Chapter 18 Galwell
Galwell
What the fuck just happened?
Galwell the Great did not like profanity. He did not condone rough language where eloquence could combine clarity with courtesy.
Yet in his present situation, Galwell could not help the desperate question pounding in his head.
What the ever-loving, Ghosts-damned fuck just happened?
The corpses of the guards smoldered grotesquely. This was no illusion. No, this was gruesome, and real, and . . . Celine’s
doing.
She’d somehow summoned fire, killing the pair of men instantly. How? What was more, how could she have concealed this power from everyone? He considered her his companion, his friend, though
he’d not known her long. It unnerved him, witnessing what devastation waited entirely concealed under her skin.
What else was she hiding? How many other secrets were his “friends” withholding?
He felt desperately disoriented. Homesick for the realm that made sense.
While he stood stunned, unmoving, over the charred men, more guards rounded the corner. When they saw the man they hunted
for the murder of their prince standing over more viciously slain bodies, they came to the reasonable conclusion. Crossbows
flew to the ready in their hands, pointing straight at Galwell.
For the second time today, it very much looked like Galwell had killed someone. This was the worst Realm Chalice of his life, the hero thought darkly. Even worse than when the Paramar Pirates had utterly routed the Falcons, seven horse arches to zero.
He would not allow appearance to become reality. No one would die facing the genuine Galwell the Great in this stadium.
He raised his hands in surrender.
“I know it looks like I am guilty of horrible crimes today,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly. “I assure you I am not,
but I trust justice to prevail, and I understand you must arrest me. It is your job. I do not wish for further bloodshed.”
The guards exchanged looks. Admittedly, the smoking corpses in front of Galwell offered little corroboration of his peaceable
intentions. The men reluctantly closed in, crossbows raised warily.
Galwell would clear his name. He knew he would. He would submit himself to the king and queen’s justice. Honorable judicial
thoroughness would prevail.
None of it would change how carnage and chaos had reigned this day. Sadness settled over him slowly.
He knelt, compliantly putting his hands behind his back, hoping this would help matters.
When the guards descended on him, wrestling him into restraints despite his lack of resistance, he caught—in the shadows—a
flash of shimmering purple.
Mona watched, unseen by the guards. In her gaze he found . . . concern.
Would this day never cease to surprise him?
While he was not in the fondest spirits regarding his relationship with Mona, right now was not for irritating, incomprehensible romantic jealousies. Mona was . . . Damn it, Mona was his friend, too, or something like
it. Something close enough that he did not wish for the guards to spot her, too.
As the men hauled him to his feet, Galwell thought very intently, I’ll be fine. We will sort this out.
Mona looked to him, hearing his thought.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, lingering on the edge of the shadows. As if she wanted to come forth and defend him.
She didn’t, for which Galwell could not fault her. She was still Mona the Merciless, her reputation preceding her. Criminal
notoriety did not exactly lend itself to leaping into the midst of law enforcement proceedings. She started to withdraw into
the darkness.
Tell the others I’m being taken into custody, Galwell thought loudly.
Mona nodded. Then she vanished into the shadows.
Without resistance, Galwell permitted the guards to lead him through the hallways and out of the stadium. Sunlight stabbed
his eyes.
He moved slowly, keeping his head bowed, trying his very best to reassure the very nervous guards.
They were reaching the city streets when he heard the first shout.
Not of horror or rage. The sound was one of disgust.
Passersby had glimpsed him emerging from the stadium in custody. The cacophony grew—gasps, now of horror, conjoined with jeering,
snarling, and insults Galwell had never heard in his life. For him.
As he and the guards continued forth, Vestriyans started hurling trash at him. Shankfries and spice-salted potatoes and spat
sizzle crystals from the Realm Chalice poured down on Galwell and the guards. When they’d nearly reached the prison cart,
someone’s half-full flagon of mead struck him directly in the chest, dousing him.
He understood the people’s ire. They were hurting, frightened. Looking for someone to pin their pain on. They thought he’d
murdered their beloved future king.
But he’d never had people react to him with such loathing. Never. He was their villain.
He hated it.
Though he sympathized with his tormentors, Galwell still found himself quietly furious. None of this was his fault. Try though
he might—his entire life was out of his control these days. He felt foolish, possessed of gargantuan strength yet unable to
exert control where it counted. What good was hefting hroxen when he couldn’t defend his own destiny?
The guards stowed him inside the barred carriage while the venomous crowd continued their tirade. Finally, the horses took
off down the royal boulevard and Galwell realized where they were escorting him.
The palazzo. Where the king and queen of Vestriya waited.
Attendees from the match ran behind the carriage, eager to hear the crown’s judgment. Eager for his downfall. Galwell did
his best to hold himself up straight in his shackles. When the carriage halted outside the palace, Galwell lifted his head
high. The king and queen were mourning, he reminded himself. Their suffering was far greater than his own. He would help them
get justice for their loss. Honor would prevail.
Soldiers held the crowd back as they escorted Galwell from the carriage into the castle. When the heavy iron doors closed
behind him, the sounds of jeering faded into an angry echo, replaced by his footsteps and the clanking of his chained wrists.
Upon reaching the throne room, Galwell knelt. Neither the king nor queen stood. The deadliest hush Galwell had ever heard
descended over the gilded room.
“Galwell True,” the king pronounced. “You were welcomed into our realm as a guest. We have always shared strong ties with
your homeland. The fact you would attack us is . . . a grave disappointment.”
Galwell cleared his throat, eyes downcast in respect. Heroism demanded honesty. He wished the king and queen no further grief, but he would not honor falsehoods.
“Your Highness, I did no such thing,” he replied. “It was an assassin. He was magicked to look like me and possessed his own
hand magic to mimic others’ powers. This is a plot—a conspiracy against us both.”
The king’s expression did not change. The queen shifted in her seat with what looked like impatience.
Galwell felt his cheeks flame. Yes, he heard how his protestation sounded. Like Elowen when she’d shattered their mother’s
precious glass vase playing horseball on broomsticks indoors and blamed wood sprites for the misdeed.
“And the guards beneath the coliseum?” the king returned. “Was there yet another assassin wearing your face standing over
them?”
“No,” Galwell replied miserably. “But it wasn’t me. I didn’t kill anyone.”
The king leaned forward quickly. “Who did, then?” he snapped.
The sudden viciousness on the man’s soft features, his skin like fine suede, startled Galwell, but the hero held his tongue
hesitantly. He was experiencing ignominy for the first time and very much disliking it. But to betray his companions, his
crew? Then he would be a villain even to himself. He knew not what had happened with Celine, but he would not disavow his
friend.
He shut his mouth. He hung his head.
The king withdrew, frowning—
“Galwell!”
A door behind the thrones flew open.
“Galwell, are you all right?” Thessia cried out, breathless from rushing there.
“I’m sorry.” The king spoke to Galwell despite Thessia’s interruption. “You leave me with no choice. You have killed the heir to Vestriya, our son, and gravely wounded our second son and the only future we have now.”
“What?” Thessia interjected, her gaze whipping to the king and queen. “Prince Ario is—”
Vestriya’s queen cut Thessia off coldly. “He was injured in the attack as well,” she insisted. “Our healers have fought to
preserve his life, but he sleeps. We don’t know if he will wake.”
Yet Thessia, Galwell found, only looked wary. Her confusion changed into guarded poise. Odd.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she replied.
“Stand over the lifeless body of your first son,” the queen hissed, “and then you may lecture me on what makes sense.”
Thessia’s mouth worked, like she wanted to refute the queen’s point but knew not how. Galwell’s hurting heart went out to
her, too.
“Galwell, we charge you with conspiracy and violence against the crown,” the king of Vestriya declared.
The hero hardly heard him, so preoccupied was he with everyone else—yes, he might be the one in custody, but Ario was wounded,
his friends were separated, who knew what was happening with Celine.
“For these crimes, we sentence you to be executed. Immediately.”
At last, Galwell looked up.
Thessia’s face had gone utterly pale, her fine features horror stricken. It was the first thing he noted. Not the king’s and
queen’s uncompromising expressions, nor even . . . whatever he felt, hearing his death sentence be handed down.
He was . . . numb. His blood pounded in his ears. Thessia’s distress commanded his focus. What did it mean that even now,
his first feeling was for her? The desire to spare her the pain of the royal judgment, not his own sense of self-preservation?
Was it ironic? Was it just . . . Galwell?
Is it the same stupid noblesse that got me here? whispered something from shadowy corners of his thoughts.