Chapter 32 Galwell
Galwell
Galwell concentrated on the quest.
Much too much would have occupied the hero’s head otherwise. He feared he would lose himself irrevocably were he to spend
even one moment recollecting, reliving, re-glorying in the wondrous memory of having sex with Mona.
Then there was the calamitous fallout with Clare, who’d stomped off, declaring he needed “the strongest ale in Vestriya” to
contend with recent events. Galwell felt guilty. Galwell the Guilty. He hadn’t planned on romance during his Vestriyan refuge. He certainly hadn’t planned on romance with his closet friend’s
sister ever.
Yes, there was entirely overmuch going on in the hero’s personal life.
Galwell focused on following Mona through the catacombs under the Grand Theatre. They were bound for backstage, where they
would watch Thessia and keep the queen safe.
Mona guided them using her magic. Whenever she detected guards’ thoughts, she pulled Galwell with her into the closest doorway
or shadowy corner. The concealment inevitably drew Galwell close to Mona. Mona, whose scent of roselia petals opening on winter
nights haunted him. Mona, whose soft skin enchanted him.
Mona, who’d rocked his realm with her—
The quest. I must focus on the Ghosts-damned quest.
Thank the Ghosts, they reached backstage. Galwell scouted their surroundings the same way he would enemy ramparts or nightwalker tunnels. Onstage, magicians were engaged in some manner of performance where they play-fought conjurated mythical beasts.
Galwell would have spectated were he not questing. Their dragon special effects were marvelous.
Unfortunately, he had surveillance to conduct. Dismayingly, backstage was crowded. Contestants waited in line for their turn
in the spotlight. Magicians and engineers enhanced the performance, monitoring instruments of glass globes and colored currents
corresponding to music and lighting. Conjurists enhanced the stage with projections of Vestriya Now’s ubiquitous logo on the
glittering curtains and painted theater ceiling.
The effects were stunning in composite. There was no question why this was the premiere performance competition in the realms.
Pity one sex-starved, danger-damning hero could not enjoy them.
Galwell was completing his reconnaissance when Mona waved cheerfully. “Best wishes saving the realm,” she offered him. “Drop
by when you’re done sometime!”
She strode for the exit.
Galwell fought past his surprise. He leapt to her side. Grabbing Mona’s wrist required withstanding the rush of contact with
her skin, which he only just managed while retaining consciousness. “What?” he got out. “Where are you going?”
Mona looked up innocently, like her departure was the expected result of the day’s proceedings. “To Mythria, apparently. Cloudcliff
Village,” she replied. “That’s where Clare’s thoughts said our parents are.” She gave him a wry smile. “I’m off for some revenge!”
“Now?” Galwell asked, not releasing her hand. “It couldn’t wait—oh, I don’t know, one hour?”
Mona’s coy cheer disappeared. Her eyes hardened. “I told you this would happen,” she reminded him. Menace sharpened her every word. “I warned you that you wouldn’t like the real me.”
“This isn’t the real you,” Galwell ground out.
Mona ripped her wrist free. She drew nearer. “Imagine growing up miserable and poor among the very worst bandits in Mythria,”
she hissed. “Imagine hearing in your parents’ heads how much of a burden your existence was every single day.”
Despite their closeness, Galwell could only focus on the pain-drenched poison in Mona’s voice.
“Imagine running away because you’re desperate to stop ruining your family’s lives. Imagine moving to a new realm, losing
everyone you love,” Mona went on.
Desperate. Yes, desperation was what he heard from her now. To escape her past? Or merely for him to understand how she never could?
“I’m not a hero. I’m not my happy, silly brother.” Tears of rage filled her eyes. “I’m not you,” she spat. “I’m not here to
save the day for a realm that doesn’t deserve it.”
For several long moments, Galwell said nothing.
Mona’s mind-reading magic was her gift and her curse. Galwell found himself possessed of his own damning gift now—understanding.
He understood Mona. He understood her wholly. Her unforgiving determination. Her vow of vengeance. Her wounds were permanent,
so she’d sharpened her scars into weapons.
Worse, he understood the impossibility of what he was asking of her. Forgiveness? For what she’d endured? But heroism demanded
his effort.
Yes, heroism meant fighting evil would-be rulers or vanquishing rampant monsters. Sometimes, though, it meant this. Facing
down the darkness rising in the soul of someone he loved.
“Just wait,” he pleaded. “Wait, and . . . We can talk about this. We need you, Mona. We need you now.”
Her eyes widened. She’d heard the war raging in his heart. She knew what he was offering. Not condemnation, not rejection.
Patience. Something more, even.
She sighed deeply. “Assassin approaching from your left,” she announced.
Upon her warning, Galwell reached out with one massive hand, intercepting the black-booted woman rushing toward him—it was
one of those twins, he remembered from their Grotto escape, the square-headed, sneering Mary—and knocking her unconscious
with one heavy thump on the head. “See?” he implored Mona. “We make a good team. Stay. Help us. Help me.”
His encouragement earned him an eye roll. “If I stay, it doesn’t change anything,” she informed him. “You’re still going to
have to accept that I am who I am.”
“I know who you are, Mona,” Galwell said, his voice low.
Mona shook her head sadly.
She doubted him. Well, what of it? Galwell the Great had contended with impossible odds. He’d endured the unendurable. He’d
returned from death itself, hadn’t he? He could prove to the woman he loved the goodness he saw in her.
His determination evidently distracted Mona, for he’d never seen her startle the way she did when Thessia greeted them. “Dear
friends,” the queen said, clasping their shoulders. She was heading into the catacombs, dressed in a robe like she was in
between costume changes for the performance. “Everything going well, I trust?”
Galwell reprimanded himself. He should have focused on his surroundings. Reconnaissance. The quest! He should not have let
Thessia surprise him. He was protecting her!
“Yes. We’re here to watch your back,” he replied confidently, hiding his chagrin.
Thessia smiled. The expression did not entirely reach her eyes. Galwell felt sudden sympathy for the queen. While the plan
rested on every one of their shoulders, everything Thessia did, she did knowing the Deathrose Guild wanted her life.
Her composure was queenly. Her courage was heroic.
“Good. Good,” she repeated nervously. “Perhaps you could go ahead of me to my dressing room and make sure it’s empty?”
“Yes, of course,” Galwell reassured her. “With the two of us”—he gestured to Mona—“we’ll be able to find and remove anyone
seeking to do you harm.”
Thessia nodded, not looking entirely reassured.
Galwell led Mona in the direction Thessia gestured into the catacombs. He was, he recognized despite the direness of their
circumstances, delighted Mona had not left. He could get through to her, he knew he could—
Contemplating these hopeful possibilities, Galwell nearly did not notice the assassin who stepped in front of them, long dagger
in hand.
He whirled, only to find another knife-wielding cloaked figure closing off the corridor. They were ambushed.
Mona looked frustrated. Galwell felt guilty—had his thoughts preoccupied her, preventing her from hearing the assassin’s mind
nearby?
He thrust Mona protectively behind him, preparing himself for the first knifeman closing in. Galwell lashed out with one powerful
kick—
Which did not connect. Galwell wobbled while his boot struck the oncoming man with meager force. The man stumbled, slowed
but not injured.
Unnerved, Galwell punched his opponent in the face. The punch would have shattered other men’s jaws. Galwell expected teeth to clatter on the catacomb floor.
Instead, the punch sent pain shooting into Galwell’s knuckles. He gasped involuntarily—did punching hurt everyone else like this?—while the assassin only grunted.
Galwell withdrew, his movements clumsy. Weak.
The assassin swiped his long knife, slashing Galwell’s shoulder. The hero’s resistance to pain would have made the injury
insignificant under ordinary circumstances. These were not, Galwell knew now, ordinary circumstances. The gash stung deeply,
consuming his concentration.
He collapsed into Mona, who clung to his hulking, helpless form. She hunched, her eyes disoriented, her movements uncoordinated.
Nothing like when he’d fought her. When she could predict his every move. Instead . . .
“You can’t read their minds, can you?” he exhaled. “You didn’t hear this ambush coming, either.”
Pale, Mona shook her head. When the other assassin stabbed, she only just managed to dodge out of the way.
“Something is wrong,” she uttered.
Oh, he knew.
They’d lost their magic. Somehow, something had stolen their power in the past . . . minutes? Hours? Mona had read his mind
in their imprisoned liaison. When had he last possessed his inordinate strength? He could not remember.
He leaped out of the way of his assassin’s next furious stroke. What did he have left? No magic. No realm. No reputation.
He was no hero here. Galwell the Gruesome. He was no hero to himself, either. Galwell the . . . nothing.
He was nothing.
What choices did he have? He could die nobly, defending Mona . . . who would undoubtedly meet the same fate moments thereafter. Without her magic, she was uncoordinated and frightened, just like him. He could surrender, hoping for the guild’s mercy. Or . . .
He rammed his knee up, right into his assassin’s precious stones. The man yelped, folding inward over his crotch.
Or Galwell the Great could fight dirty.