by K. M. Shea
“I’m sorry, then, to ruin your hard work, but the Fultons made a rather large purchase order, and it wasn’t discovered until today that several mistakes were made in their request. Here is the corrected order.” Queen Luciee held the papers out to Crown Prince Arvel.
He stared at the papers. “The deadline to submit an order—and make any changes to it—passed three days ago.”
“Come now, Arvel. This is for the Fultons—my family, and yours as well.” The queen’s smile grew, her red lips a mocking curve that Myth itched to yank off her face.
“We can’t make exceptions,” Arvel flatly stated.
“Can’t we? Am I not the Queen of Calnor?” Her tone was soft but dangerous, and her eyes burned. “Do I not have at least this much power?”
Arvel’s shoulders slumped for a fraction of a moment before he reached out and took the papers. “Why are you doing this?”
“My dear Arvel, you cannot believe I arranged for this on purpose. It was a simple mistake.” She laughed, a harsh, unforgiving noise. “Although perhaps it would be best if, in the future, you are not so rude to my guests, hmm?”
Arvel’s fingers tightened convulsively around the papers, making them crinkle.
Myth looked from the papers to the queen, trying to comprehend how she could be so unfeeling toward her own offspring.
Is she lacking in all feelings of motherly affection? Or is she just a terrible being?
“Thank you for fixing this little error, son.” Queen Luciee patted Arvel’s cheek as if he were a small boy. “The Fultons do so appreciate it.” Her skirts—wide and thick—made a swishing sound as she glided to the door. “Good night.”
5
Crown Prince Arvel was stone still as her footsteps retreated down the hallway. Even after they fell out of Myth’s range—and her senses were sharper than a human’s—he remained still.
Myth bit her lip, then finally dared to venture a quiet, “Your Royal Highness?”
He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath for a long time. “Yes, sorry about that.” He turned around and offered Myth a smile—though she thought perhaps there was a tired sort of shadow around his eyes now. “That’s Mother. She’s…something.” He ambled back to his desk and spread the “corrected” papers out in front of him.
Myth watched for a few moments, before she confirmed, “You are in charge of the trade exchange between Lessa and Calnor?”
“No—not entirely. I just manage the initial orders from Calnor—specifically when merchants and nobility place the orders. Father still oversees the rest of it—he has to make certain the right tax rates are applied to the elven goods that pass through Calnor and are shipped out to our neighbors, and that everyone receives their orders, and he keeps the paperwork from all of it.” Arvel flipped open several logbooks and rustled through his desk drawers to find clean sheets of paper.
“What do you have to do to change the Fultons’ order?”
“I have to adjust my records—the royal records. We record each individual order, but then we also keep a running tally of all the orders totaled each trip. I’ll have to change that too.” He stared down at the paper for a moment. “Unfortunately, it looks like they’ve changed their minds on every single item they ordered—canceling a number of their planned purchases and adding quite a few extras. It’s not a simple matter of adding and subtracting to already placed entries. I’ll have to make brand new copies to send to the caravan and the elven merchants leading it so they have the correct orders, and they’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
Myth rubbed her fingers on the spine of her book and watched the crown prince.
That’s going to cause him headaches. The trade department has ended their workday, and even if he gets the orders done in time, he needs someone to translate it into Elvish.
Arvel offered Myth a smile. “But that’s my problem. You go enjoy your evening, Mythlan.”
He dropped his gaze to the papers, and appeared to immerse himself in the work.
Myth stared at the crown prince for a few moments longer, then softly made her way to the door, stepping into the hallway, and leaving the study.
Several minutes after Mythlan had left, Arvel still hadn’t gotten much work done. He rubbed his eyes and tried to keep from mentally calculating the odds that he’d actually finish making the changes in time. If he worked past midnight he’d probably be able to correct the orders, but he wanted to refrain from rousing the trade translators who worked with him if possible. It didn’t seem right to disturb them when he was the one his mother was punishing.
She wants me to fail, to put me in my place.
Arvel began copying the new order in the logbook when the door creaked. He glanced up, then paused in surprise.
Mythlan closed the study door behind herself, then pulled off her apprentice translator jacket, revealing her short-sleeved, pale blue shirt and gray breeches and boots. “I’m ready,” she said.
Arvel dumbly stared at the pretty elf. “For what?”
“To begin working.” She dragged her empty table closer to Arvel’s desk so they nearly touched.
It seemed it was an off night for Arvel. He jumped to his feet too late to help her move anything but her chair. “But…but you left,” he almost stammered.
That’s it, Arvel. Stun her with your awesome powers of observation.
Mythlan nodded. “Yes, I wanted to return my library book. Shall I get started on writing out the elven copy of the order?” She glanced at the open logbooks dotting his desk. “Even if I don’t know the numbers for everything, I can at least copy out the list of materials since it appears you have it in the same format every time. I can look back over past orders for guidance. Since it’s all in elven it’s allowable by Translators’ Circle law as I’m not strictly translating anything.”
“You don’t have to do this.” Arvel slipped his hands in the pockets of his jacket, feeling a little awkward. “This might take me all night. It’s tedious, and it’s not your responsibility as my social translator.”
“I am training to be a trade translator, Your Royal Highness.” A slight smile played at Myth’s lips—not the polite one she put on to appear professional, but something more engaging that hinted at humor. “I’m already familiar with this format—I’ve even made copies of royal logbooks before for practice. But, regardless of my position, it is my privilege to aid you.”
He studied her, and for a moment he wondered if that really was her motivation. He hated that it even occurred to him to ponder it, but he’d seen a lot of ambition covered by beautiful smiles over the past few years.
But the steadiness in Mythlan’s eyes as she smiled at him, and her plain and open manners, revealed the truth.
She was helping him because she wanted to. Not because she had a hidden motivation.
I don’t think she’s like this just because she’s an elf. This…valiance of Mythlan’s is uniquely hers. She’s simply that incredible. I’d almost assumed such warmth didn’t exist anymore—or at least that no one would ever show it to me.
It felt like he was finally seeing her—not the usual serene conduct all humans saw in elves, but something generous and dazzling.
Arvel gave her a returning smile that was a lot stronger than hers. “Thank you, Mythlan,” he said. “You can go if you get tired.”
Mythlan infinitesimally pursed her lips. “That won’t be necessary. Now, shall I start with copying the list of goods from this elven copy of your log?” She pointed to the elven copy of the trade orders—which was bound beautifully in a leather book filled with delicate white elven paper.
“Yes, please.” Arvel lunged to snatch the logbook off his desk and pass it to her. He grabbed an inkwell, quill, and other necessary writing utensils from his cupboard, along with a stack of clean paper. “If you could strike through the order—there’s an example of how we record a canceled order if you look back at the second week of winter…”
“Very well, Your Royal Highne
ss.” Mythlan got to work, carefully scanning the logbook before she started recreating the order on the following page.
Arvel watched her for a few moments, unable to look away. Somehow, things didn’t seem quite so exhausting as they had minutes prior, and the noise of Mythlan’s quill moving across the page made a pleasant background sound. Still smiling, Arvel retreated to his desk.
I’ll finish this—to spite Mother, and to make Mythlan’s efforts worthwhile.
Around the midnight hour, Myth discovered she couldn’t quite keep up her shield of polite formality against the onslaught of Crown Prince Arvel’s charm.
“Mythlan, I insist you take a break. You won’t be able to last if you don’t,” he coaxingly said. “Try some desserts. I know you must be hungry.” He held a plate of cookies directly under Myth’s nose and set a steaming cup of tea on her desk.
Myth broke out of the deep level of concentration she’d been locked in while copying the orders. “When did you get food? How did you get food?”
“The kitchens are always at least partially open—a lot of social events go late, and we keep them operating so any of the night staff can get refreshments whenever needed.” He winked. “It’s not the first time I’ve ordered a late-night tea.”
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.” Myth took the tea and inhaled some of the steam rising from the porcelain cup. It was a green tea blend—which had a mellow but slightly bitter taste with a light, floral scent.
Crown Prince Arvel sat down at his desk again. “I’m going to have to also insist that you call me Arvel.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You must,” he interrupted. “After having the kindness to pull an all-nighter with me, surely even with your polite elven manners you must realize this means we’re friends.”
“That seems like an arbitrary measurement.”
“Fine, then I’ve decided I have to have you as my friend at the very least. And all of my friends call me Arvel.”
Myth rubbed her thumb against one of the tiny yellow roses painted on her cup. “I don’t know…It seems rather informal, and you are the crown prince and my employer.”
“Rollo calls me Arvel.”
Myth glanced up at the unapologetically grinning crown prince.
His blond hair, which had a slight copper tint to it, was messy, and he’d taken off his dark brown jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white undershirt. Interestingly, his jacket—which was a touch large—apparently hid the long lines of his torso and width of his shoulders that made him appear older—although Myth was amused to see that two cookies poked out of one of the pockets of his red waistcoat.
I hope I don’t regret this…or later discover that it’s an impropriety.
“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. “But then you must call me Myth.”
“Very well, Myth!” Arvel stretched his arms above his head, then fished one of his cookies out of his waistcoat pocket. “Thank you, again, for helping me tonight. I think I only have an hour of new work left. But then the amounts will still have to be transcribed into elven…”
Myth nibbled on a cookie, which had a strong spice in it she hadn’t eaten before. She wrinkled her forehead as she sniffed her cookie, and absent-mindedly said, “You can read the numbers out loud to me, and I can write them out for the elven records and orders.”
It would toe the line of what was allowed by the trade translators because it still involved translating from Calnoric into Elvish. But she’d been granted the powers of a certified social translator with her new position, so she could make a case that since Arvel read the numbers to her it could be considered part of her social translator duties and was thus permissible.
Arvel tapped his cookie on the rim of his teacup. “That would be brilliant. Thank you.”
“There is no need to keep thanking me, Your Royal—that is, Arvel.”
Arvel gave her an approving smile that seemed entirely too perky considering the late hour. But maybe that was just jealousy talking—she was the elf and was supposed to be untouched by fatigue. But she felt like she had rubbed pebbles in her eyes while Arvel still looked as fresh and happy as he had when she had initially returned from the library.
“But it’s a good work around,” Arvel argued. “And I think it’s the only way we’ll finish in time.”
Myth took another bite of her cookie. “Perhaps.”
I’ll need to be extra diligent. Of course my seniors will be horrified if I make a mistake, but any error would reflect poorly on Arvel as well.
With that unhappy thought lingering, she leaned back in her chair, attempting to relax in their amiable silence.
Arvel had opened one of the magnificent windows in the back of his office, and Myth could hear the crickets chirping outside in the gardens.
She stood and stretched her arms above her head, feeling her muscles pull tight. Taking her cookie with her, she walked to the back of Arvel’s office so she could breathe in more of the cool air and peer outside.
Fog had settled over the gardens, cloaking them from sight.
Because Arvel’s office jutted out of the palace, she could see up and down the wall of the building. Most of the rooms were darkened; only a few hallways that emptied out into open-air corridors were dimly lit this late at night.
Arvel’s chair scraped as he stood up and joined her at the windows.
He leaned against one of the window panes as he glanced up at the evening sky, which was obscured by clouds. “I keep thanking you because there’s no way I could have fixed this without you,” he abruptly spoke, breaking the silence. “All the translators had finished for the day. I could have declared it a royal emergency, but that would be a lie. It’s no emergency of any sort, just Mother and the Fultons throwing their weight around.”
Myth frowned. “What do you mean? Surely it was a mistake on their end.” She glanced back at the exhaustive list of changes sitting on Arvel’s desk. She didn’t know if her tongue was loosened by the snack or the late hour, but she dourly added, “A massive, embarrassing recording error that I hope makes them hang their heads in shame for being such cakes about it.”
Arvel chuckled. “I think that’s the first negative thing I’ve heard you say about the situation. Well done! Sadly, no. It’s not an error. It’s a punishment. From Mother—although I suppose her family supports it as well. She had no way of knowing you’d be capable of helping, so she probably just wanted me to fail to teach me a lesson.”
Myth’s frown deepened. “Why would she punish you?”
Arvel shrugged. “She keeps throwing eligible young ladies at me—the kind she would want me to marry—and I persist in evading them.”
Myth slowly blinked as she tried to comprehend what Arvel was telling her. “I apologize. My informal Calnoric must be off. Do you really mean to say your Mother and her family have purposely produced extra work for you with the intention that you should fail because you don’t like the young ladies they suggest as marriage candidates?”
“Yep.”
Later, Myth blamed Arvel’s charming personality for what came next. (He was too open, too cunningly pleasant so that he’d lowered her guard to a point she hadn’t recognized, or she would have kept a better rein on her tongue.)
“Is Her Majesty, Queen Luciee of Calnor, an animal that intends to eat her own young?”
Arvel broke into such heaving gusts of laughter he folded in half and grabbed his sides.
Myth ignored the prince’s laughter—she wasn’t done. “And are the Fultons daft? Did it not occur to Queen Luciee nor her family that you are the crown prince? Once you get enough power you can make their lives a misery!”
Several minutes passed before Arvel could speak. “They’re hoping to get me under control before then.” He was still grinning, but he finally tamed his good humor. “That’s why they care so much about who I marry. Mother wants me to wed someone who will secure her power since Gwendafyn hasn’t just rocked the boat, she’s tu
rned the whole thing upside down. Whether Mother accomplishes that by pushing a girl who is especially biddable or beholden to her, or a girl whose family is in a political alliance with the Fultons, I don’t think she cares.”
Myth shook her head. “I restate my previous sentiment, Arvel. There is no need to keep on apologizing. You are not culpable for the childish, harsh, asinine—”
Arvel burst into gusts of laughter again, but Myth ignored it and kept going.
“—and wicked things your mother inflicts on you. What a festering vulture! No, vultures have their place in the world. She’s a blood-sucking leech!”
Arvel’s shoulders shook in his laughter, and he gasped for air. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”
Myth patiently waited as he broke into another burst.
It wasn’t until he laughed so hard he nearly choked that the crown prince’s laughter subsided enough to tell her. “It’s just that you’re this elegant, beautiful elf. And you just blurted out some of the harshest truths I’ve ever heard anyone speak about Mother. Ever!”
He was more relaxed, now. His grin was almost lopsided, and his posture was more languid than rigid. “I never imagined an elf would have it in them to so bluntly shred someone with words.”
Myth cleared her throat and settled her hands on her black belt. “Perhaps. It is likely that you merely have been exposed to elves who don’t know the more blunt—as you called them—words. We elves do argue and occasionally shout at each other, despite what you may believe.”
“Am I to believe that means there is a ‘Words to Express Your Disgust’ course in the Translators’ Circle?”
“Not at all,” Myth said. “My closest friend is a wizard. I have had a very…liberal education of words with her around.”
“I see. Thank you, Myth.”