Chapter 39 Thessia
Thessia
The portrait captured Benjamin’s likeness handsomely, Thessia thought. The tapestry depicted him just as Thessia remembered,
on the epauletted shoulder of Vestriya’s new king.
His eye stalks extended enthusiastically. His chartreuse color was perfect.
Ario himself stood majestically in the portrait, decorated in kingly all black, no doubt inspired by River. The depiction
found him in front of Vestriyan canals, his pale hair windswept. The Poet King—he insisted upon the moniker—held a quill and
parchment.
“I think it’s magnificent,” Galwell volunteered, no hint of irony or insinuation in his voice. “How lucky you are to have
such a lovely portrait to display.”
River examined the likeness more closely. “I believe one of his horrible poems is actually written on the scroll,” she observed.
“He’s improved a little,” Hugh mused, his hand on the small of Thessia’s back.
River winced, scrutinizing the scroll. “He used pulchritudinous.”
Thessia had no defense for pulchritudinous. “Well, he’s making a wonderful king,” she replied. “We received official missives from him, informing us of Vestriya’s progress.
He’s happy, and Vestriya is rebuilding. He sent this portrait as a sign of the enduring friendship between our realms.”
Galwell hmmed.
Thessia rounded on him. “What?”
The hero shrugged. “I’m afraid that means you’ll have to send one back.”
The queen’s face fell. She’d never liked official portraits.
“Or you could send him the Wiglaf portrait! It’s nearly finished!” Clare volunteered this idea from the other end of the dining
room.
Thessia clapped her hands together. “Excellent suggestion, Sir Clare!” she enthused. In fairness, the Poet King would perhaps
prefer the portrait of Grandhart’s eagle.
Vandra and Elowen rolled their eyes, while Celine, standing with them, smiled. Everyone had gathered for the intimate banquet
the queen was hosting in the royal dining hall. Nearby, Mona, whom Galwell had brought to Queendom yestereve, was engaged
in illicit gossip with Beatrice—presumably on the subject of Sir Clare himself.
The Queendom palace had, in the month since Thessia’s return from Vestriya, undergone some important changes. Thessia invited
her companions to visit whenever they wished. Not only her friends, either. She’d opened large portions of the palace for
the use of painters and philosophers, scientists and shadow play stars, musicians and magicians. Even poets.
Instead of lonely hallways choked with ceremony and quietly haunted with memories of her parents, they were filled once more
with life.
Seeing everyone together, celebrating their triumphant return, filled Thessia’s heart. This was victory, the queen knew. Friendship. Companionship. Loyalty. Love. Questing meant reaching one’s destination. Victory
meant coming home.
“I cannot believe,” Mona interrupted Thessia’s contented reverie, pausing her gossip with Beatrice, “you left my brother in
charge of the realm.”
“He wasn’t solely in charge—fear not,” Beatrice promised her.
Clare welcomed his sister’s teasing and his lady’s reassuring interjection. The rogue hero grinned.
“Like in all things, Beatrice is my ruler,” he confirmed. Then he leaned closer, eyes on Thessia, and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“But seriously, Thessia. If you ever need someone to take over the realm, we’re here for you.”
Thessia smiled. Her hand found the sharp points of her tiara.
In accomplishing her very own quest, Thessia had not merely found her way home. She’d saved herself using the crown on her
head. She would love every part of the life she’d defended.
“No,” she said. “I’m ready to rule.”
Clare nodded. She caught quiet pride in her courageous friend’s gaze.
“This is why I’ve gathered you here,” Thessia continued, moving to the head of the banquet table. She guided Hugh to take
his place at her right hand. “In my life, I have found myself frustrated with how little purpose I have in my role as queen.
I do not sit on any of Mythria’s councils. I do not make decisions that impact anyone. I am a symbol of good and justice,”
she conceded. “But I do not wish to be only a symbol.”
Celine reached for her quill, sensing a scoop. “Will you participate in the royal councils?” she inquired with poised eagerness.
“While I don’t work for the Spectator anymore, I’d love to cover this story.”
Thessia shook her head. “I do not wish to disrupt the government we have. Nor do I wish to set an example for future rulers
who might use my involvement as precedent to rule absolutely,” she explained. “I will leave governing to those who have studied
and prepared for it all their lives.”
Celine nodded. She wrote nothing down. Her quill lowered while Thessia looked at her expectant friends.
“However,” Thessia said.
Up went the quill.
“While I do not wish to join any of my councils, I think it would be fair if I were to start one,” she declared. “I call now to order . . . the Council of Quests.”
Everyone exchanged glances. Council of Quests, Celine wrote on her napkin.
Excitement hummed in Thessia. She’d envisioned every aspect of her new council on the journey home—including sharing her innovation
with her closest companions. “This new royal council,” she continued, “will be in charge of commissioning quests to spread
good throughout the realm. I would sit on it along with all of you. The greatest heroes of Mythria.”
Of course, Galwell the Great spoke first. “I heartily accept.”
Clare’s smile became lazier. “Now that would be fun,” he commented. He exchanged conspiratorial looks that Thessia did not entirely understand with Beatrice, Vandra,
and Elowen.
River shifted in her seat, appearing conflicted. “Celine and I have some traveling to do,” she said.
Thessia waved a hand in reassurance. “I don’t intend to chain you all to our capital. Go into the world. Live your lives.
Find quests and report back when you can,” she encouraged them.
River nodded, content.
“You all enjoy. I’m not sure I’m ready to publicly declare myself a hero,” Mona announced.
Galwell did not hesitate. He pulled her warmly to his side. “Yes, you are,” he chided gently. “You already told your criminal
underlings to only steal from those with too much.”
Mona flushed. “I told you that in private.”
“You’re one of us, Mona,” Celine commented more softly.
Mona met the other woman’s eyes. Even before they left Vestriya, Thessia noticed the tension between them lightening every day. She had even caught them bonding earlier over their love of handmade crumbiellos from western Vestriya.
Mona’s club’s culinary front was, it turned out, not merely a cover. Mona shyly confessed to considering turning the crumbiello
shop into her empire’s first legitimate enterprise.
“Fine,” Mona conceded. “I’ll join your preposterous do-gooder council. You’ll regret it, though.”
“I know I will,” Clare joked. “Don’t kill any of my friends this time.” He went to shove his sister playfully—but Mona, reading his
intentions, ducked neatly out of the way, leaving Clare shoving his hand into Galwell’s colossal chest. The men humphed in
confusion.
“This will be fun indeed,” Beatrice remarked.
“Worry not, brother,” Mona reassured Clare. “None of these friends would kill you. They all adore you. I would know—I’ve read
their minds.”
“I should like to quest with you again,” Galwell said to his old friends. “I was your leader once, but I think, should we
go out to face evil once more, I would like to follow.”
Beside him, Mona beamed, proud, then tried to hide it when Clare caught her expression.
“Perhaps we’ll take turns leading,” Elowen suggested practically. “We can play stackjack for the role before every quest.”
“Or drinking swords,” Clare suggested. “You’re far too good at stackjack.”
“May I suggest truth or dare?” Beatrice contributed.
“Perhaps something more straightforward, like a foot race!” Galwell supplied.
Hugh held up his hands to silence them. “How about a toast to our new venture, and to our queen.” He took Thessia’s hand.
“To my wife.”
Thessia warmed at Hugh’s words—honest now, luminous with earnest devotion. Life was not the only victory Thessia had wrested from the challenges of her quest. In finding their way home, Thessa had found love that felt like home whenever she and Hugh were together.
“Oh, thank the Ghosts we’re done with the charade that your marriage was a sham,” Elowen murmured.
“I have to work very hard to stay out of their minds,” Mona commented. “Their honeymoon has no end in sight. Every other thought of theirs is
impressively dirty.”
Hugh grinned. Thessia laughed. She could not contradict Mona on this point.
“Who can blame me?” Hugh returned. “I am not ashamed to have consummated my marriage many times over!”
“Consummation of emotional love is wondrous, my friend, is it not?” Galwell commented. “One could even say . . . magnificent.”
He winked at Mona. Thessia felt like she was watching hroxen fly. Galwell the Great making flirtatious innuendo?
Clare had a different reaction. He cleared his throat loudly. “You were mentioning a toast!” he prompted Hugh. Now Mona was
the one to shove her sibling while Clare’s ears pinkened.
Hugh raised his goblet. Everyone followed except Beatrice, whom Thessia noticed had not drunk wine all evening, oddly enough.
Beatrice loved wine.
“To the heroes of Mythria!” Hugh cried out.
Everyone cheered. Everyone but Beatrice drank.
Thessia felt the most uncommon contentment. The kind, she suspected, no quest or throne or lover could ever provide solely.
There was magic called life in the shimmering strands connecting each of them.
Thessia was so proud of what she’d built for herself. Her friends, her husband, her purpose. Herself.
Mona gasped suddenly. Thessia found every one of her companions staring at—her.
“Darling, your . . . hair,” Hugh said.
Glancing to her shoulders, Thessia found her golden hair had returned to her natural chestnut shade. She shrugged. She’d had
fun as a blonde, but she was ready to return to brunette. “The color spell must have worn off,” she explained.
“I’ve spelled my hair before. It never changes that suddenly,” Vandra replied.
Now her friends were examining Thessia like she was the flying hroxen. River stepped closer, intrigued. “Try changing something else,” she prompted. “Your nails or your eye
color.”
Thessia laughed. “What an odd suggestion, River.” She lifted her hand. “As if I could just wish for my nails to be red—”
She blinked. Impossibly, her nails had colored the most passionate of crimson reds.
“Interesting,” River murmured, sounding more vindicated than surprised. “Interesting indeed.”
“What, my love?” Celine asked.
No one’s eyes left Queen Thessia. She was used to the experience, but never had it felt quite like this.
“Tabitha had the magic to silence others’ powers with her touch,” River elaborated. “The effects lasted longer depending on
the type of contact. When I was held prisoner, I was tied up with a magically enhanced rope that Dougal indicated came from
Myke before Hugh slayed him. Myke must have used his magic to imbue it with powers, and when Tabitha joined the guild, she
got her hands on it. I couldn’t teleport for some time even after the rope was removed because it had touched my skin for
so long.”
Thessia could not follow River’s commentary. What relevance had River’s confinement to the color of Thessia’s fingernails—
Until she understood.
“You mean to say Tabitha silenced my magic?” she asked. “But I don’t have magic.”
“Not that you know of,” River returned.
“You’ve been close to Tabitha since you were a child,” Galwell mused. “It’s very possible over all these years she muted your
abilities.”
The idea was . . . head-spinning. Thessia nearly sat down from dizziness.
Instead, contemplating a life rewritten, she giggled nervously. She was used to being the one who wasn’t special without her
crown. She’d lived that story for decades. The ordinary queen, powerful and powerless.
But stories could change.
“All your powers came back when she died,” she pointed out. “Why would mine take until now?”
“Because you did not know your magic was there to tap into,” Hugh replied. “What were you thinking of during the toast?”
“I was . . .” Thessia recalled. Her eyes widened. “I was thinking that I was happy to be me.”
Surprise changed to joy on the faces of her friends. It was perfect. She’d found her magic, this wondrous gift, because she
was appreciating the many other gifts of her non-magical life.
“Oh, you have to try something more fun than nails and hair,” Mona interjected.
Exhilaration coursed through Thessia. “All right,” she agreed. Grinning playfully, she looked at her friends, choosing one.
She concentrated hard—
She felt a rush of enchantment through her. When the effervescence faded, everyone cheered, for the perfect replica of Clare
Grandhart stood in Thessia’s stead.
Clare whooped exuberantly. “Two of me! A gift to us all! Right, Beatrice?”
“It’s quite warm in here, isn’t it?” Beatrice replied.
“To think,” Thessia said in Clare’s voice, “I could have been anyone I wanted all along.”
Anyone she wanted. Assassin, scribe, criminal. Commoner, like the disguises she’d once donned to wander Queendom’s morning streets in peace.
Prince or poet. Hero or villain. She could have escaped herself, like she’d yearned to do in her life of queendom.
But Thessia knew who she wanted to be.
With her dearest companions surrounding her, she returned to herself.
“You’re perfect as is,” Hugh said softly.
Thessia kissed him without restraint. She felt like herself, perfectly home. She would enjoy having magic, but with Hugh,
she did not need it. She couldn’t wait to bare herself, just herself, to him tonight—
“Oh, please, do get a room,” Mona called out.
While everyone whistled, the royal couple separated from each other. Thessia cleared her throat and her embarrassment.
“I recall mentioning,” she said, her demeanor queenly, “you all were invited here under royal auspices.”
River dropped into her seat, grinning. Galwell nodded, duly chastened. “Very right, Your Majesty.”
“My newfound magic will undoubtedly help us in our endeavors. Which is fortunate, for we have much to discuss,” Thessia continued.
“The Council of Quests is hereby called to order. Our first meeting,” the queen said, “starts now.”