Chapter 14 Thessia
Thessia
Thessia could feel herself glowing with pride as she read Celine’s story proclaiming their cunning victory.
A new era of humiliating missteps! Oh, her reportage positively shone with incisive condemnation.
Exactly the way the Quintessential Questers—no, Ghosts damn it, it still isn’t right—intended.
Sure, it was a setback that River’s plan to amplify her teleportation hadn’t come to pass. But the guild’s sloppy
attack was a new opportunity in their quest. Undoubtedly, Mona’s connections would soon lure out whoever sought harm to Galwell
as the nefarious parties grew desperate for alternative means of assassination.
Satisfied, Thessia tucked the scribesheet proudly into the box of keepsakes she’d packed for her Vestriyan voyage.
In the quiet of her quarters, she sighed. The cream-colored stone echoed her discontent as she turned to the rest of what
waited on her crestoak desk. Her “royal duties” that her councilors had provided to her to review.
Reading, Thessia found her resentment mounting. The scrolls were designed to convince the queen of her own importance, to
impart grave imperative upon her entirely ceremonial and frankly frivolous duties. Line upon elegantly calligraphed line detailed
her “responsibilities” for the upcoming Realm Chalice horseball match in two days.
Oh, her councilors were good. Stomach-churningly so.
They made her obligations sound oh so important.
Like kissing the Farmount Falcons’ horseball would be the difference between war and peace between the realms, like greeting the starting horses was tantamount to draining the Sword of Souls.
Like eating a shankfry was the equivalent of stealing the Orb of Grimauld.
Thessia could imagine herself enjoying the game were she not scheduled to the hilt with queenly duties. On empty nights in
her palace, she would sometimes throw on conjurated matches magically projected from stadiums throughout the realm, studying
with interest the strategies the players refined every year—though she had neither the courage nor the cruelty to tell Clare
she rooted for the Northwood Knights.
Unfortunately, Thessia the erstwhile horseball fan was not who the Realm Chalice called for. They wanted only the image of
Thessia the diplomatic queen.
She would watch the match’s play from the Notable Persons box, where she would cheer for the Falcons. Later, she would spend
the Fifth-Chunk Squat, the sport’s tradition before the penultimate period of play in which attendees stretched sore muscles
in a comically relaxed pose, on the private balcony of Vestriya’s king and queen.
It was silly, useless work designed to prop up Thessia’s image. Without intention or individuality, without personality or
philosophy—without her. Thessia herself was utterly replaceable in the prescribed role.
The only consolation she found in the correspondence came in the very final scroll, placed there, no doubt, by councilors
who wished her to prioritize her very important horse-greeting obligations. With some renewed vigor, she opened the missive
from sitting King Clare.
Thessia dearest,
The realm flourishes exceedingly well under Beatrice’s and my excellent reign. Ha. Beatrice insisted you would not find this
notion funny, but she is not the only one who knows you well.
Thessia smiled.
I have occupied myself with reading and contemplating your wonderfully fair tax legislation. Beatrice expected you would find
this funny, for my legal scholarship for much of my life consisted of having local magistrates dictating my sentencings to
me. But going from petty bandit to king has shown me I need not only be the Clare I once was.
Enough on my scholarly pursuits—I write to you with one simple request. May we commission a tapestry of my eagle, Wiglaf,
for the throne room? He is the most handsome bird in the realm. For obvious reasons, I request your reply forthwith.
Sincerely, with much love,
Clare Grandhart
Every person in Mythria would recognize the grand signature that concluded the scroll.
Thessia scrawled her reply hastily. Why the Ghosts not?
Indeed, contributing a portrait of Wiglaf the eagle to the Hall of Queens was damn near the full extent of her governing powers.
As Thessia sealed her response with dropped wax embossed with her royal seal—enjoying the ceremonial flourish of the process, one she’d had no occasion to undertake since the invention of the message tapestry in Mythria—knocking sounded on her door. “Come in,” Thessia said.
Tabitha entered. The girl’s uncanny resemblance to Thessia never failed to startle the queen.
“Do you need me tonight, Your Highness?” she inquired.
Thessia put on a smile. She supposed she saw herself in Tabitha’s selfless diligence no less than in their physical resemblance.
“No, Tabitha, you may live your own life tonight,” she replied.
“It’s no burden,” Tabitha insisted. She played nervously with the ends of her spelled-blond hair. “My father never would have
permitted me to travel so far. I’m grateful for the chance.”
Her kind words comforted Thessia. The queen hated to imagine that the young noble felt imprisoned by her role. Yes, one woman imprisoned within the identity of Queen Thessia is quite enough, she thought resentfully.
“Enjoy the city tonight,” Thessia replied. “I mean it.”
Finally, real excitement illuminated Tabitha’s features. She darted for the door, then doubled back, looking like she was
mustering her courage.
“You . . . should, too, Your Highness,” she ventured, placing a tentative hand on Thessia’s shoulder. “I know how constricting
your life is. It must be its own challenge to never have a break from it, the way I have.”
Her surprising words touched Thessia. Tabitha smiled gently, perhaps understanding the queen was not used to—well, understanding.
“I know King Hugh is at the Wandering Raven tavern downtown. Perhaps you should join him?” she suggested with what could not
pass for an innocent suggestion, her cheeks pink. She withdrew her hand self-consciously. “He talks about you a lot when I’m
working with him. It’s very sweet. I wish I had a lad as smitten with me.”
Thessia managed to keep her smile unchanged, pretending the expression was carved into her face like the visages on famous Vestriyan statues. She nodded, giving Tabitha the encouragement the other woman needed to consider herself relieved for the night.
When Tabitha left for whatever Vestriyan revelry she wished, Thessia let her stony smile slip. Yes, she wished she had a lad
smitten with her as well, not one performing his role to perfection at all hours.
Still . . .
Tabitha’s words rattled cages within her. Why shouldn’t Thessia enjoy herself for the night? Why should Hugh have fun while
Thessia had scrolls of horse-related nonsense? Why shouldn’t she go out drinking with the soldiers?
Who’s to say what was and was not queenly, if not her?
She’d managed to stir herself into vigor now! Her heart crackling like the hearth in her cozy marble chambers, Thessia seized
her cloak. Without second-guessing herself, she climbed out her window into the lovely Vestriyan evening.
She was going to have fun, Ghosts damn it.
On the short climb from her window to the ground, she pretended she was River Pricemark, assassin at large! Or she was Celine
Hazelton, daring in her pursuit of the truth, following a mysterious lead in a story. Or even Mona Grandhart, out to seduce
and claim her city.
Anyone except Thessia.
Her cloak’s hood hiding her recognizable “spun gold” mane, Thessia followed the canals until the cool quiet of the capital city’s labyrinthine corridors gave way to the raucous downtown, where the inebriated lay in the streets, where music pounded and slithered from the taverns, where lovers embraced in shadowy archways, where hand magic conjurated light shows from the fingertips of street performers to simulate sprites or harpies or miniature dragons dancing in color over the cobblestones.
This, Thessia knew, was the Vestriya of her mother’s stories.
Her heart pounding with eagerness, Thessia continued until she found the Wandering Raven, its marquee magically decorated
with crows who flapped their wings into dissolving shadows, only to reform. The place was packed, lovelier and livelier than
the pub where they’d encountered Ario. A musician played the lute onstage, their tuning leaving something to be desired.
Thessia couldn’t see Hugh in the crowded space. No matter, she reassured herself. She didn’t need Hugh to enjoy a tavern!
She walked confidently to the bar, only to find a wall of burly soldiers blocking her from the barkeep. She hopped on each
leg, hoping to catch the eye of anyone willing to make room for her.
Instead she caught an elbow to the ribs. She wheezed with shock. Then laughed. No one noticed her. Her face wasn’t on the
coins here. There were no tapestries or murals or statues of her. No one expected the queen of Mythria to be at a seedy tavern.
It was . . . freeing.
She giggled. She didn’t need a drink, although she’d very much like one—she could get drunk on this feeling alone! Beside
her, soldiers were complaining with vulgarities that Thessia had never before heard. Delightful! A man burped behind her.
Less delightful but still exciting!
When the soldier in front of her slumped onto the bar, passed out from too much drink, Thessia gingerly stepped around him.
“What’ll you have?” the barkeep asked without even looking at her.
“Ale, please,” Thessia shouted over shouting that had broken out seemingly in regards to the out-of-tune lute.
The man poured with exceptional skill. “Six sterling.”
Thessia paused. She . . . had no coin. She’d forgotten she’d need it—she never did at home.
The barkeep sensed her hesitation and held her almost-won ale away. “No. Not doing that tonight. Not the weekend of the Realm