by K. M. Shea
Myth narrowed her eyes. “Arvel. What have I been saying for the past few minutes?”
“No, no. This time I really do owe you my thanks.” His smile dimmed into something that was almost rueful. “No one has been so refreshingly honest in their assessment of Mother before. Everyone dances around it without outright calling out her hard-hearted behavior.” He paused. “It was…freeing to hear you speak words similar to my own feelings.”
In that moment, Myth’s heart squeezed for the crown prince.
How terrible it would be—to be treated this way by your own mother.
Father hasn’t been much of a parent, but he’s only distant and perhaps negligent. I cannot fathom what could drive a person to so pervasively act against their child’s interest—and to punish them in this sort of way.
Myth pressed her lips together and was once again thankful for her decision to become a trade translator. If I had to translate for that foul woman, I’d quit. No career is worth working with such wickedness.
“Has no one truly empathized with you about Queen Luciee’s…behavior?” Myth asked.
“My brothers do, so do my sisters-in-law.” Arvel pushed the window open a little farther and stuck his head outside. “But I’ve been the lucky recipient of all her attention these days because of my title. That and Benjimir is beyond her power now—Gwendafyn just about flipped a table the last time Mother dared insult him in front of her. And my two younger brothers are both out of the country right now. It isn’t always this bad.”
Myth’s heart ached again for the Calnorian prince, but she didn’t know what to do or say. If he were an elf, she’d hug him or hold his hand or some such thing—elves were a much more affectionate culture than humans.
But the only affectionate gesture she knew of that originated in Calnor was a smack on the back. That didn’t seem entirely appropriate at the moment, and Myth wasn’t certain if that was a male-limited expression of affection, or if it was common among females.
I need to study more…
Arvel saved her from having to decide.
He abruptly straightened up. “We ought to finish our tea while it’s hot—and I should get back to adding up the numbers. As long as I wax on about my troubles I’m just keeping you here extra long.”
He walked back to his desk, but Myth stayed by the windows a few moments longer. “Troubles as painful as this need to be verbalized, or they’ll fester within you. You need someone to confirm that this is wrong—Queen Luciee is wrong.” She hesitated, then added, “This is not a trivial matter.”
The pull of Arvel’s waistcoat on his back and the tightness in the muscles of his forearms showed off the tenseness in his shoulders, but when he turned around, his blue eyes were bright. “I’m glad you’re my translator, Myth. And I’m glad I finally got to meet you. You’re astounding, do you know that? It makes me glad—no—thrilled that I thought to ask Father for you as my temporary translator.”
His declaration made something warm in the pit of Myth’s stomach. I didn’t know he personally requested me. That surely must be a first.
She glanced out at the foggy gardens one last time before she made her way back to her desk and sat down. “Nonsense. That’s the late hour talking.” She eagerly took a sip of her tea—which had cooled considerably but was still delightfully warm.
Arvel snorted. “Not at all. But you have a point. Back to work it is!”
“Myth.” Arvel groaned and raised his head off his desk so he could drop it again, rattling his skull. “Myth, if I die from this, tell Benjimir it was me who broke his best sword when we were kids.”
“We’re almost done.” Myth pursed her lips in a way that Arvel knew meant she narrowly avoided using his title as she carefully wrote out an elven number in her logbook—the last copy they needed to finish to put this ugly project behind them.
Arvel could barely keep his eyes open. His vision was blurry—he had no idea how Myth could handle staring at the tiny rows and columns of her logbook. Just glancing at the squiggly elven script made the pain behind his eyes flare. Even if it was in Myth’s perfect, tidy hand.
He sat upright and twisted in his chair, looking outside.
It was getting light. He couldn’t see the pink glow of dawn, but the black-blue of the midnight hour had softened to a sort of purply color, and the clouds were starting to glow orange.
They were going to finish with time to spare.
Everything was perfect—the orders, the records, and the logs. Not a single figure was wrong—he was confident.
Won’t that make Mother sick with irritation? And I have Myth to thank for it. I couldn’t have done this without her.
Arvel was faintly aware that statement was true on more than one level.
“Thirty-two bolts of elven silk,” Myth read back. “What’s next?”
Arvel stared down at his copy of the order written in Calnoric. “One hundred spools of white elven thread.”
Myth nodded. She was bent over her record, her head steady despite the fatigue lining her gray eyes.
Besides that, and the fact that the high ponytail her silvery-blond hair was always pulled back in was a little droopy, she didn’t show much weariness. Her posture wasn’t quite as perfect as usual, but Arvel would like to think some of that wasn’t exhaustion, but a sign she was comfortable with him.
I don’t think I can repay what she’s given me—not just her aid, but the genuineness of it. But I will try.
“One hundred spools of white elven thread,” Myth repeated. She stared at her writing, then set her quill down and rubbed her face. “Just four more entries.”
“And then breakfast,” Arvel said feelingly.
Myth leaned back and let her head droop on her neck. “I think I’d prefer to snatch what bit of sleep I can before our day starts.”
Arvel snorted. “Our day starts? Please. After I hand deliver these to the merchants, we can dispatch a messenger with the updated records for the trade logs, and then we’re sleeping like the dead.”
“You have morning appointments.”
“I’m a prince. That means I get to cancel appointments as long as I have a good excuse,” Arvel grunted. “Besides. We need our minds sharp. In two days—wait, no—tomorrow is our first official social event with you as my translator. There’s a royal luncheon in the Little Hall. We need to make sure we’re at the top of our game for that…”
“In that case, what’s the next entry?”
Arvel stirred. “Sixty-nine spools of black elven thread.”
“Sixty-nine spools…”
A few minutes later, and they finished.
Arvel could hardly believe it. They did it. They had successfully finished the corrections! He stood with a groan, and every bone in his body felt heavy. “You’re a real gem, Myth.”
“Hmmm.” Myth blew gently on the record book, then glanced at the sheaf of papers stacked on Arvel’s desk. “Is it too early to drop the papers off?”
“No, actually. The caravan to Jubilee is leaving shortly after dawn. The translators and few merchants that were allowed to go should all be assembling outside already.”
“Then let us deliver the orders.”
“And get breakfast.” Arvel offered out his hand.
“Yes. Afterwards.” Myth took his hand, and he effortlessly pulled her out of her chair.
Together they staggered a little, but with the terrible task behind them some of Arvel’s willpower was returning. He righted himself and plucked up the papers. “Let’s go.”
Myth was already pulling the study door open.
They walked side by side down the quiet hallways, and there was something in the moment that seemed…different.
Arvel glanced down at Myth.
It’s not her candor—I’ve been in awe of that all night.
Myth hadn’t put on her jacket before they left, so she was still in her pale blue shirt, dainty and elegant—until she yawned widely and shook her head like a dog. “I was
unaware elven thread was such a hotly desired good.”
“It’s better for embroidery,” Arvel absently said—still trying to nail down this feeling. “And Sir Arion made it vogue to use it on fighting garments because it’s more durable.”
“Hmm. Personally, I think our paper is a finer product, but I suppose wherever the demand is, it should be filled.” Myth shrugged a little, then glanced up at him. “Tarinthali Ringali has made those metal-forged flower hair sticks found here in Haven all the rage back in Lessa.”
Arvel indicated that they needed to make a turn, which popped them out in one of the open-air corridors that followed the exterior of the palace. The floral scent wafting from Rosewood Park already filled the air as the sky took on a golden hue. “Why is that?”
“It’s a different style—one that appeals to our aesthetic as a culture. We elves are not particularly good at creating new things—we endlessly recycle past styles and arts.” Myth rolled her shoulders, which brushed Arvel’s. “It’s why we’re so good at what we do.”
It was then that it hit Arvel.
6
Myth was casually chatting with him about things that interested him.
She wasn’t pumping him for information on court politics like his mother, lecturing him for not having guards like Benjimir, or even just exchanging pleasant but casual chit-chat like he did with Gwendafyn.
Myth was talking about trade, and had the knowledge to go toe-to-toe with him.
It wasn’t just that she had dropped the titles and slightly more formal tone she’d used over the past few days and become his friend. It was that she was listening to him—not with bemusement or forced interest forged out of dutiful love—but because she actually enjoyed the conversation.
He stared down at Myth, keeping step with her, but strangely unwilling to look away from her. As if she—perhaps the rarest kind of person he’d ever met—would disappear if he did.
Myth yawned again. “I hope at breakfast we’ll be served something stronger than tea?”
“Do you mean coffee?”
“I mean something with alcohol.”
Arvel gaped down at Myth and almost burst into laughter when he saw how serious her expression was. “I’m sure one of the maids could pour a few drops of something into your coffee for you.”
Myth pushed one of her already arched eyebrows up, making her look disdainful. “What you mean to say is, no. There is nothing stronger.”
“You make me think that you elves are a bunch of raging alcoholics.”
“It’s not our fault you humans can’t hold your liquor.”
Arvel laughed. “You are a light in this dark world.”
Myth brushed a stray thread off her fitted breeches. “Is that a Calnorian custom? To frequently compare a person to commonly found items? Should I be calling you a chair?”
His laughter was so deep, Arvel almost forgot himself and slung an arm over Myth’s shoulders before he stopped in time. “After everything you have done for me, you can call me whatever you like!”
He didn’t think she knew just how truly he meant it, but he did. In fact, as he staggered through the palace with his translator, it occurred to Arvel that he’d give Myth whatever she wanted if she was willing to stay with him.
A full day’s sleep did wonders for Myth, so the day after Arvel had turned in the corrected paperwork, Myth was refreshed and ready for her first event as his translator.
The pressure of acting as a social translator was a steady weight that made the seams of her translator jacket dig into her shoulders, but a tiny part of her was giddy with the prospect of attending the royal luncheon.
Not because she cared about social events—she’d rather review records any day. But because this was a royal luncheon, and Princess Gwendafyn was going to attend!
However, Myth was a professional. And even if she wasn’t a social translator—by her emphatic choice—she’d make sure she perfectly played the job she’d been given.
So, when Arvel and Myth arrived in the Little Hall just before the guests were slated to begin arriving, Myth was the image of the perfect translator. Her jacket was crisp and perfectly pressed, her expression was calm and serene, and her fingers were interlaced in a “waiting” gesture as she kept her expression downcast.
“That excited about the luncheon, hm?” Arvel led the way around the room’s exterior.
The Little Hall was one of the smaller halls used for socials and events, but it was still beautiful and ornate, with brightly colored draperies and carpets, and walls covered in wallpaper of a repeating floral and woodland creature pattern.
In preparation for the luncheon, it was cluttered with tables and chairs, and the kitchen staff were rushing in and out with platter after platter of delectable delicacies.
“I will do my best this afternoon,” Myth said.
“I wasn’t concerned you’d be anything but wonderful.” Arvel gave her another one of his charming smiles—which Myth was by now used to.
Once Arvel made the complete circuit, he stopped a few table lengths from the hall entrance. “We’ll be part of the greeting line with my parents and Benjimir, but the rest of the elven royal family has to arrive first.”
Myth scanned the room, looking for Princess Gwendafyn—it didn’t appear she had arrived yet. “I see.”
“You don’t have to hang around while we eat—I’m sitting with Lady Tari today, and she’s practically a translator.”
When a servant stopped in front of him with a tray of glass flutes filled with elven wine, Arvel took one.
He offered it to Myth, but she shook her head—she didn’t want anything affecting her mouth, or tongue.
“I am proud to say Lady Tari is more fluent in Calnoric than the best translator,” she said.
Arvel had been about to sip the wine, but he paused in the middle of raising the flute to his mouth and curiously studied her. “You’re proud to say that?”
Myth, just as curious, peered up at him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You study your whole life to be a translator, and Tari learned Calnoric in a few weeks because of her magical bond with her husband.”
Myth furrowed her brow. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Then why are you proud?”
“Because she’s an elf. Through her, all elves are raised,” Myth said.
Arvel thoughtfully tapped his wine flute. “I’m beginning to see why our people have had difficulties communicating in the past. Our cultures have very different outlooks on things that muddied the waters. I’m sure of it.”
“Perhaps that is so.” Myth did another scan of the crowd.
King Celrin of Lessa—stately, tall, and proud—had arrived with his beautiful Queen Firea, but their youngest daughter was still nowhere to be seen.
“Given that you show no inclination to be interested in political agendas, I assume you’re watching for someone in particular?” Arvel asked. “A colleague, perhaps.”
“No.” Myth squared her stance and fixed her posture, mentally scolding herself for so obviously lapsing in her duty. “I was hoping to see—”
She stopped talking when the most beautiful being in Calnor and Lessa stepped into the Little Hall.
Princess Gwendafyn—the second princess of the elves who had married Prince Benjimir of Calnor and become a Calnorian princess as well—was gorgeous with her dark hair and exquisite purple colored eyes.
A wide smile adorned her lips, multiplying the princess’s already abundant beauty, and the purple shade of her uniquely styled gown—a gauzy dress with a high waistline that turned into a split, revealing the fitted white breeches and delicate white sandals the princess wore underneath—perfectly matched the scabbard of the sword strapped to her waist.
“My Princess Gwendafyn,” Myth uttered, unable to keep the adoration from her voice.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Looks like Fyn has arrived.” Arvel waved to his sister-in-law.
Sh
e smiled and took a step in his direction, until King Petyrr’s bellow ripped her attention away.
“Daughter-in-law!” King Petyrr dashed across the hall, almost knocking over Prince Benjimir to reach Gwendafyn. When he reached her, the much shorter man gave her an exuberant hug, producing a delightful laugh from the princess.
“Fyn’s a lot of fun,” Arvel casually said.
“My Princess Gwendafyn is amazing,” Myth firmly said. “She is of the royal house of the Lesser Elves, has made great strides in connecting our people, and is the first elf in centuries who can use a form of High Elf magic.”
“Yes.” Arvel finished off his wine. “She’s pretty impressive.”
Outraged, Myth turned on her employer. “Pretty impressive? Pretty impressive? My Princess Gwendafyn is a walking legend, and I dare you to find anyone more outstanding, kind, and deadly!”
Arvel thoughtfully tilted his head. “It seems like you have a bad case of hero-worship for Fyn. Want me to introduce you two?”
“Don’t you dare,” Myth hissed. “My Princess Gwendafyn is the smiling sun which we lessers can bask in the warmth of! You cannot bother her with a simple matter like introductions when she has so many demands on her time.”
Arvel rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how I like being considered a lesser.”
“Compared to My Princess Gwendafyn, you are quite lesser.” Myth watched Princess Gwendafyn with fascination as the elven princess embraced her mother and then her father.
“Quite lesser? Are you forgetting that I, too, am a royal?” Arvel playfully complained. “Much less the crown prince?”
Myth stared blankly at him. “So?”
“Wouldn’t being the future monarch of Calnor put me on equal footing with Gwendafyn, even if she is legendary?” Arvel winked and nudged her a little.
Ohhh, he’s fishing for a compliment, is he? He’s going to be doomed to disappointment. With everyone fawning over him, he hardly needs my praise!
Myth went through the extra effort of keeping her expression calm and her voice insistent. “She is My Princess Gwendafyn. You are just a crown prince.”