32 Clare
32 Clare
Clare had nearly wept when he saw a Harpy & Hind in the dining plaza of their inn.
It was ordinary, with no unusual features or reflections of the grandeur of Vermillion Vale. Clean counters of maple-colored
wood, stained with rings where patrons had placed drinks. The same pleasant lute music from a youthful conjurated musician
in one corner. One of countless H&H shops one could find everywhere in the Vale.
Yet for Clare, it could have been the Ghost’s Gate itself.
He had hardly slept, understandably. Bedding Beatrice—figuratively speaking, for in fact they’d wound up doing the deed nearly
everywhere else in the suite—surpassed even the greatest dreams sleep could offer.
Nonetheless, flush with fulfilled passion, he’d met the morning with zeal. He’d even gotten in some exercises in the suite’s
living room with the conjurated exercise coach he paid for on subscription.
Only in the lift down, facing the new day, did weariness hit him, weariness he knew only one restorative could conquer. He’d
procured what he needed now. Steaming cup in hand, painted with Harpy & Hind’s ubiquitous insignia, he sat with the impersonator
he’d punched yesterday.
Yesterday. Even the very concept felt enshrined in a golden glow. The greatest day of his life, he reckoned.
Yet it was no longer yesterday. It was today. Today demanded nut-milk caramel foam brew and a consultation.
The impersonator was named Cris, he’d learned. Clare and Cris. Their names even sounded similar. It was not the only connection—when he was not using his hand magic to resemble Clare,
Cris honestly still looked like Clare, although his eyes were brown, not blue, and his nose was much straighter.
Cris held his own large nut-milk caramel foam brew. When they’d ordered, he’d confessed to having first tried the confectionary
concoction knowing the drink was Clare’s signature brew, only to have genuinely loved it.
No surprise , Clare withheld from saying. Nut-milk caramel foam brew is the finest brew ever envisaged.
Clare sipped deeply. Cris sipped even more deeply.
Clare had explained they would face the Fraternal Order. Yes, the same evil men who had menaced Mythria in the Four’s first
quest, possessed of the same powerful magic. “You can count on the Clares, Sir Clare,” the impersonator promised while they
enjoyed their caramel foam.
Clare did not remark on the surrealism of the statement. Instead, the other man’s conviction made his stomach start to hurt,
which admittedly was not difficult given what he was consuming. They had spent the morning strategizing and discussing what
lay ahead.
“And remember,” Clare cautioned, “it’s going to get dangerous. When we’re in and the fighting starts, have your men get out of there. ”
His new companion frowned.
Clare prepared himself for the worst. Since first approaching his erstwhile fist-fighting opponent with this perilous proposition, he’d been waiting for the moment the impersonator would get cold feet and withdraw from the venture.
“And leave you and Beatrice and Elowen? My lord, we would never,” Cris replied firmly.
Clare felt himself exhale with guilty relief. He knew he ought not cheer this man’s entry into danger. Yet, still, they were
going to need all the backup they could get.
“We do not just dress up like you to stand for conjurers or sign autographs. We live in your example,” Cris went on proudly.
“We’ll fight at your side.”
The stomachache returned. Perhaps he ought to have ordered plain cold water, just this once.
If Todrick rose to power, he reminded himself, it would not only be Cris and the Clares who would find themselves in grave
danger. Oppression and cruelty would claim countless lives and ruin countless more. Without submitting Cris into peril now,
worse consequences would be visited on the entire realm.
Would the notion have comforted Galwell? Perhaps.
It did not comfort him. All he could do was smile weakly at Cris, hoping his impersonator did not die tonight.
“You are a real hero,” Clare said in honesty. “Thank you.”
He rose from his seat, unable to withstand more of his new friend’s good cheer—just another reminder of the joy swords could
strike down in combat.
He strode for the door, where Vandra waited, her expression questioning.
“They’ll get us in,” Clare confirmed. “They’ll fight, too.”
His recruiting counterpart studied him, her eyes sharp despite not partaking in Harpy & Hind. She was, he’d learned, one of
those who loved to preach of how much finer she found brews produced by independent brewers. Very well , he’d replied, when the Hind designs commemorative drinks for our next victorious quest, you may request they exclude you. Vandra had humphed.
“This doesn’t please you,” she noted, reading his face.
They continued down the inn’s lane of vendors. Vandra carried the leather bag storing the weapons she’d sourced for them,
the clang of metal inaudible in the din of music and guests.
“No, it’s good,” Clare replied. He could hear how he was convincing himself. “We need all the help we can get. The queen’s
army would never reach us in time.”
Vandra nodded patiently.
In her silence, he recognized encouragement to continue. “It’s just...” he ventured. “I don’t like the thought of these
men getting hurt just because they’re following my example. Who am I to lead people?”
Her laughter was not the reaction he expected. Okay, he knew he was no Galwell. Yet he did not imagine the idea of his leadership
was downright humorous.
Or, not until now, he didn’t.
When Vandra went on, her voice uncommonly gentle, he realized he’d misunderstood her. “You followed Galwell into danger,”
she pointed out. “Perhaps it was harder for him to lead you than you thought. He did sacrifice himself to save Beatrice.”
Clare fell silent for a moment. Vandra was right. Clare had been so focused on the ways he’d fallen short of Galwell that
he hadn’t considered what parts of heroism Galwell himself might have struggled with. Perhaps, he realized, worrying he would
not measure up to Galwell had carried him ironically closer to his glorious friend.
“Can I confess something to you?” he asked, emboldened.
“I’m no monk, Grandhart,” Vandra replied.
He paused. “Does that mean... no?”
“Oh no, please tell me,” she said eagerly. “I love secrets. I was just saying you don’t need to ask permission. Your life
isn’t a burden to me.” She punched him on the shoulder, hard enough other men would have yelped. Clare recognized genuine
love in the gesture. “We’re friends, aren’t we ? ”
He smiled. “I’d say we are.”
While the corridor wound past vendors of shining masks, he found his words. Clare was no poet, scribe, or orator, no heart
healer or philosopher. He’d had very little practice in confessing how he felt.
“I don’t know how Galwell did... any of it,” he started. “I woke up with Beatrice in my arms this morning, and I don’t
want to go into battle with her. I want to take her and Elowen and you far from danger. I want to let someone else fight Myke.”
The words would not come easily now. Clare forced them, finding inspiration in the struggle. If he did not know how to speak,
he did know how to fight.
“I’m not a hero.” He hung his head. “Those men costumed as me are closer to the real thing.”
Only several steps forward did he realize Vandra no longer walked with him. He stopped. Turning, he found her waiting—insisting
they would go no farther until he heard what she had to say.
“Clare, heroes are great and all,” she said firmly. “But there are other things a person can be. Other destinies. Other legacies.
Look at me, for instance.” She smiled, without wry charm or subtle sarcasm. “I’m not one for glory or nobility. I don’t always
do good. But I try. I follow my own code. I’m no hero—I’m something I’d rather be instead. Myself. ”
Meeting her gaze, he really listened. Vandra Ravenfall was, incredibly, not jesting. Not coy, not ironic, not making gentle fun of him. She was utterly serious.
It meant the realm to him.
Myself. He remembered what Beatrice had told him last night. How she wanted him, only him. One of his very favorite moments of the
entire eve—which was saying something.
Of course, if Vandra wasn’t going to joke, he would have to. “I hate to break it to you,” he informed her, “but you’re absolutely
a hero.”
Vandra shook her head, looking not displeased. “Take it back.”
He grinned. “It’s the truth. You don’t have to be here, but you are.”
The humor faded from Vandra’s expression. Her eyes locked on his, sword-sharp with intensity.
“And so are you, Clare,” she said. “What if you let that be enough for once?”