Chapter 20 Thessia
Thessia
What a honeymoon.
Thessia had fought back tears for the past several hours over Galwell’s safety and whatever remained of her relationship with
Hugh—not to mention her political position in Vestriya.
All were utterly ruined. She was engaged to a man whom she did not love, who did not love her, and she was struggling to keep
the realms from war.
Deep down, Thessia felt guilty. For once, she’d seized her own independence. For once, she’d flattered herself with the pretense
of leading her own questing party.
Look where it had gotten them. What a queen she was. Thessia the Thoughtless, she deemed herself darkly. Thessia the Terrible.
She stood now in front of the guards preventing her from entering Ario’s chambers in the Vestriyan palace. Guards she knew—guards
with whom she’d drunk just the other night. It felt like years ago, her moments of inspired, inebriated liberation. When she
was, if only for one night, gloriously free.
Thessia knew it was nothing short of miraculous that the guards were not throwing her out of the palace entirely. Instead,
she would continue her residency under the royal roof, though she suspected the king and queen only permitted this in order
to spy on her.
The peace with Vestriya was, put generously, tentative. Galwell had escaped without Thessia’s help, fortunately. The Vestriyan crown could not blame Mythria for his misdeeds without outright war. However, if they found the formerly heroic fugitive, they would kill him.
Thessia hoped he was very, very far from here. Out of the city or even the realm, if possible. If she found him, she would have to marry him in hopes of reversing the king’s rash, vengeful judgment and preventing war.
While Thessia’s presence in the palace was for the moment entertained, her permissions, however, were unsurprisingly restricted.
She’d ventured to Ario’s chambers to investigate the only problem she could—the rumors of the other prince’s injuries.
She had watched Ario leave with the fallen Ezio, panicked but entirely unharmed. None of the conjurations captured Ario clearly,
however, and the scribes were reporting uniformly that the prince was bedridden.
“Please,” Thessia implored the chamber guards. “I only wish to offer my support to the healing prince.”
Remorse flickered over the guards’ faces. “No one is to be admitted,” one replied reluctantly. “King’s orders.”
Thessia chewed her lip. She did not want to push matters with the king, not with how precarious their relationship was right
now.
Yet she needed to do something. Only the hope of helping, of furthering justice or protecting her silver-haired poetical friend, quieted the guilt pounding
in her exhausted heart.
“He must be so lonely,” she insisted. “I brought poetry to read to him.”
She held up the book she’d found in her room—Voluminous and Visionary Verses for the Vivification of Our Fair Realm. The title did not inspire confidence, leaving Thessia wondering why they had not gone with Fair Vestriya, which seemed to be right there.
The guard hesitated, looking torn by the thoughtful gesture.
“Look.” He dropped his voice. “He’s not even here. He’s been moved to the Pale Palace.”
Thessia startled. The Pale Palace was renowned even in Mythria for employing unconventional methods to solve impossible medical
problems. Some swore by the unimaginable gifts of its hand magicians, whose underground studies—for the purpose of concealing
their practices—gave them the ghostly complexions for which their place of healing was named. Others found their methods . . .
less commendable.
The other guard shifted uncomfortably. “The king doesn’t want anyone to know how vulnerable the throne is right now,” he offered.
“I hear he’s recovering slowly. There’s no need to worry,” the first guard reassured Thessia, seeing her widened eyes.
Thessia respectfully disagreed. There was, she felt, very much reason to worry.
She knew she would get nowhere convincing these noble guards of the suspicions starting to form within the fog of doubt in
her mind, however. Nor did she need the king knowing of her concern for Ario’s condition, given her connection to his other
son’s alleged assassin. She smoothed her features. “Very well,” she replied gently. “Thank you for your time. Please tell
me if there is anything I can do to help the prince.”
She started to leave, having meant the offer only in idle pretense of her generosity.
“Your Highness?” The man spoke hesitantly. “There is one thing . . .”
Thessia spun, inquisitive.
“Wait here,” the guard requested.
He entered Ario’s chambers quickly and shut the door.
Thessia did what he asked, uncomprehending.
She fought down the hope starting to speed her heart.
Was it possible she’d gained their confidence enough for them to provide her more confidential information?
More indication of Ario’s safety, or his peril?
Instead, when the door reopened, the guard returned carrying a glass container. Inside, Thessia found Benjamin the snail.
Or, Benjamin’s shell, really. While she could glimpse the chartreuse creature inside, Benjamin had withdrawn in fear, or discontent,
or possibly—Thessia feared—mourning. Or perhaps he was hungry.
“Can you take care of him?” the guard implored. “The king has declined to make arrangements for him. Right now, me and the
guys are taking turns sneaking in to feed and clean his habitat. But—if you don’t mind, it would be less dangerous for us
if—”
Thessia gently took the container from him. “Of course I will,” she reassured him. She noticed Benjamin emerge just a little
from his shell when he heard her voice. “I’ll keep him safe until Ario returns,” she promised.
At the mention of Ario’s name, Benjamin’s eye stalks extended. He twirled them excitedly. Thessia could not help smiling slightly.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” the guards each replied.
Returning to her chambers, Thessia felt, improbably, how responsibility for the snail heartened her. This was something to do. Not perhaps for Galwell, or Mythria, or her friends, but for someone—someone slimy and horseball-sized,
yes, but important nonetheless—who needed her help.
The fortified feeling lasted until Thessia opened her chamber doors.
Hugh’s suitcases were half packed on the cushioned coverlet of their royal bed. He stood over them, calmly returning his clothing
to his luggage. He said nothing when she entered.
The sight’s wounding shock to Thessia’s heart was instantaneous.
Pretending to ignore him, and therefore her hurt, she continued into the bathing chamber, where she opened Benjamin’s container, lifted out the compliant snail and placed him on the cool stone.
She felt bad he’d probably spent much longer than usual cooped up.
When she picked some flowers from the plants flourishing on the windowsill and placed them in the marble tub, Benjamin slimed over to them happily.
Forcing her steps, she returned to the bedchamber. Though the political situation demanded Thessia remain in the palace, she
knew Hugh could not. Their precarious position, including Galwell’s safety, relied on the painful truth they’d just told the
king of Vestriya. They were, officially, no longer on their royal honeymoon.
Still.
While Thessia had made the sacrifice of her declaration willingly, she was not expecting how much it would hurt to see Hugh
go. Heroism had its price, she found herself realizing. Galwell had long known this—Galwell, who had in their youth intended
to marry her out of honor. Galwell, who had laid down his life to save his friends and his realm.
She’d never fully recognized everything he did for her, for Mythria, too wrapped up instead in her own frustration with being
the one needing to be saved.
Now she understood. Now it was her turn.
Hugh packed slowly, still silent. His fingers folded his clothing, the well-stitched but unpretentious, unshowy garments Thessia
knew he preferred. His fingers—the same ones she’d watched strum desire on his harp just the other night, pulling her heartstrings now.
Remembering that night, Thessia decided that while Galwell knew more than she of heroism’s costs, she’d learned something
the hero hadn’t. Sometimes, she had to claim the small happiness she could while she could.
“Hugh,” she said softly.
“I’ll be out soon,” he murmured. “I promise.”
He would not meet her gaze. Will he miss me? Is he feeling heartbroken like I am? She dared not entertain the possibility. Likelier he was frustrated. He felt foolish, or scorned. Chances were, he would
never forgive her.
Still.
“I know,” Thessia persisted. “I just—I’m sorry things had to end this way for us.”
When Hugh smiled sadly, it let the quickest sliver of hope into her heart. Perhaps he did not hate her for this.
“Me too,” he replied simply.
The sliver opened wider, into a reckless rush. Hugh reached for the shirt folded next to his suitcase.
Thessia put her hand on his.
He did not look up. “We can’t,” he said with quiet urgency. “If they were to find out . . . Galwell would have nothing to
protect him.”
The rush was now a roar. For in Hugh’s furtive declaration, Thessia heard everything felt but not said.
She stared, hoping to force him to meet the unwavering demand in her eyes.
“Can’t what, Hugh?” she returned breathlessly.
Now he did meet her gaze.
Thessia saw what she felt raging within herself. She recognized the fire in his eyes. When he did not reply, she summoned
her courage. Sometimes courage was for heroism. But sometimes, she determined, it could be for her.
“If we find Galwell, I’ll have to marry him,” she said.
Hugh’s knuckles whitened as he squeezed his poor shirt. “I know.”
“I’ll be signing away any chance of passion I could have had—forever. He and I don’t feel that way for each other. I’ll never—”
She swallowed. “I’ll never know what it’s like.”
“Thess.” Hugh’s voice was stripped raw.