11 Clare
11 Clare
He was certain nothing in history had ever lasted so long.
In the legends of the Winter War, where men fought with fearsome wights in endless darkness, none had endured the way he did.
In the Nine-Kingdom Quell, when the ruling lands withdrew from each other instead of risking conflict, none knew the emptiness
of isolation like he. No, Clare was convinced the wagon ride in which he found himself now outlasted every recorded instance
of the endurance of Mythrian peril.
While he knew only hours were passing, they were hours of the stiffest, coldest silence. Of glares tossed like daggers and
sighs wielded like armor. Elowen sat opposite Beatrice, neither of them speaking.
Contending with the outcome of forcing them into one wagon, on one journey, Clare was forced to confront one immovable, unfortunate
fact.
He’d made a grave mistake.
The wagon eventually slowed. Moments later, the driver came around the rear. “Gotta hold up for dinner,” he declared, sounding
hasty to escape what was ongoing in his carriage. “There ought to be fun to be had in this village, though. Very idyllic , tourists say. Wonderful hot springs and decadent whitefish pies.”
Clare wondered if the village had posters like he’d seen in Farmount for simple summoning spells one could use for delivery persons to carry the local delicacies right to whatever lodging one found. He loved a good fish pie, if he was honest.
“No,” Beatrice declared flatly. “No, we’re not vacationing for the night. We’re summoning Wagons-for-You.”
“Can’t,” the driver replied. “Not out here. Sweetwater messes with the spell.” He sounded proud, like he enjoyed pointing
out the competing service’s limitations.
The remark, however, did not endear him to Beatrice. “Can we pay you to recruit a second driver and not waylay us this eve?” she inquired irritably. “I want this journey over with.”
In Elowen’s glare, Clare recognized the expression of one who did not wish to concede she’d had the same idea. “Do you have
the coin for it?” she replied. “I heard you were destitute. Again.”
“Why don’t you send an eagle to your parents and have them drop off the farthings?” Beatrice shot back at Elowen. “Oh, wait,
you no longer speak to them, right?”
Clare was holding dearly on to the notion of delivered whitefish pies now. Perhaps he could commission spicesalted fried potatoes
alongside.
“Ladies, please!” Vandra cut in, her cheer drawn with strain like the highest strings on a lute. Clare’s spirits suffered
further. If even the convivial Vandra was annoyed, the situation was dire. It called for... oh, withering Ghosts . It called for leadership. Something a chivalrous, heroic nobleman would display, whereas a knavish lout would only observe,
dreaming of pie.
“No,” he interrupted, mustering his voice into what he hoped passed for respectful command. “No, each of you. Cease. We’re
spending the night here. We will employ no secondary driver.”
His ex’s vicious gaze shot his way like venomed arrows from the nocks of the Forest of Vrast’s unforgiving defenders. It was,
however, Elowen who responded.
“Who died and made you the leader?” she demanded. “Oh wait.”
Her gaze rounded on Beatrice.
Silence fell over the wagon. Beatrice did not rise to a retort. Instead, she wilted into herself. Where until now Elowen’s
remarks had struck her like sparks onto kindling, this one snuffed out the flame of her spirit.
Clare felt her pain as if it were his own. Figuratively, of course. He wondered if Elowen magically felt the wound for real.
He could not contemplate the possibility. He looked instead to the driver, who was uncomfortably watching his passengers fight.
“Please,” Clare implored. “Enjoy your night. Thank you for the smooth steering today.”
The man did not need to receive further permission. He looked profoundly pleased to escape the crossfire.
With glares and eyerolls reserved for Clare, who really believed himself an innocent bystander in the current circumstances,
Beatrice, then Elowen, then Vandra left the carriage and headed into town. In the peace of their absence, Clare stepped from
the wagon onto the soft, sand-like dirt of the clearing, taking a quick measure of his surroundings. With woeful pangs in
his heart, he wished he were here under pleasanter circumstances, for he loved the Western Coast.
The region was Mythria’s dulcet preference of vacationers, a place of villages of sculpted sandstone where one could enjoy
fair weather and delicacies from the fresh-caught creatures of the Sweetwater Sea. When he’d guest-performed on one popular
shadow play produced nearby, he’d voyaged down with the rest of the cast. Amid the fried pestleshell sandwiches and laughs
shared with the finest comedians in Mythria, it ranked highly among Clare’s fondest memories.
While the coastal wind ruffled his hair, Clare racked his mind for how he could fix their infighting. What would Galwell do? he inquired of himself. Of course, no answer returned. Galwell would not have found himself in this fine, fine position because
his calming presence always brought out the best in people.
Maybe his companions just needed to eat something, Clare hoped weakly.
He followed them toward the village, comforted that they were at least headed in the right direction and not running back
to their homes on foot. “Hot springs could ease our weariness, could they not? We know Beatrice loves a bath,” he called out
behind them.
None of the women replied.
In the quiet, Clare came up next to them. He found them gazing skyward and followed their stares.
The TENTH FESTIVAL OF THE FOUR! Come CELEbrATE OUR HEROES!
He had not even noticed the banner strung from the village’s cream-colored rooftops. Or rather, he had, and had paid the paraphernalia
no mind, used to festival adornment and, candidly, celebration of himself. Only now did he realize Elowen, who had isolated
herself shortly after the Four’s costly victory, had probably never once glimpsed such festivities. Beatrice, he understood,
hid herself in her palatial estate to avoid the celebratory commotion.
“But... the festival isn’t for days,” Elowen said, half to herself.
Her stunned struggle hit Clare with quick sympathy. He returned to her side, speaking slowly. “Over the years, the festival has expanded,” he explained gently. “People have started decorating earlier and earlier. Children are out of school for the whole week, there are parties every night in local squares, families travel to their home villages...”
“I’d hoped it would die down,” Beatrice replied unevenly. “Instead, it’s... worse.”
Elowen’s features wavered like marble melting, her face racked with fear. “I can’t do this,” she uttered. She shook her head
nervously. “Not yet.”
“My dear.” Vandra placed a comforting hand on Elowen’s shoulder.
Clare took them in. They’d both hidden from the commemoration of their quest for ten years for very real reasons, and now...
they intended to face their fears for Thessia. He was overwhelmed with the feeling that these two women really were the heroes
the banner over them proclaimed.
It demanded he offer them what heroism he—vain, celebrated Clare Grandhart—could offer. He had to find a way to spare them.
Unfortunately, right on the heels of his resolve, a shopkeeper shaking dust from rugs outside one of the nearby shops happened
to look up. Her eyes locked with Clare’s. Her gaze, of course, continued to the rest of the party.
He knew what would happen next.
“Great Ghosts!” she exclaimed. “ The Four themselves! Here in our village! ”
Her cries caught the interest of other village folk—the man vending what looked indeed like whitefish pies from his street
stand, the couple emerging from a storefront where, the sign proclaimed, one could rent windwalkers for use on the Sweetwater’s
welcoming waters.
Clare realized the situation they were in. There was no stopping mobs like this when one has been recognized. He couldn’t
get them out of their predicament.
This was, however, the manner of heroism in which Clare Grandhart excelled. His skill with the sword was nothing, he’d learned in recent years, next to his ability for catching the spotlight his compatriots did not want.
He stepped forward, strutting with rakish glory. He could be the Clare Grandhart everyone wanted, even if they assumed it
was because he loved the attention.
He did enjoy the attention, he could admit. Yet on many days, he would rather not be lauded as a hero when the real hero,
the hero everyone wanted, was dead.
Nevertheless, Mythria needed a hero—even if only the delightful performance of one—and more importantly, Elowen and Beatrice
did not owe Mythria a single scrap more of themselves than they were willing to give.
With the villagers’ eyes on him, he waved. He squared his shoulders. He hit them with the crooked smile.
Ghosts, he was good.
“My friends,” he cried out. “We four”—he winked, letting the crowd know he intended the cheeky reference to their numerical
moniker—“find ourselves passing through for the evening. Surely one of you fine folk could route us in the direction of dinner
and drinks? I do love your seafood.”
The woman he shot his demons-may-care wink looked earnestly short of breath. Fearing she would literally faint, which Beatrice
would never let him live down, he raked his gaze over the crowd. His constituency was growing, people peering out from doorways
and over the village’s sculpted rooftops. “Show them to the Visshark’s Fin!” one voice ventured from within the crowd.
While Clare fixed the villagers with his most eager, expectant glance—which was not feigned, for Visshark-oil-fried crisps were delicious—the idea grasped the crowd. The elderly man near the pie stand magicked streaming light into the sky, illuminating their path to the pub.
Clare swept his arms out. “Drinks on me!” he proclaimed.
Everyone cheered.
Jubilant now, the crowd followed him down the lighted path into the village—bringing his companions with them. While Vandra
protected Elowen from inquisitors, he caught sight of Beatrice’s discomfort with the village folk surrounding her. He grasped
onto the first question he heard called out—“What were the Grimauld Mines like?”
He vaulted his voice loudly, drawing the focus of even those flocking to Beatrice. “Oh, nightmares worse than the mind could
possibly produce,” he promised ominously. “Orb Weavers in every corner. The chittering sound of spiderlike limbs echoing over
rough stone. The stench of rotting corpses...”
Captivating the crowd, he kept their focus on him with the perhaps slightly embellished account of their experiences in the
mines. He was a good storyteller, he congratulated himself. Maybe he would pen his memoirs when he returned home. Or even
invent stories for fans of his, promising such fictions that would surely excite the imagination.
When they reached the Visshark’s Fin, Clare could not help warming to the place. He loved a salty, sea-spat tavern. News had
evidently spread of the heroes’ arrival, for the drinkmaid greeted him with goblets of ale and seductive eyes. He was, he
knew, in for a long night of “heroism.”
Fortunately, he was Clare Grandhart.
Downing his drink, he called on every muscle in him from years of celebrity. For the next several hours, he exerted them with practiced zeal. He stood on tables, regaling the crowd with exaggerated stories of his exploits. He led them in songs venerating his courage. He paid for round upon round of drinks.
He caught sight of Elowen slipping from the room, Vandra following her.
He didn’t know how to feel when he noticed Beatrice remained.
She watched him with undisguised focus the entire while. He felt foolish when he drew encouragement from her gaze, when he
fortified himself with the idea she might feel some gratitude for Sir Clare Grandhart’s revelry. Certainly she wouldn’t. Gratitude?
For him?
Nonetheless—on the off chance she appreciated his holding the interest of the village folk, or the display of how his charm
captivated the room—he continued his efforts.
Until his voice went hoarse.
How could this happen? He chastened himself when his first whispered syllables struck in the midst of his seventh song of
the night. Was Grandhart’s capacity for revelry going the way of his creaky hip? Calamitous.
Despite how his very presence delighted the Visshark’s Fin, the inevitable consequence of Clare’s hoarseness followed. The
villagers grew distracted. With Clare out of commission, their focus found the other famous person in the room—Beatrice. He
could only helplessly watch her in return.
He overheard Galwell’s name in the questions they posed to her. Saw the guilt staining her impossibly lovely features. He
observed her struggle with polite stiffness, fending off overenthusiastic inquiries. It was, as it happened, exactly what
he would wish on his worst enemy.
And yet.
Perhaps he was feeling charitable. Perhaps he was making decisions drunkenly. He did not pause to question his own motives—he often didn’t—and strode to the shadow-songbox, for he’d realized he did not need his own voice to help Beatrice. With one farthing contributed into the shining cauldron, hand-sized conjurated musicians would play whatever song one’s heart wished.
He heard the opening notes of his chosen melody, and the years vanished.
The song he’d summoned was one they’d sung, the Four. The mid-tempo clavichord ballad was suited for swaying steps, its grand
chorus inviting every listener to belt out the lyrics. On a campfire-lit night, Beatrice had conceded she could never resist
dancing to the enchanting melody. Playing the song now was a dirty trick—one Clare delighted in employing when he crossed
the room and offered her his hand.
She eyed his rough palm. The crowd congregated, pressing in on them.
He held her gaze, expectant.
When she placed her hand in his, he whisked her unhesitatingly into the middle of the room, where he swayed her gently in
the firelight.
“Rescuing me again, Grandhart?” she murmured. She did not, he noted, muster much resentment in her voice.
“You were in dire danger of having to sign parchments, weapons...” he remarked. “Perhaps even body parts.”
Withdrawing in grudging surprise, she regarded him. “How many body parts have you signed, exactly?”
“It’s not the number you should ask about,” he replied. “Rather, the type of body part.”
When she laughed—really laughed—he could not help how the sound cut through just a little of the resentment in his chest. Like a knife carved of opalicyte, dangerous and shimmering and invaluable.
It reminded him how easy things once were between them. Or—no, not quite. Things were easy the night they met. Then he stole away into the morning light.
The next months on the road were not easy, but they were... good. Every day in her company, the pair of them were contentious, even combative, yet passionate.
They cared for each other. While their unstable new connection wasn’t physical—not since the first night, not except that
one kiss on the eve of battle—the pull they felt was undeniable. He had started to see, as if magic lights guided his path
like the ones outside, how his relationship with her could lead past conflict into something he’d rarely dared dream of. A future.
Until everything fell apart.
He did not know if they could ever find their way past what happened. Ghosts , though, he could not help wanting to.
“When did you learn to dance like this?” she inquired in earnest curiosity, distracting him.
“I’ve learned many things, Beatrice,” he heard himself saying. He wasn’t nobly posturing, yet the honesty felt foreign on
his lips. “I’m... better than I used to be.”
Whatever reaction he hoped for, it was not what he received. Her smile flattened, her composure stiffening. He hardly heard
her question over the now mockingly familiar music.
“Why do you think you need to be anything different?”
He had no answer. How could he, when he did not understand the question? Why wouldn’t he want to be different? He wasn’t good enough, not for her, not for his friends.
He wasn’t Galwell.
She stepped from his embrace. Whether she intuited the subject of his introspection or not, he did not know. “Thank you for
the rescue,” she said, like a door he hadn’t noticed until now had slammed in his face.
Spinning on her heel, she stranded him in the fawning halo of the crowd, naked in the light of their joy—halfway between who
he was and who he wished he could be, and utterly lost.