Chapter 24 Galwell #3
problem of the recent attempts on his life. In strode Mona’s contact—
“You,” Galwell said, earnestly surprised.
The moment Sir Cheswick Chestlewitt laid eyes on Galwell, the raven-curled scribe shrieked. Having read his intentions, however,
Mona was faster—she leapt out of the water to cut off Chestlewitt’s path with a knife to the man’s jawline. Where she’d hidden
a knife beneath her flimsy underclothes, Galwell had no idea.
“You’re the one who wants me dead?” Galwell marveled.
“You know this man?” Mona asked.
She did not get out to the theater much, the hero figured. “He’s a playwright,” Galwell explained. “He wrote a play about me and Thessia. It wasn’t well received. And now you want to kill me for it?” he asked Chestlewitt, more out of wonderment than ire. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course it was,” the playwright hissed. “If you had just stayed dead, you would have been the perfect tragic figure. A
real hero worthy of the stage. Alive, you’re . . . just a person,” he finished in disgust.
The insult did not reach Galwell. Just a person. Neither hero nor villain. The notion met him with unsettling relief. He rose from the water, reaching for his enchanted coat
to cover his enormous frame. He tossed Mona hers, which she deftly slipped on while keeping the knife to the playwright’s
neck. Chestlewitt’s eyes darted between his captors.
“You hired the Deathrose Guild,” Galwell said, piecing this together. “Why did they accept the contract? I don’t fit the qualifications
for their marks.”
“I don’t know,” Chestlewitt responded, flustered.
Mona glanced over her shoulder, meeting Galwell’s gaze. “Lie,” she informed him. “The guild told him they too were frustrated
with your return. Villainy was on the decline due to your resurrection, which was bad for the business of killing villains.
So they were pleased to work with Chestlewitt for their own purposes.”
The playwright’s eyes rounded. “How did you—”
“Wait, there’s more,” Mona murmured. She studied Chestlewitt, concentrating with genuine concern now. “They’ve severed their
ties with this man. They were offered a better deal—an easier deal. Someone else hired them to kill the prince. They framed
you for the murder and destroyed your reputation, which they believe has crushed spirits in Mythria and will revive evil in
the realm more effectively than your death.”
Once more Galwell felt himself on that cold, cold mountainside. They’ve destroyed your reputation. They had, hadn’t they? He was now the villain of Vestriya as part of the guild’s greater plan.
“So much for their sacred oath to me!” Chestlewitt fumed, his frustration surmounting his curiosity over Mona’s magical mind
reading. “My greatest work—destroyed. Now you’re no hero. You’re a villain. Who would go to a play about a villain!”
Mona considered the playwright’s premise. “I don’t know. A story about a villain sounds compelling. Not a hero—an antihero. It would be interesting, wouldn’t it?” she mused.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the scribe spat. “No one wants that!”
Ignoring Mona’s dramaturgical contemplation—and her dagger—he looked directly at Galwell.
“Galwell,” he implored. “You need to save my play.”
The once-hero found himself growing furious. He understood the sacrifice of his life in the name of heroism, in the name of defending his realm. The guild had stolen something even more precious to him—his sense
of who he was. His power to inspire. “I don’t care about your play, you dithering dragonwart,” he growled.
Chestlewitt drew back, looking—impressed. “Dithering dragonwart,” he repeated. “Did you come up with that?” He nodded like
he planned to pilfer the insult for himself. “Of course you want to save my play,” he went on impatiently. “It means being
a hero again. Clearing your name.”
“And then dying!” Galwell reminded him.
Chestlewitt stayed silent.
“We’re done here,” Galwell said to Mona. “This man is a weak fool.”
Desperation leaping into his eyes, Chestlewitt licked his lips. Spare us your soliloquies, Galwell nearly said, except he worried the man would latch onto this alliteration as well.
“The guild has new leadership,” Chestlewitt offered. “Risen to the top when their business was weak. This new leader wants
to go further. They want to ensure villainy never dies. Perhaps you’d like to know their plot. Save the day. Be a hero. One fit for the stage.”
Galwell paused. “You’re lying,” he said to the playwright.
Gloating with the victory of an audience reengaged, Chestlewitt grinned. “Ask your beautiful mind reader.” His eyes flitting
to Mona. “I’d love to get your name before I go, by the way. The pages cry out for a . . . a damsel of destruction,” he said with a flourish, inventing the coinage on the spot.
Mona did not respond to his request.
Her face paled. She looked to Galwell.
“He’s telling the truth,” she said urgently. “The guild plans . . . to kill Thessia and take over Mythria.”
Fear clutched Galwell instantly. Of course. He’d known vicious leaders, oppressors intent on inspiring hopelessness, on crushing the realms under their control. They
never stopped with mayhem. They wanted everything.
“It’s horrible, right?” Chestlewitt said, grimacing. “Not even an original concept. I mean, taking over the realm? How trite
and tawdry. Where’s the drama? The emotion?”
Galwell ignored the poetical fool. He’d wanted a chance to be the hero since the moment he set foot in Vestriya. But not like
this. Not when his dear friend was once more in danger. Not when he had no idea who he truly was.
“Who is the guild’s new leader?” he demanded unevenly.
With genuine insouciance, Chestlewitt shrugged.
“I never saw their face. I don’t know. But you’re the only chance to stop them,” he replied. “Save the day, Galwell. Save—my
play!”