by K. M. Shea
Tari relaxed minutely, but she thoughtfully tilted her head as she studied her distant cousin. “I see. If that is so, selfishly I am grateful and honored you are able to attend this party.”
“How long are you staying?” Yvrea asked as she took Gwendafyn’s other hand. “You aren’t expected back right away, are you? We will have such fun together in Haven!”
“I don’t know how long I will be allowed to remain here,” Gwendafyn said carefully. “I believe the decision will depend upon Father.” Worry churned in her stomach—as it had for nearly the entire journey. Will Father side with Aunt Lorius? What do I do if he does?
She caught sight of the concern that darkened Tari’s eyes and made herself smile. “I must beg your pardon for attending your celebration without an invitation, Lady Tarinthali, and I also wish to give my deepest congratulations to you and Sir Arion. May every joy and blessing be yours.”
Tari smiled brightly. “Thank you—though I cannot help thinking everyone is again making this into a bigger occasion than it really is.”
Yvrea laughed sweetly and took Tari’s free hand so they stood in a ring. “You said the same of your wedding because you so greatly underestimate your role in history!”
Gwendafyn nodded in agreement with her sister, but Tari’s smile faded slightly. “Perhaps,” the Evening Star said doubtfully. “It is only that so much has changed…but in many ways, nothing has changed at all.”
“It has. You can see it in the way everyone wishes to celebrate with you and Sir Arion,” Yvrea said. “Both Lessa and Calnor look forward to the birth of your darling child!”
Tari smiled but was unable to respond as a short, portly man Gwendafyn recognized as the Calnor King, His Majesty King Petyrr, burst out of the crowd with a large smile and a line of people trailing him.
The Calnor King shook a finger at a young man and spoke to him in the thick, guttural language of Calnor.
It took Gwendafyn a moment to realize he was—good naturedly—scolding his eldest son, Prince Benjimir.
Benjimir took more after his mother’s stature in his tall height and limber build. His gold hair complimented his handsome green eyes that had likely won him the admiration of many young ladies. Which amounts to nothing, I imagine, based on the way he looks at Yvrea.
It was subtle, but even as King Petyrr addressed him, Benjimir occasionally glanced at Yvrea with marked attention.
King Petyrr laughed heartily and smacked the prince on his back before booming what Gwendafyn imagined was a hearty greeting.
Tari smiled and stepped aside so she could stand between Gwendafyn and Yvrea. “His Majesty King Petyrr wishes too—”
The human king shook his head and spoke a rush of Calnoric, then winked at Tari and elbowed his eldest.
Benjimir had a polite look fixed upon his face. “My Father wishes for me to express his words, so as to spare Lady Tarinthali the trouble of working at her own party.” The prince said in slow but well-pronounced Elvish.
Gwendafyn momentarily quirked her eyebrows—far more impressed with his language skills than his handsome appearance. In the report I received, Father said he spoke some Elvish. But he is quite good. He has a slight accent, but he’s managed our sing-song pitches and tone changes quite well.
“Oh, Benji!” Yvrea smiled brightly, though she did not approach her bond partner. “I did not know you were here today! Welcome home—I’m so happy to see you again.”
Benjimir bowed slightly and the polite set of his mouth thawed to a brief smile. “Thank you. I am glad to be back.”
Yvrea smiled as she reached out to pat him once on his hand.
Gwendafyn watched the interchange, careful not to betray her interest. If her conduct is any indication, Yvrea must not know “Benji’s” antics that earned him the boot. Gwendafyn was aware of the prince’s dishonorable actions only because she had meted out justice over an elf who had attacked Tari. As her father had initially feared the attack was part of a larger scheme and shared his concerns with Gwendafyn, she had to be told of Prince Benjimir’s actions in order to close the issue. Yvrea, apparently, had not been told.
King Petyrr rested his hands on his rotund belly and elbowed his male offspring, then smiled at Gwendafyn.
Back came Benjimir’s polite look. “His Majesty King Petyrr wishes to extend his personal welcome to you, Princess Gwendafyn. He hopes you enjoy your stay.” The human prince stared dispassionately at Gwendafyn. Much of what he said sounded flat. Gwendafyn wasn’t sure if it was because he had practiced it in Elvish so much, or he just frankly didn’t care.
Gwendafyn smiled. “His Majesty is very kind,” she said. “I offer my thanks, and the assurance that I cannot imagine visiting Haven and not loving every moment of it.”
Prince Benjimir nodded, then murmured to his father, interpreting her words.
King Petyrr laughed a little at the translation, then barked a few guttural lines of Calnoric at Prince Benjimir—who ignored him.
When the prince didn’t translate, the king set his hands on his hips and repeated them.
Laughing, Tari leaned slightly into Gwendafyn. “His Majesty King Petyrr also wishes to say that you are quite beautiful, Princess Gwendafyn.”
Gwendafyn laughed. “His Majesty honors me,” she said. She had always enjoyed King Petyrr’s engaging manners, and now they were the balm she needed before facing her father…and the repercussions that might drop down upon her for her love of swordplay.
King Petyrr shifted slightly so he smiled dotingly at Tari, then clucked at his oldest child and lectured him in Calnoric.
Prince Benjimir bore the public scolding, though Gwen didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to Yvrea when he thought no one noticed.
“On behalf of my family, please allow me to ask you how long we have the honor of your presence?” Though Benjimir sounded pleasant enough, his voice had a veneer-like sheen to it, as though he had wrapped good manners around himself like a shield…or a mask.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Much of it depends upon My King Celrin,” Gwendafyn said.
King Petyrr nodded sagely after Prince Benjimir made the translation. Then, rattling away in Calnoric, he picked up Gwendafyn’s hands and squeezed them.
“His Majesty King Petyrr wishes to express his hope that you will view Haven as your home—no matter how short your stay may be—and he looks forward to seeing more of you,” Prince Benjimir said, the slightly flattened tone of the sing-song elvish language revealing his boredom.
Gwendafyn’s throat ached with unshed tears at the king’s thoughtfulness. I wish it could be so. I would be so much happier—so much freer—here! She made her smile small as she met King Petyrr’s gaze and bowed her head in her thanks.
The king’s jolly grin lessened a fraction as he studied her, but his face was still warm as he returned her nod.
“Gwendafyn.”
Gwendafyn twisted, stepping away from Tari. “Father…” she trailed off.
Celrin, King of Lessa and ruler of the Lesser Elves, smiled—his eyes crinkling in affection—and held out his arms. “I am glad to see you.”
Gwendafyn stepped into his light but warm embrace and briefly rested her head on his shoulder, then made herself stand tall with her shoulders rolled back. “Aunt Lorius sends her greetings.”
“It always brings me joy to hear from my sister,” Celrin said, as if Gwendafyn commonly carried messages from Lorius to Haven.
“I have brought a…grievance from her that she wished for me to bring before you,” Gwendafyn said hesitantly.
Celrin nodded serenely and offered a smile to their audience. “Prince Benjimir—or Lady Tari—if you would please express my regrets to my friend King Petyrr, but I must steal Gwendafyn from this blessed celebration for a few moments.”
“Of course, My King,” Tari curtsied.
Prince Benjimir bowed slightly. “As you wish, King Celrin,” he murmured—but not without snatching another glance at Yvrea.
G
wendafyn offered her sister a smile before she followed their father from the Crystal Hall. Reluctantly, Gwendafyn accompanied him to the beautiful Rosewood Park that splayed out next to the splendid palace.
Dappled sunlight spilled through the trees, and the bushes rustled peacefully.
“What seems to be the problem, Little Fyn?” Celrin asked tenderly, stopping in a small cove that was lined with trees and carpeted with tiny purple flowers.
“Aunt Lorius said I was to give this to you and follow any orders you might have.” Gwendafyn’s muscles tensed as she withdrew a slightly rumpled envelope from a hidden pocket of her skirt and handed it to her father.
Celrin glanced curiously at her but took the envelope. He tore it open in a straight, perfect line and withdrew a multi-sheet letter. His eyes—a shade of blue-ish purple similar to her own—skimmed the correspondence.
Gwendafyn busied herself with admiring the purple flowers and squinting up at an iridescent green bird that had made its nest in one of the trees. It seems wrong that my fate will be decided in such a pleasant place. She seated herself on a stone bench and tried to smooth the creases in her gown. Her heart skipped a beat when her father rustled the letter and started on another page.
Briefly, she pinched her eyes shut and wished her father would never stop reading. If I am ordered to give up my sword…what will I do? How will I survive?
She risked glancing at her father, but his smooth expression gave nothing away.
Her wish had come true, for it seemed as though an hour passed before Celrin finished the last page.
Gravely, the elf king refolded the letter and slipped it back into its envelope. “Your aunt speaks the truth? You own a sword and practice with it?”
Rather than shrinking back like she wanted to, Gwendafyn made herself square her shoulders—though she couldn’t meet her father’s gaze. “Swords—I have more than one.”
“And you have continued to practice, despite her orders, for many years?”
“Yes.”
King Celrin took two steps closer to her. “And do you really face your duties with dislike—as your aunt has said?”
For the first time, Gwendafyn hesitated. Admitting as much would not reflect positively on her. But I cannot pretend to enjoy my role as regent—it is stifling and suffocating! “Yes,” she said, finally raising her eyes so she could look her father in the face.
King Celrin slowly nodded. “I see. If you have studied the sword for so long, it would be a shame to stop your proficiency now.”
For a moment, the world brightened. “You mean I can still practice?”
King Celrin smiled. “Yes.”
Relief almost made her sag. “Thank you, Father!” She sprang from the bench and threw her arms around Celrin, squeezing him with a mixture of thankfulness and sheer joy.
Celrin affectionately rested an arm on her shoulders and slightly squeezed her. “Of course.” He surprised her when he sighed. “Though I am afraid you will have to be twice as stealthy in your practice.”
Gwendafyn pulled back from his embrace. “What do you mean?”
Celrin smiled sadly. “Though I will allow your practice to continue, you cannot let your aunt learn of it.”
“Why?” Gwendafyn asked. “If you gave me your royal permission, she cannot dispute it.”
“Because your aunt will not let this rest,” Celrin said.
“You are king; you can command her to leave me alone.”
“I’m afraid the situation is not so simple as that.”
Gwendafyn pressed her lips together. “In what way is it not?”
“Your aunt represents tradition, Little Fyn. Tradition is the lifeblood of us Lesser Elves, and it has saved us. Or rather, the rules behind the tradition have saved us.” Her father tilted his head as he held Gwendafyn’s gaze. “There is a reason why the direct royal family is especially diligent in abstaining from any kind of weapon mastery—or even from joining the Evening Stars. Our vulnerability is how we first proved to those outside of Calnor that we are unlike our High Elf cousins, that we want peace.
“And we must have peace,” he continued, “for though Calnor has taken up the monumental task of protecting us, when we first made our alliance with them, the continent was in a volatile state. Any kind of threatening behavior on our part provoked other countries into attacking Lessa, and Calnorians paid for that with their lives.”
“But it’s been so long,” Gwendafyn argued. “No one sees us as a threat anymore—the idea of an elf fighting is considered a joke! Even those of Calnor are so blind, they do not see the strength of the Evening Stars.”
“I am afraid we cannot risk it,” Celrin said. “If someone was capable of stepping forward to help Calnor when war came calling, it might be different. But even the Evening Stars would find it difficult to fight humans—regardless of whether they came from Calnor or not.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I know you chafe in your position, Gwendafyn. I know it stifles you. But I cannot risk making Calnor pay the price for your freedom.”
“So I have to continue on. Pretending to be something I’m not, acting as Aunt Lorius’ puppet?” Gwendafyn asked, her voice hitching with the powerful emotions that raged in her chest.
“Yes, daughter.”
Gwendafyn shut her eyes and wished she could just as easily shut out her father’s words. It could be worse—he could forbid me from practicing like Aunt Lorius wants…but this somehow feels just as bad. To know he sees my pain…and cannot offer me a way out.
As if he could hear her thoughts, King Celrin added, “If there was another path you could take, Little Fyn, I would wish it for you. But there is nothing.”
Gwendafyn almost snorted. “For the first time in centuries—perhaps ever—a Lesser Elf has married a Calnor man and can translate with ease, and yet I must follow tradition?”
“I’m afraid there is no other way,” Celrin said—his voice heavy with sadness, but still calm.
Gwendafyn felt tears burn her eyes as she stared at the purple flowers poking up from the grass.
“But,” Celrin stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her and rested his hand on the top of her head just as he used to when she was a child. “Your mother and I will do better to ease your burden. Stay in Haven for two or three weeks to rest. Once Tarinthali has had her child, Yvrea or I will come relieve you for a time.”
Gwendafyn woodenly nodded.
After several long moments of silence, Celrin stepped away. “I’m afraid I must return to the celebration. I will send an attendant to you—he will show you to your quarters and select some personal attendants to serve you during your stay.”
“Thank you,” Gwendafyn said—though the words almost strangled her to speak.
Her father kissed her on the top of her head, then glided away.
Gwendafyn forced herself to straighten up and set her chin. Enough sulking. This is better than I had prepared myself for. I can keep going like this. I think…
Her resolve gathered, Gwendafyn also left the garden, ruthlessly silencing the quiet voice in her mind that wondered how much longer she could keep her forced ruse up.
“I’m sorry Seer Ringali wasn’t able to come after all,” Tari apologized as she flicked a droplet of sweat off her face. Her snow cat—a giant feline with snow white fur spattered with black spots—prowled at her side.
“Not at all,” Gwendafyn kept her smile warm as she mentally retraced Tari’s practice routine. Tonight, in my room, I must try to replicate a few of her exercises.
Tari wrinkled her nose at Gwendafyn. “You didn’t have to stay to watch me—I know it wasn’t as interesting as usual given I’m on a lighter practice routine.”
“I thought it was fascinating to witness,” Gwendafyn said truthfully. And that’s because she is limited in her routine! Since she’s with child, she cannot do anything too strenuous, which means I actually have a chance of being able to copy her without injuring myself like an idiot as I have in the past. (When sh
e had injured herself attempting to do a back bend nearly four years prior, it had been quite difficult to mask her back pain and limp around Jubilee without arousing Lorius’ suspicion.)
Tari plopped down next to Gwendafyn in the shade of a willow tree. “I’m glad you thought so.”
“You are dissatisfied?” Gwendafyn asked.
Tari shrugged and tossed the braid of her butter-blonde hair over her shoulder. “It is more that I’ve already been told to reduce my activity, and I have a long time before the baby is born.” She glumly stared into the gardens. “It seems the next few months of my life are going to be very boring.”
Tari’s snow cat—Sius, if Gwendafyn remembered correctly—purred deep in his throat as he leaned into her, nearly knocking her over with the strength of his love.
“I find it surprising Seer Ringali is already so fiercely protective,” Gwendafyn said. “That is not to say he does not treasure you—you are his protégé! It is merely…” she paused, wondering how to phrase it.
“That he vowed loudly and hotly after my wedding he wouldn’t return to Haven for at least five years so I had better plan to visit him in our home city of Gloria, and now suddenly with the news of my impending parenthood, he arrived even more swiftly than he had when Arion and I first discovered we could talk?” Tari asked dryly.
Gwendafyn laughed. “Yes, exactly.”
Tari rolled her eyes. “He told me he had to come, lest I hurt myself—or my child—in my stubborn insistence on practice. Really, I just think he wants grandchildren, and as none of his children are even courting, my offspring are his first opportunity.”
“Oh? Will you name him the godfather?” Gwendafyn asked.
Tari shivered. “Horrors, no—though Arion is heavily campaigning for it to be so.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’ll have my child practicing hand-to-hand combat by age four!”
Perhaps Seer Ringali would be able to help me select a sword small enough for a child… Or, given his preference for hidden weapons, maybe we should plan something more covert.
Tari sighed as she rubbed her cat’s head, making his purrs increase in volume. “Arion insists Seer Ringali would be an ideal godparent, but frankly I suspect he just wants someone as powerful—and ruthless—as Seer Ringali for the sake of protection. He—Arion, I mean—thinks I’m going to get injured just wandering around the palace. As if I have miraculously transformed into a being made of spun glass!”