by K. M. Shea
“Is. He is hardly any more emotional now—except with you.” Seer Ringali flicked his fan shut. “And while I do remember his taciturnity, I also recall your special stupidity, Tarinthali.”
“We don’t have to speak of that.” Tari gracefully adjusted the light blanket she had wrapped around Braydynn.
“Why not, My Lady?” Evlawyn asked as she poured more mead into Seer Ringali’s mug.
“Allow me to guess: because it will upset your offspring?” Seer Ringali asked.
“Not at all. Merely because I don’t want to.” Tari grinned winningly.
Evlawyn joined Gwendafyn in her chuckle.
The wind stirred the branches of the trees that stretched over them, letting only dapples of sunlight through. A bird sang, and the air smelled faintly of honey and butter from the mead Gwendafyn had spilled when Tari regaled them with the tale of how she drank the Honor Guard under the table.
This, this is what I wanted. All those years locked up in Jubilee, and now I finally have it. Freedom, friendship, the ability to laugh as loud as I want and do what I wish…and even my companionship with Benjimir. I didn’t think it would matter, but it does.
Gwendafyn raised her hand to acknowledge the innkeeper’s children—who crouched in the shadows in an attempt to hide and watch them with wide eyes. When they met her eyes, the children—all three of them—lost their balance and fell on their rears as they gaped at her.
“Unfortunately, I think I might need to return to my room with Braydynn. He’s too busy watching everything and isn’t sleeping as he should,” Tari said as she smiled down at her boy and rocked in the inn’s sole rocking chair.
“I can take him, My Lady,” Evlawyn offered. “You can remain here.”
“It’s fine, Evlawyn. I suspect I’ve hogged the conversation enough,” Tari said.
Gwendafyn stood and approached the children, crouching down next to them. “Hello,” she said in Calnoric.
The children stared at her as if she were a talking horse. The oldest one, a girl, said, “You’re our new princess, Princess Gwendafyn.”
“Yes,” Gwendafyn said, choosing to limit her responses in hopes of keeping her accent controlled.
“You’re beautiful,” the littlest one—a boy—said around the hand he had shoved in his mouth. “You have pretty eyes. And pointy ears.”
“Will!” the oldest girl hissed.
Gwendafyn smiled. “Thank you. Do you want to see my ears better?”
All three children nodded.
Gwendafyn gathered up her hair—she had let it spill loose around her for the day—and pulled it up so her entire ear was visible.
“You really are an elf,” the middle child—another girl—said in surprise.
The oldest child groaned. “Ma ought to spank you both!” she grumbled.
Gwendafyn winked at the trio and let her hair fall back into place. “It’s fine. I don’t expect you meet many elves,” she said slowly and carefully.
“Never,” the youngest one confirmed.
“Children!” their mother shouted in the inn.
“We need to go.” The oldest curtsied, then pushed her little brother’s head down when he didn’t bow.
“Bye-bye, Princess!” the little boy said before his sisters whisked him away.
Gwendafyn watched them go with a smile, then slowly stood, tugging on her clothes to straighten them.
It seems Evlawyn had won the argument, for as Gwendafyn returned to their little group, she left, carrying Braydynn in her arms.
“You addressed your admirers?” Tari asked as she watched Evlawyn enter the inn.
“Not my admirers, ours,” Gwendafyn said. “They haven’t seen an elf before.”
Seer Ringali balanced his cup on the tips of his fingers. “It seems strange to me that though Lessa and Calnor have such close ties, those of Calnor rarely set eyes on us elves.”
“The citizens of Haven being an exception, yes.” Tari smiled at Gwendafyn as she sat down again in her chair. “I meant to ask you this earlier, My Princess, but what are you wearing?”
Gwendafyn glanced down at her new clothes and smiled. She was wearing a soft shirt that was a hue of purple-ish blue which cut off just where her arm bracers started, and a leather vest that was decorated with pearlescent white swirls around the edges. Tight, dark brown trousers covered her legs, although the boots—which were the same dark brown as her trousers and decorated with the same pearlescent marks as her vest—were her guilty pleasure out of the outfit. To complete the look, a complex belt fastened around her waist—weighted to counter balance the sword Benjimir promised to have made for her—and a panel of the purple-blue cloth cinched around her hips, covering her backside.
If Aunt Lorius could see me now! She thought with no small amount of glee.
“It’s a set of my practice clothes,” Gwendafyn said. “Benjimir had a human tailor make me a few new sets. I’m wearing them because I was hoping that I might ask you for a few tips. I know you cannot teach me any Evening Star attacks or moves, but would it go against your vows to teach me some stretches? I’d like to limber up more.”
Tari looked to Seer Ringali, who was still studying his mug. “A reasonable request—and one that Tarinthali can fulfill.”
“Thank you!”
“Of course!” Tarinthali flexed her hands. “I’ll show you some hand exercises that will help your grip on your sword as well.”
Gwendafyn glanced at the far end of the inn—where the stables were. I thought I heard a horse galloping… “I would greatly appreciate that. Though I feel my skills have much improved, I nearly threw out my back in my last match against Wilford when I tried to repeat a kick—”
Seer Ringali held his hand up. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
Gwendafyn and Tari paused.
For a moment, Gwendafyn only heard the happy snap of tree leaves swaying in the breeze, but then she heard it: feet pounding on pavement.
“Princess!”
Gwendafyn stood, her hand on her belt. “Back here,” she shouted in Calnoric.
Grygg sprinted around the corner, his face tight with concern as he nearly skid out. “There’s been an attack,” he shouted before he reached them, his shoulders heaving with effort.
Every nerve in Gwendafyn’s body prickled. “Yes?” She swiped the mug of honey mead she hadn’t touched and offered it to Grygg.
He took a sip of it and collapsed in the middle of the courtyard as he panted. “Prince Benjimir had us out in small squads as we tried to corner ‘em.”
“The bandits?” Tari asked.
Grygg nodded. “They surprised us—with a mage.”
“A mage?” Gwendafyn yelped. But they’re bandits! Why would a mage—an occupation even more rare than that of the Translator’s Circle—join bandits?
Grygg took another swig of the mead, though much of it drizzled down his chin and fell on his armor. “They captured one of the squads with their pet mage, and they’re holding them captive.”
Gwendafyn’s blood turned cold. No, they can’t—no!
“They have Prince Benjimir,” Grygg said, confirming Gwendafyn’s every fear.
It was impossible to breathe, and her ears rang as his words sank in.
Tari rattled off a translation in Elvish for Seer Ringali as Gwendafyn stared at the ground.
“King Petyrr knows of these events?” Seer Ringali asked.
Tari asked on his behalf, and Grygg nodded.
“King Petyrr has regrouped the guard into one force. They’re facing off with the bandits, but it’s no use. Their mage has put up a magic barrier neither arrows nor man can get through.”
And they can’t break it because Wizard Edvin didn’t come along this time.
“King Petyrr expects there will be some kind of ransom or demands soon,” Grygg added.
Something deep in Gwendafyn roared. “Where?” she asked.
“West of town,” Grygg said. “I left markers along the way—wait! Princ
ess Gwendafyn!”
Gwendafyn ignored the guard and ran for the stables. “Nox!” she shouted as she entered the barn.
Nox dropped his massive black head over his stall door and neighed.
Gwendafyn grabbed his bridle from a hook as she ran past—making horses snort and shy.
“Princess, wait,” Tari called. “We’ll come with you!”
Gwendafyn’s tongue felt numb as she wrenched the stall door open.
Despite the tangle of emotions she surely radiated, Nox dropped his head and obediently took the bit of the bridle, standing still as Gwendafyn buckled it into place.
No saddle—that will take too long! Gwendafyn sprang onto Nox’s back and bent over his shoulders to avoid hitting any hanging objects as she directed Nox into the aisle.
His hooves clattered on the cobblestone and turned into muffled thumps when they left the stable for the dusty earth.
Gwendafyn kept Nox at a fast trot as they navigated the city streets. The usual bustle of the town sounded muted to her ears, and Nox snorted and danced a few steps as they reached the city gate.
Almost…almost… They left Neice, and the road opened up before them with no traffic for leagues. Now!
Gwendafyn squeezed Nox, who shot forward like lightning on hooves.
The wind whistled in Gwendafyn’s ears as she held her seat, holding secure with her legs.
She caught sight of Grygg’s markers—scraps of red fabric dropped on the earth like blood—and turned Nox to follow the path as it separated from the road.
Benjimir will live. Gwendafyn promised herself above the thunder of Nox’s hooves. He will make it, or all of Calnor will rain down on these bandits.
Nox was sweaty by the time they reached the temporary base, and he snorted and tossed his head as Gwendafyn slowed him to a canter, then a trot.
She flung herself off his back before he had slowed to a walk.
One of the guards—Phelps, she thought based on her fleeting glance—caught his reins and started to walk the black gelding to cool him down.
“Gwendafyn!”
Gwendafyn turned blindly in a circle, her heart pounding relentlessly in her ears. She caught sight of King Petyrr as he strode through camp.
She strode up to him, barely noticing when he took her hands and squeezed them. “Where is he?” she asked.
King Petyrr’s expression was pained. He tugged her along by the hand, taking her to the edge of the Honor Guard formation.
There, squatting at the edge of the forest, was an encompassing bubble of yellow, putrid magic.
“There haven’t been any demands yet—though they have warned us not to come any closer.” King Petyrr had aged ten years since Gwendafyn last saw him. His face was pale, and the wrinkles of worry on his forehead were more pronounced.
“What will we do?”
“I’ve several guards riding to the nearest wizard,” King Petyrr said. “He’s strong enough that he could break that barrier, and we can get him back. If…”
“If?” Gwendafyn asked.
King Petyrr hesitated. “If it lasts that long. The wizard is a three-hour ride away. He won’t arrive until closer to evening.”
Three—no six—hours round trip? “We can’t wait that long. They’ll kill Benjimir before then.”
King Petyrr held a hand up. “I know, Gwendafyn. But we can’t reach him. We’ve already tried arrows, and when I sent several soldiers there to verify he’s still alive, they weren’t able to pass through either.”
“But they’ve seen him?” Gwendafyn asked, her voice shaking.
King Petyrr nodded. “Aye. They said he looked madder than a wet cat.”
The word picture made Gwendafyn crack a brief smile, but it faded in a moment. “If they have a mage…what does that mean?”
The Calnor King sighed. “It means this is bigger than we hoped. Talent like that doesn’t run with bandits—not when there are easier and far more profitable ways to make money for a mage.”
“Then it is almost certain another country is involved?” Gwendafyn asked.
King Petyrr nodded. “We can’t be sure of their motive—or how far they will take this. But Benjimir was targeted, that much is for certain.”
He’s a prince—if they are trying some sort of political maneuvering, he would be the best choice to snatch. King Petyrr is more likely to buckle for his own son…
“His party was in the center of our formation, and he had one of the best patrol squads with him.” King Petyrr glared at the putrid barrier and snarled like a bear. “I should have insisted he better protect himself, but this is despicable! One of my own allies has meddled in my country and kidnapped a prince? This is war they’re looking for.”
Gwendafyn blinked at his oath but turned around when she heard horses approach.
Tari and Seer Ringali rode in, their horses nearly as lathered as Nox. Sius bounded at their feet, and when they stopped, he released a yowl of anger that likely struck fear into the hearts of the bandits across the way.
“Lady Tari and her mentor, I see. I had best go explain to them.” King Petyrr sighed again, then opened his arms.
Gwendafyn took the invitation and embraced the shorter man. He squeezed her, as though he could force her shattered soul back together.
“Be strong, Daughter-in-law,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly. “He’ll come back to us.”
He patted her on the shoulder, then pulled away, marching off to grimly greet Tari and Seer Ringali.
Gwendafyn slowly returned her gaze to the barrier of yellow magic.
Her stomach churned in an unsettling combination of rage and desperation. She licked her dried lips and repeated King Petyrr’s words in Elvish. “This is war they’re looking for…they hope to drain Calnor dry…”
It was the only logical conclusion based on her night-time conversation with Benjimir. They either sought to weaken Calnor to keep it from growing in power, or they were going to make a move to take everything Calnor and Lessa had striven to attain for themselves.
And Benjimir would pay the price for their greed.
No, he can’t…it doesn’t matter if he loves Yvrea forever. I can’t lose him!
“Princess?” Wilford asked. Though his stance was strong, his voice was timid.
Gwendafyn flicked her tears away. “Yes?” she asked after clearing her throat.
“This was recovered from the area where His Highness was attacked.” Wilford offered out a jeweled sword Gwendafyn vaguely recognized.
“It’s Benjimir’s, isn’t it?” She took the sword, a stabbing of guilt prodding her.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Wilford said.
“I remember whenever I saw him wear it, I thought it was too flashy—the gems would affect the balance of the blade…” She trailed off and studied the weapon.
It wasn’t the right size for her. Thus far, she had worked mostly with elvish longswords and the standard practice sword. Benjimir’s was a shorter blade that was meant for faster and closer combat, but in truth she always suspected he preferred it because it was easier to sit and walk around with.
But as Gwendafyn held it, the grip, the balance, the blade…they felt more right to her than she would have expected.
“Thad was—is—with him,” Wilford said.
Gwendafyn strengthened her grip on the sword, then finally faced Wilford. “What?”
“Thad was the patrol leader who was with him when he was captured.” Wilford looked sick at heart—though his face transformed into a terrible glare when he looked past Gwendafyn and his eyes settled on the barrier.
“Is he alive?”
“I don’t know. They only brought Prince Benjimir up to the edge of the barrier when our scouts were allowed to look.” Wilford’s fists shook. “We’ll get them back, Your Highness. Some way.”
“Gwendafyn!”
Wilford backed away when Tari joined them.
The elf briefly rested her hand on Gwendafyn’s shoulder. “King Petyr
r told us everything.”
“It’s a disgusting and underhanded tactic,” Seer Ringali sneered in Elvish. “Even for a human.”
“I have no idea what you said, Evening Star,” King Petyrr growled as he also appeared. “But I agree with your tone.”
“Is there really nothing that can be done, Arion?” Tari asked, calling to her husband.
Arion was an imposing figure in his armor as he strode through the makeshift base. “We cannot attack,” he said. “The Honor Guard has no possible way to break through that barrier, and we risk angering them if we try.”
“We’re in a hard place,” King Petyrr hooked his thumbs on his belt and glared across the field of flowers. “We’re short on time, but without a wizard we can’t do anything. I’ve also sent out a messenger to the nearest army fortification, but they’re nearly the same distance as the closest wizard.”
“I hate this.” Tari prowled back and forth between Seer Ringali and Arion, Sius hissing in agreement. “We have no options—no viable way to fight this!”
Something in Gwendafyn rattled, but her thoughts were too fast to make sense. She edged away from the others, trying to clear her head.
She rubbed her thumb on one of the large gems on Benjimir’s sword and stared at the magic barrier, as if she’d be able to see Benjimir.
Fleetingly, she recalled the exhaustion in his body as he stared into the fire, then the strange light in his eyes when he followed her into her room.
Benjimir…I can’t lose you. I love you.
It was a grim realization. She had fought the attraction for months now. She knew better, but in the end she had lost. She loved a man who had pined after her sister for years, and at the moment his life was at stake, as was everything he had worked for.
These allies, they’re trying to push Calnor into a corner and watch as they fight, incapable of properly defending themselves as they carry the burden for themselves and for Lessa.
It wasn’t fair. Calnor was a country of honor and valiance. And now their prince was held captive by rogues, tying Calnor’s hands. And all Lessa could do was offer a new way to treat wounds.
Gwendafyn gripped the hilt of the sword tighter, squeezing her calluses.