Chapter 1 #3
Beacon acknowledges her save with a short, grateful nod and doesn’t react to her covert wink. At least his parents understand. Maura and Donlan have never tried to change Beacon, even though they also won’t change clan traditions.
“Melody was talking about traveling with you to the Market this year.”
Beacon’s eyes flick to his younger cousin, a petite elf with tightly-curled brown hair.
Melody has just come of age, and he’s never seen a young woman more eager to natter about it.
She’s among those of the Sure-of-Foot clan who will be traveling with their caravan for the rest of the trip to Everend Market—a party that includes both of Beacon’s parents, although usually only one of them attends, alternating by year.
“Yes,” Melody chirps excitedly. “I’ll be meeting my betrothed there! She’s from Gearwick, and we’ve only spoken by missive thus far.”
“Will it be your first year attending the Market?” Beacon asks politely. He’s not a monster; he won’t be responsible for crushing a young person’s joy.
Primrose interrupts Melody neatly, saying, “It will be.” She smiles as if Melody is her own daughter, which she is not. Primrose has only one child—a fatherless scamp who absconded east across Drycreaft River to work as a fisherman the moment he was old enough to buy a boat.
Melody falters, her shine dimmed, but Beacon gestures directly toward her, inviting her to finish. “Yes, and I’m quite excited. Were you excited your first time, Beacon?”
He wobbles his hand side-to-side. “It was complicated.”
Beacon’s first appearance at the Everend Market was when he was fourteen.
He’d been before, as a youngling, but over the years, as his reclusiveness grew, so did his reluctance.
He begged off, only reneging when it came time to compete in the youth games.
He’d enchanted the audience and won the approval of the judges, as well as recruiters seeking prospective athletes, all of whom were stunned to see such a performance from a first-timer.
Pride was the only thing that comforted him when a headache took up residence between his eyes for three days after they returned home.
“Things are always complicated, aren’t they?” Melody parries.
A small smile tugs the corner of his mouth. “Indeed.”
“Well, I’ll expect you to tell me more about it when we get on the road. And I’ll tell you about my intended. I can show you some of her missives. She has the loveliest handwriting!”
“Not all of them, I hope,” Beacon replies, pleased to see his cousin flush and stutter.
“When will you be taking your own spouse, Beacon?” Primrose asks, again without respect for Melody’s attempt at response. “Seeing as the arrangement with—what was her name?—didn’t come to fruition.”
The reminder of his former betrothed—not even an ex, as their relationship never actually began—brings Beacon to an abrupt halt.
His fingers tighten around the handle of his fork, which hovers halfway to his mouth, leaving a half-bitten piece of taro root to fall into his lap.
When he doesn’t immediately remove it, Donlan gently picks it up with a napkin and sets it aside.
“I’ve no intention of taking a spouse,” Beacon says quietly. His eyes dart right, finding his mother watching intently. “This soon,” he amends. “My athletic career keeps me very busy.”
Even as he says it, a chill runs down his back. Beacon knows something is about to happen before Primrose opens her mouth, just from the purse of her lips.
“Is that so? Because your mother mentioned meeting with an Emberlan man across the glass, pertaining to the eligibility of his son. Isn’t that right, Maura? We were taking tea under the gingkoes last week.”
By the way his mother’s back abruptly straightens, Beacon surmises Primrose was not supposed to know that, nor was she supposed to say it to his face in the middle of brunch.
But she did.
And now Beacon is standing, flushed and tense.
He scrubs his wrist over his mouth, beard scraping against the hair on his arm.
The friction reminds him of who he is, forcing him to ground himself.
Beacon strokes his chin with trembling fingers, following the rough whiskers that run down his neck.
It took several magic sessions for him to grow a beard without a field of embarrassing patches.
They were moderately painful, but Beacon bore the pain with dignity—like a man. He does the same now.
“Excuse me,” he says in the low timbre he worked hard to perfect.
“I just remembered I’ve somewhere to be.
” He graces his parents with a stiff dip of his chin because even angry, he’s not inclined toward disrespect.
Then he sidesteps, shoving his chair roughly against the table.
The two collide with a sound that draws the attention of the dining hall, voices winking out in waves as his clanmates notice the disruption.
No longer composed, Beacon forgets himself. Forgets what it’s like to be admired by a crowd, instead feeling like nothing but prey, eviscerated before thousands of prying eyes.
Beacon doesn’t excuse himself again. He just flees.