by K. M. Shea
“Just the crown prince?” A strangled sounding noise escaped from Arvel’s mouth, and he gaped at her as if she’d grown another head. “Your sense of hero-worship makes you mean, Myth.”
Myth sniffed. “Hardly. It is simply that you cannot compare to the splendor of My Princess Gwendafyn.”
“Fine. Then what does that make me in your thoughts?”
Myth tapped her chin and looked thoughtful, before innocently widening her eyes. “My employer?”
This time Arvel’s mouth dropped. “Employer? Not even a royal?”
Myth shrugged. “As I am an elf, you’re not my prince.”
“But, but—Gwendafyn is my bond partner! That should give me some claim to a higher status.”
Myth gave Arvel her best pitying look.
Arvel narrowed his eyes. “What’s that look for?”
“I am sad for you that you are resorting to citing weak connections to claim a higher level of importance. I did not know you needed such praise to thrive.”
“What? You…” Arvel gaped at her for a moment, then erupted into loud laughter.
Myth took his wine flute from him so he didn’t drop it, then demurely looked down as many of those present in the room peered in their direction.
“There, there, Your Royal Highness,” Myth said soothingly once his laughter wasn’t as loud. “I am terribly sorry no one delivered this devastating news to you sooner.”
“You are wicked.” Arvel took his wine flute back. “I’m never believing that placid expression of yours again.”
“There, there, Your Royal Highness,” Myth repeated. She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “You are a very majestic specimen. It’s a wonder anyone can gaze upon your splendor and not be blinded.”
“Harridan!”
“Your tone tells me that word is not a compliment, Your Royal Highness. This is why you cannot match the splendor of My Princess—”
“Gwendafyn, yes, yes.” Arvel laughed. “Thank you, Myth—although I told you to call me Arvel.”
“I assume it wouldn’t be proper in such a formal setting.”
“Nonsense! Besides I am—as you said yourself—a lesser.” He grinned at Myth, giving her his brightest smile again.
Myth, curious, looked around to see if her theory about his smile fluttering the hearts of eligible ladies was correct. Disappointingly, there were no young ladies around, but she did spy a rather distinguished elf gliding in their direction.
“I believe we’re about to have some company,” Myth murmured.
“Understood. Time to look presentable and play nice.” Arvel stood straight and dimmed his smile to something more in the polite range. “Seer Ringali, a pleasure to see you again. I hope your travels were uneventful?”
Seer Ringali—the mentor of Lady Tari and the godfather of her firstborn—was tall, even for an elf, and carried a fan painted with blue flowers…as if the pretty design could detract from the razor-sharp edge that lined the top folds of the fan.
(As an Evening Star he—like Lady Tari and Princess Gwendafyn—was an exception to the general rule that most Lesser Elves couldn’t handle bloodshed or even fighting.)
Once the robed warrior was just a few steps away, Myth bowed to him. “Crown Prince Arvel extends his greetings to the esteemed Seer Ringali, and expresses his pleasure in seeing you again and hopes your travels were uneventful.”
Seer Ringali slightly bowed his head at Arvel. “Greetings, Crown Prince Arvel. My travels were quite enjoyable. Pleasantly, my miscreant student and her ever-loyal dog-man met me an hour outside of Haven when I arrived and rode back with me.”
Myth paused for a moment—Seer Ringali’s somewhat insulting words weren’t surprising. He had a sarcastic edge that matched his ability to fight, and he was known to be gruff with those he loved most—like Lady Tari and Sir Arion.
But she wasn’t exactly sure what the protocol would be for translating his seemingly harsh verbiage. Was she supposed to speak word for word? Or should she give a more loose and vague translation so as to not stir up any sensibilities?
It seems I might have focused too much on learning customs and failed to study anything that detailed guidelines for social translating…
Unbidden, Myth glanced at Translator Rollo, who was standing with Her King Celrin and His Majesty King Petyrr.
At the moment, the two kings were communicating using hand gestures, and Rollo was watching the servants bringing in the food. When he happened to glance in her direction, he smiled at her, but then went right back to watching the food.
Feeling a little desperate, Myth glanced at the translator who stood dutifully behind Queen Luciee, looking bored. He was a handsome elf who had spoken to a few of Myth’s introductory classes. He fidgeted with the plait of his hair as he looked around the room. His eyes didn’t even settle on Myth; he kept scanning.
Even though I was assured I could ask for help, it is as I assumed. I’m on my own in this. I can’t count on anyone else to save me.
The sharp stab of responsibility pricked Myth in the lower spine.
She smiled despite her worry, and murmured to Arvel. “Seer Ringali says his travels were enjoyable, and spoke affectionately of Lady Tari and Sir Arion meeting him outside of Haven.”
“Still calling Arion Tari’s dog-man, is he?” Arvel guessed.
“Mmm,” Myth noncommittedly said.
Arvel chuckled, then smiled at Seer Ringali. “How long can we keep you here in Haven this time?”
Myth dutifully made the translation.
“I intend to stay with Tari and her brood for six weeks since I missed the birth of her third child,” Seer Ringali said in Elvish.
“Wonderful,” Arvel said once Myth made the translation. “I hope you will join us for whatever social events you would like to in the coming weeks.”
“Perhaps.” Seer Ringali shrugged. “The events have become more palatable since the palace started serving elven wine.”
After Myth had translated this, Arvel gave her a meaningful look, which she interpreted as triumph in believing that all elves were heavy drinkers.
Before she could respond, Arvel turned back to the Evening Star. “I hope we are granted the honor of seeing you perform while you are here?”
“Perhaps.” Seer Ringali flicked his fan open and closed. “I shall spend much of my time training Tari’s oldest two brats. But there are a few other Evening Stars present. We might be able to arrange a performance.”
Myth made the translation, though her eyes strayed for a moment when she noticed Princess Gwendafyn gliding in their direction.
The beautiful princess smiled when she reached them, and she held out her arms to embrace Arvel. “Hello, my brother,” she said in Calnoric.
(Princess Gwendafyn’s Calnoric was, maybe, her one flaw. For while she was understandable, she had a very pronounced accent. However! The princess had also only recently picked up the language over the last few years, which was a real feat. So even her Calnoric was to be praised and celebrated.)
“I prefer the term bond partner,” Arvel teased. “Particularly whenever Benjimir is prowling nearby.”
Gwendafyn shook her head. “You brothers.” She turned her attention to Seer Ringali and spoke in Elvish. “Good evening, Seer Ringali. It is a pleasure to see you in Haven again.”
]Seer Ringali bowed. “My Princess Gwendafyn. I see you’ve gotten a new toy?” He pointed to the sword strapped to her waist with his fan.
Gwendafyn laughed. “Yes. Ben bought me a variety of colored sword scabbards to match my clothes. It makes my swords look more like accessories, so some forget their presence…until I have need of them.”
“Very practical,” Seer Ringali said with sincerity. “Anything to tip your foe off-guard is to be commended.”
“It is quite a bit of fun.”
“I, myself, prefer to openly carry weapons, so I needn’t ever put them away.” Seer Ringali snapped his fan for emphasis, and the sharp metal edges gl
ittered in the daylight that leaked in from the windows.
Myth had translated the conversation in a hushed tone for Arvel’s benefit. And while she managed to appear relatively calm at standing so close to her hero, she was fairly certain her fingers were shaking.
Arvel smirked, and at the natural lull in the conversation, he spoke. “If you’ll excuse my interruption, Fyn, I’d like to introduce you to my translator—Mythlan.”
Myth felt her face burn with a blush as Princess Gwendafyn—and Seer Ringali—turned to face her.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mythlan,” Gwendafyn said in Elvish—presumably for Seer Ringali’s benefit.
“It is my honor to speak to you, My Princess Gwendafyn.” Myth bowed deeply.
“Mythlan.” Seer Ringali flicked his fan, and the resulting breeze tickled his dark hair. “Daughter of Wylorym the enchanter?”
7
Myth’s smile froze. “Yes, Seer Ringali.”
Seer Ringali hid the lower half of his face behind his fan and peered at her from over its edge. “Hmmm,” he said.
Myth squared her shoulders and relayed to Arvel as quickly as she could the short conversation.
Arvel glanced curiously at Seer Ringali, but it was to Gwendafyn that he addressed his next comment. “Myth is supposed to help you in social events, too, if Benjimir isn’t around. If you need help, she is your translator.”
Myth rocked a little—shocked by the announcement.
They didn’t tell me I’d be helping Princess Gwendafyn at all. Is Arvel just being nice because he sees how I esteem her?
Myth slapped on a professional smile, although she still had to keep her hands clenched. “I hope I can be of service to you, My Princess,” she said first in Calnoric and then in Elvish.
“Oh, wonderful.” Gwendafyn smiled at Myth with full power. “I was concerned when Father told me Rollo was being reassigned to King Petyrr and him. It eases my mind to know you’ll be available to help. If I attend an event while Ben is out patrolling the countryside or checking in with his soldiers, I always come with Arvel, so I hope it won’t be too much extra work.”
“Never, My Princess.” Myth eagerly shook her head. “It would be my honor to translate for you.” It was only through her determination not to fail at translating that she noticed when Seer Ringali wordlessly drifted away.
“Goodbye, Seer Ringali!” Gwendafyn called after him, then she returned all of her attention to Myth and switched to Calnoric. “I look forward to working with you. You must be a genius—I don’t know that I’ve ever met such a young translator.”
“I am actually a trade translator, and only an apprentice,” Myth said.
“Nah, you’re just being humble.” Arvel grinned at Gwendafyn. “She is absolutely a genius.”
“No, no.” Myth violently shook her head. “I am not skilled at—”
Gwendafyn interrupted with a delightful laugh. “Arvel is right—the Translators’ Circle would never allow a dissatisfactory translator to serve the crown prince. You need not show such humility around us, Mythlan.”
Myth’s face was so hot, she was sure it had to be beet red. “But, that is to say…”
“She’s perfect for the position,” Arvel added with a smile that was too mischievous for Myth’s liking. “Since she is actually a trade translator, she’s been a great help to me while I organize the trade orders. And…” He gave Myth a significant look.
Myth froze.
Ohh, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare tell her how much I adore her!
Myth tried to communicate a warning of hellfire using only her eyes.
Arvel, of course, ignored her. “She’s told me before how she greatly admires you.”
I’m going to dump his cookie stash in his study and tell him ants have infiltrated.
“That’s too kind of you, Mythlan! Really, I am not at all special—I’m just bloodthirsty for an elf.” Princess Gwendafyn winked.
Myth wanted to shout at hearing the princess degrade herself, but since that would certainly be considered socially inappropriate—even though such an act hadn’t been mentioned in any of the books Myth had spent the past few days studying—she settled for giving Arvel a death glare. It was his fault anyway. “I must beg to disagree,” Myth politely said. “You are admirable in every way, and while it would give me joy to recite your many wonderful qualities and traits, I doubt you would like to spend that long listening to them.”
Gwendafyn took Myth’s tense hands and squeezed them. “Thank you. It makes me happy to know that I have found favor with wonderful people like you.”
“What’s this, now?” Prince Benjimir—Commanding General of Calnor’s armed forces—appeared just behind Gwendafyn’s shoulder. He slid an arm around his wife’s waist and kissed her cheek. “I thought I’d find Arvel flirting with you again, but instead you’re exchanging worshipful gazes with another elf? Why must I always have contestants for your love?”
“I stopped flirting with Fyn when you nearly emptied my study of my books,” Arvel snorted.
Gwendafyn smiled brightly at her husband, but she still didn’t release Myth’s hands. “Ben, this is Mythlan—she’s Arvel’s new translator, and she’s offered to help us at any social events as well.”
Us? Now Prince Benjimir is included in the list as well?? Myth kept her smile as set as iron so her eyes didn’t pop out of her skull. I don’t recall the Translators’ Circle saying anything about any of this when they foisted me off on Arvel!
Prince Benjimir tipped his head so his cheek pressed into the top of Gwendafyn’s hair.
They were a splendid pair—one for the storybooks, as Benjimir was tall, broad shouldered, and had bright gold hair with stately blue eyes like every storybook prince. Princess Gwendafyn was a stark but lovely contrast with her dark hair and purple eyes.
“Mythlan.” Prince Benjimir gave her a quick visual inspection. “Well met. Thank you for your generous offer, and for looking after Gwendafyn.”
“Your Highness.” Myth bowed awkwardly, her hands still stretched in front of her because Gwendafyn hadn’t released them.
Benjimir smiled, which significantly lightened the noble and almost molded expression of his face. Thankfully, he turned his attention to his brother. “I heard about Mother’s little request. I’m sorry for it.”
Arvel shrugged. “She felt the need to bare her teeth at me—what can I do? I don’t have the seniority to fully refuse her; Father would have to be involved for that.”
Benjimir growled. “He should have been involved. He’s normally good with that sort of thing. I question why he has suddenly turned doddering fool when it comes to Mother.”
“He probably has a plan,” Arvel said blandly. “He always plays casual or acts like he doesn’t know what’s going on whenever he’s about to pull off one of his best laid plans.”
Benjimir frowned. “Really?”
“Always. Since forever.”
“Myth.” Gwendafyn gently squeezed Myth’s fingers. “I must thank you in advance for your help. I’m afraid to say I’m aware my Calnoric still isn’t where it should be, so I’m grateful you’ll be with Arvel.”
“Again, it is my honor, My Princess.” Myth tried to bow again, but it was still a little awkward.
“Thank you. Calnoric continues to be a weak spot for me.” Gwendafyn heaved a sigh. “I wish it came to me as easily as fighting and magic.”
“Your ability to wield High Elf magic is once in a millennium, My Princess.”
“Thank you, but Seer Ringali is discovering others who can wield it, too.”
“Perhaps, but none of them with the same power and efficiency as you,” Myth firmly said. “I am more convinced of that than ever since reading more about it.”
Gwendafyn’s eyes went from laughter and beauty to sharp and deadly-elegant. “Reading about it? But there aren’t many records of High Elf magic written by Lesser Elves.”
Myth tried not to look starry eyed at the shift in Gwenda
fyn, which hinted at the ancient magic she used. “No, there aren’t,” she agreed. “I was referring to books written by High Elves.”
“High Elves?” Gwendafyn stared at Myth, her tone loud and passionate.
“Yes…there are a few volumes in the Library of Haven?” Myth meekly supplied.
“But how can you read them?” Gwendafyn asked. “While we technically shared the Elvish language with them, I’ve been told by various enchanters that our language has morphed over the years, changing it nearly beyond recognition. It’s feasible to pick out symbols and some words among the runes the High Elves used, but a pure translation is beyond most.”
Myth thoughtfully pressed her lips together. “It can be rather difficult.”
“Difficult?” Gwendafyn repeated.
“It takes me quite a bit of time, and it’s rather slow going,” Myth quickly said. She didn’t want to appear prideful to Princess Gwendafyn of all people. “But I enjoy the challenge, and my closest friend is a human wizard with a particular interest in the magic of Nodusigm—the bonding ceremony. She asked for my help in researching it, and since our history says the bond was originally based on a High Elf spell, I thought I might find something of use…if I can ever read the full manuscripts.”
“That’s fascinating.” Princess Gwendafyn finally let go of Myth’s hands—all so she could tap her chin as she studied Myth. “Is your friend your age?”
“Approximately.”
“It is to your credit that you are both so obviously bright and intelligent.”
“Fyn.” Benjimir stepped away from Gwendafyn, only to take up her hand. “I’m sorry to pull you away, but we must be ready to greet the guests.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you, Myth, for this delightful conversation. I hope we can renew it later during the luncheon.” Gwendafyn bestowed a smile upon Myth before the legendary pair swept off, as beautiful as a painting.
Myth sighed and tried not to melt into a puddle. “She is so good.”
Arvel folded his arms across his chest and slightly nudged her. “What did you think of Benjimir?”