24 Clare
24 Clare
When he was younger, Clare Grandhart invented Hangover Corn-Toast. Never did his recipe find widespread endorsement—not unless
one counted various well-fed groups of wayward men in the eastern reaches of the Vast Plains where he grew up. Indeed, never
was he credited for the culinary masterwork.
Yet invent them he had.
One started with ordinary corncakes, obviously. However, he would then fry them together with runny dawnjay egg yolks, where
they would combine in the pan with the porous cornbread into his fluffy yet filling delicacy.
Stumbling back to the cave from where he’d relieved himself in the morning light, he remembered Hangover Corn-Toast fondly.
In his youth, Clare could have drunk twice what he did last night, fortified himself with one plateful of his marvelous food,
and considered himself ready to stake out competing mercenaries on the Vast Plains’ hottest reaches for hours without retching
once.
Everything felt possible back then, drink-related or otherwise. He could fall in love so easily. He could get his heart ground
underfoot, then move on to the next lover the next fortnight, having washed his sorrows into drunken oblivion.
Now, however—
Ugh.
Clare Grandhart was feeling too old for lots of things lately. Loving—not just romantically—was harder when you knew its painful costs. Fame and fortune were starting to feel like placeholders instead of prizes. Heroism was proving fucking impossible. Drinking?
Well, it made heroism look easy.
Clare had woken fortunately without vomiting, but with the powerful need to urinate. Sunlight pervaded the foliage cover,
leaving his head splitting. He was certain no quantity of Hangover Corn-Toast could save him from how he felt now.
His only consolation was knowing he was not unique in his discomfort—he’d heard several instances of Elowen retching during
the night. Of course Beatrice held her wine comfortably and slept in peace.
Outside the cave, Clare found Vandra the only one up, packing her tent onto her horse. She looked sullen, her eyes dark-ringed,
not glancing his way when she passed him.
While he had no capacity to offer comfort in his present state, it dispirited him. Discouraging Vandra was not easy—whatever
was going on with her and Elowen had evidently wounded her deeply—and Clare sympathized.
He sometimes privately felt he understood Vandra in ways the others did not. No one was always cheerful. High spirits could mask low moods. He knew sadness was hard, of course. He just knew happiness was sometimes harder,
for no one expected you ever to hurt.
He sat outside the cave entrance near his horse, wincing in the freckled sun, with absolutely every muscle in him focused
on holding himself upright.
Food. He grasped desperately onto the notion. If he could not have his Hangover Corn-Toast, perhaps protein from their con servative rations would help. Stomach rolling, he reached into his horse’s pack for his ration of jerky.
Right when he was lifting the jerky to his lips—
He was attacked, a horrible screeching sound splitting the sky and his skull. He cried out loud, enveloped in a clash of claws
and a flurry of feathers. “Please,” he heard Elowen call miserably from the cave, “if you’re being murdered, Clare, kindly
scream more quietly.”
“It’s not me,” he managed to reply, wrestling with the furious wings. “It’s—”
He constrained his attacker into compliance.
“Wiglaf!” he exclaimed.
For on his forearm, jealously eyeing the jerky—and looking invigorated from his attack—sat Clare’s pet eagle.
Delight filled Clare. No headache, even the considerable one he had now, could overcome the joy of Wiglaf’s surprise visit.
He respected his eagle’s independence and knew of Wiglaf’s preference for occupying himself with winged pursuits from week
to week. Nonetheless, while Clare did not feel homesick for his Farmount terrace’s comforts, he had missed his feathered friend.
“Hi, buddy,” he enthused. “How you doing? Oh, look how long your talons have gotten!”
He often felt the eagle could understand him perfectly, every word. Reinforcing his conviction, Wiglaf chirped in what was
obviously gratitude.
“No, no, no,” Clare replied gently. “You’ve got to file those down before you perch on Dad. I’m sorry.” He lowered Wiglaf,
who reluctantly hopped onto the rocky ground. “You’re very handsome, though,” Clare went on. “Who is the prettiest eagle there
ever was?”
Wiglaf lifted his beak, his invitation for “chin rubbies.”
Of course, Clare obliged.
Wiglaf produced the soft cooing in the back of his throat that Clare knew were groans of ecstasy. They were Clare’s very favorite
sound.
“Yes, that’s the spot, hmm?” He scratched vigorously, feeling the contours of Wiglaf’s perfect fluffy chin.
They were engaged in the same when Elowen and Beatrice emerged from the cave, blinking in confusion. While Elowen looked unenthusiastic
to meet the morning, Beatrice’s expression transformed. She burst out laughing, her smile catching the bright sunlight.
“Well, this is adorable,” she commented. “May I meet him?”
“Of course,” he greeted her. “He loves new friends.”
His headache disappeared. He suddenly felt twenty years old. Invincible, joyful, hopeful. Falling in love was easy, and Clare
Grandhart felt strong enough to challenge an entire mercenary camp single-handed.
***
They rode for the Straits of Baldon under the unrelenting sun.
The landscape changed. The forest ceded to the dusty stone of the east. Eventually, they found one of Mythria’s endless every-purpose
roads, wide enough for lanes of wagons carrying commerce or families or entertainers or whatnot. In recent days, Clare speculated,
they would’ve run hectic with Festival of the Four–goers. Now, though, word that Queendom was in mourning must have spread
fast. The road was deserted.
The ground flattened, the rocks disappearing onto open flatlands. On they journeyed, waiting for the first glimpse of the
watery straits past coastal cliffs.
Wiglaf’s presence improved everyone’s spirits, even Vandra’s. The eagle flew with them half the day, then grew bored, setting off on his own feathery quest—though not before Beatrice had surrendered half of her jerky over to his eager beak.
Watching her stroke his head, Clare found himself imagining the future overmuch.
He could not help himself. Was he fundamentally hopeful in nature? He feared he was. Yet when he watched Beatrice, effortlessly
caring for the little creature who shared his home, it was like... It was silly, he chastened himself.
It didn’t work. Watching her, it was like he could hear strains of romantic songs playing over his own personal conjuration
of imagined memories.
It would never come to pass, he reminded himself. Not long from now, he would part from Beatrice and Elowen once more. Nevertheless,
he clung on to the possibility that their relationships perhaps did not need to remain... like they were. Perhaps he could
invite them to his home for—dinner parties, or concerts, or whatever they preferred. Or he could plead with Thessia to send
them on more quests! He’d quest wherever she wanted if he could do it with his friends.
He just knew he was not ready to say goodbye to them yet.
Every mile their horses walked carried them closer to where Hugh was held hostage—to the inevitable end of their journey.
Whether they ended the quest as heroes or failures, they would need to return home.
“Hold,” Vandra uttered.
The word pulled Clare out of his wandering malaise. He followed her gaze out to where—a lone man was walking down the road
in their direction.
His clothing was ragged. His head was hung low in exhaustion. His gait was weary, until he looked up. When he saw their questing party, he started running right for them.
“Ambush?” Vandra queried, reaching for her weapons.
Clare raised his hand. “No—” He peered forward, scrutinizing the running man.
It was impossible. Or, no, merely very unlikely. Yet with every step closer the stranger made, Clare’s certainty grew.
He hopped off his horse.
“Hugh!”
The man who reached them with huffing paces was, indeed, the future king of Mythria. The object of their quest. Clare’s friend,
furthermore. Clare studied him, looking for—magical interference? He didn’t know. Sir Hugh Mavaris looked exactly, wonderfully
right . Bronze skin and thick black swooping hair. Crooked nose, straight mouth. World-ready roughness encasing the gem of kinghood.
While he was filthy and his normally perfectly trimmed beard had grown out, he looked, incredibly, uninjured. Clare welcomed
him, and they clasped forearms.
“You’re alive,” Clare marveled. “You’re—you’re rather okay, it appears.”
Hugh ignored him in desperation. “What’s the date? Have I missed my wedding?” he asked with urgent horror.
Clare laughed, pleased to deliver happy news. “It’s in three days. Fear not, my good man.”
It left Hugh literally weeping with relief. His friend really was exhausted, Clare noted. They would need to help him rest
on the return to Queendom.
The return to Queendom. Clare’s mind shifted to what the fortunate happenstance meant. They’d... finished their quest. Were they heroes?
Or were they just... done?
While he was very happy Sir Hugh was safe, Clare decided he could not ignore the disappointment he felt. The quest hadn’t
offered him the chance to prove to himself he could live up to Galwell’s legacy. To prove he was, when needed, the hero he
pretended.
What was he left with instead? Cheap victory and the road home. He would return to Farmount and his daily existential shadows.
“How did you escape?” Vandra asked Hugh.
Clare felt instantly embarrassed. The question was imperative. Was Hugh pursued? Was the Order near? He should’ve covered the important details. Galwell would’ve. Instead, he’d lost himself fretting over how unfortunate his comfortable,
famous life was.
“I didn’t,” Hugh replied. “They let me go.”
The hollowness in his voice was haunting. It left everyone concerned.
“Why?” Beatrice pressed. “You didn’t give up the location of the sword, did you?”
Hugh’s face fell.
“I didn’t need to.” He spoke with grave hesitation. “Myke Lycroft, he... he had this dagger. Coated in dried blood. While
he held the weapon, he explained, he himself could use the magical gift of whoever’s blood was on its blade. Holding the dagger,
he... went into my memories. He saw the sword’s final location for himself.”
Horror descended over them. He went into my memories , Hugh said.
In Clare’s hurtling thoughts, the past days rewrote themselves. They did not escape the Order in the crystal caves. The Order got everything they needed. Myke Lycroft did not need Beatrice. He just needed Beatrice’s
magic .
Myke, forger of the Sword of Souls, was a magical weaponeer whose hand magic could create weapons with enchanted properties.
He’d had one on him yesterday. One he slashed Beatrice with, allowing him to use her magic.
They’d journeyed out to where Hugh was held, imagining they had the Order on their heels. Instead, the whole while, Lycroft
had exactly what he wanted. They’d played into his hands perfectly.
They’d failed.
Except we didn’t, did we? Clare remembered. Their quest was the retrieval of the queen’s fiancé, who was with them now, protected, entirely safe. They
may have failed in the quest they should be on, but they’d succeeded in the quest they’d set out on. They could go home.
Which they would, he knew in his stomach with queasy dread. It was hard enough getting the four of them to venture out to
rescue Hugh. When it came to defending the whole realm? He would need to content himself with—with victory, he supposed.
He heard himself speak up. “We have Sir Hugh,” he said. His voice was low, bent under the weight of Mythria. “We could take
him home to Thessia. It’s what each of you signed on for. I know I cannot expect more—”
Elowen ignored him.
“Where is the sword, Hugh?” she demanded.
“Can we retrieve it before the Order?” Vandra joined in.
Clare felt a lump grow in his throat, deeply moved. It was, he promised himself, the last time he would ever underestimate
the nobility of Elowen True or Vandra Ravenfall.
Hugh shook his head. “They’ve already obtained the sword. Worse, they...”
He gazed out over the desert landscape. When he continued, the calm in his voice sounded practiced from his soldiering youth, learned on fields of carnage.
“They massacred the closest village. The Sword of Souls was dead. It needed sacrifices,” he intoned. “Now, it’s powerful once
more.”
The stomach-churning horror of the Order’s work was nearly incomprehensible. Sacrifices? The entire village? “It’s done, then?
They’ve raised Todrick?” Clare asked shakily, forcing the words.
“No... not yet. Soon.” Hugh hesitated like he could read danger in their eyes. “I know where they plan to bring Todrick
van Thorn back to life.”
The group’s gazes went to... Beatrice, the only member of their party who hadn’t spoken up. Who was injured, Clare reminded
himself. No matter his gratitude for Elowen’s and Vandra’s vengeful zeal, he would not begrudge her the right to end her own
quest here.
In the moment she stepped forward, Clare knew her decision instantly. She’d never looked hotter, he found. Like their fucking
conquering general, commanding the field.
“Tell us where,” she said. “We will stop them.”