by K. M. Shea
“I’m afraid I will have to speak to Gwendafyn first, for we meant to have a quiet evening in together,” he lied.
“But of course! And when you do so, please be sure to pass my greetings onto your lovely bride. She is such a gem to have fallen in love with you.” Queen Luciee’s smile returned to its usual chill with the not so subtle jab.
Not wholly forgiven, then. “As you wish. I will tell her when we meet up after lunch so she may sing to me a traditional Elvish ballad,” Benjimir proclaimed with an insincere smile.
While it is quite fun to have a wife who is wholly aware of social maneuverings and is willing to let me use her to get out of whatever gathering I wish, the best unexpected side effect of marrying Gwendafyn is that no one can disprove my ridiculous stories for they cannot ask her themselves.
“Speak of the heavenly, and she will come!” King Petyrr laughed.
“Gwendafyn!” Arvel had already reached his bond partner. He made the gesture to her for “well met,” which she returned before offering him a hug.
That’s right. I forget they have known each other for years as she is his bond mate…
Gwendafyn smiled at Arvel, who grinned under her attention as, using the hand gestures, he asked, “how are you?”
Gwendafyn tapped her lower lip before she responded with “sunny.” She pointed to the sky, then herself, then threw her arms open wide, indicating she was enjoying the weather.
Arvel tried to ask her another question, but he must have used the wrong gesture for Gwendafyn tilted her head and appeared vaguely puzzled.
Arvel grumbled in frustration and looked down at his hands as he tried to figure out the right movements.
Gwendafyn, however, smiled, then using her thumb and forefinger flicked Arvel in the forehead, right between his brows. “It’s fine,” she said in Calnoric—or attempted to say in Calnoric. Her words were so lilting and not at all enunciated, it was hard to tell exactly what she had said.
Arvel gaped at her in surprise, but he burst into laughter at her garbled Calnoric, and something in Benjimir twinged.
He couldn’t say what it was—or what it meant—only that it didn’t feel good. In fact, it felt rather like an inner recoil.
Benjimir pushed the feeling aside and strode towards the elven princess and his brother.
Arvel, oblivious to his impending arrival, made the hand gesture for “back” and “question.”
Gwendafyn’s smile turned stiff for the merest moment as her hands gripped a leather strap connected to a long, shapeless bag that was slung over her shoulder. But she was spared from answering by Benjimir entering the fray.
“Gwendafyn,” he murmured as he leaned close and appeared to kiss her cheek, though in truth, his lips hovered just above her skin. As he smiled at her, he purposely curled a hand around her back, nudging her bag.
He blinked when his hand brushed against something that felt like a sword, then blinked again when he realized Gwendafyn was breathing faster than usual and was stiff to the touch. While she didn’t ever melt into an embrace, usually she was at least a little more pliable. At the moment, her shoulders felt like they were carved out of stone.
She’s afraid…of what?
When Gwendafyn lifted her lovely purple eyes to meet his gaze, Benjimir studied her carefully, taking in the stubborn set of her jaw and the gripping light of fear in her eyes.
He patted her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “You’re fine.”
Gwendafyn smiled at him, but the way she took pains to keep her back away from his family and awkwardly angled away from him likely meant she didn’t believe it.
Arvel laughed as he good naturedly punched Benjimir in the shoulder. “Show-off,” he grinned. “I wish I was as serious about my studies in the Elvish language as you were. Are.”
“I don’t,” Benjimir said in Calnoric. “I rather like being the only one able to talk to her.” Feeling the continued stiffness in her stance, Benjimir said in Elvish for Gwendafyn’s benefit, “Arvel wishes he could talk to you. I’m glad he can’t.”
“I’m rather sorry I was such a poor student in Calnoric,” Gwendafyn sighed. “It is aggravating not being able to understand anything. But I will continue to practice,” she said before turning her gaze back to Arvel. “Practice,” she said in barely understandable Calnoric.
Arvel clapped at her attempt.
“I am so lucky to have such a beautiful, kind, and intelligent daughter-in-law,” King Petyrr sighed happily.
“Benjimir, could you ask her if she remembers the summer we decided to find the biggest koi fish in the fish pond of Rosewood Park?” Arvel asked.
Benjimir translated the request, and frowned when Gwendafyn laughed, then slapped a hand over her mouth. She shook her head at Arvel then waggled a finger at him.
Again, the unpleasant feeling twinged in his chest, this time at a slightly stronger strength. “I’m afraid to ask,” he said wryly in Elvish.
Gwendafyn shook her head. “From the year we were bonded until I turned fourteen, I was allowed to spend almost a whole month in Haven every summer.”
Benjimir blinked. A month? Yvrea spent the whole summer here every year since we were bonded, until she assumed the duties of the Crown Princess and then traveled back and forth between Haven and Jubilee whenever King Celrin did. Why would they keep the younger daughter under such a strict leash when Yvrea was the one who would one day rule?
“Arvel and I had a pretty hard time communicating—it was my fault, really. I wasn’t schooled overly much in gestures, but children don’t really need to communicate to get into mischief,” Gwendafyn continued. “And so one year we decided to find the biggest fish…by wading into the pond and manually measuring them. Arvel almost half drowned when a particularly large koi slapped him in the face with its tail while we were attempting to measure it.”
Benjimir stared down at her, half surprised, but also still trying to reason out the vast difference in treatment between the two princesses.
“Is she telling you about it?” Arvel asked with a wide grin.
“Yeah, she is,” Benjimir replied in Calnoric. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Queen Luciee preparing to advance on them. Though he never wanted to be stuck acting as his pretentious mother’s translator, he was intrigued by the sword-like object strapped to Gwendafyn’s back, and as a result was motivated just enough to be ruder than usual.
“Start down the path, will you?” he murmured to Gwendafyn in Elvish before turning to his family. “If you’ll excuse us, Gwendafyn wishes to speak with me privately.” He winked devilishly, making Arvel snicker and King Petyrr laugh. He didn’t wait long enough to see his mother’s reaction before he hurried after Gwendafyn.
“What’s going on?” Gwendafyn asked when they were out of sight.
“Nothing, I just wanted to know why you are carrying a sword in a sack,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn stopped abruptly and whipped around to face him. “Can I not have a sword?” she asked carefully. Though her tone was light, Benjimir could feel a hidden intensity to it.
There was a lot of emotion behind that question. “There’s nothing that says you can’t. Have as many swords as you want. You’re an elvish princess married to a human prince. Who’s going to stop you?” he asked. “But I am curious to know…what are you going to do with it?
Gwendafyn shifted her weight and eyed Benjimir.
He rolled his eyes at her obvious display of distrust. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. I don’t care.”
“You don’t care?” Gwendafyn echoed.
“No,” Benjimir said, flatly. Though why she’s balking at this is beyond me. I already ran off her harpy of an aunt. Unless she’s planning to murder me in my sleep, I don’t understand why she’s so secretive. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I don’t.
“It’s just…” Gwendafyn trailed off and rested her hands on the leather strap slung across her chest. “I, I know it’s not…”
Don’t care. Not at all. She doesn’t want to tell me, anyway. Benjimir shrugged and started to turn away.
“Won’t your family be scandalized if they find out I practice sword fighting? Or that I’m trying to practice sword fighting?”
Benjimir completed his turn in a complete circuit so he was back to facing Gwendafyn. “What are you talking about?”
“My aunt didn’t want me to practice with a sword, or own one,” Gwendafyn said. “Father said I could as long as I kept it a secret, so I had assumed it would be the same in Haven.”
“It’s not.” Benjimir studied her, his attention split between her words and the anxious set of her shoulders.
When Yvrea is sad, she looks like a lost woodland creature that needs to be rescued. Gwendafyn looks more like a broken yet beautiful myth of yore…and I can’t believe I just used the word yore in my own mind. I’m spending too much time with elves.
Disgusted at the soppiness of his thoughts—and perhaps even with the idea that Yvrea was in any way less than her sister—Benjimir shook his head to clear it.
“So I can practice with a sword? No one will be offended?” Gwendafyn asked. “Or intimidated?”
“No one complains that Tari commonly skulks around with the Honor Guard and frequently humiliates them in drinking games. I don’t think anyone will care if you twirl a sword,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn brightened—which brought her exotic beauty into sharp focus. “I am so glad to hear that! Thank you, Benjimir. I appreciate your knowledge.” She removed the shapeless bag from her back and pulled out a plain sword. “I bought this battered spare off an old man, but if it’s not forbidden, I think I’ll see if I can buy a weighted, wooden, practice sword. This thing’s balance is so bad it wasn’t going to do me much good at all,” she said as she eyed her sword.
This is no concern of mine. Gwendafyn and I have a marriage of convenience. She can do whatever she wants, and I won’t interfere.
Aloud, he said, “I can arrange some lessons for you, if you like.” He abruptly clamped his jaw shut and nearly scowled, angry with the apparent disconnect between his brain and his mouth.
“Really?” Gwendafyn asked. Though she complained of the sword, Benjimir could see by the way she grasped the hilt she had some experience with the weapon.
Too late to back out of it now…
Benjimir made certain his face was bland as he nodded. “I will find an instructor for you.”
Gwendafyn set her sword aside and moved like she wanted to hug him but paused awkwardly a step away from him. She hesitated—seemingly struggling to decide what to do—then settled for taking one of Benjimir’s hands and squeezing it as she gazed at him with her sapphire eyes. “Thank you, Benjimir. This means a lot to me.”
Benjimir shrugged. “We are married,” he attempted to drawl—which was rather difficult in Elvish. On an impulse, he squeezed Gwendafyn’s hand before letting go. “I’ll make the arrangements before I leave.”
Gwendafyn cocked her head. “You’re going to hunt bandits again?”
“Father’s orders. Mother has invited us to several events, but we’re not going before I leave.”
Gwendafyn gathered up her sword again. “If you want to—”
“I don’t,” Benjimir emphatically said.
Gwendafyn grinned a little. “I understand.”
Benjimir nodded, then cast a glance over his shoulder. “I better return. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“You as well—try to rest before you leave,” Gwendafyn advised.
Benjimir shrugged. “Of course,” he said with the intension of doing nothing of the sort. Sleeping—or resting—hadn’t come easily to him since Tari had shown off her Calnoric language skills years ago.
Gwendafyn raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth, but Benjimir was too quick for her. “Good day, Gwendafyn.” He turned on his heels and swept back up the garden pathway.
“Good day, Benjimir,” Gwendafyn called after him.
Benjimir waved a hand in acknowledgement but didn’t stop.
So, I have to arrange sword lessons now. I should ask Tari first. She doesn’t know how to use a sword, but if I engage her early on in the matter, she’ll feel invested and will be willing to act as translator so I won’t have to have Rollo trailing Gwendafyn.
Plus, it will give Tari something to focus on, and Arion has said he’s afraid of what she’ll do these last few months if she isn’t occupied in some manner. Gwendafyn will have her lessons and a translator; Tari will be satisfied and feel useful; Arion will be relieved, and I won’t have anything to do with it: everyone wins.
Pleased with his own thoughts, Benjimir nodded as he rejoined his parents and brother in the garden.
Though I do wonder…Gwendafyn is the first elf I’ve ever met to show an interest in fighting—a passion-based interest, not a purposeful interest. But, that has nothing to do with me.
“You sent Gwendafyn off like a proper husband, yes?” King Petyrr asked.
Benjimir distractedly nodded, only half-listening as his father launched into a new topic of discussion. He was more than a little concerned with his own thoughts. Why do I sound like I’m trying to convince myself that Gwendafyn’s interests and actions don’t affect me at all?
6
The Joy of Freedom
“My Princess Gwendafyn, please allow me to introduce you to your instructors,” Tari said with a bright smile. “Thad, Wilford, and Grygg,” she said pointing to each man in turn. “They are patrol leaders in the Honor Guard and serve under Arion.”
The trio bowed, their Honor Guard uniforms perfectly straight and orderly in the sunlight.
Gwendafyn smiled and pointed to herself. “Fyn.” She glanced accusingly at Tari. “That goes for you as well, Tari. It’s just Fyn.”
Tari laughed. “Very well, Fyn. I am confident Thad, Wilford, and Grygg will be excellent instructors. It was they who taught me Calnoric!”
“Well met,” Thad said in Elvish. Although he stressed the wrong syllables, Gwendafyn could still understand him.
“Well met,” Gwendafyn said, saying the words slowly.
“Well met?” Thad tried again.
Gwendafyn nodded, making the patrol leader grin broadly.
“They’re all trying to learn Elvish, though Thad is the most passionate,” Tari explained.
“That is admirable,” Gwendafyn said. “I am now receiving Calnoric lessons, but my pronunciation is terrible. I don’t understand how Benjimir came to speak Elvish so well while still managing all his day-to-day tasks.”
“It gets easier,” Tari promised. “As you deal with more humans, you’ll start to pick up more words. It’s easier here in Haven where you can be immersed.” Tari switched to Calnoric, pronouncing the deep and guttural language with ease as she chatted with the patrol leaders.
Thad smiled politely and nodded as he listened. Wilford glanced from Gwendafyn to the rack of wooden swords stationed at the side of the practice field they stood in. Grygg scratched his jaw as he studied Gwendafyn from head to toe.
The trio exchanged a snatch of conversation with Tari before she turned back to Gwendafyn. “They’re going to start by selecting a proper practice sword for you, and then they intend to drill you in the basic stances and check your grip. I will remain here to serve as your translator. Is that acceptable?”
“Absolutely,” Gwendafyn said. “Though I am a little confused.”
“About what?” Tari pulled back her hair and used a hair stick topped with a beautiful, painted, metal-worked camellia to pin it in place at the back of her head.
Gwendafyn swiveled slightly so she faced the wooden chair positioned beneath a wax umbrella hooked to the back of it. “Why is Seer Ringali here?”
Seer Ringali snapped his fan open and closed. “For my amusement, of course. And to make sure Tarinthali doesn’t start getting ideas.”
Tari wrinkled her nose at her mentor. “I’m not going to pick up a sword if that’s w
hat you’re worried about. I much prefer my magic-made weapons.”
Seer Ringali sipped ale from a frosted glass pint. “Mmhmm,” he said.
Thad gestured for Gwendafyn to hold out her arm, which she did. He and Wilford tried to measure her arm length before realizing that as she was taller than they were, her arms were longer than theirs, as well.
Wilford squinted at Gwendafyn’s arm before shouting to Grygg—who stood by the rack of wooden swords.
Grygg trotted to the far end of the rack, plucked up four of them, then rejoined them.
“I will confess,” Gwendafyn said as she took the first sword the trio offered her. “When Benjimir told me you would introduce me to my teachers, Tari, I wondered if I was finally going to be trained by an Evening Star.”
Wilford shook his head and plucked the sword from Gwendafyn’s grasp. He swapped it out for a new one and placed it in Gwendafyn’s hand.
“Seer Ringali and I discussed that possibility,” Tari admitted. She hefted herself onto a wooden barrel—though she had to lean back on her hands to support the growing bulge of her belly. “But in the end we decided it was best you learn sword fighting from humans.”
“Why?” Gwendafyn asked. She gave the new sword an experimental twirl before Wilford stopped her mid-swing with a wrist grab.
He shook his head and took that sword as well, once again passing it off to Grygg with a scolding tone.
“Not right,” Thad said to Gwendafyn.
Gwendafyn wracked her brain for the right Calnoric words. “Evil fit?”
“Bad,” Wilford corrected. “Bad fit.”
“Baaad,” Gwendafyn said.
“Bad,” Wilford repeated. He said something additional that Gwendafyn couldn’t catch at all and made her stare blankly at him.
Wilford twisted to face Tari.
“He says the ‘a’ in bad needs to be short, not dragged out,” Tari translated in Elvish.