by K. M. Shea
“I’ve gotten better at the hand gestures,” Arvel objected.
Before the times of Tari and Arion, humans and elves were able to exchange pleasantries—or perhaps the idea of pleasantries—through a sort of sign language. It was easier to learn—for while most elves were like Gwendafyn and had a difficult time sounding guttural enough for Calnoric, humans had an equally difficult time mastering the lilt that prevailed in the elven language as well as their horrible grammar system.
King Petyrr snorted. “Bosh! You’ve only practiced the gestures because you know Benjimir doesn’t know them overly well, and you like pulling his goat and talking to Fyn without him understanding what you’re saying.”
“Yes,” Arvel agreed.
“Regardless, you hang around with darling Gwendafyn and Benjimir enough in social situations that you don’t need a translator quite as skilled as Rollo.” King Petyrr eyed him. “Particularly because you could study Elvish a bit more.”
“It seems my new translator is only working part time?” Arvel guessed.
“No, you are too vital in government for that,” King Petyrr grunted. “You need to start having a translator on hand at all times given that you are the crown prince. That need will only grow as you continue to take on more royal responsibilities and roles.”
“You will be given an apprentice translator to accompany you throughout your day,” Rollo jumped in. “Ordinarily we would never put an apprentice in such a position by themselves, but we are so tight on translators we don’t have much of a choice. It is hoped that between the apprentice translator, Benjimir, and Gwendafyn, you will be able to make it.”
Arvel adjusted the cuffs of his long-sleeved jacket, surprise tugging at his thoughts.
He hadn’t ever thought Rollo would step down as Arvel’s and Benjimir’s shared translator, but it made sense given how much better at Elvish Benjimir had become over the past few years. His wife could translate the rare word or phrase Benjimir didn’t understand, or interpret any writing that was necessary.
But this change presented an unexpected opportunity.
Arvel was often told by his parents what he was going to do, but this was a rare instance in which Petyrr needed a friend of Arvel’s…so what could he bargain for?
“All right.” Arvel flashed Rollo and King Petyrr a grin. “It makes sense to me.”
King Petyrr relaxed minutely. “Thank you for understanding,” he gruffly said. “Padrach has been with Celrin and me for ages. It’s a tough thing to see him go, but the elven crown princess needs help.” He grunted. “And Padrach is beside himself with joy at the prospect of a lengthy visit to Lessa.”
“It is a lovely country,” Rollo testified. “I’ve enjoyed every visit I have accompanied His Highness Prince Benjimir and Her Highness Princess Gwendafyn on.”
“Yeah…I’ll miss you, Rollo,” Arvel sighed. “But I imagine you’ll have fun with Father and King Celrin.”
Rollo bowed his head. “I, of course, shall miss you, Your Royal Highness.”
“Rollo will drop by with your new translator in the next few days,” King Petyrr continued.
“Do you have someone picked out?” Arvel asked, hopefully sounding casual.
Rollo opened his mouth to respond, but it was King Petyrr who spoke first. “Rollo just accepted the position this morning, so there hasn’t been much time. Why do you ask?”
Perfect!
Arvel kept his expression mild. “If that’s the case, can we make this into a bargain?”
Rollo furrowed his eyebrows so deeply his eyes nearly disappeared. “…A bargain?”
King Petyrr’s eyes gleamed, and he chuckled. “What do you want, my boy?”
Arvel casually shrugged. “You’re taking my friend, so I was thinking I should get a say in who is assigned to me.”
“Your Highness, you think of me as a friend? I’m touched!” Rollo dabbed at his eyes.
King Petyrr snorted. “Laying it on a bit thick, are you, Arvel? Very well, who do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know her name,” Arvel admitted. “But she’s an apprentice—an elf, with hair such a pale blond it’s almost silver. She looks like she’s about my age—in her early to mid-twenties or so.”
Rollo opened his mouth again, but clicked it shut when King Petyrr grabbed him by the arm.
The two exchanged a flurry of expressions that flickered so quickly Arvel couldn’t make any of them out, until a smile so large it threatened to crack the king’s face stuck in place.
“She’s an apprentice?” the king asked.
Rollo ignored the king’s wriggling eyebrows and instead appeared to dramatically ponder the thought as he tapped his chin. “Oh! I know who you’re referring to—Mythlan! She’s not on the social track—she’s being schooled to be a trade translator.” He gestured widely with his hand and then bowed over his arm. “But I can make a few inquiries and see what can be done. I don’t think the trade translators would mind lending her out for a few seasons.”
The Translators’ Circle provided translators for three different occasions: social, trade, and governmental purposes. Often times translators who served for social events also served in governmental meetings, so those two divisions of the Circle smudged together. Trade, however, stood entirely separate as it required a different set of skills.
Even before the new understanding between humans and elves, trade had been an important part of the relationship between Calnor and Lessa. The translators who devoted themselves to it dealt much more with numbers, logs, and records than the other translators.
Arvel wasn’t too surprised his library friend had chosen what many would interpret as the more daunting route. Given the vast amounts of studying she logged in the library, he had suspected trade was to be her specialization.
“Mythlan, you say?” King Petyrr almost chortled as he rubbed his hands. “It seems like she’s caught your eye, Arvel. How very opportunistic of you to use this chance to get closer to her. Good job!” He leaned across the table to give Arvel a slap on the back that made Arvel’s shoulder ache.
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Father,” Arvel was quick to say. “I see her here in the library fairly frequently. I figured if it was her, she wouldn’t mind all the time I spend here and in my office.”
That wasn’t quite right, but even for his own sake Arvel didn’t want to think too deeply about the issue. He ignored it when his father deflated and sighed forlornly and instead fixed his attention on Rollo. “I’m glad you know of her. Do you know all the apprentice translators?”
“Of course!” Rollo blinked at Arvel, as if he was hurt anyone could think otherwise. “We translators know all the apprentices in our Circle. They’re so precious and sweet…and needed.” He paused, then admitted, “And there aren’t many females, and even fewer female elf apprentices.”
King Petyrr coughed and made a loud harrumph, having, apparently, recovered from the disappointment of Arvel’s lack of ardor. “You really think the trade translators will part with her, Rollo? Even temporarily?”
“All of the Translators’ Circle is barely scraping along right now. But I believe the trade branch of the Circle has a working number of apprentices at the moment.”
The king and the translator exchanged smiles that were faintly reminiscent of cats that had just cornered a mouse.
Arvel looked back and forth between the pair and hoped he hadn’t made a mistake. “Thank you for making the request.”
“Of course! You can consider this my send-off present, since I’ll still see you plenty during socials and what have you.” Rollo winked.
King Petyrr narrowed his eyes. “You’re certain you’re not interested in her?”
Arvel kept his expression as mild as he could muster. “What do you mean?”
The Calnorian King heaved a mighty sigh and muttered to himself under his breath. “Most unromantic sons in the whole realm! Should be awake to the delights of romance by now, but no. Not even a possible
daughter-in-law candidate!”
He shook his head a little, then rocked to his feet. “I believe that covers everything we needed to speak to you about, didn’t it?” He peered back at Rollo, who bowed.
“It did indeed, Your Majesty.”
King Petyrr swiped his crown off the table and plopped it back on his head, still managing to have a royal bearing despite his casual actions. “Good, good. Oh—except, Arvel, I’d recommend hiding in your office tomorrow. Your mother mentioned introducing you to more marriage candidates tomorrow morning.”
Arvel grimaced. “Thanks for the warning. Although I’m surprised you chose to share your information. Given your penchant for daughters-in-law I would have thought you’d be on Mother’s side.”
Although his mother pushed every eligible lady she thought she could use at Arvel, King Petyrr had taken the opposite stance and rarely mentioned Arvel’s status as a single man, except to bemoan his lack of an additional daughter-in-law. And even that seemed to be only when King Petyrr used it as a cover of sorts.
“Yes…well…” King Petyrr made a gruff noise at the back of his throat. “We’ll be taking our leave. I look forward to meeting this little apprentice friend of yours—if Rollo can wrangle her for you.” He winked, and was off, marching through the library shelves with familiarity. “Come along, Rollo!”
Rollo bowed. “Your Royal Highness.” He flashed his familiar and mischievous grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Arvel waved, though neither of them looked back, and settled deeper into his chair. I don’t like throwing my title around, but if it means I end up with a friendly translator…I hope she doesn’t mind.
3
Myth sipped at her tea, humming in appreciation over its cinnamon flavor. “This is fantastic. I don’t think I’ve ever had it before,” she said in Calnoric.
Blaise, Myth’s best friend, carefully nestled her teacup into a saucer. “I believe Wizard Edvin said it is an import from one of our neighboring countries.” She spoke in slow but careful Elvish, then looked at Myth for approval.
“Your pitch went up at the end of that sentence,” Myth said, still speaking in Calnoric. “It should have gone down.”
Blaise pushed a lock of her gorgeous russet colored hair out of her eyes. “I believe Wizard Edvin said it is an import from one of our neighboring countries,” she repeated, stressing the lower pitch at the end.
“Excellent. You spoke a little faster that time as well. You’re rapidly improving.”
“You are too kind,” Blaise said, stubbornly sticking to Elvish. “I can barely spoke.”
“Speak,” Myth corrected. “That was the wrong tense.”
“Speak. Goodness—I should have known that.” Blaise puffed out her cheeks in vexation, then grinned. “Thank you for always tutoring me.”
“Of course. It is an honor to my people that you wish to speak our language,” Myth said.
Blaise snorted. “Yes, I’m certain my incorrect intonation brings much honor. You sound so pretty when you speak Elvish. I sound like, like…” She pressed her lips together, visibly restraining herself from speaking in Calnoric. “Not a toad, but similar.”
“Frog?” Myth suggested in Elvish.
“Yes! That’s the word!”
Myth smiled as she set her saucer down on a small table placed between their comfortable but worn chairs.
As was their custom, they were taking tea together in the central chamber of the Wizards’ Tower. Blaise was an apprentice wizard, which meant she had free run of the place and could invite guests in whenever she liked.
Myth enjoyed visiting with Blaise in the tower. The interior was unique, with a giant stone staircase spiraling all the way up the tower, cutting a clear path so Myth could see the glass windows that capped the top of the building. Today they were fogged by the weather, giving the tower a misty feeling.
The chamber itself was very…golden. The walls were carved of stone—black, white, and gray, but all of it was veined with gold—the carpets were all gold, there was a statue of a surprisingly muscular and young wizard wielding a sword that Myth suspected had been forged out of magic before it was covered with gold leafing. All the stands for the copious candles and torches gleamed with gold, and the flooring was covered in a resin of some sort that was swirled with gold paint and magical designs.
It was a little too dazzling to be tasteful, but Myth found that it suited the good-hearted wizards who bustled through the chamber with great animation and smiled widely whenever they met her eye.
Myth picked up her teacup again and took another sip. “You do not sound as bad as a frog,” she said in Calnoric. “You are actually astoundingly good considering you’ve only been studying Elvish for a few years.”
“You’ve only been teaching me for a few years,” Blaise corrected, still speaking in slow, but painfully precise Elvish. “I started studying it right after I was made a wizard student, but my pronunciation was so horrid it didn’t matter how many words I memorized. It’s all thanks to you!”
“Hardly. Your perseverance is what did it. Have you had a chance to speak to any enchanters?”
“Not yet.” Blaise sighed. “I can speak niceties, but no matter how many books I read I can’t seem to fathom all the words I’d need to know to talk to any elf enchanter about magic.” She raised her pointer finger and thrust it to the sky. “But one day I will! I thought it would take me until I was fifty, but I am happy to report that under your tutelage I think I might be ready by the time I am approximately thirty-five.”
“You should have changed your pitch when you spoke the second ‘but’ in that sentence, due to the pause,” Myth gently corrected.
Blaise groaned and scrunched her eyes shut. “I’m never going to understand elven punctuation and how it affects intonation.”
Myth sipped her tea again. “You’re too hard on yourself. I must repeat my earlier praise and remind you how far you’ve come.” She paused and replayed the words in her mind, checking her own pronunciation. Trade translators were typically better at writing and reading than speaking. It was only due to her friendship with Blaise that Myth had become able to speak it with such informality and at such a fast rate—although that blasted lilt of hers occasionally persisted.
Myth and Blaise had become fast friends years ago when they were mere students. They met at a joint social the human wizards and elven enchanters had thrown to celebrate the truly magical bond they had forged between Tarinthali Ringali and her bond partner—who had since become her husband—Sir Arion Herycian. Naturally, the translators’ presence had been required for the enchanters and wizards to properly communicate, which was why Myth was there, observing a few of the senior translators.
The duo had bonded over their desire to improve their language skills, and their visits to practice linguistics had swiftly blossomed into a true friendship.
Blaise, Myth knew, was her closest friend and companion. Although the fiery haired girl was obsessed with trying to learn more about elven magic—a near impossibility since translators had never had the time to learn and assign all the necessary magic-related terms that were sure to come up in a conversation, thus birthing Blaise’s obsession with learning Elvish herself—Myth knew the apprentice wizard would throw down anyone who dared to harm Myth and cross Blaise.
Blaise had a brilliant disposition, but was mischievous by spades as well, which was why it wasn’t surprising to see one of the senior wizards shuffling in their direction.
“Good afternoon, Apprentice Mythlan.” The wizard slightly inclined his head to Myth, accenting the line of his craggy nose. “I hope our Blaise is minding her manners?” He set a hand on top of Blaise’s head, forcibly making her bow her head as well.
“Sir!” Blaise returned to speaking in Calnoric so she could complain as she pushed the wizard’s hand off her head. “I’ve told you before, Myth is my friend!”
The wizard seemed to hold his breath and squint in pain. “And I’ve always res
ponded, Apprentice, that I recall your scheme when you were a mere student in which you sold completed essays to other students and then blackmailed them for cheating.”
Blaise shrugged. “They needed to be exposed for their misdeeds.”
The wizard ignored Blaise and returned his attention to Myth. “On behalf of everyone here at the Wizards’ Tower, I thank you for your kindness to our Apprentice.” He made Blaise bow her head again, but the hard lines around his eyes softened minutely when she scowled at him and tried to pat her hair back in place.
Myth enjoyed visiting Blaise in the Wizards’ Tower for this very reason—it was always heartwarming to see the more senior wizards simultaneously fret and preen over Blaise, who was mostly oblivious to their odd flavor of delight in her.
The Translators’ Circle wasn’t nearly so open or affectionate. Myth couldn’t recall any of her teachers or advisors acting with such affection. Myth was just one of a few apprentices. Sometimes she regretted it when watching Blaise and the other wizards, but it wasn’t in her power to change it.
“May you both enjoy your moment of peace.” The senior wizard smiled benevolently at Myth, then shook a finger at Blaise. “Do not attempt any more magic today. Wizard Edvin is still getting over his sneezing fit.”
“I didn’t know the elven Pep-pear fruit was so potent, or I wouldn’t have tried to use so much of it in my experiment,” Blaise said.
“It matters not. No more magic today—or your wretched experiments! I shall stop by Wizard Edvin’s workshop tomorrow to aid you instead.” He tucked his hands in the sleeves of his robe then swept off.
“That old troll,” Blaise huffed, returning to Elvish with his departure. “Always watching to make sure I can’t do anything interesting.”
Myth chuckled. “Such is the life of a genius.”
“Genius,” Blaise absent-mindedly corrected Myth’s pronunciation. “You’re just a hair off and need to stress the syllables a little more.”
“Genius,” Myth repeated.
“There you go. And I am not a genius.” Blaise fussed with the purple and white skirt of her apprentice uniform. “If I was, I’d pick up Elvish faster. And my teachers wouldn’t be constantly fretting that I’m going to blow the tower up!”