Chapter 5 Galwell #2
he found it preferable to frightening his friends. “I’m just a little curious because I believe I met an assassin recently.”
Very well said, Galwell, he lauded himself. Very nonchalantly done.
Elowen’s face went rigid with fear.
“What do you mean you met an assassin, brother?” she asked.
Clare grimaced in confusion. “When?”
“No need to worry, friends. It was fine,” he persisted.
He could convince his companions of the encounter’s harmlessness, he counseled himself. Indeed, he had to. The duty of friendship
demanded he not over-worry them.
“She barely tried to kill me,” he explained.
At that opportune moment, the day’s mystery meal—brunch—finally arrived. Huzzah! Galwell found himself suddenly very supportive of brunch.
The Brunch Belblossom had earned his welcoming conclusion. The food looked wondrous. The egg-crisp bouquets, papery sheets
of fine eggy dough wrapped into floral-shaped cones, surrounded purple lushberries piled in the center, with their dark juice
coloring the crispy “petals.” Miniature sandwiches of thick bread with crunchy fried hroxen-flank strips sat four to a plate.
Thin cornmeal squares proudly showed off puffs of sweet cream decorated with—what else?—bright blue belblossoms.
“This really does look delicious, I must say,” Galwell enthused.
Everyone ignored the food.
“How does one barely try to kill someone, pray tell?” Beatrice pressed.
Galwell seized one of the sandwiches. He rammed the delicacy into his mouth. “She disappeared into thin air after just one
unsuccessful attempt,” he offered, the “she” sounding like fhe and “just” like juft.
Following his explanation, glances he could not decipher were exchanged. “Do you think—” Elowen finally started.
“Yes,” Vandra preempted. She sighed. “Of course. That’s why Riv wouldn’t tell us who her target was.”
Noticing Galwell’s incomprehension, Elowen looked solemnly to her brother.
“River Pricemark,” she elaborated. “She was an associate of Vandra’s. She came to see us last night. She had failed to kill her target. Which we’re realizing was . . . you.”
“That must have been awkward for her,” Galwell replied. “Do you think she’s likely to try again? I’m not afraid. Just curious.”
He reached for his next sandwich. Diversionary efforts had compelled his first venture into brunch. Deliciousness compelled
his second.
Vandra shook her head slowly. “River failed. Worse, you spotted her and would recognize her in the future. The Deathrose Guild
is a venerated order of assassins. She’ll be cast out.”
“Poor fhing,” Galwell sympathized past his sandwich. “This hroxen flank really is great. Why isn’t anyone else eating?”
Nervousness on Clare Grandhart, Galwell found, looked like a nightwalker playing a harp. Entirely unlikely and painfully out
of place.
“Galwell,” his friend started seriously, “if the Deathrose Guild sent River to kill you, that means someone has requested
your assassination, and the guild has found you deserving. More assassins will come for you. You’re in grave danger.” Clare’s
eyes swept the crowded restaurant.
“Why would anyone want to kill me?” Galwell asked honestly.
“I’m sure many of your enemies wish you dead,” Beatrice mused. “But why would the guild agree? They hold themselves to a strict code of honor. Something is not right.”
“I will try to speak to some of my old contacts. See what I can learn,” Vandra offered. Galwell noticed Elowen clutch the
other woman’s hand on the tabletop.
“In the meantime, we must get Galwell somewhere safe,” Elowen said.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I’m fine,” Galwell offered. “Death doesn’t scare me.” He laughed, hoping to raise spirits with his insouciant confidence.
“Yes, well,” Clare said, “it scares us.”
He held Galwell’s gaze. While the rest of the restaurant innocently chattered on, his companions descended into heavy silence.
He faced them, their hero once. Their former champion. Now the innocent, inconvenient charge under their protection. Yet in
the noisy quiet of their collective concern, Galwell found he was starting to understand something of who he was. Theirs. He was theirs.
“If the guild is hunting you, nowhere in Mythria is safe,” Clare concluded.
Everyone was silent—until Beatrice’s gaze rose from the cornmeal squares cooling under her dismayed stare.
“Nowhere in Mythria is safe,” she repeated. “Then you shouldn’t stay in Mythria. And lucky for us, there happens to be one very protected boat about to leave the harbor.”
“The one taking Thessia and Hugh to Vestriya,” Elowen exhaled. “Yes, of course! Vandra and I will accompany him.”
He imagined it. They’d shepherd him from the realm, guard him from threats, make yet more noble sacrifices. He wouldn’t be
the hero. He’d be the damsel.
“No,” Galwell uttered. He set down his half-eaten sandwich. It was not the notion of leaving Mythria to which he objected.
Indeed, venturing out of the realm where every statue wore his face, reminding him of his unfinished legacy, sounded somewhat
pleasant. No, something much more Galwellian compelled his obstinacy.
“What do you mean, no?” Elowen said.
“I will not put you in danger,” he declared. “I’ve done quite enough of that. If you tell me I must flee my homeland, so be
it, but I will do so alone.”
“But—”
“No but,” Galwell said firmly.
Elowen’s eyes widened. Clearly she hadn’t been reading his emotions with her magic. She’d never really needed to before—he
had never been in the habit of concealing them.
Galwell did not regret his harshness. Theirs he may be, but he was Galwell the Great nonetheless. One could take the man out of the quest, he found himself thinking, but one could not take the hero out of the man.
“While I am . . . glad to be alive, the truth is, I was not consulted when I was spared my death. Nor have I chosen anything
since my return, not even this meal. In fact,” he went on, “the last choice I made was to sacrifice myself and be remembered forever for my heroism.”
No one could meet his eyes then. Beatrice went ghostly white.
Guilt finally panged in his enormous chest. He’d hurt them, he knew. One could use one’s words like one’s sword—to menace
or to cut. He’d only intended the former. He wished he could withdraw his error.
But, he reminded himself, he’d spoken only the truth. Galwell the Great did not lie. Even in matters of death and destiny.
“If he wishes to go alone, we must let him,” Beatrice relented, her voice strained.
“Thank you, Beatrice.” He spoke to her gently. Forgiveness lived in honesty, too.
“But,” Beatrice went on, “you will need someone to shelter you once you reach your destination. So . . . who do we know in
Vestriya?”
When the words left her lips, two things happened. Inspiration lit Grandhart’s eyes immediately. In the same moment, Beatrice’s
face fell, horror plummeting over her features.
“No,” Beatrice said firmly. “I didn’t mean her.”
Elowen leaned forward. She eyed Beatrice and Clare like they were drama-charged Desires of the Night characters. “Who? Both of your emotions are very confusing right now. Clare, you look pleased, but your feeling is . . . dread.”
“Exactly right,” Grandhart confirmed. “I do know someone in Vestriya. Someone who would certainly have the resources to keep
Galwell safe.”
He inhaled while everyone waited raptly. Galwell suspected Clare was enjoying indulging in drama.
“My sister,” Grandhart stated.
Galwell faltered. Had yet more time-walking magic jumbled his whereabouts? Was he living in some . . . parallel realm of Mythria? “I did not know you had a sister,” he ventured. “Did everyone know you have a sister?”
“Not a clue,” Vandra said, bewildered. Elowen shook her head, likewise stunned.
Whew. No Multi-Mythria, then.
“Only Beatrice knew,” Clare confirmed. “My sister, Mona Grandhart, is not someone I am proud to claim. She is—well, to put
it simply, she is the worst.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Elowen interjected.
Clare’s smile did not reach his cerulean eyes. “As you all know, before I was a hero, I was a bandit. I’m not proud of my
past. But given how I was raised, who raised me, I didn’t have many options in life—until I met you.”
His eyes flashed to Galwell. Their hero once. Their inspiration once. He was a man made of once. Once upon a hero.
“Mona,” Clare continued heavily, “didn’t have friends to pull her from villainy. She let it become her. She runs a small but
thriving criminal empire in Vestriya today, and she is absolutely terrible in every imaginable way. I do not just say this
because she is my younger sister, I promise you.”
Vandra straightened. She’d forked one of the belblossom cream puffs but now paused with the delicacy halfway to her rouged lips. “You don’t mean . . . Mona the Merciless?”
“I’m afraid I do,” Clare rejoined.
“If she’s so awful, why exactly should we trust her to help Galwell?” Elowen demanded.
Clare reached for his menu scroll. Galwell planned to protest, unable to contemplate eating more delectable midmorning victuals, when Clare produced from his pocket his ever-present autographing quill.
He scrawled something on the menu, then folded the scroll and, using the candle in the center of the table, poured hot wax
onto the parchment’s edges. With his ring, he pressed his seal into the soft wax.
Finished, he extended the parchment missive to Galwell.
“Give Mona this and she will help you,” he promised. “We will seek to discover the plot against you, and when we have, we
will call you home.”
Galwell grasped the letter, though he had no intention of seeking out this Mona for protection.
He did not need or want sheltering. He was the hero.
But . . . if Mona the Merciless was renowned in criminal circles, maybe she would know something about the people who sought
to kill him. He could use her to root out evil in the realm.
“Now,” Clare said, ushering the moment forth. He reached for the plate in the center of their table. “Who wants Hangover Corn-Toast?
I invented them myself.”
While Hangover Corn-Toast did earnestly interest Galwell, discomfort clung to him. If he needed—for the moment—to remain his
companions’ obligation to protect, he would. He would not, however, leave them with one ounce of unnecessary concern.
“I’ll be fine,” he reassured them. “You forget, but I dodged assassins my whole life before I had you lot protecting me. I can do this.”
Weak smiles met his pronouncement, and he knew—they did not believe him. His death had made him human to them. Galwell the . . .
guy named Galwell.
This would not stand. If only for his companions’ easy rest, he needed to prove he was still the hero they remembered.
He would be Galwell the Great once more.