12 Beatrice
12 Beatrice
She didn’t deserve parades. Beatrice chastised herself the same way whenever the Festival of the Four was happening in Elgin,
when she’d made excuses and stayed inside, ensconcing herself in her head magic. No, she did not deserve parades, or festivities,
or interviews with scribes. She deserved none of it.
Yet here she stood, on a fucking float constructed of sea flowers of every Western Coast sort, processing down the village street.
The sun glared off the cream-colored sandstone walls of the seaside hamlet where they had found themselves, making her eyes
water. From the sides of the wide road, villagers cheered. In front of and following them were other floats, some decorated
or vivified with magic—elaborate wooden dragons lofting in paper-winged flights, horses enchanted to look like unicorns. She
could not help nostalgia, watching the crowd’s youngest children stare up in wonderment. Everyone except the very young knew
unicorns weren’t real.
The villagers’ pleading had assembled on one float the remaining heroes of the Four, weary from yesterday’s journey and yesternight’s
celebrating. The one fortunate side of their fame was the free-of-charge lodging they’d received in the comfiest inn in the
village.
The town, they’d learned, was called Keralia, and its sunlit charm covered over young scars. When the Fraternal Order’s hold had clenched hardest on Mythria, the Four had passed by Keralia on their way to Queendom. Many villagers remembered the fear in the streets every night of the Order’s stay. Beatrice understood why the village celebrated the Festival of the Four with corresponding zeal. If she ever found something capable of chasing off her nightmares, she would cling on to it for dear life.
Their float’s journey had started right outside the door of their inn. They now processed toward the heart of the village.
Vandra, Beatrice noticed, followed them inconspicuously on foot, weaving through enthusiastic crowds with the float’s progress.
Beatrice envied Vandra, who, as she wasn’t considered one of the Four, was not invited to join the procession.
If Beatrice glimpsed something somber and wistful in Vandra’s eyes as she watched Elowen above... Well, in Beatrice’s experience,
wishing to trade places with others only ever earned wasted hours. It was Beatrice on the float, not Vandra Ravenfall. That
was that.
Elowen, for her part, glowered at the crowd watching the parade, while Clare—of course—smirked and strutted and had them swooning.
Refusing to do either, Beatrice found herself faking smiles, waving at people who considered her the salvation of the realm,
to whom they owed their lives.
It was miserable. I deserve none of it , she reminded herself with every inch their float crawled down the village walk. I deserve loneliness and guilt and shame. It didn’t matter how many lives were owed to her. She owed Mythria one she could never restore.
She owed her friends. She owed Elowen.
One couldn’t rectify wrongs like hers with mathematics, she knew. No measure of victory could make up for one inescapable
condemnation. Galwell was gone, and she deserved no one’s gratitude.
She didn’t deserve to dance the way she had last night, either. It was almost what angered her the worst—almost. She wasn’t pleased she’d found a glimmer of joy in Clare’s embrace. Clare Grandhart aside, she knew she deserved happiness in no one’s arms.
She’d let her guard down. Let herself have... fun. Never again , she vowed. Especially not with him.
When the float slowed in the village square, she felt a flicker of hope—until she glanced up. In the fountained center of
the seaside town was... them.
Of course the village where they’d paused in their journey had a fucking statue of the Four in the square.
Galwell stood in front, sword raised, his face heroic. Clare was crouched, ready to strike, his mouth carved forever into
his usual smirk. Elowen stood near Galwell, her glare intimidating. And at the rear Beatrice found... herself. Her expression
serene, like she knew she would prevail. Her statue looked like everything she wasn’t. Confident. Strong. Happy.
She ripped her eyes from herself, hurting.
Vandra, Beatrice glimpsed in the corner of her vision, regarded the statue with the same inscrutable yearning she’d worn during
the parade. Then cheers rose from the crowd, pulling Beatrice’s gaze past the statue, where stood what she intuited was the
estate of the village’s lord or lady.
The woman who stepped out onto the sandstone portico certainly fit the part. Neither her sumptuous garb, casually fashionable
in the way of Western Coast villages, nor her seashell jewelry held Beatrice’s focus, however.
Not when she caught sight of the shining black orb in the woman’s ringed hands.
“It is my distinct pleasure to introduce myself, the Lady of Keralia,” she spoke warmly to the surviving members of the Four. More cheers went up from the crowd. “What an honor it is for our village to host our own heroes, in the midst of our celebration of the anniversary of their victory, saving our realm from the Fraternal Order’s darkness!”
More cheering. Keralians were a cheering-inclined people, Beatrice noticed. She wished she wanted to join them.
“Every year, we remember,” the lady went on. “For in remembrance, we keep the past present.”
This, Beatrice found, was exactly why she hated the Festival of the Four. Not just remembering what had happened. Rather,
Beatrice loathed the idea it was even possible to forget. It infuriated her. The quest would not need commemoration for her—not
when it would never, ever escape her memory, even for one moment. Imagining it would for others... Poisonous jealousy coursed
in her.
She fumed while the lady went on. “We remember. We remember how easily men of status can change into creatures of evil. We
remember how the Fraternal Order, once known for nothing other than gaudy revels and investing farthings in each other’s castles,
went from proud noblemen to conspirators out to overthrow our queen and destroy Queendom.”
The Keralians shook their heads in condemnation.
“We remember who inspired the Order’s darkness,” the Lady of Keralia continued. “We know now how to recognize the face of
evil. Todrick van Thorn.”
Hearing his very name, Beatrice felt herself flinch.
Todrick van Thorn. The face of evil. Indeed, he was. Wide-smiling, raven-haired, devastatingly persuasive. The young nobleman’s
unique gifts suited him grandly in the Order’s company. His head magic could rewrite reality in his vicinity, changing memories
or enhancing, eliminating, or editing what was.
“He corrupted the Order. Changed complacent men into wicked ones. He wielded loyalty like a weapon, camaraderie like poison. He reminded us”—the lady paused, indulging now in her dramatic rendering of history—“of how evil does not flourish in isolation. It spreads like the Nightbiter Plague. Like it spread from Todrick van Thorn to his friend, Myke Lycroft, his counterpart in villainy.”
They were darkly perfect for each other, Beatrice remembered. Each needed the other. Each held the key to the other’s devious
design. Lycroft, a hand-magical weaponeer, could forge implements for the magnification and replication of others’ magic,
yet had no other magic himself. Todrick’s magic could rule a revel, but not a realm—not without Myke to heighten his powers.
They were the ultimate duo of destruction. Determined to dominate Mythria together.
“Lycroft crafted the instrument of the Order’s plan—the Sword of Souls,” the lady recounted raptly. “When charged with the
pain of those who perished under the sword’s stroke, the weapon could extend magic like van Thorn’s without end. The Order
kidnapped Princess Thessia before her coronation. With Thessia deposed, they would use van Thorn’s magic to recast the realm
into one under Todrick’s unending rule. They would reach out with his powers not only to neighboring noblemen, but to every person in Mythria.”
With her words, the village folk booed like they were receiving the decade-old news for the first time.
“Queendom would not even need conquest,” the lady continued. “It would simply... vanish from memory.”
Beatrice watched the villagers react, remembering with every sentence why she scorned the festivals. Was this fucking theater to them? Did these memories not shadow their every waking moment? This isn’t some grand old legend with a happy ending , she wanted to scream out.
“Until the Four saved us!” the Lady of Keralia cheered. Right on cue, the crowd whooped with joy. “They rode into battle and
slew Todrick van Thorn! The sword was lost forever! Lycroft sent into hiding!” The lady’s celebratory exclamations sounded
now like newshandlers’ cries promising wondrous reportage.
Beatrice clenched her fingernails into her palm, desperate to interject what else the Four did. They’d lost their dearest
friend. They’d destroyed each other. They didn’t need to remember because they would never forget.
“Our village was freed,” the lady continued, softer. “Fear fled our streets. We could cherish our neighbors, look forward
to our sunrises. We returned,” she said, “to life.”
The hush her words cast over the crowd gave Beatrice pause. Villagers bowed their heads in quiet remembrance.
Watching their expressions, she wished she could feel their gratitude. She really did. She wanted to feel like the Four’s
victory was not only cheap fairy-tale pageantry for the people of Keralia. Perhaps it inspired them. Perhaps it instilled
in them the idea to remember the wonder of every day hence. In ten years of hiding from the Festival of the Four, Beatrice
had forgotten heroism could hold such meaning.
Instead, she could only remind herself of what the village’s story left out. What the people didn’t know. The truth of why,
when the village of Keralia returned to life, Beatrice’s own life shattered.
“We will never forget this day,” the lady continued. “Like we will never forget the day the sun rose ten years ago and the
queen remained on the throne.”
She faced the group of them now. Beatrice’s hands went slick with sweat.
“If we could request of you one more favor...” The Lady of Keralia’s voice was honeyed, like the mead Beatrice consumed too much of yestereve. Both were in danger of rendering her ill.
The lady held out the dark orb.
“Beatrice of the Four,” she exhorted, “would you use our Conjurall to show us the day you slayed Todrick van Thorn?”
No cheers now. Only the hush of hope. Every eager eye found her.
Of course she recognized the Conjurall, one of many enchanted creations designed for those with head magic to project, for
the viewership of others, the conjurations or insights of their magical gifts. The noblewoman wished her to project her gift
of reverse prophecy for everyone to view the defeat of the nefarious van Thorn.
The lady lowered her voice, showmanship replaced with gentle inquiry. “Please,” she implored. “Many in our village have found
inspiration in your perseverance and your victory. It would be the honor of our lives.”
Beatrice genuinely contemplated refusing. No matter the village lady’s exhortations. Of course, Beatrice could project every
detail for the village folk of Keralia, right down to the moment they defeated Todrick—the moment Galwell was killed. It would
hardly disturb her now. She’d watched it thousands of times.
She could not, however, show it to Elowen.
Gracefully, Clare stepped up next to her. “Why don’t I lead us in song instead?” he offered, exactly like he had last night.
Repetition robbed none of the luster from his enthusiasm. It was kind. Noble, even.
It infuriated her.
Yes, her life had gotten messy. Yes, she loathed herself when she was not drinking her storm-clouded soul into emptiness. What she was not , however, was some damsel for the heroic scoundrel’s rescuing. She was sick of his kindnesses. She pushed past Clare to jump
down from the float, reaching for the Ominoccular.
“I’ll show you one of our greatest victories instead,” she promised. “The day we rescued the princess.”
What a surprise—the people of Keralia cheered.
Placing her hands on the shining inky stone, Beatrice summoned the scene, letting her magic spill into the sphere. The vision
unfurled out from the orb, the veils of the past parting in the Western Coast sky. Above them, nighttime reigned, the darkness
deep in the forest where—
She saw herself. Running.
Beatrice the hero looked powerful. Like the statue in the square come to glorious life. Her footsteps flew over the uneven
ground, threading past trees in her dash.
Elowen was with her. Clare too.
He rushed past her, wind whipping his hair. Grinning with wild light, he looked as handsome then as he did now.
In Elowen, however, the changes caught Beatrice up short.
Running ahead of her, Elowen was laughing . She looked giddy. Like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
“Pick up your pace, Beatrice!” Clare called out in playful competition. “Last one to rescue the princess is a rotten duskjay
egg!”
She could not even keep herself from grinning with him. “Surely you’re not serious,” she replied. “Is this how you escaped
the Grimauld Mines? With immature schoolyard insults?”
“Now that you mention it...” Clare paused in pretend contemplation, his impressive stride never slowing. “Why, yes, I do
reckon my shouting ‘Your leg-pits stink of gryphon droppings!’ did indeed help me escape.”
Elowen giggled. No matter how heavily one felt the weight of responsibility, gryphon dropping jokes never got old.
“Never underestimate the power of a good quip,” Clare counseled. “Or a catchphrase. I’d love to have a catchphrase one day.”
“How about,” Elowen chimed in, “ Clare Grandhart—loved by many, especially myself! ”
Hearing her own laughter, the Beatrice in the village square remembered why she only watched sad memories. Sometimes the joyous
ones hurt worse.
“I like it,” past-Clare replied gamely. “I like it!”
They descended into the wooded gorge for which they’d set out, watching for clinging nightmares in the foul pits where frightening
dreams could live, continuing to flourish even once dreamers had stopped dreaming them.
The path steepened, level enough to run, yet perilous. Which meant Clare chose that moment to spin nimbly, jogging backward,
facing the girls.
“Show-off,” past-Beatrice declared.
He grinned. “Now who’s immature?”
“What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”
In the village square, Beatrice was not prepared for the fondness flickering over Clare’s expression with her joke.
Nor was she prepared for the crossbow bolts whizzing by their past selves, striking their pursuers—pursuers that Beatrice
had forgotten were the reason for their dash through the forest in the first place. The Conjurall revealed the three of them
nearing the stronghold where Princess Thessia was being held, its obsidian spires reaching into the night.
In front, his stature majestic, crossbow in hand, stood Galwell.
He rattled off crossbow shots to scatter their pursuers, clearing his friends’ path to the dark fortress, where he had boldly ventured first, volunteering his hand-magical strength in case the Order had placed monsters to guard the citadel. Beatrice could not help noting how perfectly Galwell it was. Ever selfless, ever skillful. Ever in the right place.
Evading the Order’s minions with his help, the three of them crowded to Galwell’s side. The hero’s hawklike eyes scouted the
forest line, where the ominous rustle of enemies went quiet.
“Should we wait until we know they’re gone?” Beatrice inquired, out of breath, chest heaving from their sprint.
Galwell held his weapon poised. “No. Thessia needs us,” he replied. “Legends never wait.”
Clare’s shoulders slumped. “Fuck, see?” he said to his friends. “That’s so good. Thank you, noble sir.” He clapped his hand
heartily on Galwell’s shoulder.
Innocently curious, the other man paused. “What’s so good?”
“The usual, brother,” Elowen said. “Clare is jealous of how effortlessly fashionable and impressive you are.”
When Galwell smiled, it pierced Beatrice’s heart.
“No cause for jealousy, Grandhart,” he said. “There is greatness in you.”
His words were sincere, like always. Their effect on the younger Clare was immediate. His careless facade faded, and inspiration
lit in his eyes. He looked... to her. Like he wondered if she’d noted Galwell’s complimentary words.
She’d forgotten the moment. Forgotten the way her past self had smiled slightly, her only acknowledgment that she could glimpse
the same greatness in him.
Then, like she sought distraction from her own fondness, she’d stolen over to where one of their crossbow-struck enemies was expiring. Palm to the man’s forehead, she summoned his memory with her magic “They’re... they’re in the third door in the corridor to the right,” she called over, informing the group.
“I feel hostility past the door,” Elowen commented, catching her own racing breath. “We should be ready for combat, or a trap.”
“ Let them try! ” Clare cried out grandly.
Beatrice cocked her head. “It’s a little trite,” she said. “Not bad, though.”
“I can workshop it!” Clare replied. “I’ll have you know I considered ‘I’m always ready.’ It doesn’t quite hit hard enough,
I fear. It sounds like I’m a wandering salesman for emergency gear.”
Elowen’s face wobbled from withheld laughter. It did rather sound the way he described.
“Perhaps,” Galwell interjected with patient good humor, “we could quip after saving the princess?”
“See, this is why you’re the leader,” Clare conceded. “Where would we be without you?”
In the village square, Beatrice felt her face go white. When she’d summoned the memory, she didn’t remember it invoked the
question they had spent the past decade unwillingly investigating. Elowen stiffened next to her. Clare looked to the ground.
While her magic played on, she could hardly stand to watch the completion of the memory. The Four stormed the fortress. They
fought off attacks from every angle, finally reaching the third door in the corridor to the right, which Galwell kicked down.
Finding Thessia chained, he freed the princess. Hooray, them.
The Keralians cheered.
Exhausted, Beatrice removed her hands from the Conjurall, the vision concluded. She smiled weakly for the festival crowd,
mustering the warmest reception she could for their gratitude.
Until she caught sight of Elowen. Elowen, whom she’d intentionally spared the gutting vision the Lady of Keralia had requested.
Her glare was livid.
Without words or decorum, Elowen strode off their float. On instinct, Beatrice pursued her, no longer caring what the crowd
saw. Noticing Clare stepping easily once more into the spotlight, she doubted the village would object to her absence.
Down one of the side streets, she caught up to Elowen. “What is wrong with you?” Beatrice demanded. She found she was enraged.
“Would you rather I showed the moment your brother breathed his last?”
Elowen halted and rounded on Beatrice. “I’d rather you had shown something real ,” she practically snarled. “Not the farce you gave them. You made it seem like we were friends .”
The cruelty of her words left Beatrice nearly unable to breathe. “We were friends,” she managed.
Elowen scoffed. “Were we?” She stated the question flatly. “Why don’t you go up there and show them the moment you shared
with me how you really felt. The day our friendship , as you say, died.”
Beatrice felt her fury coil within her. She knew she could withdraw, welcoming Elowen’s ire. She could consider the other
woman’s hatred yet more deserved punishment. Or she could unleash what she’d kept hidden. What more could she possibly lose?
She didn’t care enough for restraint, she decided.
“Did you never wonder why Galwell climbed the ramparts?” she inquired calmly.
Elowen faltered, not following the change in the conversation. “I thought you didn’t want to relive his death today,” she finally challenged Beatrice.
“I relive it every day,” Beatrice replied.
Elowen eyed her. They stared like duelists with swords raised until Elowen relented. “Galwell climbed the ramparts in our
final fight with the Order to stop you from trying to sacrifice yourself. You’d found out how to disempower the sword and
didn’t tell anyone. I know all of this,” Elowen said. “It was the very last conversation we had, when my brother was fresh
in his grave.”
Beatrice nodded. Elowen was correct. Unbeknownst to the rest of the Four, Beatrice had learned that the blood of a sacrifice,
freely given, would quell the Sword of Souls. Of course, she’d planned to give her own life. What did Mythria need with one
more daughter of peasants? What the realm needed was a vanquishing sacrifice.
“But did you ever wonder,” Beatrice replied, “how he knew I would give myself over? How you... didn’t know?”
Beatrice watched the question cloud Elowen’s ire. While Elowen could not read minds or exactly determine when someone was
being deceptive, her lifelong closeness to Beatrice had permitted Elowen’s magic nearly such insight when it came to her friend.
“I knew you would be the hardest to lie to,” Beatrice went on. “Your magic would pick up my deceit. I knew you would question
me about what I was hiding. When you did...”
She hesitated. When she’d driven the conversation in this direction, she had not known how hard reliving their friendship-ending
fight would be. It had looked small from a distance, yet was daunting close up.
She forced herself to continue. “I made a confession,” she explained. “About how for years I had felt like your charity case. How it had weighed on me. How after that day, I would be done with you.”
Ghosts, was she nearly choking on the words, even now? Remembering how she’d hurt herself hurting Elowen, convinced she needed
to for the realm?
Elowen’s eyes widened. She was starting to understand. She shook her head, looking like she wished to run from Beatrice’s
story. Into the hills, or the forest, or wherever offered refuge. “My magic would have known if you were lying,” she challenged.
“ I would have known.”
“I wasn’t, though,” Beatrice managed. Confession, she found, was no load lifted. It was a chasm she needed to carve into herself.
“Not entirely. What I told you had enough truth to fool even your gifts. I did feel indebted to you in ways I sometimes didn’t know how to deal with. And...”
Now was the hardest part. Yet she would not shy from hardship, she knew—from sacrifice. The same miserable, inevitable urge
compelled her now.
“After that day, I would be done with you,” she said softly.
Stunned realization crossed the stone facade of Elowen’s features. “Because you intended to die,” she finished.
Beatrice nodded. “I knew it would hurt you to hear I wanted nothing more to do with you. It would be enough to keep you from
seeking out the real truth I was concealing.” Her voice wavered like struck steel. “I knew you loved me. You would stop me and let the world perish.
I... had to trick you.”
The Western Coast warmth dried her watering eyes. Elowen only watched, cauldrons of emotion churning under her unflinching
gaze. “And Galwell...” she elaborated, reconstituting the past her former friend had carefully kept hidden, “Galwell saw
through it, because he didn’t have my magic, so he wasn’t fooled the way I was.”
Beatrice exhaled one racked breath. Wasn’t honesty supposed to ease the heart? Instead, she only remembered the consequences of what she’d done more sharply. When she’d confronted van Thorn, ready to die under his enchanted sword, Galwell had interceded, literally. Reaching her with not one instant to spare, Galwell the Great had caught the swing of the sword she’d meant for herself.
Ever in the right place.
The strike would have slain her cleanly. It did not kill Galwell the Great cleanly. Larger and stronger, he had died slowly
from the mortal wound—slowly enough that he could with his own sword impale the stunned van Thorn, killing the head of the
Order. When Myke Lycroft, not far from the confrontation, had come upon them, he wept for his fallen friend—and his tears
on the magical blade he had forged drained the Sword of Souls of its dark potency.
Sacrifice, she’d quietly realized, was not the only way the sword could lose its power. She’d made a horrible mistake. If
Galwell had slain van Thorn in honest combat, the same would have happened—without Galwell’s own death.
Galwell the Great had died for nothing, except for her.
“You should hate me, Elowen,” she whispered. “Ghosts know it is your right. But I will not have you thinking our entire friendship
was a lie any longer. It wasn’t.”
Under the Keralian sun, Elowen watched her. The other woman’s face held the strangest combination of feelings. Loathing pity.
Resentful regret. Embarrassment even now, remembering Beatrice’s rejection.
It made Beatrice want to flee—so she did.
She strode off, ending the conversation, hating the memories she knew would never leave her side.