Chapter 32 Galwell #2
Yes, Mona the Merciless had rubbed off on him, like Clare said. Sometimes to do good, one has to be bad.
The Deathrose man recovered. When the assassins lunged, Galwell let their knives slash his chest.
Oh, Ghosts, it hurt. He leaned into the feeling. Wailing dramatically, he stumbled into the wall. He found inspiration in
the Chestlewitt play performer he’d watched mawkishly imitate his own death. Clutching his chest, Galwell pantomimed grievous
injury.
The Deathrose Guild men paused. They neared their incapacitated mark, cautiously wondering if they’d completed their mission.
Galwell thought of his friends then, his questing companions who fought without magically enhanced power. Who fought with
something stronger than strength—courage.
He recalled how Beatrice fended off enemies, vicious and determined. How his sister Elowen was careful and quick.
Knowing he had only one chance without his enormous strength, Galwell summoned courage and cunning into the most ferocious
moment of his life. Rising from his slump, he mustered all his regular, ordinary, non-heroic strength into slamming the assassins’
heads together.
In the echo of the loud crack, their assailants crumpled.
“Well done.” Mona straightened, watching Galwell.
“Yes, well,” he panted. “Good thing I’ve learned a thing or two about lying.”
Hardly recognizing himself, he winked. Mona grinned, and Galwell extended his non-magical hands to help her up.
“Where the Ghosts has our magic gone?” he wondered out loud.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “For the first time . . . it’s quiet. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”
He heard panic humming in her voice. Once more, he understood her perfectly. Mona had considered herself cursed with her mind
reading, yet without her magic, she was . . . terrified. Lost in the shadows everyone else confronted.
Galwell felt the same, contending with the same commonplace strength his companions possessed. What Mona needed, he knew,
was comfort.
He clasped her hands, looking right into her eyes. Forcing her to meet his gaze. “You don’t need your magic to know what I’m
thinking,” he reminded her firmly.
Mona’s breathing evened. Her clenched grip relaxed.
“I—suppose you’re right,” she conceded, nearly smiling. “Still, I’d like it back. Have we been poisoned? It’s the guild’s
style.”
“Possibly. Thessia seemed off, too,” he remembered. “I figured she was just nervous. But without magic of her own, perhaps
the poison is making her sick?”
Or killing her, he realized. Fear coursed through him.
Immediately, he was running, Mona with him like she could read his mind even without magic. They needed to find the queen. Presumably she’d fled when the guild cornered them, but where was her dressing room? Mona on his heels,
Galwell retraced their steps.
When they reached backstage, though, nothing was out of place. River had arrived, watching from the wings, distanced from
the stage magicians. Thessia was onstage, having swapped her robe for a stunning crimson gown.
Galwell exchanged glances with Mona. Cautiously, they moved to join River.
“Our next guest is one you aren’t expecting,” Thessia promised. Her voice echoed over the crowd, magically enhanced while
she stood in the circle Galwell saw faintly illuminated onstage. “You’ve been told he’s unwell. That he has been in the Pale
Palace after suffering an undisclosed injury.”
The queen’s manner was changed from their earlier meeting. Thessia presented with confident clarity.
He permitted himself some measure of relief. Either the poison no longer upset Thessia or the effects were mild enough for
her to maintain her composure.
“I will let him tell his story for himself, but, Vestriyans, it is my honor to announce your prince,” she declared. “Ario Vestras.”
Every magician and engineer backstage faltered, while in the theater, the audience hushed. No one knew what was coming—no
one except Galwell and his companions.
His heart pounded, for their plan had reached the precipice of success. The Vestriyan people needed more than heroism, more
than justice. They needed the story of their realm returned to them.
From the crowd, Ario rose.
The theater fell completely silent as the prince strode slowly—protected from guild assassins by thousands of eyes—onto the
stage. Thessia stepped out of the illuminated circle, ceding the enchanted projection to Ario.
“Vestriyans,” Ario greeted his people. “I know you are confused. I promise I will answer every question you have. But to help,
I must start at the beginning.
“My brother was born in spring,” Ario announced fondly. “When the dewdrops hung from the olivera plants like harpies’ tears.”
Thessia rejoined Galwell and Mona offstage while Ario went on.
“I do hope he gets to the point a little faster,” Thessia remarked, watching Ario with nervous excitement. “Audiences can be so impatient.”
“Backstory is necessary,” Mona replied.
Thessia nodded. “He does look good, though,” she conceded. “Kingly.”
“But how are you?” Galwell inquired. He examined Thessia closely for paleness or disorientation. “Mona and I suspect we were
poisoned. The corridor to your dressing room was an ambush.”
Thessia pulled her gaze from the stage. Confusion clouded her expression.
“I don’t have a dressing room,” she said.
No one spoke for a moment.
“But you just pointed us to it,” Mona reminded her.
Fear rose up in Galwell. “Are you all right?” he pressed her. “Perhaps the poison has affected your memory. Mona and I have
lost our magic.”
River had watched their conversation wordlessly, her expression unreadable. The mention of poison could not shake her guild-hardened
demeanor. Galwell knew she preferred remaining vigilant and reserved in such situations, and he had hardly noticed her silent
observance—
Until she reached out to grasp Thessia’s shoulder.
“My magic works just fine,” she said.
Galwell did not have time to intervene. In a flash, River and the queen were gone.