Royal Magic

by K. M. Shea

  “No,” King Petyrr sighed.

  “We’ve questioned those we’ve captured, and often they are from different parts of Calnor and were not companions until they were united and combined their efforts.” Benjimir folded his arms across his chest and leaned against a hitching post as his father and father-in-law glided over to him and Arvel.

  “I can say most of them were recruited,” Benjimir continued. “But we haven’t managed to track down any of the top leaders yet. They’re the real troublemakers.” He glanced back at Gwendafyn and Claire.

  Gwendafyn signed something to the trio of ladies, then smiled down at Claire, using what Benjimir thought of as her “elf expression”—a serene smile that was nearly a perfect copy of her father’s.

  King Petyrr grumbled. “Without the shadowy leaders they would not have grown so organized and become such a threat.”

  Arvel rubbed his wrist as he glanced up and down the street. “Should we really be discussing this in such a public setting?”

  King Petyrr shrugged. “It’s not a secret. It’s public knowledge we’re shutting down the rogues—as it should be! The people must know they can trust us with their well-being!” He puffed up like an upset hedgehog.

  Benjimir rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and again searched out Gwendafyn.

  Whether it was by the power of Gwendafyn’s race or her open favor of Claire, the three noble ladies were actually talking to the younger princess without a sneer on their faces.

  What hustle is Gwendafyn pulling? He wondered as he watched Claire nod, then speak to Gwendafyn, who responded with hand gestures. Her Calnoric is far better than she seems to be pretending.

  “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I’ll have to send you on another investigation,” King Petyrr said gloomily.

  Benjimir swiveled his attention back to his father. “Yes. That’s fine.”

  Arvel studied him. “That doesn’t upset you?”

  Benjimir raised an eyebrow at him. “Why would it? I’ll take Gwendafyn with me—she’ll make another holiday of it.”

  The news made King Petyrr sigh again. “I was afraid you’d want that.”

  “It will be good for Gwendafyn,” King Celrin said, surprising Benjimir.

  I thought he’d want to shelter her and try to talk me out of it… Thinking of Lorius and the constant disapproval she seemed to shower on Gwendafyn—which had only gotten worse since she’d been at the palace for the last two weeks—Benjimir said, “I agree. I think making her stay at the palace all the time seems to oppress her.”

  The words were practically a dare to the elvish king, but Benjimir was still a little angry that Celrin would let his daughter so thoroughly be ruled by her aunt. Just even thinking of the way she looked guilty whenever she thought she laughed too loud made Benjimir itch to have Lorius tossed from Haven.

  King Petyrr frowned at Benjimir, and Arvel had a sudden coughing fit, but King Celrin smiled. “I believe you are correct, son-in-law. She likely needs the…escape.”

  That’s about as close as you can come to politely saying she needs to flee Lorius.

  “Perhaps I shall come, too.” King Petyrr scratched his neck as he thought. “We need to track down those bandit leaders.”

  “To stop the raiding?” Arvel asked.

  “Yes, and because they seem too well organized,” King Petyrr said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Arvel asked.

  “I’ve thought of that, too,” Benjimir said. “An average citizen—even if he is smart and charismatic—shouldn’t be able to organize such an elaborate network of bandits without some kind of training.”

  “You think he’s ex-military?” Arvel asked.

  “It’s one possibility out of many,” Benjimir said. Another option is that this uprising is caused by the dabbling of other countries, but why would they do such a thing?

  “The timing is suspicious,” King Celrin said.

  “What do you mean, old friend?” King Petyrr asked once his translator finished.

  “Calnor has never had such a serious problem with bandits…until the bond between Lessa and Calnor grew stronger as a result of Lady Tarinthali and Sir Arion,” King Celrin said.

  King Petyrr furrowed his brow so deeply crops could have been planted in the wrinkles of his forehead. “Yes. That is troubling.” He rolled his shoulders back and smiled brightly. “But we will discuss such matters at a later time! Right now we should enjoy Haven.”

  King Celrin tilted his head. “Indeed.”

  “Come, Celrin! There’s some fresh, smoked jerky somewhere ahead of us—I can smell it!” Sniffing the air like a dog, King Petyrr marched down the street, King Celrin and his translator following him with apparent amusement.

  They passed by Gwendafyn and Claire, who were still standing with the ladies, though Gwendafyn was starting to edge away. Still working her hustle…

  Benjimir sighed and glanced at his younger brother. “You really ought to take a greater interest in military strategy.”

  Arvel made a face. “Why? I find economics far more interesting.”

  “That doesn’t matter. One day you’ll be responsible for both Calnor’s economy and military.”

  “No, thank you,” Arvel said emphatically.

  “If Father names you the heir, you won’t have a choice,” Benjimir warned him.

  “I’m not so convinced he still isn’t going to give you the title again,” Arvel snorted. “And even if he does name me heir, who cares? I think it’s a ridiculous and antiquated notion to expect the king to be good in all areas of ruling—that’s impossible!”

  Benjimir shook his head at his brother’s stubbornness and once again searched out Gwendafyn.

  She had successfully slipped away from Claire and the other ladies and lingered in front of a tiny building that served as a record keeping vault for the blocks around it. City history, census information, marriage licenses, and the like were recorded and stored inside.

  But what appeared to fascinate her was a fresco painted on the whitewashed outer wall.

  Benjimir glanced at Arvel. “Are you going to look at more books?”

  “Yep! Want to come?”

  “Not particularly. Don’t buy too many.”

  “That’s impossible; one can’t ever have too many books.” Arvel grinned, then strode away. “Keep an eye on Gwendafyn for me!”

  Benjimir stiffened and called after him. “She’s my wife. I’ll keep an eye on her for my own sake—you interloper.”

  Arvel laughed in that irritating manner he used whenever he managed to successfully rile someone and mock saluted Benjimir before he reached his wretched bookstore.

  Benjimir grumbled under his breath and pushed off the hitching post, making for his bride.

  As he got closer, he could see the fresco—one of the many historic paintings in Haven the royal families paid to restore every few years—was a mural of the High Elves.

  One High Elf stood tall and proud and stared out of the painting—dark hair whipping in the wind as magic crackled at his feet. Behind him were two fighting High Elves, who resembled figures from a nightmare more than the noble Lesser Elves that milled around Haven.

  Magic swirled around their weapons, and their eyes glowed as blood spattered their clothes.

  Benjimir glanced at Gwendafyn. Her eyes were narrowed and her jaw set, but her brow was slightly furrowed as though she were in physical pain.

  “Does something about this mural bother you?” Benjimir asked as he joined her. “An inaccuracy, perhaps?”

  Gwendafyn glanced from the fresco to him. “No. If anything the original artist rendered the High Elves in uncomfortably precise detail.”

  Benjimir shrugged and inched closer so their shoulders brushed. “They were a fearsome lot.”

  Gwendafyn stiffened, and her mouth twitched unhappily.

  Was that the wrong thing to say? Why?

  “They were terrible,” she said.

  “And beautiful. And brillian
t,” Benjimir added.

  Gwendafyn stared at him. “How can you say that? Do you forget the many they slaughtered? Do you forget that because they were such warmongers, we Lesser Elves would have been killed if not for Calnor?”

  “No,” Benjimir said. “I’m well aware that on the whole, the world has allowed the High Elves to slip from memory. I, however, have not. It seems foolish to forget such an enemy used to prowl the continent.” He frowned thoughtfully as he studied the beautiful fresco. “But it is equally as foolish to focus on all their flaws.”

  Gwendafyn surprised him when she placed a hand on his chest. “What do you mean?” she asked, her shimmering sapphire eyes fixated on him.

  Why is this so important to her? “What I mean is the High Elves were beautiful, brutal warriors. Many times, they stirred up war and chaos, but they loved as fiercely as they fought. Your entire race is a testimony to that, given that Lesser Elves are said to be the offspring of humans and High Elves from long, long ago,” Benjimir said.

  Gwendafyn returned her gaze to the mural. “They were too powerful.”

  “Nonsense,” Benjimir snorted. “There is nothing inherently bad in having power. The bigger question is how one uses that power.” He watched her for a moment when she said nothing in response and continued to doubtfully eye the fresco. “Like you, for instance.”

  Gwendafyn flinched, but her expression was smooth when she offered him an empty smile. “What are you talking about?”

  “You are a princess of Lessa and Calnor,” Benjimir said. “You could lie back and relax for the rest of your life, but you are relentless. You take lessons in Calnoric so you may speak to your new people. You include Claire when frankly she is beneath your notice. You mindfully use a human seamstress. In short, you use the power and respect you have been given for an honorable goal. If you had the same power as the High Elves, I know you would wield it with passion and integrity.”

  Gwendafyn nodded slowly and let her hand slide off his chest. “Thank you, Benjimir.” She sighed, but her shoulders didn’t seem quite so stooped.

  I wonder what that was about.

  Benjimir glanced at the fresco again, then turned his back to it. He touched the elaborate braid Gwendafyn had coiled her hair in for the day and wondered if she would hit him if he loosened it. “So, what trick did you successfully pull on those ladies Claire is still speaking to?” he asked, purposefully changing the subject.

  Gwendafyn raised an eyebrow at Benjimir to let him know she was perfectly aware of what he was attempting to do, then widened her eyes and tilted her head. “Trick? I could never do something so underhanded, and why would I?”

  “Though Claire has been married to Vincent for roughly four years now, the courts treat her with disdain. Yet, you managed to get those three young ladies to talk to her without sneering.”

  “I pretended I couldn’t understand their Calnoric and used hand gestures to explain I could understand Claire because of the time we spend together,” Gwendafyn admitted.

  Benjimir laughed. “How conniving.”

  “It worked,” Gwendafyn snorted, then also turned around. “She’s still talking to them, and I don’t think they noticed that I have left.”

  Benjimir pressed his lips to Gwendafyn’s temple. “I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that I married someone as cunning as I.”

  Gwendafyn waved to a young lad who was openly gawking at them, making him blush.

  “In the art of cunning, I am but a student to your ways, master,” Gwendafyn said.

  Now it was Benjimir’s turn to snort. “I’m hurt you think I would actually believe such an outrageous lie.” He draped an arm around her waist. “Is there something you wish to buy—or maybe more food you mean to dump on me?”

  “Now that you mention it, I would like to have a tailor make another set of practice clothes for me. My current set have been torn and worn so roughly, the knees on the pants have rubbed thin,” Gwendafyn said.

  “Ahh, yes. I did witness that at your little tournament.” For a dangerous moment the image of Gwendafyn—disheveled but glorious as she spun her sword around her—lingered in his mind. “We should have several sets made for you,” he said absently. “No sense making you wear the same thing again and again. And you do look lovely in pants.”

  Gwendafyn rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of complimenting me in Elvish when we’re surrounded by humans? But I digress: can you recommend a tailor?”

  Benjimir frowned a little at her words. It’s natural for her to brush my words aside, he reminded himself. We said love wouldn’t be a part of our marriage. I just never expected…this.

  Whatever passion he had once held for Yvrea had faded almost completely. It likely was in no small part because of the wild and beautiful creature he called his wife.

  Yvrea had been familiarity, warmth, and peace. Gwendafyn burned like the full moon and was filled with unbridled beauty and passion that called to him. There was no comparison—they were very different, after all.

  But I never could have dreamed that someone like Gwendafyn existed. She’s…

  He forced his shoulders back, then let go of her waist so he could take her hand. “Of course. This way, I believe.”

  As Benjimir led Gwendafyn through the streets, he gazed at her, taking in her beauty as she smiled and chattered. When he could see the sparkle of excitement in her eyes, he knew he was a goner.

  Somehow…somewhere…she became the most important thing in the world to me. And I’m not certain how I feel about that.

  Several nights later, and well after the midnight hour, Gwendafyn woke long enough to roll over in her massive bed. She settled back down with the intension of drifting back to sleep when a flickering golden light prodded her eyelids.

  Blearily opening her eyes, Gwendafyn had to blink several times before she could make out the thin strip of light that crept under the door that led to the shared sitting room.

  Benjimir? Is he still up? Usually the fire in the sitting room would have died by now. She sat up in bed and ran a hand through her hair, scowling when she realized most of it had fallen out of the loose braid she had tamed it into before crawling into bed.

  She fluffed her pillows and sank back into her bed as she closed her eyes. Probably mooning over Yvrea. Well. It’s his choice if he wishes to stay up until dawn like an idiot.

  The thought was mean-spirited and uncharitable, and it made Gwendafyn cringe. She hated being jealous—and that’s what it was: sheer, ugly envy.

  In the beginning, it had been easy to remain uncaring about Benjimir’s one-sided love, but now—because she had grown closer to the prince—it was gradually becoming painful. Particularly because Gwendafyn could see the ways Benjimir had become more comfortable with her.

  At the start of their false relationship, they walked arm-in-arm—maybe hand-in-hand if they particularly wanted to tout their “love.” But now Benjimir often tucked an arm around her hips—something that was not a customary elven sign of affection to be certain—and was all too prone to whisper sly comments in her ear that made her want to step on his foot.

  And still, he loved Yvrea.

  Gwendafyn sighed and again sat up in bed so she could study the crack of light. Something must be wrong. He’s never done this before.

  Grumbling under her breath, she pushed the bedcovers off and threw on a robe. He might be an idiot, but he’s my idiot. Half-fearing what she might find, Gwendafyn held her breath as she softly pushed the door open.

  As she suspected, Benjimir was up. He was seated in an uncomfortable, wooden armchair. His legs were stretched out before him, his arms splayed over the arm rests as if he didn’t have the strength to sit up straight, but his brilliant green eyes were hooked on the dancing flames with great intensity.

  “Benjimir?” Gwendafyn ventured.

  Benjimir blinked rapidly as he looked away from the fire and then rubbed his eyes. “Gwendafyn—sorry, did I wake you?”

 
Gwendafyn slid into the sitting room but kept the door cracked open behind her. “Not at all. I merely woke and saw the light.”

  “Ah, then I did wake you. I apologize.” He smiled wryly.

  Gwendafyn rubbed the handle of the door with her thumb. “Is everything all right?”

  Benjimir waved a hand at her. “It’s fine.”

  Gwendafyn pressed her lips together in irritation. He looks about as fine as a half-dead horse.

  “Go back to sleep—I’ll try not to wake you again,” Benjimir added.

  Gwendafyn nodded and turned to do exactly that, but she paused when she had the door half open and glanced back over her shoulder. Something is troubling him. And though my position as his wife is a farce, as a friend, I should not leave him like this. Even if it involves his feelings for Yvrea.

  Gwendafyn pushed the door shut with a quiet snick and then seated herself on a settee not far from Benjimir’s armchair. Far more aware of her own comfort than Benjimir apparently was of his, Gwendafyn ignored the curious look he gave her as she arranged herself on the couch with her legs comfortably stretched and her head supported by a cushion.

  Satisfied, she met Benjimir’s gaze. “What’s wrong?”

  Benjimir smirked. “Can’t hide anything from you, can I?” He rolled his gaze back to the fire. “I was just puzzling over the bandits.” He nudged a stack of crinkled reports with the toe of his leather boot.

  “What about them?” Gwendafyn prompted.

  “I’ve told you before that they have somehow achieved an organized structure, yes?” Benjimir asked.

  Gwendafyn nodded. “And that the leaders have continued to evade you.”

  “Yes…those leaders are the real problem. They are too skilled to be average bandits—or even average civilians.” Benjimir tipped his head back so it rested against the back of his wooden chair. “Which leaves me with several less-than-palatable possibilities.”

  “Like?”

  “They could be ex-military. Which means we have failed somewhere in our training and/or selection process for them to go rogue if that is true.” Benjimir grimly shook his head at the thought. “Or they might not be from Calnor at all.”