4 Beatrice
4 Beatrice
The wagon smelled of old roasted gryphon shank. While the wooden seat thumped under her on the uneven road, Beatrice could
easily imagine some previous rider stuffing his face with the sinewy meat, leaving the scent of grease pervading the wagon.
Beatrice had never once traveled on Wagons-For-You. She’d only heard of the new convenience in dialogue on shadow plays or
from the slurring mouths of younger people outside of Elgin’s tavern. It was the preferred method of casual transportation
for those in foreign cities, or on late nights when drink rendered hometown streets unrecognizable. Everyone in possession
of their own wagon could sign up to contribute to the service’s expanding network of drivers for hire.
Their promotions promised rides in luxurious convenience. In fact, neither point was consistent with Beatrice’s present experience.
Convenience? She’d recited the simple summoning spell on the Wagons-For-You posters everywhere in town, clutching her five
farthings’ fare together like the instructions described. She’d then proceeded to wait nearly thirty minutes before her farthings emitted the green firefly-like lights indicating her wagon was nearby.
Luxurious?
Only if one really liked the scent of gryphon shank.
Still, Beatrice reminded herself, the ride was preferable to noth ing, which was what her family was left with when she was young. When they couldn’t scrape together fees for established carriage services, there were no other options. The steep fares sometimes meant the difference between seeing loved ones one last time or not.
Her situation changed when she met Elowen. Though born to commoners, Beatrice caught the eye of her village’s noble family
with her unique head magic—including the children, Elowen and Galwell. They embraced Beatrice, especially Elowen. From then
on, when Beatrice wished or needed to leave the small stone walls of the village, Elowen would have the finest stallion outside
Beatrice’s door the next morning.
In the years since the Four saved the realm, Beatrice could have bought her own horse if she hadn’t declined Queen Thessia’s
offer of payments to the heroes of Mythria. Whenever Thessia gently insisted, Beatrice pretended she’d had enough of taking
money from friends in her life. The real reason, though, was that she didn’t want payment when she’d caused so much pain.
She’d similarly rejected the offers she received from vendors who wanted her fame in exchange for farthings. She didn’t want
those opportunities to carry her into contact with Clare, who’d pounced on them like she knew he would.
Instead, she married noble. She hosted dinner parties. She used Robert’s carriage for consultations with dressmakers or home
decorators—not much more. In order to forget what she’d gone through, she remembered what she’d dreamed of when she was the
poor village girl whose gifts her parents didn’t understand.
Until she just... couldn’t.
Did she regret walking the slippered, candlelit path right into her contemptuous divorce? In some ways, yes.
In the end, though, it was worth it to avoid Clare.
Nevertheless, Beatrice could not now call on the de Noughton carriage. She’d returned home from Harpy & Hind yesterday in uncommonly poor spirits, spent the day restless, then put herself to sleep in her usual manner. She knew the practical particulars of the journey, namely how she would reach the royal castle, would not be easy. Destitute from her divorce, her only choice was the cheapest means possible.
Leaving her here, in her very first Wagons-For-You, in the company of the old woman snoring next to her. The young couple
on the bench across from her—still in their wedding finery, presumably embarking on their honeymoon—were canoodling shamelessly.
On the bench next to them, Beatrice spied with displeasure the latest issue of Mythria Magazine . The cover was a printed conjuration of Clare and Beatrice on the stairs of Robert’s manor. Claretrice—as in Love as Ever! proclaimed the headline.
Beatrice resolved to discuss Mythria’s declining journalistic integrity with the queen.
While the bride looked preoccupied with her husband’s wandering hands, Beatrice nonetheless wished to ensure she escaped recognition.
Letting her hair curtain the front of her face, she sought to blend into the carriage wall. She diverted her gaze from the
shiny cover, not needing to see the intense way Clare was looking at her nor the embarrassing flush in her cheeks.
Fortunately, Beatrice’s head magic did not only work to impress local nobility. In circumstances like these, her magic could
offer the perfect escape.
She closed her eyes. Fighting to ignore the uneven journey of the wagon, she slowed her heart rate, concentrating on more
comfortable times. Fonder memories.
The magic began to work. She knew when she no longer smelled greasy roast gryphon, the stomach-churning scent changing into the sweet summer ripeness of roselia flowers. The thumping terrain under her went next, becoming soft grass. The head magic of prophecy was uncommon but not unheard of in Mythria. Beatrice’s gift to peer through the mists backward was far rarer.
The insides of her eyelids melted like morning dew into the vision of the loveliest place she’d ever been. The roselia fields
near her village, where her parents would pick from the swaying white field only the purest-petaled flowers for their stall.
Beatrice did not expect this refuge to make her want to cry.
In hindsight, she wasn’t surprised. She should have known the first time in years she used her gift for peace would only remind
her of what she now used it for instead.
She exhaled unevenly, pulling herself together. For this wagon ride, what she needed was escape.
Thump. Under her, the wagon hit bumpy ground, threatening to break her magic.
She pushed herself to relax. Her head magic worked best when she was calm, centered. It was why her bedchamber provided such
ironically perfect conditions for relived repetitions of the worst day of her life.
She summoned from her memories the moment when she was most relaxed—with her magic, she could call on not only specific scenes,
but certain feelings , for which her powers would produce forth the corresponding memory. Without knowing which moment she had in mind, she wished
for peaceful, contented calm.
Relaxation emerged in the form of firelight, the feeling of crisp sheets under her. It was like she was physically transported
in time, but in a dream, where she could only watch what she was doing from outside-inside of herself. Still, every detail
was perfectly rendered. Every smell, every flicker of light.
In the memory, she was pressed close to a warm body. His smell weakened her instantly, instinctively. Deep, welcoming. Like dark woods under the night sky.
He was kissing the skin of her shoulder, where sweat lingered, his mixed with hers. Relaxation was no longer the word for
what she felt. Supple warmth softened her limbs. The insides of her thighs welcomed the impression of fingers, urging her
to unravel. Lips followed, in the same places. Gently rough.
The memory’s resonance returned to her now. While she’d been touched in those places since, she was certain she had never
been touched in those ways .
Invitation on her lips, she lifted her head to face him, coming eye to eye with—
Clare Grandhart.
She jerked out of the memory magic forcefully, her head knocking into the wooden plank of the wagon behind her.
The hard thud caught the notice of the honeymooning couple, who paused their handsy proceedings, for which she was distantly
grateful. Wincing preemptively, Beatrice could feel the very moment recognition flickered into the bride’s eyes.
“Ghosts alive,” the woman gasped. “I knew it was you.”
Beatrice shifted in her seat. Ugh. Even in the magic sex dream she was having in the middle of her Wagon-For-You, Clare was still managing to screw with her.
Fate was being unkind to her.
“No, no,” she replied hurriedly. “We’ve never met. I’m just passing through.” Perhaps if she protested enough—
“No,” the bride insisted. She held up the magazine. “You’re Lady Beatrice of the Four,” the woman insisted, pointing to Beatrice’s
conjurated image in her hand. “We’re traveling with a hero !”
Of course her voice shrilled with the final sentence. The predictable effect resulted. The groom’s eyes went round. The old woman next to Beatrice startled up out of her slumber. She now wished she were trapped in the stone prison under the Southern Sea instead of here.
Frustrated, Beatrice reached out, snatching the magazine from the bride’s hands. She rolled the glossy parchment up and stuffed
the magazine into the pocket of her skirt. Confiscated, the pages could do her no more harm!
The starstruck woman offered no resistance. “Can I have your autograph?” she inquired eagerly.
“No, I don’t do autographs,” Beatrice replied.
When the disappointment of the dismissal flickered in the woman’s eyes, remorse hit Beatrice’s heart. She intended no disrespect—with
her upbringing, she understood very well how it felt to be looked down on by those you looked up to. Clare loved doing autographs, she knew. Even so, she could only ever find them unsavory.
Why should she commemorate how she cost Galwell his life by signing something for a stranger?
“ Wait. ” Renewed exhilaration lit the honeymooner’s features. “Can you use your magic on us? I have a question about something in
the past.”
Now Beatrice wished she could render herself invisible. Or even spontaneously combust.
Unfortunately, however, her magic of reverse prophecy was known throughout the realm—and throughout this wagon, apparently.
Exasperated, Beatrice foresaw hours of conversation just like this on the long journey to Queendom. She needed to procure separate transport, somehow. If only she had—
Wait.
“I’ll gladly use my head magic for your purposes,” Beatrice replied. “For a fee.”
The girl faltered. “Aren’t you... rich?” she asked.
“I’m in a wagon with you,” Beatrice pointed out. “Are you rich?”
Beatrice didn’t need Elowen’s gifts to see excitement spark in the bride nor the way her groom shifted uncomfortably when
she shoved her hand into her satchel. “It doesn’t feel very heroic to charge commoners,” he ventured.
“You’re right, it isn’t,” Beatrice said. “It’ll be twenty-five farthings.” Not enough for conveyance to match the de Noughton
carriage, but enough, she guessed, to pay some local farmer with spare time to drive her the rest of the way.
While the woman collected the coins, her husband continued to look nervous. “We saved that for our honeymoon, love,” he reminded
her.
The observation earned him only his bride’s narrowed stare. “Hiding something, Kolton?”
“Yrice,” the man—Kolton—started, reaching gently for his wife’s hands. “The past is the past. We’re embarking on our future.
The rest of our lives. I can’t wait to spend every day with you. It’s like I’m finally awake and everything that came before
you was merely a... waking dream.”
He leaned forward, staring into her eyes. When Yrice did the same, Beatrice saw her chances for compensation melting like
the mush in the couple’s gazes—
Until Yrice’s expression hardened. “It was no dream,” she said. “And I want to see it.”
Beatrice hid the smile she could not help. “I’ll need your hands,” she said. “Whose past will we be entering?”
“His,” Yrice replied. Her gaze rounded on Kolton, sword-sharp. “Give her your hand,” she ordered.
Kolton complied.
Holding one of each of their hands in hers, Beatrice repeated the psychological preparation she did with her own memories, closing her eyes, evening her heartbeat. She would enter his memory through her connection to him, bringing Yrice with her by the same means. “Is there a day or a feeling I’m looking for?”
“Helena’s banquet,” Yrice intoned.
Cracking one eye open, Beatrice caught Kolton gulping nervously. She clenched his hand in her grip, expecting his resistance.
Not only did she need Yrice’s farthings—she was no great supporter of inconstant lovers.
With her magic, she delved into his memory, which produced forth the desired destination. Unlike with her own memories, which
she could replicate more fully, when she entered someone else’s, the limits were more distinct. With the girl by her side,
hands enjoined, they walked into the crowded, candlelit scene, separated from the events by gossamer distorting veils. Music
was playing, lanterns strung up in the small square where couples were dancing. The edges of perception were hazy, outside
of what surrounded past-Kolton himself.
He was dancing with Yrice, whose head rested on his shoulder. It looked rather romantic, until Kolton whispered in her ear,
earning bashful giggles. Then it looked very romantic.
While Beatrice watched, though, the memory-Kolton separated from Yrice to walk from the dancing square to the drink barrels.
Beatrice led Yrice by the hand, following him.
Beatrice knew what they would find. She knew what she would have found if she’d entered Robert’s room when he was “painting”
village women he’d hired to “model,” too. She’d never much cared. She’d felt worse betrayals.
Yes, indeed, behind the barrels, they found Kolton. What he was doing with some flaxen-haired woman who was not Yrice—Helena,
presumably—was decidedly not dancing.
Beatrice was relieved. She would get paid!
Without warning, the wagon lurched violently. The movement startled Beatrice out of the conjured memory. While Yrice in the
wagon looked furious, the emotions of the memoryholder or the conjurist never interrupted the magic in this way. The cart
really was rocking.
“I knew it!” Yrice cried, wrenching off her wedding ring. “With Helena! My best friend!”
“I can explain—” Kolton mustered.
He didn’t get the chance.
With sounds like hammer strikes, arrowheads slammed into the wood of the wagon, their tips piercing through the planks. Instinctually,
Beatrice grabbed for Kolton’s collar, flinging him to the side just fast enough to evade the next volley.
“We’re under attack,” she said, fearing it was unclear.
When gasps went up from the other passengers, she stood, glancing over the wagon’s walls. The coachman was slumped over, his
corpse arrow-riddled. She saw, surrounding the speeding horses, what her sinking heart had expected.
Outlaws.
The outlaws’ arrows flew past her—while she knew she was vulnerable, she needed to stop the horses. Springing forward, she
seized the reins. When she pulled sharply, the creatures slowed but would not stop nor turn no matter how hard Beatrice pulled.
When one outlaw rode up near them, sword held high, the steeds surged forth in uncontrollable surprise, the reins yanked from
Beatrice’s hands.
With the iron-masked men surrounding them, she rummaged under the seat, grasping— yes . The crossbow she’d hoped the coachman kept on him for circumstances like this. Slinging the weapon up, she shot, her bolt finding her intended mark in the face mask of the nearest outlaw.
She was surprised by how readily muscle memory sprung to life in her. Drink-inclined divorcée or not, she possessed more combat
experience than the gryphon’s share of the realm’s foot soldiers. Years of dinner parties, it turned out, could not vanquish
the Beatrice who’d fended off the Order.
Still—glimpsing farther down the road, she saw other outlaws gathering. They intended to trap the travelers.
The horses did not slow. They charged forth toward the waiting brigands. Beatrice needed to get everyone out of the wagon.
Cradling her crossbow, she leapt back into the rear seating where she’d ridden. “Everyone, heads low!” she instructed urgently.
Reaching for the old woman first, Beatrice looked for the softest patch of ground onto which she could toss her when—
When one horse, unlike the others, sped into the fray. Beatrice couldn’t help pausing, watching the rider cut down outlaws,
his sword wheeling, cords of muscle stretching in his forearms. He fought dirty, yet made his maneuvers look like poetry,
the combat equivalent of sultry rhymes slipped under your door—kicking up dust with his horse’s hooves, then using the diversion
to grab the man nearest him, only to fling the outlaw with one powerful throw right onto the sword of the distracted outlaw
next to him.
While Beatrice watched, he emerged from the dust cloud, the sun striking his stunning features. Beatrice faltered, realizing—it
couldn’t be.
“Clare Grandhart!” Yrice shouted exuberantly.
Oh, Ghosts no.
“I think I may faint,” the young wife went on.
“It’s not that impressive,” Kolton grumbled.
Beatrice was furious. Three run-ins in as many days? None as terrible as right now with him looking... the way he looked. Like he was made for exactly this moment, his shining hair windswept in perfect waves, his lean musculature poised for combat.
Beatrice was surely cursed.
She prepared to jump from the wagon to the ground, figuring she could evade his notice if she slunk off stealthily, her heart
pounding in her chest.
She was livid.
“Mythrians, fear not. I have rescued you,” Clare called out, his voice vaulting over the field like he practiced rescuing
people. He pulled his horse up in front of the wagon. Of course, then the steeds stopped. What was Beatrice, chopped gryphon liver? “Is anyone injured?”
With his words, Yrice fainted—right into Beatrice, who caught her swoon. The movement unsurprisingly drew the eye of Clare.
While Beatrice stood, helpless under Yrice’s sagging frame, the famous hero squinted in the sun, focusing on her.
“Why, hello again,” Clare pronounced, directly to her. Oh, how she remembered his unhidden pride. The way swordplay brought
him to life. “We must stop meeting like this,” he remarked.
No, no, no.
Gently, she laid Yrice on the seat, where Kolton leapt on the opportunity to tend to her. Spinning on her heel, Beatrice leapt
from the wagon and strode into the road.
While Clare urgently promised the other passengers he would return to them posthaste, Beatrice took off, storming down the
incline—right for where she’d seen the outlaws gathering, intending to lay siege to their wagon.
“Is anyone left alive?” she cried out. “I’d very much like to be kidnapped now!”