15 Clare
15 Clare
Ominous quiet followed them into the halls of the palace. It disturbed Clare in ways not many experiences ever had.
He led the group, having the greatest familiarity with the royal floorplan. He’d visited Queendom’s castle on numerous occasions
in the years since the Four’s victory. While young Queen Thessia was not profligate with her parties, they were wondrous events—her
coronation, her engagement, even one gala she’d graciously held for the Clare Grandhart Eagle Sanctuary. Wiglaf, he remembered
with fondness, had relished the roasted rumprat spread laid out specially for the gala’s feathered guests.
The hallway’s grim emptiness now could not have compared less favorably to the queen’s parties. With his every footstep, not
caring how his soles soiled the cream-white carpet with dirt from the passageway, his hope descended into worry.
It reminded him of when he’d found Beatrice not far from here, the Fraternal Order’s chief killed, and Galwell propped in
her lap, his eyes vacant.
The welcome they received certainly did nothing for his encouragement. Footmen’s and guards’ eyes registered recognition when
the three of them walked past in the castle’s halls. No one, however, responded with excitement. Clare had meant what he said
about the uncomfortable way celebration struck him, yet he very, very much would’ve preferred the clamor.
It meant, he knew, something horrible had happened. He could not fend off wondering whether they were cursed. Perhaps whenever the three of them were together, they summoned tragedy.
He dashed the thought away, which was darker than he often permitted himself. He needed to remain hopeful, he reminded himself.
Their fire in the night, their champion of heroism.
If entering the palace was not easy, entering the throne room was harder.
Upon the former heroes’ entrance, Thessia rose, her tearstained face pale. She looked regal even in despair. Not merely grieving—rather,
the emblem of grief itself.
Clare considered her the perfect queen. She was lovely, he could recognize, without having ever felt pangs of desire for her.
Her chestnut hair curled naturally, her green eyes shone like crystalline peridot—were she not the realm’s ruler, he was certain
she would have found fame singing or in shadow plays. In every conversation, her eager mind was evident. Her kindness was
renowned, the sort of compassion won only through loss.
Her misery pained him. He was very fond of her, having gotten to know her during various events. They’d found themselves comforting
each other for the sorrow they shared. If he needed to console her now for the second great grief of her life...
He did not know if he could.
He could not even muster the courage to ask what had happened, afraid to hear the confirmation yet again—for their queen,
for Mythria.
Nor could the queen herself expound on her anguish. Instead, when she opened her mouth, only heartrending sobs ushered forth.
Recognizing her incapacity, one of the room’s guards finally shared the racking state of affairs.
“The groom,” he said gravely, “has been kidnapped.”
Clare paused. The dread in his stomach vanished. Lightness pervaded his coiled muscles, relief expanding in him. Hugh had been kidnapped?
It was wonderful news.
Clare liked the queen’s fiancé almost as much as he cherished the queen herself. Sir Hugh Mavaris had spent his early life
as a simple foot soldier. When the Fraternal Order was vanquished, he eventually found fame in minor Carnivals of Combat the
queen held for the city’s entertainment. His renown led him to join the queen’s corps of guards, where his keen observations
on matters of security earned him a larger role in her council of advisors—where his nobility had earned him her heart.
He was not Galwell, nor did he jealously position himself as such. He was a man whose solid character did not dull his warmth
or vigor—plainspoken without ignorance, honorable without naivete.
And most importantly in the present case, he was apparently not dead.
“I’m sorry,” Clare finally ventured delicately, his heart racing with hope. “Hugh was only kidnapped? We feared he was killed! You’ve already hung the mourning flags!”
“ Only kidnapped? ” Thessia wailed. She fixed her gaze on Clare with indignation. “He’s undoubtedly dead by now!”
Quickly, Clare understood the queen’s frantic reaction. How the trauma of Galwell’s death clung on to her. How fearsome patterns
were pushing her off the edge of reason. In vain, he worked to wrestle his words into the help she needed.
Instead, it was Beatrice who interjected. “This isn’t like Galwell,” she insisted. Clare had never heard the patient comfort
in her voice. “Galwell was killed in this city, for all to see. If whoever has your betrothed wanted him dead, they would
have just killed him.”
Now Elowen spoke up. “Surely someone could simply rescue your groom?”
Clare noticed the moment it happened. Something sharp snapped into place in the queen’s expression. She was the intelligent
monarch now, not the heartsick fiancée.
“Indeed,” she replied. “Yes, I suppose a hero could rescue my Hugh. Or several. Three, maybe.”
The room went silent, except for one member of the queen’s guard, who coughed.
“If only there were any nearby...” Thessia went on.
Clare nearly laughed. He did not think the queen intended to manipulate them. It was just comically perfect how well, even
in the midst of her panic, she’d managed to maneuver her new guests in exactly the direction she needed.
Almost instantly, however, discomfort set in. The queen needed heroes. Who she had was... them.
Galwell wouldn’t hesitate , Clare reminded himself sternly. Ghosts, Galwell hadn’t hesitated. When the Fraternal Order kidnapped Thessia herself, Galwell rode from Queendom in pursuit the next day.
However—every step and fractious night of their journey this week had forcibly reminded him he wasn’t Galwell. The mere road trip quest he was leading was going disastrously. Did he really want a man’s life—indeed, the life of a man loved by one of his
dearest friends—in his clumsy hands?
It did not matter, he finally decided. Refusing would mean he was nothing except the heroic fraud he feared he was every day.
“We’ll save him,” he stated, not wasting one more moment on the potential of losing his courage. “Of course we will.”
“Who do you mean, we ?” Beatrice interjected.
“ We most certainly will not,” Elowen declared, their voices overlapping.
Clare plucked up his courage. His first challenge, it appeared, would be quelling his prospective questmates. “You know,”
he ventured, “the pair of you bicker often, yet you actually agree on most matters.”
“No we don’t.”
“We do not!”
Clare felt himself grow headachey. Not only from road weariness, either. The conundrum of his companions would not resolve
easily. Grudgingly, he faced the queen. “One moment,” he requested. “If it please your majesty,” he remembered to add. He
would not have his questing efforts commence with royal impoliteness!
The queen only waved him on impatiently. Have at it! her gesture said. She retreated to the throne, where she sat, staring out the high windows like she was searching for something
she expected not to find.
The sight of her, nerve-stricken, focused Clare. He needed to do this right. He lowered his voice to Elowen and Beatrice.
“Please,” he implored. “Would you forswear your queen? The life of her love depends on us.”
“Clare.” Elowen met him with the same seriousness. She was not, he could tell, replying out of petty indignation. It was real.
“We’re not qualified to rescue anyone,” she said. “He would be better off if the queen’s guard went to save him.”
He understood her frustrating logic—and yet, he grasped desperately onto the chance he felt fumbling out of his fingers.
“How can you say we’re not qualified? We faced down the greatest evil this realm has ever known,” he insisted, half-pleading.
He needed this quest, he found himself realizing. Not only his friendship for Thessia compelled him. He’d come to this wedding in hopes of proving his worth—to Beatrice, to himself. He’d hoped he could manage the feat with politeness of diction and gentility of temperament, winning enough grudging respect from his former friends to put his insecurities to rest.
Instead, what he felt emerging now, like the ship’s prow of his destiny appearing from the fog of discontent, was his hope
compounding a hundredfold. What if I could lead my very own quest?
Finally, he had stumbled onto the chance to prove he was not fake. He was not worthless without Galwell. He was not just the
imitation of the man he wished he was.
It was not a chance he was keen on giving up.
“Yes, we faced the Order once,” Beatrice replied firmly. He could read the mournful determination in her voice. “ Ten years ago. We’re... not what we used to be.”
Offering him no opportunity to object, she faced the queen of Mythria wearily, whose guarded gaze rounded to rest upon Beatrice.
“Ghosts grant the return of the future king, Your Highness,” Beatrice went on. “May we please be shown to our chambers? Our
journey has been... long.”
Thessia’s face fell. However, Clare knew she was not the manner of monarch who would order her former friends into peril.
Wordlessly, she gestured for her footmen, who escorted the women from the room.
When they were gone, Clare approached the throne, where Thessia gazed emptily out. He remembered the days following Galwell’s
death. Clare Grandhart, famous and cocksure warrior, knew what he saw in her eyes. The feeling of how every passing moment
was a struggle to keep from shattering.
“Thess,” he murmured gently, “we’ll do this. We’ll save Hugh. The word of a rogue might not mean much, but you have mine.”
Thessia eyed him. Exhaustion, fear, and determination wrestled in her countenance. “How do you plan to convince them?” the young queen finally inquired, nodding toward the door where Elowen and Beatrice had departed.
He did not know. Galwell would, obviously. Clare was learning to cope with not having everything the other man had possessed.
Plans, intuition, fortitude.
What he did have was hope.
“Don’t you worry,” he promised her. “You need only concern yourself with preparations for your wedding. You will be married
this week—I swear it.”