just want to see you happy.”
Elowen hated those memories. She’d spent years whittling the shape of them until they were far too sharp to revisit, because to think on them too much would remind her of everything she’d given up when she fled to the trees. But there she sat, clutching Vandra’s waist, smelling the jasrose oil on her neck, thinking fondly of their shared past. Fondly! What a cruel joke! Elowen True was fond of nothing but despair!
“What a lovely sunset,” Elowen found herself saying, right when she meant to hiss out some insult about . . . something. She couldn’t remember what.
Vandra, already warm with joy, grew warmer yet. She tugged gently on the reins until her horse came to a stop. “That’s why I took the scenic route. Best view in all of the land.”
It was the first time they’d been still since departing. The countryside came with its own kind of quiet, so very different from the noisy treetops where Elowen resided. Elowen had grown accustomed to the shake of wind through leaves or the never-ending bustle of animals scurrying from branch to branch. Down in the valley, between rolling verdant hills, the shimmery pink sky fading with every passing breath, it was so quiet Elowen could do nothing but marvel at her own contentment.
“You have no idea how lovely it is to be near you,” Vandra said.
Yes I do, Elowen thought, feeling all of Vandra’s fulfillment.
“Yes you do,” Vandra remembered, right on cue. Her laugh pressed against the silence. “How could I ever forget the ways in which you can feel me?”
Elowen jerked back. Free from touching Vandra, a wave of resentment instantly flooded in, restoring the coldness of her heart after hours exposed to Vandra’s unbearable brightness.
Elowen leapt down from the horse, and grabbed her satchel once she was on the ground. The quiet no longer felt like peace. It was cruel in its patience, granting far too much room for Elowen’s loud, angry thoughts to stomp around. How could you do this? Why didn’t you let go sooner? What good can come from returning to this realm again?
Elowen set out to find a cave. Yes. That’s where she was headed. Someplace dark and chilly where she could tuck herself inside for days, surviving on nothing but patches of grass for food and a healthy dose of misery for company.
“You know I won’t let you get away,” Vandra called out.
Elowen would have to do something to rid herself of Vandra. Kill her? That sounded dreadful. Elowen didn’t want anyone to die. And blood was so messy. She just wanted to be left alone. When she was alone, she was centered. She could remember how much the realm had hurt her, and why it was she shouldn’t return to it.
She did not dignify Vandra with a response. Vandra would find a way to be charming in return, and it would chip away at Elowen’s already damaged armor.
When Elowen was younger, she kept people at a distance as a test of sorts. Were they truly loyal, or did they just want something from her because of her wealthy parents or her impressive brother?
Now Elowen kept people at a distance because growing near to them came with far too much pain. The better you knew someone, the harder it was to lose them. Elowen had already lost the other half of herself in Galwell. The better half, really. She’d lost her only real friend in Beatrice, who’d never even considered Elowen a friend at all. She’d lost her purchase in the world. And now she’d even lost her sole source of income. It was amazing how she’d helped save the entire realm and she’d come out of it as nothing but a loser.
Elowen could not stand to lose anything else.
She walked until the sunset turned to dusk, with Vandra and the horse a few paces back. From her satchel of Domynia costumes, a series of pings started up—another private delivery on her message tapestry. Elowen rummaged through her bag until she found it.
Please talk to me, the message said. Though I do quite like my view back here.
You told me you wanted to purchase my costumes, Elowen responded, fighting to keep her body from tensing. She did not want to give Vandra the satisfaction of seeing the effect she had. You lied. We have nothing else to discuss.
