by K. M. Shea
It seemed to Myth that Arvel had a thoughtful personality and was quick to laugh, even at himself. This boded well for her—even if she was at her most diligent, her ignorance would create mistakes. He, thankfully, seemed like he wouldn’t mind if she occasionally mispronounced a title. (Although she was going to do her best to avoid errors.)
“Do you read and write in Calnoric?” Crown Prince Arvel asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“I am not yet skilled at it,” Myth automatically replied with the elven saying of humility, as was custom. She wasn’t perfect, after all, so there was no way she could claim skill at it even with all the work she did.
“I see. Well, no worries! I have trade translators who help me with that sort of thing.” Crown Prince Arvel pushed a few end tables into a corner and stacked them, opening up floor space. “Regardless, I look forward to working with you. I hope you enjoy your time as a social translator—since Rollo said you are actually a trade translator?”
“Trade translation work is my area of study, yes,” Myth confirmed. “But I shall serve you to the best of my ability, and seek to improve my understanding so that I might complete my work.”
Arvel’s grin was warm like sunshine, and it transformed his classic good looks into something inviting and more charming rather than just picturesque. “We’ll have fun together,” he said. “I promise.”
Thankfully, Myth’s first evening as the crown prince’s translator passed without any mortification. Blessedly, Crown Prince Arvel had several days that lacked any type of social engagement at all, making Myth’s transition as his translator easier than she expected. A part of her suspected this might be by design—the prince appeared to be spontaneously charming, but she was starting to think it was actually a result of careful observations, in the same way he’d known her from the library. But she wasn’t yet certain.
Regardless, she was thankful for his empty schedule, and—despite her disappointment in pausing her studies as a trade apprentice—was coming to enjoy the work.
As they walked down the hallway together in the early afternoon hours, having just left the library and veering back to Arvel’s office, Myth was daring enough to feel satisfied.
She’d just spent the past two hours translating for Crown Prince Arvel and the elf librarian who was on duty while they conversed about elven imports, and the impact the increased presence of elven nobility in Haven would have on the countries’ economies. Even more exciting, she’d had the time to find two books that contained in-depth studies on Calnorian culture and were written by elven scholars, and an additional mathematics book that looked at various ways to calculate ledgers—which would be useful to know once she was made a trade translator.
“You seem pleased with your books,” Arvel observed as he walked at her side.
Mythlan, the books happily tucked against her sides, nodded. “I have never been granted the honor of borrowing books from the library. Thank you for requesting it on my behalf.”
“Of course! You’ll need something to occupy yourself this afternoon. I’m going over some palace expenditures, and I don’t expect any elven company—unless Gwendafyn drops in for a visit. Ah…”
He trailed off when he noticed the Honor Guards standing at attention by the entrance to his study.
“Never mind. It looks like we’re in for company after all,” he said.
Myth fell back a few steps, letting Arvel reach them first. “Guard Commander Arion,” he said. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
The tallest man of the clutch of guards studied the crown prince with a furrowed brow and stormy eyes. “Your Royal Highness.” He bowed, his posture crisp and precise. “May I speak to you?”
“Always! What’s brought you to me? I don’t think the Honor Guard has submitted any requests for anything needed from Lessa.” Arvel opened his study and beckoned for Sir Arion to follow him in.
“Not at this time, Your Highness.” Sir Arion pivoted to face Myth and bowed to her. “After you,” he murmured in passable Elvish.
“Thank you.” Myth bobbed a quick curtsy, then slipped inside. She made for her newly assembled station—a simple but beautifully polished table—and sat down in her comfortably padded chair and avoided looking at the two men. She briefly glanced up in surprise when Arion stepped into the study and closed the door, shutting out the guards. It only took a moment, however, for her to quietly set her books down and busily open them, intending to immerse herself in her work so she wouldn’t overhear anything.
That was one of the unexpected aspects of her temporary position. As a trade translator she only discussed work. As a social translator assigned to the crown prince, she was frequently told to stay at his side even as he discussed important matters that she frankly had no business knowing and no desire to hear.
Yet another reason why I cannot wait to return to my department. I imagine social translators must have to sign some sort of oath when they take their positions, to guarantee their discretion.
“How can I help you, Sir Arion?” Crown Prince Arvel lowered himself into his chair with a sort of casual grace, while Sir Arion remained standing despite the open chair the crown prince pointed to.
“I’ve come to ask you to reconsider your position on personal guards,” Sir Arion said. “It was understandable when you were first made heir that you didn’t want assigned protection. But it is my belief that, should you remain unguarded much longer, certain persons may take advantage of this.”
Myth glanced at her borrowed mathematics book with longing, but she’d read that book when she was off duty. Instead, she paged through one of the social books until she found a chapter that seemed particularly necessary to read—Calnoric formal greetings—and absently heard the thump Crown Prince Arvel made when he planted his elbows on his desk.
“You’re referring to the Fultons,” he said.
Myth froze, staring unseeingly at the words on the page.
The Fultons were a powerful Calnorian noble family. They specialized in trading—both across the country and beyond the borders of Calnor. But what was perhaps most notable about them in this particular context was that the Queen of Calnor, Her Majesty Queen Luciee, was a member of the Fulton family.
Arvel thinks his mother’s family would attack him?
The idea was so…foreign, and sad. They were his family; they wouldn’t try to hurt him, would they? But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business.
It took every ounce of Myth’s will to keep from looking up. She forced herself to turn a page in her book, and once again tried to read.
“It is not my place to suppose what the Fultons are and are not capable of,” Sir Arion replied with an admirable amount of calm.
“I’m not naive, Arion. I know they’re a threat.” Crown Prince Arvel sighed. “They were relatively leashed when Mother presided over the social courts and controlled who was in and who was an outcast. But she lost that power to Gwendafyn, who is now the indisputable social darling. I imagine they feel threatened, and are afraid that their power will wane as Mother’s influence has.”
Focus. Court intrigue is not part of my calling as a trade translator. Myth guiltily gripped the sides of her book.
“Arvel, I am the Guard Commander,” Sir Arion said. “I do not care for the actions of the court, or the petty squabbles between nobles. Your safety is, at this moment, my greatest concern. Please consider allowing a small squad of Honor Guards to follow you.”
“But you aren’t going to deny the Fultons are the greatest threat?”
Myth peeked up in time to see Sir Arion gravely meet the crown prince’s gaze. “No. They are the reason why I have come before you today.” He paused, then added, “I have already informed the Commanding General of the situation.”
“Oh? What did Benjimir have to say about it?”
“Nothing suited for polite company. It is sufficient to say he is also keeping an eye on the Fultons.”
A deep sigh leaked out of Crown Prince Arv
el. “At least we’re all on the same page.”
“Then you agree to the placement of Honor Guards?”
“Not hardly.”
“Your. Highness,” Sir Arion said with dangerous patience.
“I know it’s a risk, but it’s a calculated one,” Arvel said. “I haven’t annoyed the Fultons enough yet, and they certainly don’t fear me the way they are scared of Benjimir or Gwendafyn. I estimate I’m safe for another season or so.”
“Your life isn’t something to risk over an estimation.”
“Not normally,” the crown prince agreed. “Except this is my last chance of freedom. The nobles haven’t stopped pandering to Father—they know I’m unimportant. The worst I get is women chasing after my title. I can still slip out of socials, still walk through the palace unaccounted. As soon as I get the Honor Guards, that will remind everyone who I am, and what I will become. Everything will change, then.”
Myth, turning another page in the book she was barely reading, frowned on behalf of the prince. He sounded…resigned. How could he talk about his people as if they all only saw his position? Myth had been with him for a short time, and it was obvious between Rollo, the librarian, and the few officials she had met that they esteemed him for his intelligence. She’d even bet that Sir Arion was silent not because of protocol, but because he felt for the prince.
She risked glancing up, and was vindicated to find she was right.
Sir Arion’s brow was furrowed and his stance was still as straight as a board, but the set of his mouth—the slight downturn of his lips—said he regretted the prince’s words.
“You are an excellent crown prince, Arvel,” Sir Arion said. “Better than Benjimir ever was. He was meant to be a general and to protect. You concern yourself with the prosperity of your people and the land.”
Arvel shrugged. “My capabilities don’t really matter as much as what people think. And I’m happy to be underestimated right now. I’ve seen the crowd that revolves around my father. I’m not ready for that.”
Sir Arion narrowed his eyes. “You will need guards eventually.”
“Yes. You’re right. But I still have some time before I need them right now.”
Sir Arion gave Arvel a look Myth interpreted as a promise to start lurking around Arvel’s study.
Arvel must have seen it too, because he hastily added, “Come winter, I’ll agree to some Honor Guards.”
The silence was so heavy, Myth didn’t dare turn a page, even though she’d finished studying the detailed drawing of how to perform a proper curtsy.
“Fine,” Sir Arion growled. “As long as the situation does not change. However, if I discover that your life is in peril, you will get multiple squads assigned to you immediately.”
Arvel flashed a smile, his good humor once again forefront rather than the quiet courteousness he’d been showing Sir Arion. “Understood.”
Sir Arion sighed and rubbed his eyes. “You say you understand, but I am not certain you are taking your wellbeing as seriously as you need to.”
Arvel shrugged. “How are Tari and the children?”
Sir Arion remained for several more minutes, sharing stories of his children—a quiet young boy who, at age four, was as fluent in Elvish as he was Calnoric, an adorable little girl, and a newborn baby boy.
Myth only let herself look up again when Sir Arion bowed to Crown Prince Arvel and said his farewells, bidding Myth a good day on his way out. She glanced up long enough to see him disappear through the doorway, offered Arvel a quick smile, then fixed her attention on her book with renewed fervor.
She was aware that Arvel watched her for several long moments, until she became so interested in her book she no longer noticed, and lost herself to a case study on Calnoric titles.
In the evening hours of the following day, Myth cradled a book in her hands as she made her way through the palace and to the library.
She had finished reading one of her borrowed books, and while her workday was technically finished as Arvel didn’t have any social commitments in the evening, she wanted to return the book in hopes that she might be able to borrow another.
She didn’t mind the trip. She intended to linger in the library, which always seemed to cheer her up no matter how she felt.
And while the past few days hadn’t been as stressful as Myth had prepared herself for, she was still tensed most of the time, and her cheeks were starting to hurt from the slight smile she frequently wore to make herself look pleasant.
Myth yawned widely and confirmed she was alone in the hallway before she began to swing her free arm, loosening her shoulders and brushing out some of the wrinkles pressed into her apprentice jacket.
She glanced down at her shirt, checking to make sure nothing had dirtied the crisp, light blue shirt with its dark blue embroidery that matched the lapels and cuffs of her jacket. She was feeling so good, she even made a jaunty whistle or two as she strolled along.
She passed Arvel’s now-familiar study, glanced at the door, and saw the slit of light escaping from under it. She jolted to a stop, and for a panic-stricken moment she wondered if she had made a mistake.
Why is he still working? Was I supposed to return after dinner? Did I forget an appointment? No, I couldn’t have. He bid me a good night when we parted. But why, then, is there a light coming from his study?
Myth dithered for a few moments, then reluctantly marched herself up to the door and knocked. Unlike Rollo and the other Calnorians she had met, Myth waited outside.
Her book told her Calnorians had minimum concern for privacy, and if you were close with a person you entered the room regardless of whether they gave you spoken permission or not. Myth had decided that, as Crown Prince Arvel’s employee, they were considered work companions, but not friends, so she stayed staring at the door.
A few moments passed, and the door’s hinges creaked as it opened. “Hello, Mythlan! Come in—I’ve told you before you don’t need to knock.” The crown prince playfully shook a finger at her as he returned to his desk.
Reluctantly, Myth stepped inside the study—although she left the door open.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Certainly.” Myth tipped her head in a shallow bow. “Rather, I was on my way to return one of the books I was able to borrow, and I saw the light coming from under the door. I was concerned I had forgotten work I am supposed to help you with.”
“Not at all.” Arvel shook his head. “Just doing a bit of pleasure reading. This is the second-to-last night we have off for some time—I’ve got socials and teas cluttering up our schedule for the foreseeable future—so I thought I’d read up.”
“I see. In that case I apologize for interrupting you.”
“Nonsense, you’re not interrupting!” Arvel sat on the edge of his desk and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “Were you pleased with your book?”
“Yes, very much so.” Myth reflexively glanced down at the tome. “It cleared up some of the confusion I had over formal greetings. I’m afraid I still have much to learn, however, about Calnorian social rules and customs in general.”
“You don’t have to teach yourself all of this, particularly in such a short amount of time. Most apprentices take years to learn it. That’s why Rollo told you to ask him if you needed help.”
Myth nodded. “Perhaps, but Translator Rollo is now the official translator for My King Celrin and His Majesty King Petyrr. I could not bother him with such trifles when a bit of research will reveal the answer.”
Crown Prince Arvel rested his palms on his desk and leaned back on them, his eyes settling to half-mast as he gave Myth a look that was a lot more piercing than Myth liked. “I see.”
Lacking anything to say in response, Myth put on her polite and serene smile. “I hope you enjoy your last night off. And I shall do my best to serve you once the social events begin.”
“Thank you. You enjoy yourself tonight, too, Mythlan. The socials can be enjoyable—some o
f them have great food. Maybe they’ll be even a little more fun with you as my translator.” Arvel offered her his boyish smile that Myth was fairly certain was responsible for more than a few fluttering hearts among his female peers. “Have a great night.”
Myth bowed and turned to go, but was surprised to find the doorway filled.
The newcomer was a tall, willowy woman who appeared approximately middle aged, though she was still a great beauty with bronze colored hair that glowed in the light of the candles, smooth skin, and full lips that were curled into a smile that was almost…cruel.
“Hello…Mother.” Arvel’s smile was more polished and professional than the bright one he tended to throw around.
“Arvel.” Queen Luciee lifted an eyebrow and flicked her eyes at Myth.
Arvel was quiet for several moments, then slowly spoke. “Please allow me to introduce my new translator, Mythlan.”
“Well met, Your Majesty.” Myth bowed, resting her hands on the thighs of her pants as she kept her posture perfect.
Queen Luciee stepped farther into Arvel’s study, revealing the three handmaidens waiting for her in the hallway. “You seem young for a translator.”
“I am a mere apprentice, Your Majesty.”
“An apprentice has been assigned to my son, the Crown Prince of Calnor?” Her elegant voice dropped into an icy tone, and she seemed to draw herself taller.
“It doesn’t matter.” Arvel stepped in front of Myth, hiding her from view. “Did you need something?”
The heavily jeweled bracelets on Queen Luciee’s wrists clicked as she extended her hand.
One of the handmaidens rushed to place a packet of papers on her palm.
Queen Luciee took them and fanned herself for a moment, making her hair flutter. “As I recall it, the orders for all elven goods and imports are to leave tomorrow with the party heading to Jubilee.”
“Yes,” Arvel said. “The orders have been recorded. I sent them to the translators who will take the orders and deliver them to the various guildhalls in Jubilee and then bring the ordered goods and materials back here to Haven.” Although Arvel’s tone was polished and calm, there was a wariness to the way he rocked back on his heels.