14 Beatrice
14 Beatrice
Queendom was on the horizon.
Wonderful.
They’d ridden on from Keralia in uncompromising silence. Without Vandra, no one filled the wagon with informative remarks
on migratory hamsterjays. Worse, without Vandra, Elowen’s sneering had changed into stony sullenness, which Beatrice found
she preferred even less. You should hate me , she’d said. Well, she had her wish, same as if she’d caught a woodland sprite.
She was foolish, Beatrice reckoned. If she couldn’t change the way things were, she’d hoped she could find some measure of
solace. Instead, unraveling the whole story to Elowen only hurt differently.
Wishing to fend off such ruminations, Beatrice preoccupied herself with vigilance. For the duration of the ride, she kept
one hand on the crossbow the Keralians had gifted the heroes while staring out the rear of the wagon. The men who fired on
them in the village were likely just outlaws, she reasoned with herself, considering celebrities easy prey.
Yet why did they fire to kill? she couldn’t help wondering.
No explanations crossed her mind, and no pursuers crossed the wagon’s path on the journey inland. The road wound upward, until
finally—Queendom emerged. Beatrice laid her crossbow down, wishing every sort of menace could be faced with weapons.
The palace rose up from the mountains encircling Mythria’s flourishing capital. The city was one of dreams, one for which every Mythrian held pride in their hearts. It combined the finest qualities of everywhere in the realm—the dulcet clime of the coasts, with gentle winds rolling down from the snowy slopes of the mountains, the sophistication of Farmount’s lively reach, the very design of the architecture like something the sculptors of Featherbint would ooh and ahh over.
Of course, for Beatrice, it was no city of dreams. It was one of nightmares.
The Four’s final confrontation with Todrick van Thorn had unfolded here, not far from the elegant white-stone castle, which
made this place the location of many dark dreams from which she could not wake—until she did, sweating, panicked, and hoping
her nocturnal fit had not woken Robert de Noughton.
As they neared the gates, the city’s high walls reaching magnificently into the clear sky looked as imposing as the day the
Four had faced down the Fraternal Order. The day she’d planned to sacrifice herself. While she knew they would not find an
army of Order aspirants inside Queendom today, what waited for them instead was, in her estimation, arguably worse.
For nowhere celebrated the Festival of the Four like the royal capital.
The festivities in Keralia felt like practice, like the pony her neighbor lent her when she was first learning to ride. His
name was Walter, in honor of the neighbor’s grandson, who’d received a knighthood. Young Beatrice had joked the pony aspired
to neigh thood. He was nineteen years old. He moved very slowly.
The past few days were the Walter the Pony of festivals. What waited for them now was a stallion, untamed, ready to drag them into oblivion.
With hesitant steps, they walked up to the walls, where incoming journeyers could ring the welcome bells. While Beatrice felt
unprepared, she knew Elowen was faring worse. She did not know how Elowen typically spent the anniversary of her brother’s
death, but undoubtedly it did not involve the singing and dancing in the streets they were about to witness.
No matter what was stirring uneasily in Beatrice’s own soul, she wished she could comfort Elowen. Inexplicable or not, despite
Elowen’s diligent unfriendliness, it was how Beatrice felt. However, when last they’d spoken, she was grateful when they were attacked, for it had ended the conversation. She doubted Elowen would welcome her consolation now.
“How many people do you expect have... already gathered?” Elowen’s voice wavered.
Clare’s reply was gentle. “Sometimes it’s better not to know your odds, right?”
Ghosts , Beatrice thought to herself. It felt no different from walking onto the battlefield. Only now, there was no Galwell to inspire
them.
Her fault.
“We might as well get it over with,” she said, reaching for the welcome bells’ rope.
She did not have the chance to ring them. Clare’s hand shot out, clasping hers before she could.
“Or,” he proposed, “we could sneak in.”
Not even the curiosity flickering in her could distract her from the confusing heat of his hand clasping hers. Perhaps this is his magical gift , she contemplated. Making my hand warm where his skin meets mine. For the feeling certainly was not the doing of her own heart. Certainly not.
Rubbing the reminder of his touch out of her palm, she focused on his words. “Sneak in where?”
“Remember? The secret passageways?” he reminded her. “Under the city. How we got in when the Order’s guard held the gates.
Look, I know we cannot avoid the crowds forever. Still—it’s something. We’ve had our share of... challenges on our journey,
and maybe a night of solitude in our own chambers in the palace would fortify us for, you know, facing the entire realm.”
Elowen looked like someone had fed her warm soup on a cold night. “You’ll hear no objection from me.”
While Beatrice wanted to say the same, nagging questions kept her from doing so. She studied Clare. What was he up to? Was
he coming to their rescue yet again? “Why don’t you enter in the front,” she suggested, grasping onto her stratagem for uncovering
his motives. “Elowen and I can use the secret passageways while you”—she gestured welcomingly—“revel in your fame.”
Clare’s gaze flattened. Except, was droll denial the only note she could read in his eyes? “Firstly, I have legitimate cause
to worry that you and Elowen may in fact murder each other if left under the city on your own. Secondly...”
Now she saw it with certainty. The lonesome shadow hiding in his shimmer.
“I don’t actually enjoy when I’m lauded for surviving the day my best friend died,” he said.
She hid how the revelation stunned her. “You could have fooled me,” she commented. He’d indulged in every opportunity to profit
from their fame, had he not? Never once did she suspect he felt the same guilt of survival himself. How could she, when he
squandered his survival on hawking Spark’s Sport Potions?
“Yes, well,” Clare replied with his voice’s familiar edge, “you more than anyone know how convincing a liar I can be when I wish.”
He had her clenching her jaw now. She should have known attempting real conversation with Clare Grandhart was like offering
vegetables to wolverlings—useless.
“Ugh. Secret tunnels, please,” Elowen interrupted them. “I can witness your tortured pining for each other no longer.”
Embarrassment flushed into Beatrice’s face. “There’s no—”
“We’re not—” Clare started in overlapping indignation.
“ —pining! ”
Elowen smirked. On another occasion, the expression would have looked like sunshine past parting clouds to Beatrice. Instead,
she felt only oncoming dread.
“I know it’s been a while, but you do remember how my heart magic works, do you not?” Elowen inquired. “I’ve felt the longing
rolling off each of you since we got into the wagon. It’s gross,” she informed them. “It feels like... slime on my skin.”
Clare reared up. “My longing is not slimy ,” he declared.
“It decidedly is,” Elowen replied, having evidently recovered her spirits. “It sticks to you. Like slime. Gooey, glistening
slime.”
“Enough with the slime!” Beatrice demanded. Elowen was playing with them, she decided. Vexing them out of resentment or for
distraction or... Whatever her intention, Beatrice was certain no longing lingered in Clare Grandhart.
She stole a glance at him for confirmation.
No, no longing. Whew. He looked angry, which comforted her. He strode off. She followed him until the corner hooked, finding them along Queendom’s
western wall. Clare hunched over, studying the stones.
He made no further movement. Instead, he grimaced.
He’d forgotten which stones opened the magic entry, she realized.
“Move aside,” she ordered gruffly. Clare glanced up, uncomprehending. Nevertheless, he deferred to the command in her voice.
He moved, only just enough to permit her to reach for the spelled stones. Was Elowen in her head, or did she feel his eyes
on her while she moved two careful fingers over the correct stone? He stood right next to her.
“ Mm-hmm. Feel that slime, Beatrice?” Elowen needled her.
Beatrice’s face went red.
No protestation rose from Clare, however. Instead, she noticed he watched—her.
“Did you just now use your head magic to revisit how we opened the passageway?” he asked while the western wall’s magic revealed
the hidden entrance, the stones rearranging themselves in accommodation of the underground opening.
“No,” she replied. “I didn’t need to.” Despite his prying, she was grateful for the inquisition, for it had replaced Elowen’s
embarrassing comments.
He cocked his head. “How could you possibly remember the exact stone spelled with the passage entrance?”
“Does it matter?” she said, evading the question. She’d relived the memory of the entrance stone nearly every night, for the
Four had used the passageway on the day of their confrontation with the Order. She’d studied every detail of the day, including
their clandestine entry. She knew every footstep up to the moment Galwell breathed his last.
Ignoring Clare’s gaze on her, clinging like—no, she would not even concede the comparison in her mind—she started downward,
into the stone passage leading underneath Queendom.
She felt uncomfortably like she was walking within her magic. But every small change stood stark. The new wear on the flagstones, the dead dysfunction of one of the lining lanterns enchanted to glow with purple flame.
Clare and Elowen.
Her companions were not the stalwart compatriots in her magic memory, comforting each other with comedy and encouragement.
They followed her silently, each of them undoubtedly remembering their last visit into the tunnels and the ghost that walked
with them now.
The corridor wound and rose, eventually ending in another stone wall. Once more, Beatrice easily selected with two fingers
the proper stone for the revelation of the passage’s magical egress. Once more, she felt Clare’s wordless curiosity.
What waited for them outside the passage vanquished his unspoken questions, however. The royal stables had not changed much
in the past decade. New paint, new horses. Yet the structure was much the same. Much the way she remembered from the celebration
of their victory here years ago.
They were inside Queendom.
She prepared herself, hackles rising instinctually. Even if they’d escaped the main streets, she was ready for a certain measure
of fanfare from palace keepers and stablehands—applause, congratulations, songs of greeting from those participating in drunken
stableside festivities. Stepping into the light, she stomached her reluctance.
Yet no song greeted them. No cheers. Nobody.
Gazing out from the stable into Queendom’s nearby streets, she found the same. Every street was empty. Every home was shuttered.
There was no celebration here, and the reason was obvious.
On every turret, mourning flags flapped in the breeze.