Chapter 1 #2
Grandhart he’d once known. Such moments startled him most, like no unrecognizable song or uncomfortable play could—the realization
that his friends and his sister had . . . grown up.
He found himself now the youngest of the Four he used to lead. It shouldn’t have made a difference, but it did. He was used to being their leader, the one with all the answers. Now he was the one confused and not sure how to use a message tapestry.
He was the one they had saved. Galwell was practiced in being the rescuer. He didn’t know how to be the one rescued from the death he’d just watched
onstage.
“Still,” Clare commented. “Good to get out and experience Mythrian culture, no?”
“I’m . . .” Galwell paused, meeting the eyes of Chestlewitt’s portrait. Remembering Thessia with her new husband seated overhead.
He was what? What was he?
“Grateful I had the chance,” he finished.
With the crowd, they processed toward the exit under the iron chandeliers’ lavender glow.
“What plans have you tomorrow?” Clare inquired gamely. “We could catch a horseball match? I think the Farmount Falcons could
take the Realm Chalice this year.”
Galwell paused. He knew the invitation was well-meant. It was Galwell’s other favorite quality of Grandhart’s. Roguish though
he pretended to be, nearly everything with the former brigand was well-meant.
Why, then, did Galwell feel like the same sword dramatized onstage had just pierced his heart? Why did he feel like they were
still rescuing him even now?
“Clare,” he said slowly, piecing out his own emotions in words. “I’m very grateful for all the time you’ve spent with me,
but surely you’d rather spend the day with Beatrice. She hates horseball. Unless”—he considered the illuminating, unsettling
possibility—“that has changed since I died.” Honestly, nothing would feel the same if Beatrice had embraced the fast-paced sport.
Comfortingly—discomfortingly—Clare hesitated. Whew. Beatrice definitely still hated horseball.
The mention of his beloved undoubtedly reminded Clare of the endless romantic and intimate pursuits he would rather get up
to tomorrow. Galwell did not resent them their happiness. Just like he was happy for his parents, who had found new lives
for themselves in the past decade.
The Trues had endured loss with a fortitude that even Galwell, who possessed hand magic of strength, found remarkable. The
results, though, were somewhat unexpected. They’d embraced the practice of florabee cultivation, raising the hive-minded insects
to produce flavored honeys in every color. On their visit home, Elowen and the perplexed Galwell had been fed new purple winterberry
honey, which was, indeed, delicious.
He was happy for them. He was.
Grateful for their contentment.
They were grateful for him, he knew. Grateful he was alive. They were overjoyed! Delighted!
Everyone said it so many times. Yet Galwell knew they had . . . adjusted. They’d found comfort in their home, their new lives.
In remembering his legacy fondly. In cultivating florabees. While they loved him, they didn’t need him.
No one did.
He had slept in the guest room, his parents having converted his childhood room into the studio where his father now painted
landscapes. Days into the visit, Galwell could ignore the feeling no longer: He was in the way of the routines they had made
for themselves.
He did what heroism and duty demanded. He smiled and hugged his parents and promised to visit them soon. He simply had much to do in Queendom, he explained.
It was not untrue, strictly speaking. Galwell didn’t like lying. The moment he’d returned to Queendom, he scheduled numerous visits to an esteemed hair magician in order to avoid lying.
Now he spent his days wrestling with questions. Not the manner of questions he knew how to confront, either, like How will we invade this fortress? Or, Can our horses outrun those ogres? Or, What soaps will maintain the lusciousness of one’s hair while on the road questing?
Easy questions. Galwell questions.
Instead, he faced conundrums he could not resolve. What was his role now? His purpose? The realm didn’t need saving. His friends
had surpassed him in wisdom, not to mention skill with modern conveniences.
Said friends, of course, knew him well enough to understand his misgivings. They met the challenge by keeping him busy.
The play had been Clare’s idea. The Ogre’s Chess tournament yesterday, Elowen’s. He’d helped Beatrice cook dinner.
He wondered whether he was to be passed from friend to friend forever, or until he figured himself out.
And so Clare was proposing horseball. Under ordinary circumstances, Galwell loved horseball. Now?
He couldn’t stand the idea.
“I think not,” he replied gently. “Take Beatrice out instead. Return home to Farmount. Feed your eagle. I’ll visit you eventually.”
Clare’s conviction continued to waver, though the mention of his pet momentarily made him smile. “Are you certain?” he asked
Galwell eventually. “What will you do?”
Self-sacrifice came easily to Galwell, like horse riding and wall climbing. “Oh, so much, my friend,” he said honestly. “I
didn’t fear dying. Nor do I fear living.”
“How,” Clare replied, “are you this good at catchphrases?”
Galwell laughed.
Under the lavender lighting, he watched Clare make his decision. The right one, Galwell knew. Clare crushed him into a hug. “I’m so proud of you, friend,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “Thank you.”
The words knotted Galwell up. In honesty, he dreaded being left with only his own ruminations for company. But he said nothing,
following Clare outside into the pleasant chill of the Queendom night.
In the past week, Galwell found he loved the Queendom rebuilt in the decade following the Fraternal Order’s destructive overthrow.
The city had responded to disaster with redoubled vitality, community, and hope, creating a cosmopolitan wonder from the rubble.
The polished stone castle shone in the mountaintop moonlight. In the flourishing neighborhoods, chaotic mélanges of wood and
marble housed high-piled complexes of restaurants, pubs, song halls, fashionists, fortune-tellers, fortune-changers, featherbenders, fizz dens, glass portraitists—everything.
He’d expected the crowd on the wide boulevard of theaters. Nightlife dazzled in Queendom. Everyone was eagerly heading to
the night markets, where one could find every manner of food, drink, and entertainment.
What Galwell had not expected, however, was a voice rising over the crowd, calling his name. Reedy yet insistent.
“Galwell. Galwell the Great.”
It was Sir Cheswick Chestlewitt.
Galwell found the black-maned playwright hustling in his direction. Scribes, who’d surrounded Chestlewitt to make inquiries
and notes for their scribesheet pieces, followed. They’d pursued Galwell constantly in the days since his resurrection, shouting
questions like What was it like to die? Did you hear about Thessia’s wedding? Do you have a favorite shoemaker? Galwell had struggled to answer, until Elowen explained that he didn’t have to. More worldly wisdom from his famous sister.
Chestlewitt looked uncomfortable, like he knew reviews would not be kind. Instant pity struck Galwell. His own complicated
feelings on the play mattered not. He sympathized with Chestlewitt’s professional frustration. The playwright had worked for
months, even years on his piece. One resurrection later, his hopes were dashed.
“Your presence honors me. I hope my play was a fitting tribute to your great legacy.” Chestlewitt’s eagerness verged on desperation.
Legacy.
The word rattled in Galwell like a farthing dropped down a mineshaft.
“I’m afraid my legacy is now rather unfinished, is it not?” he mused out loud.
The next moment, he realized it was the wrong comment. The playwright’s smile soured.
“Unfinished,” Chestlewitt repeated. “Undone, some might say,” he continued under his breath.
Galwell’s brow furrowed. “Would you have preferred I died?” he inquired in genuine wonderment. He took no offense at Chestlewitt’s
frustration. Indeed, Galwell himself was not quite certain how to weigh legacy against a life unfinished.
“Wouldn’t you?” Chestlewitt replied with more insight than Galwell had given the writer.
Galwell felt himself speechless. The answer was not simple. He didn’t wish to be dead, but he also didn’t wish to be . . .
this. However, how could he answer with his characteristic honesty in front of his best friend?
Chestlewitt spared him, laughing suddenly like his question was mere jest. “Ghosts no,” he reassured Galwell dourly. “I only
mean a certain . . . rightness may be found in things remaining how they have ever been. Like my play.”
“It was a wonderful ode to what was,” Galwell concurred, shaken but sympathizing entirely with the poor artist. “I hope everyone sees it,” he added, raising his voice.
The praise worked. Approving nods passed through the crowd.
Galwell retreated from the scene with Clare. “I fear I’ve ruined his play,” Galwell fretted.
“He’ll survive,” Grandhart replied.
Though meant in irony, the words rung uncomfortably with Galwell. He’ll survive. Then what? Galwell mustered his smile, forced himself to nod. Deep down, the idea of determining how to fill every questless
day . . . exhausted him.
They proceeded down the street. Clare undoubtedly read the darkness in Galwell’s contemplative quiet. “You really don’t want
to go watch some horseball?” he pressed.
Weariness provoked unusual irritability in Galwell. “I may not be your leader anymore, but that doesn’t mean I’ll have you
telling me what to do,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Of course, his push for finality only concerned Grandhart further. Great!
“It will get easier,” Clare reassured Galwell calmly. “After . . . well, after everything, we all struggled with what to do
with our legacies. You’ll find something,” Clare promised. “You’ll find yourself.”
Galwell could only conjure the imitation of heroic confidence.
“Of course I will,” he replied hopefully.
“Perhaps you should seek out what you never got to experience before dying,” Clare offered.
Galwell forced himself to consider the suggestion. Indeed, there was much Galwell had never experienced in his twenty-seven
years. Including some rather embarrassing omissions. Ones he would never hear the end of from the famous rogue he walked with
were he to confess them.
Clare was . . . right, Galwell recognized with the funny feeling he’d experienced more and more often recently. What made him hesitate wasn’t reasoned doubt or pedestrian laziness. It was simpler, and harder to face.
He was scared.
Galwell the Great could fight evil without flinching. This . . . was different.
“I know just where to start,” Clare declared.
Despite himself, hope glimmered in Galwell. He looked to his friend.
“Let’s get Harpy and Hind,” Clare proposed. “They’ve invented a new pumpkin cream since you died.”
Galwell laughed, gratitude for his friend finally coming easily. It was, he reckoned, the best idea he’d ever heard.
“Yes,” he replied. “That’s the perfect place to begin.”