by K. M. Shea
Gwendafyn glanced speculatively at their entwined hands before she also returned her attention to the bishop. A new life, indeed.
5
The Benefits of Marriage
“So there’s no one out here with us?” Gwendafyn twisted in her saddle so she could peer in all directions for confirmation.
“There are plenty of humans,” Tari said. “Arion has brought two squadrons of the Honor Guard—which is unnecessary even if both you and His Highness Prince Benjimir are present.” Tari’s gray mare tossed her head, as if agreeing with her rider.
“Do not mislead yourself, Tari,” Gwendafyn laughed. “The two squadrons aren’t here for Benjimir and me, but for you.”
Sius yawned, flashing a mouthful of teeth, and Gwendafyn’s black gelding snorted at the snow cat.
The giant feline pushed his whiskers forward in a cat smile and trotted obediently after Tari’s horse—who bore the cat’s presence with a patience bred out of familiarity.
Tari sighed and also turned in her saddle long enough to glare at her husband, who rode side-by-side with Benjimir far enough back that Gwendafyn could hear the murmur of their conversation but couldn’t clearly make out their words.
“He’s getting worse,” Tari grumbled—sounding like her pet cat. “It was bad enough that he always made a patrol follow me—me, an Evening Star!—from a distance, but I swear on the vaults of the High Elves that as each week passes, he grows more and more overbearing!”
“Most would call it protective,” Gwendafyn grinned.
“It’s suffocating,” Tari declared. “Yesterday he had the gall to suggest I stop my Evening Star practices altogether!”
“He might have a point…” Gwendafyn glanced at the growing bump of Tari’s stomach.
A lock of Tari’s butter blonde hair slipped from its braid and curled around her face. Sourly, she tucked it behind her ears and narrowed her eyes at Gwendafyn. “I’m not due for nearly four months, My Princess Gwendafyn.”
Gwendafyn shook her head with a knowing smile. “You can’t fool me, Tari. You’re closer to three months than four—King Petyrr is keeping track and informs everyone of your progress each week at breakfast.”
Tari groaned and tilted her head back to stare at the sky. “If I ever have another child, I shall travel to a monastery for the duration of my pregnancy!”
Gwendafyn laughed, and her gelding pranced at the sound of her mirth.
Tari offered Gwendafyn a sunny smile and patted her mare’s shoulder. “If you don’t mind my asking, how is your…new life?” she asked hesitantly.
Gwendafyn scratched at the back of her neck—though she was careful not to mess up the braid her attendants had tamed her unruly hair into for the day. “It’s very different. In a good way.”
“Oh?” Tari tilted her head and glanced back at Benjimir. “I wasn’t sure, His Highness…you know what happened.”
“‘Benji is fine,” Gwendafyn said, using her sister’s nickname for the prince on purpose. “I don’t see him very often—you know, due to him coming and going as he’s hunting down the bandits.”
It was a bit of a lie—or perhaps a failure to give all information.
It was true Benjimir occasionally joined his men on the raids against the bandits—or he rode the lands to collect more information—but Gwendafyn and Benjimir didn’t see much of each other because they didn’t have to.
It’s a good arrangement, Gwendafyn thought. We appear together at least twice a week for social events, and several additional times for governmental purposes where we sit together, and Benjimir and Rollo translate everything the humans say to me…but it’s not that different from what it was like when I visited Haven in years past. The Calnor Royal Family and the Lessa Royal Family usually break our fast together once or twice a week; luncheons are usually a public affair, but it’s always a mix of who is available and who is not. Some days I see Arvel more than Benjimir as we frequently sit together as bond partners if my “husband” isn’t present.
And while Benjimir’s and my rooms might adjoin, I’ve never seen him in our shared sitting room…
Most people assumed Benjimir and Gwendafyn visited in private, but the truth was they only appeared together in public events—or when they felt like they had to in order to alleviate suspicion.
Like today. Gwendafyn had sought Benjimir out as they hadn’t done anything remotely “couple-like” since their wedding over two weeks prior. It had been Benjimir’s idea to ride…
“You’re certain there’s no one out here besides us? No elves, I mean,” Gwendafyn said. She peered suspiciously into the trees that lined the riding path—though the greenery fell back as the lane opened up into a massive meadow.
“I believe so, why?” Tari halted her mare, who took the moment to scratch her foreleg with her velvet muzzle.
“I would like to run Nox, but I don’t want to startle anyone,” Gwendafyn said. As if to prove her point, Nox snorted and pawed at the ground as he eyed Sius.
(The snow cat entirely ignored the challenge and instead rolled onto his back and began to play with the thick tail of Tari’s mare. Shockingly, the mare only sighed and looked bored as the giant predator chewed on her hair.)
Tari laughed. “Never fear, My Princess. You may run to your heart’s desire.” The blonde elf extended her arm in front of her in a welcoming gesture.
Gwendafyn bit her lip as she did one last survey. No elves, just humans—and they don’t have the same expectations. Gwendafyn gathered up her reins and sank her heels down. “Finally. Nox, let’s go!”
Nox exploded beneath her.
The black gelding lunged forward, his thick, crimpy mane flying in the wind as he galloped the length of the meadow.
Gwendafyn laughed as the breeze tickled the bare skin of her forearms. Though she kept her grip on the reins, when Nox veered closer to the forest, Gwendafyn let him.
He jumped a tree stump for the sheer fun of it—eliciting a shout of joy from Gwendafyn. This only cheered the gelding on, so next he jumped a fallen tree trunk.
Gwendafyn let him circle the end of the meadow—at a much slower canter—so she could get a peek at the road as the forest once again closed in on it, then directed him back to the far end of the meadow where Tari—and now Arion and Benjimir as well—waited.
Their sudden arrival startled Sius, who abandoned the mare’s tail in favor of standing directly beneath Tari’s horse and peering out at Gwendafyn and Nox between her front legs. (The horse bore it with a longsuffering sigh, even as the cat pushed his face between her knees.)
Nox tossed his head, and Gwendafyn had to trot him in a tight circle to bring him back from their wild ride.
“I saw the path continues through the forest—is it safe to ride at a canter?” Gwendafyn eagerly chattered.
Arion gravely bowed his head. “If you will allow, Princess Gwendafyn, I will send my men to assure it is cleared, and then you may cover it at the pace of your choice,” he said in stilted Elvish with a few errors.
Gwendafyn felt her smile grow, even as her irritating hair blew into her face, having loosened from its braid during the ride. “That would be lovely, thank you, Arion,” she said, grateful he was willing to attempt to speak Elvish to her.
Arion bowed, then turned his horse around so he could call out to several of the Honor Guards following them.
Assured Nox had finally calmed, Gwendafyn dropped her reins and pulled all her hair over her shoulder so she could attempt to repair the mangled braid. When she felt eyes on her, she looked up and was surprised to see Benjimir watching her in apparent bemusement with one eyebrow up and a slight smirk curving his lips. “What?” she asked.
“Do you elves commonly enjoy riding like the wind itself, or is that a charm that belongs solely to you?” he asked.
If Aunt Lorius had said such a thing, it would have been a cutting remark, but when Benjimir briefly flashed his teeth in a wide smile at her, Gwendafyn realized he meant for it to be a
compliment.
She stilled her hands in the middle of the attempt to poorly redo the braid of her hair and stared at Benjimir. When has anybody noted my reckless temperament and thought of it as a good thing? She wondered.
Tari smiled. “Most elves enjoy a good ride, Your Highness.”
Benjimir shook his head. “I’ve accompanied Yvrea on hundreds of rides, and she’s never done anything like that.”
Gwendafyn cringed slightly—not at the mention of her sister, but more at the reminder that technically she hadn’t followed custom. “Yes, the Lessa Royal Family is encouraged to be more…”
“Controlled?” Tari suggested.
Gwendafyn nodded and tied her braid off—it was much blockier than what her handmaidens had done, but it would do. “Yes,” she said. “We are more vigilant of our actions.”
Benjimir’s other eyebrow raised as well. “Vigilant for what? You are the most unoffensive race on the continent.”
“Yes, but we must not shake our image of controlled tranquility,” Gwendafyn said.
“Who says you have to appear controlled and tranquil?” Benjimir persisted.
How do I explain this? “It’s our burden as the royal family. We must represent our country and show the continent that we are the peace-loving race we claim to be.”
“You can be a peace-loving race and still ride like a wild thing,” Benjimir said.
“I imagine it’s so they are not reminiscent of the High Elves,” Arion said as he turned his horse and rejoined their conversation. “Particularly given that the blood of High Elves still runs in the royal family.”
Benjimir laughed, then paused when no one joined him. “You’re serious?”
Arion shrugged his shoulders, then nudged his horse forward so his steed was shoulder-to-shoulder with Tari’s. “Should we continue? I will receive word when my men have scouted far enough ahead to move at a faster pace.” He spoke the words slowly, and his accent nearly masked half his sentence, but Gwendafyn admired his persistence.
I would do well to use him as my model in my Calnoric lessons—I need to make a greater effort there.
“Yes, we should keep going. I can’t stay too long—I have tea with your sister and some stretches Seer Ringali assigned…” Tari’s voice grew quieter as she and Arion cued their horses into a walk.
Gwendafyn smiled slightly at the brightness of love that decorated Tari’s voice and the warmth of affection that gentled Arion’s stormy eyes.
“Gwendafyn,” Benjimir said, dragging her attention back to him.
She shook herself slightly, then patted Nox’s muscled shoulder as she glanced at the prince. “Yes?”
“Was Arion being serious?” Benjimir clucked to his horse so he and Gwendafyn could slowly follow after the loving couple.
“Absolutely,” Gwendafyn nodded. “We Lesser Elves remember what the High Elves did, and we never wish for humans to believe we could be anything like them.”
Benjimir was so silent, Gwendafyn glanced at him again to try and get a read on him.
He was frowning—mostly with the furrow of his eyebrows, though there was a slight stubbornness to his chin as well.
“What is it?” Gwendafyn asked.
“I can’t imagine what it’s like to force yourself to go against your own temperament for such a thing.” He shook his head.
“The High Elves are not a fairy tale,” Gwendafyn said. “They are part of our history. You cannot deny that they once existed.”
Benjimir raised an eyebrow. “I never said they were a fairy tale,” he paused, then continued. “Also, I can’t imagine why you care what humans think. Every country on the continent knows your people are kinder, more graceful, more beautiful, more artistically skilled, and more learned.”
“Only because we never change, so naturally we are very good at what we’ve done since we’ve been doing it for centuries.” Gwendafyn couldn’t keep all the bitterness out of her voice as she spoke.
“What do you mean?” Benjimir asked.
Gwendafyn shrugged—a gesture she had learned from Benjimir that would have made Aunt Lorius gape in horror. “We have powerful horses because we’ve been breeding them for centuries. Our people are skilled goldsmiths and silversmiths because we always mold things in the same way. We aren’t particularly good at forging swords, however, because after the High Elves sailed away, it’s something we gave up, and the heavens forbid we take it back up because of what the continent might think.”
“Do you want to learn how to forge a sword?” Benjimir asked.
Gwendafyn was silent for a moment. How much can I tell him? He’s been harmless since our marriage, and I still believe I was right to tell him what I was fleeing…but he might try to use what I tell him as leverage. Though, I suppose he knows I’m a disappointment to Aunt Lorius, and he hasn’t done anything about that… “It would be fun,” she admitted. “But I’m more interested in the art of using a sword.”
That should be safe enough. Even Yvrea knew I used to play with swords when we were children.
“I see,” Benjimir said.
There was something about the way he said it—a coolness that he used whenever they were in a social setting and he was forced to interact casually with her. Gwendafyn glanced at him, and his slight frown was gone, replaced by the polite smile he usually wore as a mask.
Gwendafyn studied him curiously for a moment. He seems to be willing to drop his guard occasionally—or at least be himself—but then I say something and up comes the wall again. I haven’t the faintest idea why that is.
Nox nickered and tossed his head, and Gwendafyn returned her attention to her steed. I guess it doesn’t matter, she thought as she soothed her gelding. Though I might hope for friendship between us, that doesn’t mean Benjimir agrees with me. Despite her acceptance of the situation, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He was one more rejection on top of all the others, after all. Maybe Aunt Lorius is right; maybe I am too much.
“My Princess Gwendafyn.” Tari twisted round in her saddle so she could shout back to them. “Arion says it is safe to ride ahead.”
Gwendafyn glanced at Benjimir, who still wore his polite look. “Please, enjoy yourself,” he said.
What a strange man. Gwendafyn again shrugged at the return of his insincere attitude, then nudged Nox into a trot. “Thank you for letting me know,” she called out to her distant cousin. “And please, Tari, I insist you call me Fyn!”
“…And so, I’m afraid I must say the bandit situation shows no signs of ceasing.” Benjimir turned on his heels so he once again faced King Petyrr and Arvel. His father and brother were seated on a stone bench in one of the pretty-ish clearings in Rosewood Park.
I wonder if this sudden propensity to hold important meetings outside is due to the influence of Lady Tari?
King Petyrr dragged a ragged rope toy in front of one of the squashed faced pugs that belonged to Queen Luciee. “It’s not surprising, given that you’ve been hunting the bandits for only a few months. But it is unfortunate, as I’ll have to apologize to your beautiful bride. With the situation as it is, you’ll need to go afield again.”
Benjimir’s mother stirred in the shadow of a giant oak. “You cannot send him, Petyrr. Not three nights from tonight I am holding an evening tea, and I do so want Benjimir and Gwendafyn to attend together.” Queen Luciee bestowed one of her rare but chilly smiles upon Benjimir, as if he was supposed to be thankful.
I knew marrying Gwendafyn would blot out some of my shame, but I did not expect Mother to so whole heartedly welcome me back into her calculating embrace.
“I apologize, my dear,” King Petyrr said. “But I am afraid our citizens’ safety must be our first priority.” King Petyrr picked up the panting pug and grinned broadly at it, eliciting excited snorts from the little beast.
Benjimir shrugged and slowly strolled around a horse-sized pond. “I still don’t understand why you haven’t passed leadership of the Honor Guard off to Arvel.” He gla
nced pointedly at his younger brother.
Arvel winked roguishly before he ran a hand through his reddish-blonde hair. “Your leadership suits me just fine,” he said.
King Petyrr shrugged. “I have not yet announced my heir, so there is no telling who, historically speaking, should run the Honor Guard. But that doesn’t matter! I think it’s high time we change things in Calnor. Perhaps whoever runs the country should not also be the leading general.”
Benjimir stared at his father, but the man didn’t break off into the usual laughter that punctuated his jokes. Instead he set the dog down and nodded seriously as he folded his arms across the bulge of his stomach.
Is he serious? What would possess him to break centuries-old traditions? Benjimir swiveled his gaze to his mother, who admired a bed of flowers with the ease of one who doesn’t care about anything but themselves.
Arvel was a little better. He, at least, was peering at their father. But instead of looking shocked, the set of his shoulders was eager and his eyes were alight. “I am far more interested in economic development than running an army,” he said.
King Petyrr patted him on the shoulder. “Good for you, lad!”
Arvel pulled out a book he had been hiding under his bench and grinned at Benjimir. “And that’s no matter who becomes the heir.”
Benjimir contemplated his father and brother. That’s it, the hidden madness that has always run in our family has finally appeared. My willingness to wed Gwendafyn was the first sign, and now it will slowly overcome every member of my family.
“Dear Benjimir,” Queen Luciee tried to give him a warm smile that threatened to crack her face as it used muscles she rarely employed. “If you and Gwendafyn will not be able to make my evening tea, won’t you both drop by the little soirée I am holding this afternoon? It is but a small gathering, just a few friends. A master harper has agreed to play for us as we take tea.”
I’ll bet my best sword these “friends” of hers are the society matrons she is forever butting heads with. Why else would she want to parade her son and his elven wife around like rare animals? Goodness knows she would have never asked Tari and Arion—not after she purposely cut his family before they were married. Those lucky wretches.