by K. M. Shea
Just as he adjusted one of the daggers that hung from his belt, the quiet tap of shoes on stone told him his feminine pursuers had entered the hallway.
“Are you certain he went this way?” one of the young ladies asked.
“Yes!” another said, her voice lined with irritation. “That strawberry blond hair of his nearly glows in the dark.”
“He made a run for it then,” the third young lady concluded. “As expected.”
“No, not as expected,” the irritated lady said. “How dare he treat us so shabbily?”
“It’s hardly surprising,” the third girl continued, her voice growing louder as they neared the armor Arvel hid behind. “He’s been running from other girls for months. I heard this past winter he crossed a frozen pond to escape Lady Regeenia.”
“He’s either addled, or a coward,” declared the irritated girl. “Neither bode well for the future of Calnor.”
Arvel grimaced at the callous observation, but he couldn’t outright deny it. He fled from the marriage candidates his mother insisted on presenting as if he was running for his life. And indeed, he might be. His mother would never suggest someone who might actually like Arvel; only ones she could manipulate, or who would serve some purpose for her.
“Perhaps, but the title of crown prince has passed to him,” the first lady timidly said—she was obviously the type Arvel’s mother, Queen Luciee, knew she could boss around.
“It’s a shame Benjimir fell out of favor,” the third lady sighed. “He’s more handsome.”
“And married,” the first girl said. “To a princess of the Lesser Elves.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the irritated girl declared, her voice fading as they continued down the hallway. “Arvel is the heir. Eventually he’ll have to pick a bride despite his slippery ways.”
Arvel waited until their voices became muted hums before he stood, uncurling from his folded position.
They didn’t say anything I don’t already know. There’s not a female alive in my court who’d marry me for anything but political reasons.
Ruefully, he ran a hand through his hair.
There were several things he regretted about becoming crown prince of Calnor. His sudden popularity with all the single ladies of Calnor was just one of them.
He brushed his fingers against his belt and slightly rearranged his daggers both hidden and openly sheathed before he headed off in the opposite direction the girls had gone in. He smiled and nodded to the occasional Honor Guard he saw standing watch in the royal palace as he took the long way to his desired destination in hopes of throwing off anyone else who had happened to see him.
He went up and down a few staircases, and crossed some nearly endless hallways, but he wasn’t winded by the time he reached his personal sanctuary, the Library of Haven.
There was no other place quite like the library as it was the product of human and elven ingenuity.
A stone archway crouched over the entrance, and two unicorn statues were posted at the end of the carpet that led Arvel deeper inside. Bookshelves built into the walls and arranged in an orderly manner through the building were stacked with books, scrolls, models, maps, and the occasional artifact or two. Tables and desks were scattered throughout the library in clutches or solo nooks meant for deep study. While the bookshelves were of sturdy human work with straight lines and shapes adorning their molding, the tables and chairs were more delicate and curved with flowers and animals carved into the legs and sides—elven carpentry for certain. Twinkling elven lamps—flame shaped creations crafted with colored lampshades that could be removed or lowered to brighten or dim the light shed by candles—were placed on every desk. The air smelled of paper, ink, and the faint scent of spices the elves added to their candles.
In the distance, Arvel could see the banister that marked the start of the second floor. But here, around the entrance, the walls stretched high above his head, giving the library a deep, cavernous feeling that was strangely comforting.
One of the librarians pushing a wooden cart stacked with books paused nearby. “Good evening, Your Royal Highness.”
“Good evening, Thomus. Quiet night?”
The librarian swapped two books on his cart, reordering them. “So far. You’re going to your usual haunt?”
“Yep—as long as that’s fine?”
The librarian grinned, his impressive beard parting to show his teeth. “You are always welcome to the Library of Haven, Your Royal Highness. We’re happy to have you in our ranks.”
Arvel laughed. “Buttering me up so you can ask for funds for a new purchase, huh?”
The librarian tapped his nose. “Perhaps! That is to say, one of my elf colleagues has a contact in Lessa who says they’ve uncovered a collection of High Elf books. We’d like to purchase the set.”
“That’s fine. Send the proposal to my study, and I’ll talk it over with Father.”
The librarian nudged his cart forward, which produced a loud squeak from one of the wheels. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness!”
Arvel waved to the man and continued on, heading deeper into the library as he tried to mentally calculate how much extra money he’d earmarked for the library when he’d worked with his father and the royal advisors to create the year’s budget.
Until recent times, the library was perhaps the greatest symbol of Haven and represented the friendship between Calnor and Lessa.
Haven was poised on the border of the human country of Calnor and the Lesser Elf country of Lessa. The city had been constructed to serve as a sort of bridge between their people, back when the Calnorians and the Lesser Elves were new to their peace treaty. The library had been one of several buildings the two peoples had constructed together.
But, in truth, the symbolism was no longer needed.
Great strides had been made in the past decade. Previously the humans of Calnor and the Lesser Elves had struggled deeply to communicate. All of that had changed when the elf maiden Tarinthali Ringali had been bonded to the Calnorian captain Sir Arion Herycian, and it was discovered that despite the enormous language barrier, they were able to understand each other.
Tari became fluent in Calnoric in a matter of weeks, and in the ensuing years Arion had come to speak passable Elvish. But that was only the first crack in the previously impenetrable barrier between the people.
The second blow had come from Benjimir, Arvel’s older brother, and Gwendafyn, the second elven princess. After they had married nearly five years prior, the formality seemed to fade from the two people groups.
Now, there were multiple elf-human couples living in Haven, and for the first time in recorded history, Calnorians were allowed entry into Lessa, just as the elves were invited to visit and tour Calnor.
It’s fascinating, to think that I am living in a time of so many historic changes. Arvel smiled as he wove around the smattering of tables, then grimaced when another thought—this one unwanted—invaded his mind. Though perhaps I will not be so happy when I am forced to reckon with the changes myself in the far off day I am made king.
History was, he imagined, not very much fun to live through.
Arvel familiarly wove around the looming shelves, relaxing more and more with every step he took as he made his way to his favorite part of the library.
The shelves parted, opening up into a small gap that held two wooden staircases built in glossy swirls. Arvel climbed up the nearest, entering the second floor of the library, which afforded him a tremendous view of the floor below.
Carelessly, he glanced down, his gaze naturally wandering to a tiny study nook tucked against a row of bookshelves so tall, the librarians needed ladders to reach the top shelves.
As usual, she was there.
2
Surrounded by a stack of four massive books and studying a scroll that she was carefully unrolling, was Arvel’s favorite library companion.
Her hair glittered such a pale blond it appeared silvery, even as the elven lamp carefully arran
ged on her desk shed a blue light from behind the aqua glass that covered it. A quill was tucked behind one of her tapered elven ears, and even though it was late in the evening her posture was straight and graceful as she studied her materials with great seriousness.
Arvel didn’t know her name. He hadn’t even met her, ever. But she frequented the library as much as he did, and despite their lack of conversation—although they’d exchanged smiles and nods before—he’d come to think of her as a friend. He was bound to think of anyone who loved the library even half as much as he did as an outstanding person, anyway.
He did, however, know she belonged to the Translators’ Circle—her dark gray jacket and cobalt lapels and cuffs marked her as an apprentice.
As if she could feel eyes on her, the elven translator briefly raised her gaze, happening to look up where Arvel stood leaning against the banister.
Arvel gave her his friendliest smile.
She respectfully bowed her head, then returned her attention to her scroll.
Arvel’s smile faded into a fond grin. He tapped the banister railing, then slipped deeper into the library. The air on the second floor still smelled of paper and ink, but soon the scent of plant life veined it.
The lower floor of the library bore more traces of Calnorian design with its orderly rows and ornamental stone work—though the furniture and decorations were mostly elven. The upstairs, however, was a different story.
Skylights were carefully fitted into the vaulted ceiling that was painted with several gargantuan frescoes depicting important pieces of history between the elves and humans.
Giant tree trunks—some of which actually bore leaves—crept up the walls, and leafy ivy tendrils grew up the sides of more than a few bookcases.
The desks and tables were stockier and more solid—produced by Calnorian carpenters—while the chairs were lighter with thin, curved legs, soft cushions, and chair backs that were either carved in sharp V’s or perfectly round ovals—elven design for certain.
When Arvel was a child, he’d been taught that elven enchanters and Calnorian wizards frequently regulated the library, casting spells to keep the damage to books and materials minimal. Arvel believed it, because there was a gurgling fountain pressed next to one of the massive tree trunks, and he had no idea how they got water to feed into it without the use of magic.
A few more minutes of peacefully meandering through the shelves brought Arvel to his favorite alcove: a small table placed directly under a skylight that—in the daytime—would shed rays of yellow sunshine. Sometimes at night it was diffused with the softer, silvery light of the moon, but clouds covered the sky at the moment, so Arvel only saw the twinkling glare the elven lamps cast on the glass panes.
He dropped into the nearest chair and exhaled. Leaning on the back two legs of his chair, he stared up at the skylight and considered searching for a book to skim.
“Ahhh, I knew you’d be here!”
Arvel bolted out of his chair and turned around in time to watch his father, King Petyrr of Calnor, march through the shelves. The squat but wiry monarch carried one of the squash-faced pugs that belonged to Arvel’s mother and patted the little creature as it squirmed in his arms and tried to lick his face.
Behind him trailed four Honor Guards, two secretaries, and Arvel’s translator—a man named Rollo who had a mischievous grin that had only grown even though he’d reached his late thirties.
Arvel bowed. “Good evening, Father.”
“It is, isn’t it?” King Petyrr turned around to face his retinue—he always seemed to have a crowd trailing behind him. Probably because it took a crowd to cope with his boisterous personality and strong presence…and quite possibly the well-meaning chaos he left in his wake. “What are you all doing here?”
One of the secretaries pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “Your Majesty, you really shouldn’t bring a dog into Haven’s library.”
“Oh. Yes, you’re probably right. Here, take him out, then.” He passed the portly dog over to the secretary, who staggered with the animal’s unexpected heft.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The secretary gave him a wobbly bow and craned her chin up as the pug tried to lick her. She scurried off, disappearing into the shelves.
King Petyrr turned his fierce gaze onto the rest of his followers. “Off with you all, too!”
“Your Majesty,” the remaining secretary protested.
“Before we even entered this place, I told you I wished to speak to my son alone. Shoo!” He flapped his hands at them.
The guards set off in a manner formed from repetition at this task, but the secretary was far more reluctant to leave, and in the end had to be dragged off by one of the guards. Curiously, Rollo didn’t move to join them.
“There!” King Petyrr beamed in satisfaction and casually whipped his golden crown off his head and tossed it on the table. The crown had left an imprint in his thinning hair, but King Petyrr somehow still managed to look kingly despite it. “Alone at last! Hullo, Arvel. Managed to escape the social, did you?” He lowered his considerable girth into the chair directly across from Arvel, Rollo taking up the position just behind his shoulder.
“You didn’t see me leave?” Arvel asked.
“Course not! That hall was packed so tightly I didn’t even get to see a glimpse of dear Gwendafyn.” King Petyrr mournfully sighed at the thought of his daughter-in-law. “But you’re like clockwork. An hour and a half after an event starts, you make your escape. It was time for you to slip out, so I thought I’d meet you here.”
“I was unaware I was that predictable. Though I can’t say I’m surprised. What did you need to discuss?”
“It’s a small matter,” King Petyrr rested his hands on the table and sighed. “We’re short on translators.”
“We’re always short on translators,” Arvel said. “It’s been that way ever since Ben and Fyn started making their visits to Lessa, and King Celrin of the elves started sending more elven nobility here to Haven.”
“Hear, hear,” Rollo sighed dramatically.
“It’s a bit more serious this time,” King Petyrr grunted. “My personal translator is getting sent off with the party that’s leaving for Lessa in a few days. He’s going to serve the elven Crown Princess Yvrea for a few seasons.”
That is surely a sign the elves are getting ready to move their government here.
Unlike Calnor—whose royal family lived in Haven—the elves ruled from their capital city, Jubilee, and were frequent visitors to Haven. At least, that’s how it had been for centuries.
The current elven ruler, King Celrin, and his eldest daughter—the crown princess—intended to change that. Rather, the father-daughter-duo were actively working to transport their seat of power to Haven, so the two royal families and their courts would co-exist in the shared city.
It was another one of the drastic changes that had been proposed in the past decade. Truthfully, there were so many now, Arvel had a hard time keeping track of the ways everything was so rapidly changing.
Arvel rubbed his fingers on the edge of the table, which had smoothed with age. “You’re out of a translator? That can’t be good.”
“Oh, I’m not the one at a loss.” King Petyrr jerked his thumb back, pointing at Rollo. “Because Translator Rollo has agreed to take the position, for now.”
“I see,” Arvel spoke slowly, buying himself time to think.
Rollo was a good friend of Benjimir’s, and had officially served as the translator for Benjimir, Arvel, and Gwendafyn for years. He wouldn’t lightly offer to change positions, which meant this was more than a temporary fix. Besides, Arvel knew his father. King Petyrr might appear to be a jolly, amiable man, but he had the cunning of a fox.
Arvel flicked his eyes from his father to his friend. “Is switching out Rollo really the best choice?”
King Petyrr folded his arms across the bulge of his belly. “He’s one of the most senior translators still kicking up their heels here in Haven, and
he already wasn’t doing much.”
“You wound me, Your Majesty.” Rollo clutched his heart, but laughed openly.
“Ben is fluent in Elvish and doesn’t need Rollo much except for transcribing stuff, but I thought Gwendafyn still needed a translator,” Arvel said.
The elven princess’s Calnoric had improved a lot over the past few years. She could understand most conversations, but her accent still made her words difficult to decipher at times. She had such a beautiful sing-song voice and persisted in trying to make the guttural and perhaps ugly Calnoric language sound as beautiful and musical as Elvish. She still needed a translator in social situations—if Benjimir wasn’t lurking around her, which, admittedly, was a rarity.
“Gwendafyn is perfect,” King Petyrr declared. “Only louts can’t understand her, in which case they are hopeless and shouldn’t be blessed with my sweet daughter-in-law’s wise words.” A decisive nod peppered his words.
Arvel cracked a grin at King Petyrr’s blatant favoritism. He knew his father loved him and his brothers, but King Petyrr had badly wanted daughters, and spent most of Arvel’s teenage years monologuing about his future daughters-in-law. Benjimir had been rather out of favor with King Petyrr for an ugly stunt he had pulled years prior. But falling head-over-heels for Princess Gwendafyn and conning her into marrying him had restored his older brother to heights previously only reserved for their youngest brother Vincent, who had been the first of the four princes to marry.
“The problem,” King Petyrr continued, “is you.” He scratched his beard as he studied Arvel.
“I believe His Majesty means to say that it is you, Crown Prince Arvel, who most uses my services as I frequently accompany you during social events and some governmental meetings,” Rollo volunteered.
“Didn’t I say that?” King Petyrr twisted around in his chair again to peer at the translator.
“It was not eminently obvious, no,” Rollo said with good humor.
“Ah, well, Rollo is right.” King Petyrr shrugged. “Since you can’t speak a lick of Elvish, you still need a translator.”