27 Clare
27 Clare
Without hesitating, Clare punched himself in the face.
He’d stormed up to the impersonator, enraged, not stopping to consider the crowd watching him or the possible consequences
of punching someone in the midst of Vermillion Vale’s finest luxury inn. Public considerations had never stopped him from
punching other men in the past. Why start now?
The impersonator reeled, perhaps expecting stage-fighting instead of the devastating slug to the jaw he received. Clare—the
real Clare—found the punch did not ease the pain in his chest. Neither did the distraction of the shock to his knuckles, nor
the instant red mark forming on the other man’s cheek, unsettling the enchanted symmetry of the impersonator’s face.
The other man shook off the shot, stunned, until his eyes fell on Clare himself. Delight sprang onto the impersonator’s features.
The opportunity to fight in front of the growing crowd, it seemed, was worth the wound.
Perhaps this was what Clare impersonators often did in front of audiences. Clare wouldn’t know. With hurt vibrating in his
heart, the entire Clare Convention, which until the very past moments had delighted him, felt impossibly misguided.
Who would ever want to be him?
He was consumed. The man in front of him had just kissed Beatrice. Pure rage powered him. Clare crouched into his customary fighting stance, the one depicted in his non-deluxe Hero Card and with which he’d fended off Leonor the Overlord, former horseball guarder and the Order’s onetime main enforcer.
The other man did the same.
Clare lashed out, jabbing with his left fist, his preferred opener.
The other man did the same.
Both punches connected. Clare found himself to be the one reeling now. If punching himself in the face offered him no joy,
he enjoyed this even less.
He reached instinctually for his usual countermove, using his foot to sweep out the opponent’s legs. When the impersonator
matched his move exactly, the clash resulted in their feet connecting, sending both men crashing to the ground. The crowd cheered with laughter, of course.
“You’re very good,” the impersonator commented. “You’ve studied Clare’s moves.”
“Didn’t need to study them,” Clare replied.
Past the fog of rage, the complication of the duel was emerging. In every formidable fight, the idiosyncrasies of Clare’s
enemy shaped his strategy—regional customs, psychological maladies, personality streaks. You could read much about an opponent’s
life in their fighting style, he’d learned. Where one grew up, whether one wrestled with older siblings or cowered from parents
or fought for money or survival or sport. It was poetic, Clare found in his contemplative modes.
In this moment, he found it irritating.
Squaring off with someone impersonating his own moves, he was effectively playing Ogre’s Chess against himself. Recognizing
what the fight required, Clare was forced to reevaluate. He would have to do everything opposite his own instincts, doing what he ordinarily never would.
He would have to go rogue.
The predicament’s one gift was his innate knowledge of the not-Clare’s next move. He ducked the blow he knew was coming, then
struck forth himself, fast and sloppy—the desperate move of inexperienced fighters, impulsivity he grew out of early in his
hardscrabble youth. It worked, sort of. He connected with the impersonator’s cheek, nearly breaking his own thumb because
his fist was not closed properly.
The sting did not stop him. What did stop him was the not-Clare’s boot bludgeoning into his gut. The blow knocked the wind out of him, sending him crashing to
his hands and knees in the puddles on the waterfall’s rock.
Grudgingly, he recognized the kick for what he probably would have done in the face of his own flailing previous punch. Ghosts,
the guy was good. The crowd roared. “Clare versus Clare!” the impersonator crowed, exciting them further. “Who will prevail?
The ultimate showdown!”
The showiness discouraged Clare. His opponent would not want to be outdone, which would make the fight harder.
Yet he did not have what the real Clare did. Fury , fresh-wounded.
The real Clare’s fists, like the Sword of Souls itself, were weapons forged in pain, for he had just watched someone else kiss Beatrice. The other man could not possibly feel the wrath Clare did, for he was only putting on a spectacle. No one
could know the envious rage he felt.
Okay, that’s not entirely true , he corrected himself. He was quite certain plenty of people in Mythria considered themselves to be in love with Beatrice
of the Four.
None of them knew the depth of Clare’s devotion, however. He recalled the way Beatrice had looked in this man’s arms. She
had wanted to kiss him , he knew . He couldn’t make out what she’d said, but when she’d comprehended she had kissed an impersonator and saw the real him watching, she’d fled, realizing her mistake. Which meant the odds of her wanting to kiss the real him now were... low.
This man had stolen the one fucking kiss he might have gotten from Beatrice.
He’d spent ten years dreaming of her lips. Ten years of trying to forget every memory of Beatrice and yet waking up with her
face first in his mind. Ten years of—he could now concede—slime-ish longing.
All for the one chance he might have had with her to be stolen by a two-bit performer in a costume. The man needed to pay.
Clare hauled himself to his feet.
“ You owe me a kiss ,” Clare ground out.
“I— What?” the impersonator replied, startled.
The remark had made more sense in Clare’s head. Never mind it. He weaponized the man’s distraction, surging forth, tackling
the impersonator to the ground. They rolled on the wet flagstones of the pool grounds, wrestling for the upper hand. The display
looked very dignified, Clare felt certain. Very heroic. When the man headlocked him, hard, Clare escaped only by bending his opponent’s
fingers close to breaking.
He fought free, panting, his tunic soaked, hair mussed. On the ground, his own likeness struggled to recover. “She didn’t
want to kiss you, you fool!” Clare roared down.
Only hearing the furious emphasis of his words did he understand how much he meant them. How the sight of this man dressed
like himself , reckless and wretched on the ground, summoned them. Of course she regretted the kiss. He was not the man she deserved or could ever want. Not the hero anyone could ever want. He felt stripped raw.
“You don’t deserve her,” he spat, lower.
The impersonator’s eyes narrowed. He hauled himself up warily, understanding this was so not about him anymore.
Which it was not. Clare, who had wrestled with fear and with desire, faced now the newest of his heart’s rogues—rage. Visiting
his despair on one who simply looked like him was meaningless, but he did not care. It did not register in his fury-racked head, which saw only the perfect opportunity
for reifying self-loathing into pounding fists.
He did not know how he would ever cease. He would pulp his opponent to weeping pieces in the name of punishing himself. Ghosts,
the hatred was filling him up. The unfathomable, indefatigable knowledge he’d fucked up the past decade, which he could have spent repairing his relationship with the woman who held his heart. Of course
she’d fled—he hadn’t done anything to make her want to kiss him. To stay.
Like he wasn’t now.
He faltered, shame consuming him. What was he doing? If Beatrice beheld him now, lashing out meaninglessly in misery, would she find him the man she desired? Or would disdain
drive her even further from him?
Unfortunately, his opponent seized the moment. He launched forward, knocking Clare to the ground. “Only one of us will win
the beautiful Beatrice’s heart!” he challenged with dramatic flair.
It was, put mildly, rather the wrong thing to say.
“Don’t even speak her name,” Clare warned.
“How can I not? She is my—our—true love!” the not-Clare protested.
Clare fought his way free. He rolled away and stood, panting from exertion. “She’s my true love,” he growled.
Hearing the edge in his voice, the crowd hushed.
Then recognition dawned. The whispers started. Spectators were realizing his “performance” was uncommonly convincing, his
“costume” and “likeness” uncommonly perfect.
“It’s the real Clare Grandhart.”
“It’s really him.”
“Clare Grandhart has declared his love!”
“Oh. My. Ghosts. Claretrice is happening!”
Dread unfolded in him like dragon wings. Oh, the scribesheets would love this. The Vermillion Vale incident would probably
pay their editors’ salaries for the entire year.
The impersonator, realizing, fell to his knees. “Forgive me!” the man implored.
Feeling the crowd’s fascination, Clare reverted to his other improvisational skills—newer, yet oftener used. Affecting an
appreciative bow, like the fight was all performance, he flashed the crowd a grin.
Inside, he felt ragged. A decade of aspiring to be a better man abandoned when he beheld Beatrice kissing another. His resolve was worth nothing. His promises to himself were worth nothing. His honor
was worth nothing. It was not the poor impersonator’s fault—Clare acted out on his own.
In embarrassed haste, he helped the man to his feet. “Your form was excellent,” he praised the impersonator honestly.
The man’s eyes widened. He received Clare’s words with reverence. “You mean it? I studied all the stories, all the accounts
of your fights, all the conjurated reenactments, hoping to learn your style.”
“You mastered it,” Clare assured him. “I felt I was fighting a younger version of myself.”
The impersonator nearly wept with joy. Clare was glad—encouraging his very recent opponent eased the guilt of visiting his own inner turmoil on the poor performer. He gestured for the audience to applaud the impersonator, who welcomed the reception, calling out to the guests, “I’m performing with my fellow Clares tomorrow eve! The Night Dragon Inn!” Then, in genuine gratitude, he waved at Clare himself. “I could never have been here without my personal hero. Clare Grandhart, you honor me!”
The guests clapped louder, unsurprisingly exhilarated. Clare knew he should... make a speech, or something.
His eyes straying to where Beatrice had fled from him, he found he could not. He didn’t feel like Mythria’s hero. He was just
the old Clare. The rogue, the bandit, the mercenary. The man Beatrice could never love.
“The honor is mine,” he mumbled.
In the echo of the crowd’s cheering, he stumbled from the pool grounds back inside the inn. He knew where he was going, more
or less. Clare did not need to fight. He certainly did not need to face Beatrice, whose discomfort he could imagine perfectly
well.
What he needed was a drink.
Fortunately, he found himself in the finest place in Mythria for one. Like every Vermillion Vale inn, this one was outfitted
with more taverns than one could count. Clare wandered to the nearest casino-side counter, where old horseball matches were
conjurated in poor quality over the cheap bar. He ordered himself a stiff mead.
He’d not drunk his first swill when—wonderful. Someone walked up to him. “Nice show out there, Grandhart,” the speaker greeted
him.
“Thanks,” Clare replied, distantly wondering if he recognized the gravelly voice. Fans he’d encountered previously would some times get offended if he did not remember them. Whatever. “I’m not signing autographs right now.”
If the fan did know him, his refusal might offer cause for genuine concern. Clare Grandhart not signing autographs was like
how one knew a flying stallion was gravely ill if the creature would not open its wings.
Indeed, the reality was not far off. His chances with Beatrice, he knew dully, were likely ruined for good. For once in his
life, Clare Grandhart wished only for solitude.
“Oh, we don’t want an autograph from a loser like you,” Gravel Voice replied.
Now Clare looked up.
He clocked instantly the we in the intruder’s rude reply. Grinning like wolverlings emerging from the forested dark, four men in very expensive garb surrounded
him, cracking their knuckles. In the center of them—
Leonor the Overlord loomed.
Clare sighed and set his drink down. No wonder he’d recognized the voice.
He found his misfortune nearly comical. In the Four’s final fight with the Order, Clare’s heroic duty was marshaling the frightened
remnants of the queen’s forces against the Order’s army.
It had put him in confrontation with Leonor, the former professional horseballman whose combination of muscle, strategy, and
noble lineage had elevated him to leading the Order’s forces. The manner of man who would have cheated to win horseball matches,
yet never needed to. Clare knew only a hero with his own fighting finesse could conquer the Overlord. He’d incapacitated Leonor,
but not without the hardest fight of his life.
Could his past stop catching up with him? Please? he implored the Ghosts silently. First his oldest and worst self leaping out of him—now his old worst enemy? Could his past please just give it a rest?
“Let me guess,” he grumbled. “I’ve finally found the Order.”
Leonor the Overlord grinned.
“Wrong again, Grandhart,” he said slowly. “We have found you. ”