Chapter 14 Thessia #2
Chalice. Every soldier in the city is here before their shifts. Never seen anything like this. It’s too busy for negotiation.”
Thessia realized she’d be getting no ale tonight. She turned to go, then halted. Perhaps something better than ale was on
tap.
“Why are so many soldiers working the Realm Chalice?” she inquired lightly.
The barkeep glared at her question, like she owed him seven sterling now for his time. He turned to the next paying customer.
Thessia wilted.
“We’re all expected to work the entire day. They gave us the night off to drink as apology,” the man slumped beside Thessia
said, seeming much more sober than she’d given him credit for. “Lots of unrest in the city. Prince Ezio and the spymaster
worry the Deathrose Guild might be plotting something during the distraction of the match. Then there’s rowdy revolutionaries
chanting ‘King Ezio, King Ezio’ in the streets, cinderflower poison killing folk left and right . . .” He grunted. “You know
how it is.”
Thessia straightened. “Yes,” she said distractedly, for while she had never heard of cinderflower poison and certainly did
not know how it was, the man had unintentionally offered her sudden inspiration. The guild might plan to attack Galwell during the match when the city is distracted. Thessia and her companions could keep him safe by keeping him inside, or . . .
Or they could lure their enemies out into the open.
More shouting suddenly broke through her scheming. The horrible lute player was pulled offstage to much applause. When the
crowd heard mellifluous strains of a harp, they instantly calmed.
Thessia turned, drawn to the powerful melody.
She was not the only one. Every Vestriyan within was transfixed, drinks undrunk in their hands, eyes on the stage.
She must see this musician, Thessia felt, moved by the beauty in every note.
She nudged her way through the crowd of muscular soldiers, finding—
Her husband.
Onstage, Hugh handled his harp like a lover. He sat on a simple stool, coaxing music from his instrument.
Looking like he did, Thessia imagined he could have coaxed harmony from rusty pots and pans.
He was . . . unreasonably sexy. Inordinately, inhumanly, inhumanely, incredibly sexy. His linen shirt half open, dark curls
cascading over his forehead, he looked like the music stars who could fill whole Mythrian stadiums with hyperventilating fans,
like Noah Noble or the Brethren’s charismatic frontmen. Ghosts, he looked fit for the Vestriya Now stage. From foot soldier
to king to song star. Thessia could easily imagine the scribesheet exultations.
She would definitely snatch up those headlines.
Every barmaid and several barmen had paused in their work to drool over him. While Thessia could not blame them, she had the
errant urge to jump onstage and tell everyone he was her husband.
Even though he wasn’t really, her cruelest impulses reminded her. Not like that. She had his ring but not his heart.
Nevertheless . . . with the music sweeping over her, Thessia permitted herself to pretend.
She pretended she’d enchanted this extraordinary man like he’d enchanted her.
Pretended his calloused hands, moving expertly over the harp, had moved with the same devoted finesse over the curves of her body.
Pretended she had the sole right to let her gaze linger on every movement of muscle in his neck, to stare in indulgence at the way he thoughtlessly tapped one foot against his stool. He was magnificent.
In her reverie, he was hers.
Hugh played, expanding the melody, taking the crowd with him—
Until, at the height of the refrain, his eyes locked with Thessia’s.
His surprise strangled the high note on his harp. Everyone noticed. Hugh recovered quickly, descending into the chorus’s resolve,
but the damage was done. Everyone followed the startled gaze of the performer to Thessia.
At last she was recognized. Soldiers first. Then the common folk enjoying the raucous night out. Suddenly, everyone was bowing
deeply to the queen in their midst. On cue, Hugh paused in his song.
Thessia wanted to wither into nothing. She hated that she’d disrupted the simple fun of their evening. Was she cursed? Would
the status, the face, the name she carried pursue her everywhere, ruining every uncomplicated joy? Was there nowhere she could
hide from herself?
On the verge of running from the room, however, Thessia remembered her courage. Would River run from embarrassment? Would
Mona flee recognition?
No. What did Thessia really want? She forced herself to consider. She did not want to stop the revelers.
She wanted to join them.
She composed herself. Coolly confident, she strode over to the nearest bowed soldier. She was not, she decided, with impulsiveness
running wild in her, the queen in this moment. This wondrous Vestriyan night, she was whoever she wanted to be.
She reached down, like she intended to grant the soldier her royal favor with the touch of her hand on his forehead.
Instead, she took his drink from his fingers.
Her eyes meeting Hugh’s, Thessia lifted the mead for the entire crowd to see. Her husband held her gaze. She brought the drink to her lips wordlessly. While everyone watched, Thessia drained the entire flagon.
Stunned silence followed the feat for half a moment, and then the Wandering Raven erupted in cheers.
Thessia knew not where her next drink came from. The shot glass was thrust into her hands. Gamely, with the hot magic of courage
raging in her, she downed the glass. More cheering followed. More shots came forth.
Liquor spilled on Thessia’s sleeves when the crowd suddenly lifted the queen up. The movement of the enthusiastic throng deposited
her onstage, in front of her husband.
Hugh watched her with nothing simple like humor in his eyes. No, Thessia found his gaze very complicated. Or was the drink
overcomplicating everything? No matter. Underneath Hugh’s warmth and roguish good nature, Thessia found . . . intrigue? Desire?
The kind of pleasant surprise that hit like a stiff drink in a foreign pub.
No. Not for her. Not from him. Ghosts no.
Thessia stumbled over her feet for a moment. Dizzy from drink, surely. She chastened herself. Hugh was probably upset with
her. He probably wanted just one night free of the obligations Thessia presented, like Tabitha did. He probably found her
drinking un-queenly. Well, it was un-queenly. What of it?
These thoughts, combined with potent drink, made Thessia’s stomach lurch. She could stumble on this rough stage, yes. She
refused, however, to be sick in public. Regaining her balance, she moved to flee.
Hugh’s grasp on her elbow—she immediately knew it was his hand from the musician’s callouses on his fingers—stopped her.
Hesitant, Thessia turned, finding his same complicated gaze on her.
Holding her in place, he removed the drink from her hand. The gesture wasn’t one of frustrated condemnation of her un-queenly drinking. Instead, Hugh seemed . . . tender. Even welcoming.
With one hand remaining on her, Hugh lifted the glass. The room went silent, permitting the king’s warm words to ring out.
“To my queen.”
Heat flooded Thessia in the happiest way, heat she knew had nothing to do with her own semi-drunkenness. She could not meet
Hugh’s eyes—not when he promptly downed the entire shot in her honor.
Everyone cheered, unsurprisingly. Thessia herself felt like cheering, except she could not contemplate the possibility when
her heart suddenly felt as unsteady as her stomach.
“Give us a duet!” one of the more inebriated soldiers hollered out.
The crowd embraced this suggestion, whistling and repeating the syllables until “duet” merged with “do it!” Nervous excitement
wound through Thessia. Her councilors would never approve of this.
Hugh raised his eyebrow in invitation.
“I don’t know any songs,” Thessia whispered to him.
The excuse was flimsy, and she knew it. Fortunately, so did Hugh. He turned to his instrument without reply, smiling rakishly.
Under the spotlight, he started to play, shooting Thessia a wink with his harp’s opening notes.
When he hummed the melody, Thessia felt courage flame through her. His heart magic, she knew. She was grateful he was using
his gentle power on her. Even his hum was powerful, and beautiful. She could only imagine what it sounded like when he sang.
She hoped one day he would.
She recognized his song instantly. Not caring that her voice was untrained, Thessia sang the words, her heartstrings coming
to life under Hugh’s musicianship.
“My home is Mythria, my love is here . . .” she sang out. “My home is Mythria, I hold her dear.”
The Mythrian tourists in the tavern sang with them, lending Thessia support. The rest of the crowd swayed in contentment,
and in their embrace, Thessia learned how foreign shores could feel like home.
Her gaze remained locked on Hugh’s. His hold on her—wrapped in music, magic, and perhaps, she wondered, more—was absolute,
and she had the strangest sensation that no one had ever looked at her so fully in her entire life.
In front of everyone, she looked right back.
The night passed in a carnival of drink and song. It was, Thessia determined halfway through her fourth flagon, the very best
night of her royal, restrictive life.
The tavern expected no ceremonious comportment from her. They minded not when she spilled her drink or burped. Their laugher
was friendly, not forced. When Hugh ceded the stage to other musicians, Vestriyan folk songs filled the room. Thessia danced
until the night grew late.
When everyone started to empty out of the Wandering Raven, Thessia felt herself move with the crowd and was deposited outside
on the dark stone street. With mere hours until dawn, Thessia was not certain she was steady enough on her feet to manage
her way home. Nevertheless, she ventured forward.
Until she felt the same calloused hand on her arm.
“You should ride in my carriage, wife,” Hugh murmured.
He held her, and his firm grasp unsteadied her knees even more than the alcohol. When Hugh gently drew her closer, toward his waiting carriage, the onlooking foot soldiers wolverling whistled. Thessia blushed, but found, unexpectedly, she rather enjoyed this manner of embarrassment.
Hugh helped her inside and sat opposite her, then closed the carriage door. Silence roared in Thessia’s ears. The night of
carousing made her much more conscious of their closeness, their privacy. The intimacy of the gilded compartment. Worse—or
was it?—Hugh idly outstretched his hands on his seat, the movement tugging open the collar of his tunic.
Thessia had to pull her eyes to his face. Which, Ghosts, wasn’t much more helpful. “You play wonderfully,” she managed.
Hugh grinned. “It’s the magic,” he deferred. “I make everyone feel relaxed and happy when I hum.”
“You made me courageous.”
“Only a little,” Hugh replied. “You didn’t need much in the way of courage, Thess.”
His compliment—and his casual use of her name, her real name—warmed her like no drink could. She was herself tonight.
She could be herself with him.
“I hope I hear you sing one day,” she said quietly.
Hugh startled. “I—”
Thessia winced. “Forget I said it. I don’t mean to overstep, just to say . . . I don’t know, really.”
She wished she had more drink to erase this mortifying moment forever from her mind.
“I . . . I could sing. Just—only for you,” Hugh replied, his voice serious. Thessia stilled, not wanting to do or say anything
wrong. Everything in her yearned to hear him.
Hugh breathed deeply. Unaccompanied, with only the rolling rhythm of carriage wheels on stone driving forth his melody, he started to sing softly.
Thessia did not know the language of his lyrics.
She did know the music was romantic and melodic.
His voice was sublime, as if from the Ghost’s Gate itself.
She felt herself melting in contentment. Desire stirred in her sharply. She gasped. “You don’t need to put that into your
music, you know,” she chastened him.
Hugh stopped. “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he said. Damn him, the innocence in his dark eyes was convincing.
Thessia swallowed. “You’re already . . . I already . . . Even without the music, I already want . . .”
Oh, this explanation was not going to plan.
Hugh seemed neither amused nor confused, however. His gaze consumed hers.
“You already want what?” he asked.
Thessia supposed she would have withdrawn from the inquiry on other nights. She would have retreated into qualities fit for
queenhood—propriety, politeness, poise.
On this night, stubborn passion took over.
She leaned forward and kissed her husband.
Hugh kissed her back, hard.
Then he was moving forward, hand on her side, cradling her like she was his harp and her delight his sweetest melody. His
other hand rose to her cheek, delicate. Thessia lost herself, the kiss crescendoing while the carriage’s pounding rhythm entwined
with her heartbeat. She was kissing her husband, and it was everything.
The carriage hit an uneven stone, and Hugh fell back, their embrace broken. His chest heaved. His eyes burned. Thessia feared
he’d retake his seat. That with his senses recovered, he’d end what’d only just begun.
Instead, he remained on his knees before her, eyes fixed on hers with desperate supplication.
While the carriage swayed, Hugh did not move.
Slowly, deliberately, she pulled his hands to her thighs, feeling the hot flush of his skin.
Fingers calloused from harp strings and sword hilts caressed her legs, sending shivers through her.
It was irresistible. He was irresistible.
Thessia could rule her composure, could even command her heart. She could not surmount her desire. Not now.
When his hands moved lower, to the undersides of her thighs, Thessia parted her legs to let him come closer.
Hugh welcomed his queen’s summons. He moved forward, so she could wrap her legs around his impressive frame. His rough hands
clenched her soft skin—Thessia reacted on instinct, crossing her heels to pull him to her, passion roaring in her pounding
heart.
Locked in their embrace, Hugh didn’t hesitate. His lips met Thessia’s, reprising his song of rogue devotion and unconquerable
need.
While she kissed him deeper, moving with the rhythm of the carriage, Thessia wished the palace would never come. She only
wished this ride would never end.
With Hugh pressing her into the seat, the queen let his music swell within her.