36 Clare
36 Clare
Clare stood among the Clares, blending into the crowd in their inconspicuous guise of revel room servers, waiting for their
moment. He caught Cris’s eye. His impersonator nodded with confidence Clare wished he shared.
He remembered raids with his old bandit crew under the cover of the Vast Plains nights. He remembered executing Galwell’s
plans fearlessly, fighting like five men in deadly strongholds. The legend Clare Grandhart inspired men across the realm.
He could inspire himself, too. When Elowen grasped the Sword of Souls to depower the weapon, he would lead their charge.
But instead, Myke jumped from the dais—like he intended to resurrect Todrick now.
Clare’s heart clenched in his chest. This would ruin everything. If Myke drove the enchanted sword into Todrick before Elowen
could get her hands on the weapon, Mythria was more or less doomed.
Yet—
Beatrice was there, somehow. Clare’s mind struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. It was not what they’d predicted, not
what they’d planned. With fast force, Beatrice wrested the sword from Myke’s hands and threw it perfectly to Elowen.
The Fraternal Order reacted immediately. With weapons drawn, unsheathed in one collective shriek of steel, they moved to shield Myke and the disgusting corpse of Todrick, whose gaunt, lifeless smile never changed.
Clare knew what the moment demanded. Fuck the plan. He preferred improvising anyway.
“Clares!” he called. “Now!” He pulled a sword from under his cloak and raised it high into the air, signaling the performers
to retrieve their own very non-prop weapons that Vandra had sourced for them.
They rushed in to defend Elowen, who gripped the sword, magic swirling around her hands and surging up her arms. Green incandescence
emanated from her, overpowering even the revel room’s dazzling swaths of light.
It’s working , Clare realized. They were going to defeat the Order. Todrick wouldn’t come back.
Euphoria rushed into him. No revel could ever compare to the sheer rush of victory. While the fray unfolded, metal clashing
on metal in the darkness, the clang of swords joining with the heavy power of the music, Clare felt unstoppable.
Until he glimpsed Beatrice.
She was stumbling away from the fray. Her knees gave out beneath her, and she crashed to the floor. Something was very wrong.
He didn’t know what had happened, but she must have used her magic somehow to anticipate Myke’s movements. She was drained
now. Vulnerable.
Fear ripped through Clare, sharper than a blade. When he started for her, though, Order men blocked his way. He shoved forward
desperately. In the distance, Leonor loomed, heading right for the weakened Beatrice, who was only barely managing to fend
off an attacker. He needed to get to her.
He couldn’t. While perhaps he could have fought free of one of the Order men holding him, he could not fend off both.
The man on his left crumpled without warning. Clare glanced up, finding none other than Cris standing over the man. Seizing the moment, Clare pushed off his other opponent.
The relief on his face was the only expression of gratitude he could muster for Cris, who needed nothing more. “Go to her,
man. We’ve got this,” he said.
And indeed they did. Clare needed spare them only half a glance to see them handily dispatching more attackers. In fact, around
him, the Order was falling to the Clares. They were winning.
Clare ran for Beatrice, leaping over a chandelier crashing to the floor in the mayhem. The ebony stone cracked under the wrought-iron
limbs while illuminated gems flew everywhere. Clare hit the ground crouched with the sharp stones crunching underfoot.
When he straightened, he found himself cut off by none other than a furious Myke Lycroft.
The battle raged around them. Myke’s cheek had been slashed, blood cascading down half his face. In his eyes was righteous
fury. The Order was failing, and he knew it. Todrick was dead for good.
Myke would take whatever vengeance he had left.
He licked the blood from his lips, his hand finding his sword.
“I challenge Clare Grandhart to a duel to the death!” he called, his voice riven with desperation. “Man to man—how matters
should be settled.”
Skirmishes subsided. Eyes fixed on them. Myke’s challenge held import, harkening to the days when heroes would duel in their
legends. It was funny, Clare could recognize. In a way it was the ultimate recognition of what he’d been seeking for a decade—the
chance to prove he was the hero everyone needed him to be. It was the sort of moment songs could be written of. The sort of
moment to make Galwell proud.
But Galwell was dead. Who fucking cared if he was proud or not? Clare’s life was not determined by what strangers or the dead wanted of him. It was determined by him . By the people he loved.
Clare made to pass Myke, no longer interested in legacy.
Myke watched him, confusion warping the villain’s frantic features. “Is this what Mythria’s great hero has become?” he spat.
“Fight me or reveal yourself to be a coward.”
Clare kept walking, his sword lowered in concession. “Call me a coward if you wish,” he replied. “I don’t care what anyone,
especially lowlifes like you, think of me.” Striding past Myke, he let his shoulder knock into the other man’s roughly.
He was not Galwell the Great. He was Clare Grandhart.
“You all saw it!” Lycroft screamed out. “Grandhart is no hero! He won’t meet me in battle!”
Clare let him shout. His only care was Beatrice.
Finally, he reached her. His victory. His everything. The end of his quest. For Clare, the center of Mythria lay weakened
on the floor in front of him. While his reputation crumbled, he knelt at her side.
“Hey, love,” he whispered, his voice rough. “You ready to go home?”
Beatrice nodded. While she looked dazed, she seemed uninjured. “I think... you’re the best Clare here, Clare.” She giggled,
intoxicated by the overuse of her magic.
Clare smiled, his heart full. “That’s good enough for me.”
He hoisted her up into his arms. Rising to his feet, with Beatrice’s head resting softly against his chest, he glimpsed Elowen on the dais. She raised the Sword of Souls aloft, the weapon gleaming with dangerous light. In one massive release of magic, the souls exploded out of her like daylight shattering the darkness. While Vandra crouched defensively, the blast knocked Order men off their feet.
Elowen dropped the sword, looking stunned. Not just stunned— victorious .
Clare used the distraction to head for the service door, while Vandra straightened. In the chaos-consumed room, Vandra picked
up the Sword of Souls. She strode up to the dais—up to Todrick—raising the unenchanted blade.
Where she lopped the dead leader’s head clean off.
Reaching the service door, Clare’s final glimpse of the revel room was van Thorn’s ossified ebony hair thumping unceremoniously
onto the floor.
Night greeted him outside. The cool was wondrous in contrast to the heated furor inside the Night Dragon. High into the sky
rose the lights of Vermillion Vale, with no inkling of the destruction beneath them. As Clare set Beatrice down, Order men
fled out the doors, evading capture, knowing dishonor’s stain would mark them forever. It served them right. He expected Myke
Lycroft was among them, returning to his existence in exile—the only life he deserved.
The revel was over. Vandra emerged, stumbling out with her arm around Elowen. In Vandra’s free hand, the Sword of Souls remained,
safely out of the Order’s clutches. The women’s faces exuberant, they shared a victorious kiss. Clare could not help returning
the wolverling-whistle Vandra had given them in their suite.
It made him easy for Elowen and Vandra to find when they parted. They walked over. “Is she all right?” Elowen asked, eyeing
Beatrice.
“She’s magic drunk,” Clare replied fondly. “She’ll be fine.”
“What happened ?” Vandra voiced the question Clare suspected was on everyone’s minds.
From the ground, Beatrice spoke up. “I stepped out inside my memories. Changed the... future.”
The group’s eyes widened. “Is this the intoxication, or are you serious?” Elowen asked gravely.
Beatrice pouted. “You know I’m an honest drunk, El,” she reminded her friend indignantly. With visible effort, she dragged
her gaze to Clare. “Guess I really am a time-walker.” She smiled sweetly up at him.
It undid him entirely.
He could not wait to kiss her. Or just to hold her close, knowing she was safe. Or to jest with her, saying, Lo, remember when we saved the realm? Twice? He did not know where he would start.
He did not know how he would ever end.
Since they’d set out on their quest, he’d wrestled with the rogues within him. Fear, fury, desire. Yet he knew now the greatest
of them was love. For nothing quelled heroism like knowing there was something grander still in this realm for him—something
no duel, no victory, no quest could match. He did not need to be great. He needed only to be good enough for the people he
held dear.
They’d triumphed, but more importantly, they had found their way back to each other. He and Beatrice, Elowen and Vandra. They
would write their legend in days of friendship, nights of love, lives of loyalty.
What could be more heroic than that?
Elowen knelt, pulling Beatrice into an embrace. Clare and Vandra exchanged knowing looks.
“Where’s Hugh?” Beatrice asked abruptly. “We still have to get him home in time for the wedding.”
Clare faltered. Where was Hugh? Everyone looked around, searching the crowd still streaming out of the revel room. Clare’s gaze found Order men, Clares
in every manner of costume, some people limping while others ran, even someone who suspiciously resembled Beatrice’s ex-husband...
But there was no sign of Hugh.
Until he appeared. His shirt was bloodied, his hair perfectly tousled, his biceps rippling in his torn tunic.
He looked fucking heroic.
“Gang! Guess what?” he called out. “I’ve slain Myke! He challenged me to a duel, and he was very unskillful!”
The four of them stared in surprise. Finally, Clare huffed a laugh.
“Get in here, Sir Hugh.” Clare waved the future king over warmly, drawing him into their group hug. “I think,” Clare informed
him, “you’re officially the new hero of Mythria.”