The Prince's Bargain
Page 1
The Prince’s Bargain
The Elves of Lessa: Book 3
K. M. Shea
THE PRINCE’S BARGAIN
Copyright © 2020 by K. M. Shea
Cover art by Nibelart
Edited by Deborah Grace White
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historic events is entirely coincidental.
www.kmshea.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Afterword
Other books by K. M. Shea
About the Author
1
Myth believed books were precious, so when the bottom book of the massive stack she’d been asked to take to the trade translators’ workshop started to slip, she considered flinging herself to the ground—back first—if the rest of the pile started to shift.
The muscles of her arm ached, and she had to hop for a few steps and support the books with a raised knee as she tried to fix her grip.
She was so distracted, she almost didn’t see the flustered Honor Guard.
He was Calnorian—a human. His stocky build and rounded ears made that obvious. But, in a building full of human and elven translators, he stuck out like a sore thumb with his standard issued sword and Honor Guard uniform. The awkward way he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet only underlined his discomfort.
If Myth had to hazard a guess, he needed help—he was clutching a worn piece of paper and watching the translators that bustled past with a hopeful expression.
No one stopped to help him. Too many translators with dark circles under their eyes passed him unseeingly. Others ran by, their schedules packed so tightly they had to sprint from one meeting to the next.
Myth hefted her stack of books a little higher and tipped them against her torso to steady them.
It’s going to take him an hour before he works up the courage to ask for help.
She pressed her lips together and considered the options. As an apprentice translator, she wasn’t supposed to do any kind of translation work without a senior translator or an instructor nearby. But maybe she could tell him where to go?
Myth, her grasp on her books still weakening, marched over to the guard and slapped on the polite smile she used whenever translating. “May I help you?” she asked in Calnoric, hoping the Elvish lilt to her words wasn’t noticeable.
As an elf, Myth’s accent was usually expressed by making words more musical than they should be. She’d been stubbornly trying to stamp the lilt out, aiming for perfect fluency, but sometimes it still curled around her words.
The Honor Guard drooped with relief and stopped fidgeting. “Yes, please!” He held out the paper. “My squad is supposed to be guarding several visiting elf nobles who wish to leave the palace and go see the market in Haven today. They don’t have a translator, though, and I’m rather bad with hand gestures, so we’ve been unable to make the arrangements of when they want to leave. I think they wrote down the details, but I need a translator to tell me what it says.”
It was a simple request—and the paper was in Elvish, and there was no chance Myth would misread her mother tongue. Perhaps it would be better to help the guard herself rather than bother another overworked translator.
She stared at the paper as she struggled to hold her books. “Maybe…could you unfold it please?”
“Oh! Of course!” He fumbled, unfolding the scrap of paper and holding it up to Myth’s face.
She adjusted the bottom book of the stack—which was digging into her stomach—as she read the note over. “They ask if it would be possible to meet you at the city gates in the third afternoon hour.”
“Really?” The guard flipped the note around and peered at it. “All of this for that one sentence, huh?”
Myth renewed her polite smile. “Elvish is a descriptive language.”
It was a pleasant way to describe the difference between Elvish and Calnoric.
In truth the two languages—much like the two countries—were so different, it was incredibly difficult to master the opposing language.
Calnoric was deep and guttural with thick words that Myth had to spit from her mouth, whereas Elvish was almost musical and relied a great deal on intonation mixed with its complex words.
It took translators years of schooling and diligence to learn everything required—which was partially why they were so few in number when one considered the strength of the relationship between Calnor and Lessa, the country of the elves.
The guard bowed to Myth. “Thank you so much for your help, Translator!”
“I’m afraid I’m a mere apprentice, but it was my honor to aid you.” Myth tried to bow in return, but stopped when one of her books almost slipped out of her arms.
The guard waved and trotted off, navigating around a trio of senior translators.
One of them belonged to Myth’s translation department, trade, marked out by the dark jacket and tidy but serviceable boots, breeches, and undershirt.
The other two were social translators, decked out in bright fabrics and far flashier clothes designed to allow them to blend in to the fashions of nobility and fade into the background as they translated during parties, dinners, and all types of social interactions.
Myth bowed her head in respect to the trio, then turned to go.
“Apprentice.” Translator Krim, the trade translator of the trio who had been one of Myth’s instructors when she was a student, held up her hand to forestall her. “A moment.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Myth tried to discreetly heave her books higher—the arm cradling them was starting to get a cramp that was turning her muscles numb.
“Do you not remember that as an apprentice, you are not certified for official translation work without supervision?” Translator Krim—who happened to be an elf—observed Myth with a slightly puckered mouth.
“My apologies.” Myth bowed again. “I only thought of helping him, and given his request I didn’t think it counted as official work.”
“Any translations between languages is official work, Apprentice,” Translator Krim said. “Because everything we translate has the potential to shape the alliance between Calnor and Lessa. One misspoken word could ruin everything.”
Still unable to bow, Myth cast her eyes down. “Yes, ma’am.”
Translator Krim was right, of course.
Due to the language difficulties between Lessa and Calnor, their relationship was rather delicate even though their alliance was centuries old. And while recent events had brought the two countries considerably closer, the new activities—like the trade caravans traveling from Calnor to Lessa, and the visiting elf nobles who wished to tour the markets of Haven—demanded more translators when there was already a shortage.
But a shortage is no excuse for mistakes. And even though it’s my goal to speak with perfect fluency, I’m not yet there.
Translator Krim gave him a frosty sniff. “She is a trade apprentice. We translate all trade and number exchanges between Lessa and Calnor. It is vital that our work is precise and perfect.”
Myth nodded in agreement.
The other social translator shook his head. “Sounds fussy.”
Translator Krim pressed her lips together. “It is considerably ironic you say that, given that—not one minute ago—you complained how you were forced to translate for two elf nobles who were engaged in a conversation with Lord Julyan Fulton, who persisted in calling Crown Prince Arvel a foolish boy.”
The social translator cringed. “That, perhaps, was more of a personal failing. I would have taken great delight in popping Lord Julyan in his teeth for speaking so disrespectfully of the crown prince.”
Translator Rollo ruefully rubbed his jaw at his fellow social translator’s observation. “It’s not only rude, but horribly incorrect. Crown Prince Arvel is still proving himself. He never expected the position—Benjimir was the heir for most of Arvel’s life.”
Very aware this was a conversation she should not be privy to, Myth tried to edge away, then paused.
I haven’t been dismissed yet…can I go anyway?
She glanced at Translator Krim, who was shaking her head at Translator Rollo’s words.
“You’re his personal translator, what do you make of it?” the other social translator asked Translator Rollo.
“With his intelligence, he’s got the potential to be an excellent ruler. But his open temperament seems to make certain nobles believe they can manipulate him. He’ll teach them—once he adjusts to the title.”
“He’s been the crown prince for several years,” Translator Krim cryptically pointed out.
Oh, no. I’m not going to listen to a political discussion. I chose to be a trade translator because this is exactly the sort of thing I wish to avoid.
Myth loudly cleared her throat, and shifted her books from one arm to the other when the translators all looked at her.
Myth bowed her head. “I shall remember your wise words, Translator Krim.”
“Of course. Dismissed.” The trade translator made a shooing motion.
Myth gratefully slipped off, moving as fast as she could without appearing unsightly.
She didn’t flee quite fast enough to avoid hearing a bit of Translator Rollo’s response.
“There is a big difference between expecting to be an advisor—a position where being likeable is considered a skill—and suddenly becoming the heir and being saddled with ruling over all the people who previously considered you affable and fun…but, say, that was Apprentice Mythlan, wasn’t it?”
Myth doubled her efforts to retreat, daring to jog so she closed in on the rounded workshop door much faster.
Just as she reached the entrance, the circular door unexpectedly opened, and Myth had to drop her chin to the top book on her pile to keep it from sliding off as she abruptly checked her pace.
When she saw the tall body that filled the doorway, she leaned back in surprise, getting a book spine to the rib.
An elf enchanter stepped out of the trade workshop, his long blond hair pulled back in a loose plait. Time, as it did for all Lesser Elves, hadn’t left much of an imprint on him—a few thin wrinkles on his forehead, though some of his pale blond hair was threaded with gray.
Even though enchanters didn’t commonly frequent the Translators’ Circle, Myth knew him.
He was one of the senior enchanters…and was Myth’s father.
He glanced at her, taking in the way she fumbled with her books, and nodded.
No greeting, no exchange of words; he didn’t even wait for her to bow her head in return. He swept off, focused on his own business as Myth expected.
Her father had always been more apathetic toward her existence than anything else. At best he could be described as…distant.
He is what he has always been, Myth briskly reminded herself.
It’d been years since her father’s actions had caused her any kind of pain.
Myth stepped into the trade workshop and couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on her lips.
The bustle of translators moving from desk to desk was as hushed and quiet as the scratch of the numerous quill pens moving across paper.
Moving swiftly so she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way, Myth made her way to the tables where she would unload her treasured burden.
Here, as a trade translator, she’d have a place. She’d be one of the men and women who worked together to keep trade open between Lessa and Calnor. Once she graduated from apprentice to translator, she’d join in the well-rehearsed dance the workshop followed as the translators copied logs, recorded orders, and sent off messengers.
Just seeing the workshop renewed Myth’s determination to make her goal.
I should fit in another study session tonight at the Library of Haven after my shift. I could use the practice in copying out more Calnoric.
She set the books down, then dashed through the workshop, making her way to the senior translator who needed to be informed of the books’ arrival. She slipped unseen past a gaggle of translators discussing a recent trade order, and smiled at a harried student who was retrieving an abacus for a senior translator.
Yes, this was where Myth belonged. She just had to prove herself with a great deal of work and diligence, but there was no place she’d rather be.
Recalling the conversation between the three senior translators, she shivered in revulsion.
One thing I can be sure of, I am so very grateful I chose to be a trade translator. With all the delicate customs and emotional undertones required for social translating, it sounds miserable.
Miserable was an understatement—it sounded wretched. She preferred numbers and figures any day, even with all the extra studying.
Myth stopped in front of a senior translator’s desk, and as she waited for his acknowledgment, she concluded that she was glad she would never, ever be asked to serve as a social translator.
Arvel kept his smile in place as he purposefully strode through the Celebration Hall. That was the trick—to keep moving at a swift pace so people would assume he was going somewhere. Because if he stopped, the crowds would close in on him in a second.
Arvel made it to the far wall. He was so close to an exit, he could feel the cool breeze that slipped in through the open door.
Almost there…
He turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the crowds as if he were searching for someone. And he was—his mother. But not because he wanted to speak with her. He wanted to make sure she was occupied so when he left she wouldn’t notice and send a servant racing after him to verbally drag him back.
Since he’d become the crown prince, his peaceful days of dodging whatever social events he wanted to were over. He wasn’t entirely sure of the tradeoff. He hadn’t wanted to be the crown prince, and he didn’t believe for a second his father’s vows that he was the best choice due to his passion for economics and general love of learning. But his eldest brother had turned the position down flat, and his younger brothers had no interest in ruling. So now he was the heir.
Arvel smiled at a gruff knight, who bowed to him. “Your Highness.”
“Good evening.” Arvel kept on smiling as the older man edged past him.
Another quick glance and it looked like the coast was clear. All that was left was to—no.
He froze in place when he spotted the three beautiful young ladies watching him with the intensity of snow cats. When they saw him looking in their direction, the trio curtsied and started to weave through the crowd.
No, no, no! Not again!
Arvel knew those ladies—not because they were friends or even acquaintances, but because they were titled, wealthy, noble
ladies that his mother had tried pushing him at for the past three royal socials. But hidden beneath the girls’ perfect hair and beautiful dresses was a ruthless streak that had them aiming for him even though he wasn’t interested.
So, he fled.
It wasn’t glorious. But faced with the oncoming storm, it was the only survival technique that came to mind. And determined ladies, Arvel had learned, were the most dangerous sort of enemy there was.
Arvel darted through the open door and blinked rapidly in the dimly lit hallway, where only the occasional torch in a stand bolted to the wall sputtered in the breezy corridor. He inhaled the fresh air and wiped his brow off.
“Your Highness?”
Arvel lunged into a fast march that was just short of an actual run. “I need to shake them off my trail,” he muttered to himself.
He turned up a random hallway, trying to find an even more shadowy stretch where flickering light wouldn’t reveal him. He found his sanctuary in one of the long hallways that wound around the Celebration Hall.
This particular one was cluttered with suits of armor. Most of them were human forged, but Benjimir and Gwendafyn—his older brother and sister-in-law—had brought back a few High Elf armor sets on their last visit to Gwendafyn’s home country and the dwelling place of the Lesser Elves, which was so originally named Lessa. Those armor sets were displayed in prominent spots that had been cleared to properly showcase the ancient and beautiful work of the long-gone High Elves.
Arvel dove behind the massive marble block one of those stately sets of armor was displayed on. He pulled his long limbs close, making sure he was adequately hidden by the block.