Chapter 17 River #2
“Once again, I must beg we stay upon this current task, though I admit I too have noticed you’ve been less than forthcoming,”
Galwell said. He rose up, and the wind caught his hair just right as he strode past River and Celine toward a stairwell, his cape billowing behind him. “I will never hide. I will find this
impostor myself and battle him for my honor. You said this happened on the field? Then I imagine he will be somewhere below
it. If this may be my end, please let my family know I am sorry for dying again. I doubt they will forgive me, but please
ask them to try.”
Sighing, River followed him. “At least let me provide backup.”
“Me too,” Celine chimed in.
“What do you have to offer?” River asked. “Your quill?”
It was mean, and not even the true kind of mean. Celine had proven herself quite a capable companion on more than one occasion.
“You’re the one who came to get me,” Celine reminded her.
River wanted to take it all back. Start everything over. Return to her childhood and prevent the acrobats from teaching her
how to swing and flip. Choose a different life altogether. But there was no time. There was never enough time. Galwell was
already running at a pace that required all her energy to match, and she feared what would happen if she lost him.
The stairwell took them down to the field level. Galwell used his strength to open a secured door that led to the inner workings
of the stadium.
“Galwell!” Galwell yelled. “Come out at once!”
River was comforted by his dogged insistence that he was innocent. She was not, however, comforted by his reckless pursuit
of justice. “If we are to find him, we should consider being quiet, for one. We should also seek the nearest washroom, where
he’s likely disguising himself for escape.”
“That’s very clever,” Galwell said, turning to offer River a smile of approval.
“What can I say? The guild doesn’t pay me the moderate farthings for nothing,” River replied.
“Here,” Celine whispered. “A washroom.”
Galwell wasted no time punching through the locked door, where they found a security guard sitting atop the toilet with his
pants around his ankles and a pained expression on his face.
“No! Please!” the guard yelled. “My stomach fell ill while pursuing you! I promise I will bring you no harm! I have a family!
Please!”
River knew this kind of groveling well. She’d heard more than one plaintive cry from both the innocent and the guilty.
Nearly everyone begged in the end, mentioning loved ones or cherished animals or whatever else they valued too much to leave behind.
The times River had faced a dagger at her throat or an arrow pointed at her heart, she’d never had anything to say.
There was no one who would miss her. She only knew that she would miss herself.
That was how she kept her composure. She reminded herself that she’d miss her thoughts.
They were entertaining. And no one else in the realm could handle her power the way she did.
But there was no explaining that to someone who wanted her dead.
So she’d squeeze her lips tight and stare her attacker in the eye, waiting until the very last moment to teleport herself out of the way.
Just beyond the washroom, shouting began in the tunnels.
“We’ve found him!” someone yelled. Another guard, River figured. “But we need backup! His strength cannot be matched!”
“Let me look first,” River said. She did not know who she said it for—Galwell or Celine. Both, she supposed. They were equally
likely to charge toward this situation without any forethought.
In fact, that’s precisely what they did, leaving River to scramble after them.
Around the corner, a group of guards had Galwell pinned against a wall. It was a brain-aching sight, because the real Galwell was only a few paces to River’s right. Glancing between the two, River could spot no obvious difference. The only
thing this impersonator lacked was the glop of oil on his tunic.
“Well, now you’ve ruined it,” the impersonator said in a bored voice, locking eyes with the real Galwell. “They can’t know
there are two of us.” With unnerving ease, the impersonator shook off the guards who’d pinned him to the wall, punching them
with such force that their necks cracked at unnatural angles.
Each guard crumpled to the ground.
For a brief moment, relief flooded River’s system.
Galwell had been telling the truth. He was still good.
Rage quickly followed. For the violence this impersonator was inflicting.
For his attempt to harm the real Galwell’s reputation.
This was the exact evil that the guild was supposed to fight against. This was what she’d been trained to stop.
River charged toward him. She had no time to reach into her satchel for the poison dart she’d intended to use on the real
Galwell all those days ago. She would use her fists. It would have to be enough.
“No!” Celine screamed. “You cannot fight him! He will kill you!”
It was only when River slammed into the impersonator with the entire force of her body that she noticed he’d made no effort
to resist. He was standing so still it was almost like he wanted River to do this.
Up close, she could see the very faint sheen of charm that coated him. Villains were fond of employing hand magic transformations
to avoid detection, so River had gotten good at identifying the way the charm shimmered ever so slightly. She could see it
all over this man. Even atop his clothing.
He was no Galwell the Great. Yet somehow, he had not just Galwell the Great’s appearance, but also his legendary strength.
“Thank you,” the impersonator said, squeezing River’s shoulders so tightly it hurt.
Then he vanished into thin air.
Stunned, River looked back to a dazed Galwell. Celine had already begun checking the guards’ bodies for a pulse.
“They’re all dead,” River said gravely. She didn’t need to get up close to know. “And now he’s disappeared.”
A new urgency dawned on Galwell’s face. “Earlier, in the Notable Persons compartment, a man grabbed my shoulders as I was
leaving. It struck me then as odd, the way he’d gripped me. He’d gone out of his way to bump into me, but I was too distracted
by my own inner turmoil to think about it further.”
“What are you suggesting?” River asked.
“That perhaps . . . perhaps he was able to copy my power when he did that,” Galwell said.
“And someone else charmed his entire appearance, even his clothing?” Celine was still checking the guards, even though they
were all as dead as River had told her they were.
“It’s a common practice among villains,” River told her.
“Interesting,” she said, reaching for the quill in her hair, then remembering herself. “So he copied Galwell’s powers. And
just now he copied yours?”
River knew of only one man with that kind of power. A member of the Deathrose Guild she’d never met, only heard tell of his
work at various guild events.
“Yes,” River said. “He’s a mimic.”
She almost laughed. If it was true, and he hadn’t vanished, but teleported, then this situation was far less dire than it currently seemed. The mimic surely thought he had an advantage, borrowing
her power for escape. But River had seen him up close. She could tell him and the real Galwell apart. Which meant she could
successfully teleport to him, no matter where he went. And she’d had years of practice in the delicate, dangerous art of her
magic.
This mimic knew nothing.
Closing her eyes, River imagined the charmed shimmer that covered him—a phony, hollow Galwell indeed.
She landed atop a snowy mountain peak.
“Really?” she said, her teeth already chattering as frigid winds whipped her hair every which way. “Here?”
“What?” The mimic was sitting with his knees pulled into his chest, gazing out above the clouds. “I’ve never seen the view
from atop the Evriel Mountains.”
“Who do you work for?” she asked.
“You know the answer.”
“The guild would never do what you did to those guards.”
“Sweetheart,” the mimic cooed. The charm that disguised him was beginning to wear off. His hair was no longer red and flowing.
It was short and brown, with a round patch of baldness at the crown. “The guild has new directives now.”
His tunic, which had been charmed green to match Galwell’s, began to fade into black. She gripped it in her hands, swirling
the changing fabric around her fists. Wrinkles had begun to etch themselves into the mimic’s long, sharp face.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
The mimic shoved River off him. “Ugh, fine. I’ll take in the majesty of this scenery later.”
He vanished.
River followed.
She would be the one to find out what had really happened to the guild. Not Celine. This was River’s story to learn.
She landed in a field of sweet-smelling jasrose flowers, with florabees buzzing about, collecting nectar.
“For my girlfriend,” the mimic said, arranging a makeshift bouquet. “She loves gifts.”
River yanked the flowers from his hands and tossed them to the ground. “What do you mean the guild has new directives? Who
is in charge? And who in the guild charmed you to look like Galwell?”
Unbothered, the mimic gathered up fresh jasroses. He didn’t even have the dignity to look River in the eye as he said, “You’ll
never be welcomed back into the guild.” He squashed a florabee beneath his boot. “You’re on our list, too.”
He vanished again.
The next place they landed was somewhere precarious. The mimic dangled by his fingertips from a tree branch that hung over the edge of a roaring, majestic waterfall. His jasrose bouquet had already plummeted into the raging water, and by the looks of it, the mimic was soon to follow.
The charm that disguised him had faded completely. He wore the monogrammed clothing of a stadium usher, and the haunted expression
of a man staring down certain death.
River hung beside him on the branch, relishing the terrified glint in his eyes and his desperate, white-knuckle grip. She