20 Beatrice
20 Beatrice
“Are you sure we can’t stop at Harpy & Hind first?” Beatrice asked.
Heroically fighting a headache, she slumped over her horse, whose jostling gait was not helping. She did not feel like the
conquering valiant the realm needed. She felt hungover. Which was frustrating, as, surprisingly, she wasn’t.
Instead, four hours of sleep in the forest had left her feeling much the same way. While their enchanted tents were preferable
to slumbering on the ground, sleeping in the woods—in the cold, with the murmur of wildlife surrounding her, on the slim bedroll
provided—was sleeping in the woods.
Years of the finest feather mattresses farthings could purchase had left her unaccustomed to camping. When the minstrels wrote
the songs of their new “reunion quest” the way Thessia wanted, she very much hoped they would leave this unflattering detail
out. Grandhart the Gallant, Elowen the Epic, and Backache Beatrice was not how she wished the verses to remember her.
“You do realize we’re in the middle of nowhere,” Elowen replied uncharitably. The other woman looked irritatingly composed
despite them having risen with the first pinking hues of dawn only to follow Vandra for hours into the forest.
Where Elowen’s ire often left her with a complicated cocktail of guilty understanding and impatient combativeness, exhaustion now left Beatrice with only the stiff drink of the latter.
“No, actually, I have no idea where we are, and I doubt you do, either,” she snapped. “Never mind it. If a few hours’ detour
gets me a honey-foam milkbrew, I promise I will be better prepared to rescue Hugh. He does not deserve a heroine running on
four hours of sleep. What if they cut off his finger while I’m caught in a yawn?”
Elowen preened. Her scarlet locks practically shimmered in the sunlight pervading the forest cover. “I got four hours of sleep,”
she replied loftily, “and I feel wonderful.”
From up ahead, Vandra laughed with satisfaction. “Yes, well, Beatrice did not have multiple orgasms last night,” she reminded
Elowen.
Clare grunted. With the grim fulfillment of a consolation prize, Beatrice noted he looked worse for the wear like her, hunched
on his horse. The eldest of the group and used to comfort himself, he was, she concluded, likewise ill-equipped for the aches
of questing.
Of course, he’d rallied the group into this ridiculous quest, not her. She hoped he was very much enjoying what he’d wrought.
“Okay, was that really necessary?” he ground out, his weary voice like gravel. Not sexy gravel , she counseled herself. Just ordinary gravel. “Sincerest congratulations on your mutual pleasure last night, truly. But...”
He stalled, summoning the right words from his exhausted vocabulary. “Don’t rub it in.”
“I’m afraid that’s rather exactly what we did, darling,” Vandra cooed.
Elowen swallowed her smile.
Clare’s demeanor only darkened. He looked—jealous, she found when she unfortunately met his eye. Very unfortunately. Each severed the glance they shared in mutual annoyance. How, she found herself wondering, did his eyes still look like pure crystals, even when the rest of him looked like the rough rock surrounding them?
In meager mercy, Vandra slowed her mount. She leapt from the horse, still laughing to herself.
“The bad news,” she went on, “is I’m afraid we are nowhere near a Harpy & Hind, nor are we near anything at all. When villains
select a location for their evil lair, they tend to prefer seclusion.”
“Don’t act like villains don’t love foamy milkbrews as much as the rest of us,” Beatrice muttered in her discontent.
“You just know the Fraternal Order has pumpkin-gingerroot cream on tap in every one of their lairs,” Elowen joined in.
Beatrice snorted with laughter. Elowen did the same—until each woman remembered herself. Embarrassed, they darted their gazes
elsewhere.
Beatrice’s heart pounded. Did they just joke together? It felt painfully like childhood, when they would poke fun at the often exceedingly literal Galwell. When they
were friends, close to sisters.
When they loved each other.
“The good news is,” Vandra continued, enthusiasm audible even in her hushed voice under the forest canopy, “we have reached our destination!”
She swept her arms aside—gesturing, the group saw, in the direction of the mountainous ravine where the mouth of a dark cave
opened.
Vandra’s pride in her presentation went undiminished when no one reacted with cheers, relief, displays of undaunted vigor or other common quest-like reactions. Indeed, Clare frowned. “Wait, we’re... here?” he mustered, like comprehension itself was an unwelcome labor in the morning light. “Already? I expected our journey would get more... I don’t know, epic,” he groused, dismounting from his horse with wincing movements. Elowen and Beatrice followed suit. “We weren’t even beset by monsters. Or betrayed! What material will there be for the songs?”
Vandra shrugged. “I followed the Fraternal Order after they attacked in Keralia. The first night, I overheard them discussing
their plans while they camped. Mentioning a chair lashed down with ropes. Pretty customary hostage stuff,” she clarified,
perhaps without need. “They said they were headed for crystal caves in the east. Of the three crystalline formations in the
realm, there’s only one cave complex large enough for occupancy of over three people, the one east of Mount Mythria. I feel
certain they have Hugh here,” she concluded.
“Easy in and easy out,” Elowen replied. Something prickled in her voice, something Beatrice could recognize but could not
read, like the writings of Old Mythria one could find on walls in old villages like Elgin. “The faster we find Hugh, the faster
we can go home,” Elowen went on. “Perhaps we’ll reunite for another quest in ten years, but I shall savor the time apart.”
The mere mention of the prospect made Beatrice frown involuntarily, reminding her of the pain in her joints and the hammering
in her head. “A quest at thirty is unpleasant enough,” she declared. “I shan’t do forty.”
“You have aged poorly,” Elowen retorted, and there it was — the point of the prickle. It was obvious she was making up for their moment of mirth with redoubled viciousness. Yet, Beatrice
found she did not care, for Elowen’s overcompensation only reminded her of the short lapse in their enmity. Of how, for just
one moment, Elowen forgot her hatred and laughed with Beatrice.
“Yes, well, I’m certain ten more years of isolation will only improve your sociability,” Beatrice replied, unable to muster the other woman’s disdain. The memory of their companionship lingered with her like a favorite song stuck in her head.
“Ladies!” Clare sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Stop with the squabbling, my Ghosts above. We’re about to save a man’s life.
The fiancé of our dear queen! We’ll be heroes! Again!”
“Actually”—Beatrice nodded with her chin—“looks like Vandra will be the hero this time.”
Everyone followed her gesture. Yes, down the ravine, the erstwhile assassin was proceeding on her own, undoubtedly fed up
with her questmates.
“Well, shit,” Clare murmured. Not even four hours of orgasm-free sleep could vanquish the quiet delight with which Beatrice
watched the long-legged man jog in pursuit of Vandra. “I shall lead us!” he called out in reminder.
She shot Elowen a wry glance—which she was startled to find returned. Indeed, she could swear Elowen almost smiled. No grudge
withstood the appeal of mocking Clare Grandhart’s vanity.
They chased his long stride. “I should lead,” Elowen challenged. “I deserve vengeance for my brother.”
“Personally, I feel I should lead,” Beatrice ventured. “Because... well, because why not? I would do an excellent job.”
They entered the mouth of the cave, which was only a small rocky space with a narrow tunnel leading down into unseen depths.
Clare sped down the terrain, and the women followed, sending stones flying under their feet.
“Perhaps Harpy & Hind could sponsor your leadership,” Elowen returned. “‘The Great Mythrian Milkbrew Quest, brought to you
by—’”
She was cut off by a very vexed-looking Vandra, blocking their path. “Literally, how did you ever foil me? You three are helpless,” she said, sounding exhausted. “Please be dears and shut up as we sneak into the bad-guy lair.”
Clare, Elowen, and Beatrice muttered chastened apologies.
Silently, they continued down the tunnel. Where it flattened out, the ceiling was low, causing the group to crouch and crawl
toward an opening. When finally there was space to stand, Beatrice found Clare’s hand offering to help her up. She prepared
a rejection, but the words died on her lips, for the chamber they found themselves in was the most stunning place she had
ever seen.
Crystals covered the enormous cavern. Everywhere they glittered, amethyst, aquamarine, pure glass like diamond. They captured
the light entering down the tunnel from the cave entrance, illuminating everything. Stalactites, jaggedly geometric, descended
like gleaming fingers from the ceiling, which was covered in sharp, perfect gemstones.
They reminded her of Clare’s eyes.
Gawking, she was hardly conscious of putting her hand in Clare’s to rise. The room—did caves have rooms? Chambers? Hollows?
She did not know—was massive, with winding ridges of rock proceeding down into the depth of the cave, where Vandra waited.
“Quick question,” Beatrice whispered. “Where are the bad guys?”
“We must proceed deeper,” Vandra replied.
“I’m not certain that’s a good idea,” Clare huffed.
Elowen rounded on him. “Galwell wouldn’t lose his nerve.”
“I’m not scared ,” he replied hotly.
“I still say we get brews in us first, honestly,” Beatrice interjected. “The caves could go on for miles. I require energy.”
Elowen ignored her. “If you’re not frightened, what is it?” she demanded of Clare.
He rubbed his hand, either remembering Beatrice’s touch or the sharp rocks they climbed over. “Galwell would have posted one of us outside to ensure no one cuts off our exit,” he explained. “I forgot.”
“If you could just shut up , we could do the raid my way,” Vandra said, frustration returned, stronger than before. “Stealthily. I’m quite good at doing
these kinds of things on my own, if you haven’t heard.”
“Yes, but four draws more attention than one,” Beatrice pointed out. “You’re not on your own right now. You’re part of a crew.”
While she intended the point practically, she noticed the revelation’s effect on Vandra, who looked stunned, perhaps even
moved.
“I’ll go guard the cave entrance,” Elowen grumbled. “It was always my job anyway.”
While Galwell always left Elowen on guard duty—protective of his sister—Elowen’s mood indicated she wished she could do more.
Beatrice found herself pulled to protest for Elowen, then remembered the gesture would probably not endear her to Elowen.
She did not, unfortunately, get the chance. None of them did.
Like magic, seemingly summoned by Clare’s warning, men emerged on the outer rim of the cave, their silhouettes sharp in the
sunlight. The four heroes were closed in.
On instinct, they gathered, back-to-back, defending each other from exposure. Beatrice found herself facing where the cave
continued deeper into the rock.
No one moved, however. The Order members confining them did not press in.
The reason came in the echo of footsteps from within the cavern. No. Her eyes were deceiving her. The man who approached was a ghost walking forth from her nightmares, a wraith wrought of her worst memories. While her hopes for the quest were not high, she could hardly contend with the new depth of their peril.
From the darkness stepped Myke Lycroft.
His emergence made horrible sense. He’d gone into hiding after the Order was defeated and his best friend and leader Todrick
was slain, remaining unseen despite the queen’s efforts to visit justice on him for the forging of the Sword of Souls and
his role in the Order’s dark ploy. His reappearance now was... well, worrying was one understatement Beatrice would not permit herself. The possible coming of the end of the realm as they knew it was
closer to the truth.
He was older, like all of them. Hiding had hardened him. He no longer looked like the young man in his friend’s shadow. He
looked like he’d spent the past decade planning... this.
Nevertheless, what had unnerved Beatrice on their earlier encounters unnerved her now. His predecessor Todrick van Thorn had
looked villainous, with his rapier smile, his inky swoop of hair.
Myke Lycroft—he looked like a hero.
His golden hair was silky straight, even, dared she say, fluffy. His grin was winning, even welcoming. He looked like he would
help you mend your fence or join your horseball squad if you were short one player. Like he would win your confidences or
cheer you when you were upset.
In most men, she would have found his charm inoffensive. In one whose heart she knew held such wickedness, it horrified her.
“Finally!” he chided them. “What a reunion!”
He strode into the cavern, clearly enjoying each step.
“I was going to let you get farther into the caves, you know,” he informed the unfortunate heroes. “But the four of you are more incompetent than I expected. I mean, my word! I’ve waited here for days! Do you know how miserable it is with nothing to do except play Ogre’s Chess with your henchmen for days ? I was starting to worry you wouldn’t find the witness I left you.” He fixed impish eyes on them. “The one I knew you would use your magic on.”
He spoke to her. To Beatrice. Dread hit her like stone.
It was a trap.
With presence of mind she could concede was impressive, Clare called out, “Let Hugh go!”
Myke laughed darkly. “Grandhart, stop pretending you’re a hero,” he sneered, with whip-crack disdain cutting his charm in
half. “It’s fucking embarrassing. I can’t take you seriously.”
He swept his eyes over Elowen and Vandra like he was noticing them for the first time.
“Indeed,” he went on, instructing Clare casually, “why don’t you grab MissElowen and the Deathrose Guild assassin and save
yourselves.” He waved his hand. “I won’t need the rest of you. I’ll have my men escort you out.”
MissElowen and the Deathrose Guild assassin. The rest of you.
His eyes landed on Beatrice, and ice froze in her veins.
“Welcome to your capture, Beatrice de Noughton ,” Lycroft said.