by K. M. Shea
Tari stripped off the black gloves of her Evening Star practice uniform with a frown. “I wish things kept changing—then everyone wouldn’t be half as concerned about me, and I could sneeze without Thad or another guard patrol leader popping out of the bushes with medicine or a remedy for colds!”
“Kept changing?” Gwendafyn asked. “What do you mean?”
“Sius, don’t.” Tari plucked her gloves from the paws of her pet, unconcerned by the beast’s silver claws or gleaming teeth. (To be fair, the mighty predator wriggled in the grass on his back, and with his toy of choice gone, he settled on chewing his own back left foot.)
Gwendafyn waited for Tari’s response as she twitched her skirts so they covered her feet.
“It’s merely that things haven’t changed to quite the extent I thought they would,” Tari said.
Gwendafyn blinked in surprise. “Things haven’t changed enough?” she echoed. “Even though Calnor and Lessa enjoy a deeper friendship—and our cultures have made huge improvements and strides in understanding each other?”
“I know I sound insane—or ungrateful,” Tari sighed. “Even before I was fluent in Calnoric, together Arion and I were able to trade vital pieces of information that previously were beyond us—like farming methods and medical practices. If we evaluate it from purely an educational basis, we have made huge improvements.”
“From a practical basis, you have as well.” Gwendafyn shivered in exaggerated horror. “I remember the horrible swill the Calnorians called wine that they used to serve us at parties, which changed thanks to your efforts. Your wedding was the first time I’ve actually enjoyed an alcoholic beverage during my stay in Haven!” she joked.
Tari gave Gwendafyn the barest flicker of a smile before she placed her hands flat against Sius’s upturned paws and waggled them around as one might play with a small child. (The snow cat, Gwendafyn was surprised to see, licked his nose and purred again.)
“Yes, but what I was really hoping we would do is change our very culture. The longer I stay in Haven, the more I notice that we have a conscious separation between Lessa and Calnor, and I think that is what is responsible for our poor communication, not just the language difficulties.”
“What do you mean by a ‘conscious separation’?” Gwendafyn asked.
“Both Lessa and Calnor are overly concerned with taking advantage of the other, so they take great pains to ensure equal independence. Calnorians are so overly conscious in their role as protector that they don’t want to make us elves feel like they rule us, so they won’t even visit Lessa! And we elves are just as bad. We don’t want to trouble them with our opinions, so we don’t explain what the Evening Stars are really for, and we are so committed to trying to separate ourselves from the High Elves that we will not open the ancient vaults and unearth the High Elf weapons they left behind. These measures were necessary centuries ago, but they do nothing for us now—except keep us apart.” The Evening Star plucked a piece of grass from the ground and stared at it with a furrowed brow.
“This conscious separation is breathed into our everyday life,” Tari continued. “I didn’t even see it until around the time Arion and I married. But now that together we have stomped all over tradition, it’s become unfailingly obvious to me.”
Gwendafyn perked with Tari’s use of the word tradition. “Was there a specific tradition you were hoping to change? Sharing the role of the Evening Stars, perhaps?”
Tari flicked her blade of grass away. “That is just a piece of it—and Arion is aware of what they are anyway. He tried bringing it up to King Petyrr that perhaps Calnor should also prepare for the day of the High Elves’ return, but his worries were dismissed. Which is not surprising. Things take time to change, but I thought more would follow in our footsteps.”
Gwendafyn blinked as she mentally reviewed Tari’s words. “You mean more elves would learn Calnoric? Or more bond pairs would be able to communicate?”
“No, I thought there would be more elf and human friendships and relationships. At the very least, I thought our marriage would open the way so other Lesser Elves and Calnorians might find love between them and also marry; but instead, everyone holds us up as some sort of blessed-messiah-like-exception, and no one even tries to pursue so much as friendship between our races.”
Sius growled—a throaty, guttural noise that made Gwendafyn’s spine shiver.
She uneasily shifted away from the beast, but it seemed the snow cat was only concerned with Tari’s frustrated tone, for the giant cat got up and attempted to crawl into her lap—even though his weight made her tip over.
“Maybe I’m just impatient, or overly optimistic,” Tari sighed—almost completely covered by her cat. “It is likely things will change…but I was hoping it would change in mere years. Not decades, or—even worse—centuries.”
“I understand completely.” Gwendafyn stared unseeingly into the gardens. “It’s like we’re trapped, and everyone knows it. Although I suppose I can only speak for the elves, and even then, all I can say is we are too frightened to move forward.”
Tari pushed Sius off her, and the giant cat grew distracted by a butterfly. “It is the way of the Lesser Elves, it seems. I just wish it was different. But it’s so frustrating! If even just two people bridged the gap, it would prove Arion and I are not outliers!”
Gwendafyn squinted, making out a few movements in a bush across from the small park Tari had been allotted for her practice exercises. “Is there someone watching us?”
Tari swiveled with tight, fast, movements so she faced the same direction. “What? Oh—it’s Grygg this time. Of all the over-indulgent things—” Tari switched into the heavy language of Calnor, muttering under her breath as she stood. She dusted her practice uniform off, then shouted in Calnoric.
There were a few moments of silence before Tari continued—speaking in a tone dark enough for even Gwendafyn to hear the threat in it.
The bush thrashed before a Calnor man emerged, a sheepish grin on his face. He drawled something back to Tari as he scratched the back of his head.
Tari folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. Sius sat at her side, his giant tail twitching behind him. She pointed to the cat and continued her rant in Calnoric, gesturing to the gardens, then pointing back to the palace.
The guard shrugged and raised his hands in both a pacifying and pleading gesture. He spoke in a soothing tone—which only seemed to make Tari even more mad.
She plopped back down next to Gwendafyn with a huff, glaring as the soldier retreated back into the bushes. “That man,” she seethed, returning to Elvish.
“The guard?” Gwendafyn asked.
“No, Arion! He’s abusing his power as an Honor Guard Colonel and has a number of soldiers tailing me day in and day out. I used to at least have privacy in the palace, but these days, the only reason I don’t have to take my handmaiden with me to use the privy is because it hasn’t occurred to Arion yet that he can ask Evlawyn to do so!” Tari scowled as she shifted into a more comfortable position.
Gwendafyn grinned. “He loves you.”
“He’s a mule is what he is.” Tari scrunched her nose again. “I apologize, My Princess Gwendafyn—I should have introduced you. That was Grygg—a patrol leader under Arion.”
“He must be rather loyal to continue his duties after that scolding,” Gwendafyn said.
“Don’t be fooled—he thinks it’s hilarious. Wilford is amused too, but Thad is nearly as bad as Arion,” Tari said.
“And this Wilford and Thad are…?”
“They are also patrol leaders, but I know them not just because of Arion.” Tari smiled proudly. “They were my teachers when I was first learning Calnoric!”
“So you have known them for quite some time, then,” Gwendafyn said.
Tari nodded, then whistled at Sius who was stalking a songbird. She shook a finger at the mighty cat. “Do not think of it!”
Gwendafyn clamped her hair to the back of her neck with her
hand when a breeze tried to throw it in her face. “Do you think Sir Arion’s increased level of protection is not just because of the baby, but also due to Prince Benjimir’s return?”
Tari thoughtfully pressed her lips together, then shook her head. “No. Arion isn’t overly concerned with Benjimir. He doesn’t trust him, but the situation being what it is, neither of us believe Benjimir will be a threat again.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Gwendafyn said. “I don’t know if Yvrea knows what he did. The only reason I was told was because I was dealing with our traitorous relative. But regardless, it doesn’t matter anymore. I expect Yvrea will choose her future husband by the end of the year.”
“I feel sorry for Benjimir,” Tari said.
Gwendafyn nearly gaped at the Evening Star. “Sorry? After everything he has done to you and Sir Arion?”
Tari shrugged with her whole body. “He was the first one who dared to dream of something beyond tradition—even before Arion and me. Though his actions were dishonorable, I can’t help but have some sympathy for him. He reached out and failed.” Tari stared down at her hands. “It’s more than most are willing to do these days.”
“I suppose.” Gwendafyn stood up so she could brush her skirts off. “But I still rather think he is dangerous. Someone who loves that deeply?” She shook her head.
Tari also stood, but after she brushed grass off her legs, she made her way over to Sius and crouched down next to the feline. “He’s rather like Sius. Dangerous, but meek. Or maybe he could be. Sius isn’t tamed, you see. He has just changed his base nature because he loves me—and Evlawyn, and venison jerky. And Arion, though both Arion and Sius would protest that,” she grinned.
“Perhaps,” Gwendafyn said practically. “Or maybe you’re just a forgiving being.”
Tari quirked an eyebrow. “I would not be so sure of that.”
Gwendafyn laughed. “I suppose that’s true. I would like to hear what Sir Arion has to say on the matter, but unfortunately I must take my leave of you. Yvrea extracted a promise from me to meet her two suitors for tea this afternoon.”
Tari nodded, then kissed Sius’s ear. “Of course. It was a delight to speak with you, My Princess Gwendafyn. I hope my practice amused you.”
“It made me rather envious, truthfully,” Gwendafyn sighed. “And it is I who must thank you for this enlightening conversation. Will I see you tonight at the dinner party Her Highness Princess Claire is holding?”
“Of course. Until then!” Tari waved, even as she leaned into Sius.
“Farewell!” Gwendafyn called over her shoulder as she left Tari’s practice clearing and strode toward a main pathway of Rosewood Park.
Gwendafyn bit her cheek as she considered Tari’s observations. I wonder if Tari is right, and if the great divide between our cultures is due more to fear than actual differences. The traditions Aunt Lorius esteems so highly seem to be entirely based on the thought that we will only be accepted if we appear meek and mild.
Gwendafyn held a growl in check when a gust of wind once again threw her hair in her face. She spat a piece of her own hair out before she impatiently started twisting it in a tilted braid. Not like it matters. It seems there are no elves besides myself who are interested in breaking tradition—for certain none who would actively seek to fall in love with and marry a human as Tari mentioned.
A thought struck Gwendafyn with such force she rocked to a stop in the middle of the path. No elves, she repeated, except myself… I wouldn’t mind marrying a human. And if I did, wouldn’t that change everything?
After all, if she married a human, she couldn’t be the Lessa Royal Regent. At least not all the time. Whatever poor sop she married would need to be in Calnor at least several months out of the year. But whom could she marry?
A translator is the only viable option. For even the most romantic elf would not believe me if I claimed to fall in love with someone I could not talk to. But there is danger there. For if I did find a translator, I would bet my sword that Aunt Lorius would make a case for our permanent residence in Jubilee. And with humans never really visiting Lessa, the Translator Circle might very well release him for the sake of all he would learn.
That might cross the cultural divide Tari referenced, but it would do little to improve my situation. Besides, I have only two weeks before I must return to Jubilee. Could I find a translator who would marry me in such a short length of time?
Gwendafyn was not stupid. If she could pull off this hair-brained scheme, she knew there was no chance she would really love her as-of-yet-unchosen husband. But that didn’t matter. Years ago, when she realized most male elves her age would rather watch an Evening Star perform than be an Evening Star, she knew the chances she would ever find someone who would embrace her so called “wildness” were slim to none.
But was there a translator who would accept such a thing?
This plot has more holes in it than a sponge, Gwendafyn thought despairingly. There are too many risks. And yet, as she once again started walking, she couldn’t entirely extinguish the tiny flame of hope lit within her heart.
Gwendafyn furrowed her brow and stared at the pathway as she rounded a bend in the garden. She followed the path all the way to the palace, where it parted a hedge and dumped her in an openair corridor.
She was so intent on her thoughts that she nearly collided with a human male when she entered the corridor.
“A thousand apologies,” Gwendafyn automatically said. Wait, I’m in Haven. He won’t understand Elvish. What was the hand gesture for “apologies” again?
“None are necessary,” her accidental victim said.
Gwendafyn blinked when she realized it was Prince Benjimir whom she had nearly knocked into.
The Calnor prince met her gaze and bowed slightly. “I trust you are enjoying your stay in Haven?” he asked with polite disinterest.
“Yes, thank you. It is a beautiful city,” Gwendafyn said with equally practiced blandness.
“I am glad that is so,” he said, his words weighted by the barest hint of an accent. “Good day, Princess Gwendafyn.”
“Good day, Prince Benjimir,” Gwendafyn murmured before she started down the corridor.
His Elvish is startlingly good. I wonder how much he had to practice to grow so proficient…wait. Gwendafyn spun around and watched Prince Benjimir stride off in the opposite direction. Benjimir is human; he knows Elvish; and even Aunt Lorius likely wouldn’t want me dragging him to Jubilee in my wake. But, no. It won’t work.
Gwendafyn shook her head and continued down the corridor. Marrying Benjimir—who wouldn’t consider me anyways, as he pines for Yvrea—would be like allying myself with a snake. No, there must be a way I can pull this off. Or perhaps I should start practicing Calnoric in my free time and try for a regular human in a year or so?
Her thoughts swirled with fits of hope and defeat as she hurried along, but there was one thing she knew deep in her bones: if she had even the tiniest hope of escaping the iron-clad monotony as regent, she would take it.
3
An Unlikely Proposal
A week passed, and Gwendafyn was still no closer to bartering her way to freedom.
It’s such a shame, she thought as she absentmindedly sipped at a glass chalice of apple cider. Prince Benjimir is nearly the ideal candidate. He’s of royal birth, so our alliance would be widely recognized and publicized, hopefully achieving that change Tari says we so desperately need. He’s even the leader of the Honor Guard, so Aunt Lorius would not be able to keep us in Jubilee for any extended period of time. And with him pining over Yvrea, I imagine he wouldn’t care much about me, leaving me free to do whatever I want! …There is only the small matter that he is such a snake.
Gwendafyn glanced at the Calnor prince, who stood with his three younger brothers. His face was composed in a semblance of listening, and he nodded as a wizard spoke to him.
But there is no use in sighing over such an unlikely plan. I am desperate, but I have no
t yet sunk that low. She switched her gaze to a cluster of translators who had made their base near the banquet table. I guess I can try my hand at speaking to them again—if only they wouldn’t scrape and bow so much and would actually meet my gaze.
Gwendafyn crossed the pavilion on which she stood and glided down the steps as she made her way to the translators.
After spending several hours in painstakingly translated meetings regarding repairing roads within Haven, everyone present had been herded outside for an informal luncheon—translators included.
Gwendafyn put on her best smile as she approached one of the youngest translators present. “Good afternoon, Rollo, was it?” she asked.
The translator beamed and gave her a bow so deep, he nearly folded in half. “Yes, Princess Gwendafyn, I am Rollo! How can I be of service?”
“I have no need of service—quite the contrary, actually,” Gwendafyn said. “I wanted to thank you for your hard work. Your translation work was quite admirable.”
Rollo positively glowed in delight. “You honor me, Princess Gwendafyn!” he said. “But we of the Translator’s Circle have rested on our laurels too long, depending upon Lady Tarinthali to do most of the work. We know the lady will be indisposed in the future, and we must work twice as hard so as not to slack when it happens!”
Bemused by the translator’s antics, Gwendafyn nodded. “I see.”
“Excuse me, My Princess Gwendafyn?” a female elf attendant enquired.
Gwendafyn playfully smiled at Rollo, then faced the servant. “Yes?”
“I have an urgent letter for you from Jubilee—from Lady Lorius.” The servant offered up a silver tray upon which a single letter sat.