Chapter 3 #2
Past the window. Past Queendom. Past the very border of Mythria itself.
She thought of the Sweetwater Sea. Of Vestriya.
In the waning days of her mother’s illness, the former queen recounted to Thessia stories of the most wondrous voyage in her
four-decade reign. The way she described the distant land had enchanted the twenty-two-year-old Thessia—distracting her, if
only momentarily, from the pain of her mother’s frailty.
Thessia had never journeyed there herself. She had only her mother’s stories of her diplomatic voyages to negotiate trades
and treaties. Relations were so peaceful between the two lands, the Vestriyan crown prince, Ezio, had voyaged to Mythria several
times, including to Thessia’s recent wedding. Given Thessia’s proneness to being kidnapped, she’d never had the opportunity
to return the visit.
She went there now, in her mind. Imagining cities thousands of years old, wrought in stunning stonework using arcane hand
magic. Of sleepless streets where powerful drink flowed without end. Of masquerades and fashionists’ balls, where magic gave
fascinating life to the couture.
Of shadow-kissed promises spoken in darkness. Of unimaginable possibility.
Of freedom.
Hugh seemed to notice her contemplation. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. When it did not prompt her response, Hugh, once
more the hero, spoke up.
“We plan to—”
The queen interrupted him. Going blond wasn’t enough, she decided.
She needed more.
“We are going,” she announced, “to Vestriya.”
Gasps rustled through the room.
Thessia understood the reaction. The original honeymoon would offer scribes plenty of pleasant conjuration opportunities and
charming stories of local visits. A royal honeymoon tour of Vestriya, however? She would be far away from the Mythrian press.
Few Mythrian scribes would follow them on the expensive, weeklong voyage crossing the Sweetwater Sea. Her retinue of guards
could be reduced. Mythria had only peaceful relations with the neighboring continent to the west, and former foot soldier
Hugh could protect Mythria’s favorite damsel. While she wished she did not need protecting, she knew wishing alone would not
convince the Interrealm Council or the Queenship Council.
Yes, she had her own council. They never consulted her.
At her declaration, Hugh’s head whipped in her direction. Change of plans, husband, she could not say out loud.
Despite his surprise, Hugh did not contradict her whim. There were some benefits to being queen.
“But who will rule?” a scribe called out over the commotion. “What of Mythria?”
The councils. Oh, the councils, Thessia wished she could say. She’d been directed, however, to uphold the image of her own leadership, which Mythria—she’d
been told—found comforting.
She thought quickly. She would give them something equally comforting, she decided. “Beatrice and Clare of the Four will fill
in for me on official queenly matters,” she stated.
Beatrice will hate this, she thought remorsefully. Clare, on the other hand, would probably spend the remainder of the year calling himself “Good
King Clare” or some Ghosts-damned nonsense.
“What of Galwell?” one courageous scribe ventured. “Won’t he miss you greatly?”
Thessia smiled. In Vestriya, she wouldn’t be asked that question. It would be perfect, she knew.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. She felt confident now, enough to project finality. Queenly. “My husband and I have much
to do before our trip. We leave”—what was one more impulsive decision?—“at this week’s end.”
With frantic whispering and quills scribbling, the scribes complied. Each of them rushed from the room to wherever they could
summarize the conference’s events in uninterrupted longhand, then magic the contents over to their editors—Thessia had witnessed
the ritual often.
Finally, only the wedded pair were left.
Hugh broke the silence.
“We’re honeymooning in Vestriya now?” he inquired politely.
He released her hand. Thessia released her regal performance. “Will it be a problem?” she replied wearily.
“Of course not, my love,” Hugh said without hesitation.
My love.
The words grated. She faced her husband fully.
His calm, clear gaze remained on her. Hugh was classically handsome, with inviting rugged flourishes, like the dark stubble
now coloring his prominent chin after he’d shaved his wedding beard. His black hair looked ever windswept. His brown eyes
were warm and framed with laugh lines. He was rather remarkably handsome, in fact. It was her second-favorite quality of her
husband’s.
The first was the sturdiness she found in everything he did, in every expression his perfect features formed. Not humorlessness—she’d
known of Hugh’s unpretentious wit since the day she met him. Just . . . calm.
My love. She echoed the words in her head. From the moment she first saw Hugh Mavaris, she knew he was exactly what she needed. Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she even let herself believe the royal fairy tale.
“You don’t need to do that when no one is around,” she informed him.
“I don’t mind it.”
“I do,” Thessia said.
Other men might have resented the rejection. Instead, her husband’s dashing features showed something worse. Relief. Hugh was a wonderful actor, which was why he was here. Nevertheless, Thessia knew how their charade wore on him. Like it
wore on her, but differently.
She pretended it did not sting.
Hugh rose from his throne, stretching his six-irons-one frame. “Is there anything else you need from me today?” he asked.
The words were polite, formal. The tone the rest of Mythria never heard him use with her. Not the councils. Not the Four.
Not their families, for they had none. Nobody.
“No,” Thessia replied. “Do whatever you wish, but put together a list of what you would like packed, and the servants will
make sure it’s done.”
Hugh nodded.
With nothing more keeping him, he strode down from the dais to the doorway, where he paused.
“I meant it, you know,” he said from the far end of the echoing room. “When I said you’re a wonderful dance partner.”
Thessia smiled past the pain of his kindness. Some gifts she preferred not to receive. “Me too,” she replied, grasping onto
honesty where she could. “You’re very skilled.”
She did not expect the quick delight in Hugh’s expression. “I have a gift for music,” he shared.
“Do you? Are you a hand magician?” What a question to ask one’s husband. Entire diplomatic crises would commence were someone to overhear their unfamiliarity with each other.
“No, a heart magician, Your Majesty. Through singing I can inspire emotions in the listener,” Hugh replied. “I learned harp
and many other instruments to accompany myself.”
“I’ve never heard you sing,” Thessia replied, momentarily letting herself imagine Hugh on a stage, a harp in his hands. It
would suit him. Yes, it would suit him very well.
Somberness flickered in Hugh’s features. “I haven’t sung since . . . I haven’t sung in years.” As if to close off the topic,
he continued. “Do you have magic?”
“Royalty has no need.” The words fell without thought from her lips, the press positioner’s prepared response for whenever
Thessia received this question. Hugh’s eyes dimmed further. Promptly, she felt guilty. She’d ended the pleasant genuineness
of their conversation. “Thank you for sharing, though,” she continued weakly, hoping to salvage the connection.
It worked, for Hugh was kind. “I do hope we will develop a friendship,” he offered.
Thessia smiled. “I know we will, Hugh.”
He nodded once more. Something seemed to hold him momentarily, a hesitation in which Thessia felt the glimmer of inexplicable
hope.
Then he walked from the room.
Her gaze returned to the window.
The view looked different after her conversation with Hugh. Queendom lay in the peace of ignorance. Mythria surrounded them
in the contentment of deception.
For the past week, the realm had thought Thessia was wrestling with the impossible love triangle now detailed in literally
hundreds of scribesheet stories. Thessia, Galwell, Hugh.
The truth was much, much worse.
Galwell the Great never loved her. Yes, Thessia was young when they were betrothed, but she knew enough to understand Galwell
felt only duty for his fiancée. Had he survived the Four’s quest, he would have married her out of obligation, to fulfill
the promises his family had made hers.
For the princess, it would have been enough. She’d loved Galwell in the manner of many young women—dreaming of the realm’s
greatest hero coming home to her. She would have settled for whatever he would have given her and hoped one day he would feel for her the way she felt for
him.
When he died, her one-sided love had haunted her for the next decade. She took the throne and began her reign, and Mythria
never, ever forgot her doomed engagement. So how could Thessia?
Until one day, she decided she needed to move on.
Which she could not do unless everyone moved on. Her love story was Mythria’s infatuation. She could not release the ghost of Galwell from her heart until Mythria
saw more in the queen’s future than the pain of the past.
She needed someone to distract them.
Hence, Hugh. Their arrangement.
No one knew. Not even the Four. Not even the councils.
It was perfect. Until Galwell was resurrected. Suddenly, the morning after Thessia’s wedding, instead of the queen who’d moved
on with her handsome fake husband, Thessia was now the most envied woman in the realm—with two handsome heroes pining for her.
If only!
No, Thessia was entangled in no tragic love triangle. The tragedy was the opposite. A loveless triangle. Neither man loved Thessia. She could not get two heroes to love her—couldn’t get one hero to love her, couldn’t get one person to love her.
Oh, everyone in Mythria loved the queen, of course. It was Thessia no one held dear.
She was a figure. Replaceable with a character from a drama, a mention in a song, a body double. She was reminded of it in
every scribesheet story and Cheswick Chestlewitt play and gossip-filled whisper. Yes, no dulcet countryside honeymoon with
Hugh would do.
She needed to escape.