by K. M. Shea
“A pleasure.” Blaise curtsied again, but Myth didn’t miss the way her eyes trailed after one of the elven enchanters she had slowly been working on conversing with. “If you could excuse me, Your Highnesses?”
“Of course! The party is for you, after all. Enjoy it!” Arvel laughed a little and waved Blaise off.
Blaise ducked her head in thanks, but she leaned in close to Myth for a moment. “Remember what I said—tell me immediately.”
The cheeky apprentice wizard was gone before Myth could respond, her voice sing-song as she called out after her targeted enchanter in decent Elvish.
“Hmm.” Arvel curiously watched Blaise as she chattered away with the enchanter. “Seems you aren’t the only regular human trotting around the palace who is fluent in Elvish, Ben.”
“There are a great many humans capable of speaking Elvish in the palace, even if you exclude the translators,” Benjimir said with a voice of distaste unique to all older siblings.
Arvel rolled his eyes as he bridged the gap between him and Myth and moved to stand comfortably next to her. “Ignore him. He’s in a foul mood today because he had to send Fyn out to fight some bandits.”
“Quite the contrary.” Benjimir’s smile was a little frightening. “I am deeply pleased today because my little brother found the dirt needed to officially bring a charge against the bloated, self-important Fultons.” He studied Myth through narrowed eyes. “And he tells me it’s your doing.”
Myth bowed. “I regret to say, Your Highness, I played no role in finding the critical information or putting it all together. His Royal Highness is solely responsible for that feat.”
“Yes, but you were the one who talked me into charging them.” Arvel shifted just a tiny bit closer so when he nudged Myth’s elbow with his own, it felt natural. “Speaking of which, it seems that even though I submitted the paperwork to Father just this morning, news of their disgrace has already broken. You can tell by Mother’s face.”
Arvel nodded at the stately queen, who was standing in the area Arvel and Benjimir had just abandoned, her expression icy as she listened to a translator speak on behalf of an elven enchanter. When she glanced in their direction her narrowed eyes looked poisonous, and she pressed her lips together with such force her skin turned white.
“She’s been trying to track Ben and me down all evening—so she can properly yell at us,” Arvel said.
“She can try to yell at us,” Benjimir carelessly said. “But for all her troubles it won’t gain her anything. Since you filed the charge, it can’t be reversed. Her family will face a trial.”
“Is that what will happen next?” Myth asked.
“Yes—in a while,” Arvel explained. “Since the Fultons are a family of nobility, the process is different. First the Crown has to announce an investigation, which we just completed. Next we’ll investigate their finances and dig through all their records—and not just their trade logs, but everything from their filed taxes to their personal accounts. I’ll pass my findings to the Department of Investigation, who will build a case and bring it before Father.”
“Since their crime is a financial one, the process is drawn out unnecessarily long,” Prince Benjimir wryly said. “If a noble dared to hurt someone and there was a decent amount of evidence, they’d be convicted immediately.”
“I’d rather have them committing financial crimes than attacking our citizens,” Arvel said grimly. “As it stands, I’ll be the main target of their ire, and I’d rather keep it that way than get innocents involved.”
“She’s on the move,” Prince Benjimir announced. He nodded to the queen, who was once again maneuvering through the crowds, her expression frozen in eloquence but her eyes fiery with anger. “We’d better move along as well.”
“Right-o! Come on—I think the refreshments will make an enticing excuse.” Arvel beckoned for Myth to walk shoulder to shoulder with him.
Prince Benjimir walked at her open side, and they whisked away before the queen was able to completely extricate herself from the crowd. “I must thank you for encouraging Arvel to act, Translator Mythlan.”
“I did nothing,” Myth said. “Except question why he has not formally charged them already.”
“You undersell yourself, Myth. This way—oop.” Arvel jolted to a stop when two particularly boisterous wizards backed up, unknowingly stepping out into Arvel’s path.
The crown prince waited with a smile for the sheepish wizards to rejoin their friends.
He didn’t notice the tall elven enchanter who passed them, but Myth did.
Her father, his pale blond hair still pulled back in its familiar plait, glanced in her direction. When he saw she was looking, he nodded to her, and continued on.
That solves one question of my childhood; no matter what I did he never would have taken much interest in me. I’m standing with the Calnorian crown prince and commanding general, and he didn’t even pause. The thought made Myth’s polite smile turn wry.
“Let’s move a little quicker, shall we?” Benjimir stepped in front of Arvel and Myth, clearing the way so they could pass through without interruptions.
Following Benjimir, they prowled past the refreshments—although they paused long enough for Arvel to grab a few cookies and stuff them in his waistcoat pocket—and ended up standing beside life-sized stone sculptures of Queen Alannah of Calnor and King Galas of Lessa—the pair who had signed the historic peace treaty between Calnor and Lessa.
“It seems we’re safe for the moment.” Arvel nodded to Queen Luciee, who had gotten corralled into speaking with King Petyrr and King Celrin. While the kings looked varying levels of amused—King Petyrr’s belly jingled as he laughed whereas King Celrin’s amusement was quieter and crinkled his eyes—Queen Luciee more closely resembled an ice sculpture.
Her eyes skimmed over the crowd, but she must not have seen them behind the statue, because her gaze didn’t stop.
“So it would seem,” Myth said.
“I’ll leave you both to it, then,” Benjimir said. “Given Mother’s cagey reactions, I think it might be prudent to ask Arion to increase Honor Guard patrols for the time being. Our stupid relatives will betray their idiocy and try something, in which case I’d rather be prepared for it. Good evening, Arvel, Translator Mythlan.” Benjimir snapped off a quick nod, then left, his hands draped over his sword belt.
“That sounds…ominous,” Myth said.
“Pay Ben no mind. He likes to be pessimistic—it means he’s so prepared that when the worst happens, he’s in a position to fight back,” Arvel said.
“There is wisdom in being prepared.”
“Oh, certainly!” Arvel grinned. “I’m just glad he’s the one in charge of armies so it’s going to fall on him to do the preparing!”
Myth slowly nodded. “I can see the appeal in that. It frees you up, as well, so you can complete and prioritize other tasks only you are capable of.”
“Like investigating the Fultons,” Arvel said with great satisfaction. “Thank you, I knew you’d agree with me!”
Myth eyed the prince for any signs of his previous…disconcerting conduct.
But his face was as open and cheerful as ever as he watched the party.
Yes, I was right. It must have been due to overworking.
Satisfied, Myth clasped her hands together and put on her patient smile as an elven enchanter approached them. When the enchanter made his greetings in Elvish, Myth was all too pleased to translate now that her life had returned to the steady, normal ground she was used to, and showed no signs of changing.
The following day, in the bright light of dawn, Myth delicately smelled one of the beautiful floral arrangements that scattered the pleasant, heavily windowed dining hall that the royal families of Calnor and Lessa used whenever breaking bread together.
This morning was one of their scheduled times in which both royal families met to break their fast—which, naturally, required the presence of translators. Arvel, however, was the only
one present at the moment.
Myth glanced at the prince, who was yawning widely. “I need to get into the habit of going to sleep earlier.” He shook his head and sipped at the tea one of the maids had served him immediately after he entered the room. “Or these early morning breakfasts are going to be the end of me.”
“It’s after dawn,” Myth said. “It isn’t that early.”
Arvel squinted up at her. “I’m a little afraid to ask, but what, then, is an early hour for you?”
Myth thought for a moment. “I routinely tried to wake up an hour before dawn when I was a student. I still attempt to rise earlier than dawn, but it can be difficult if my work required a late night.”
“You’re a stronger person than I am.” Arvel glanced back at her and munched on a piece of bread. “Why don’t you sit down?” He patted the chair next to him in an invitation.
“You already asked me to sit down,” Myth reminded him. “And my answer remains the same: it wouldn’t be proper.”
Arvel put his bread down. “What if I told you it was a Calnorian custom for translators to eat with their employers?”
“I would be forced to chide you for attempting such a paltry lie,” Myth dryly said. “I’ve already read into the details of dining as a social translator, and I stood as your translator for two royal breakfasts. It’s too late to…” Myth paused. She knew what word she wanted to use, but it kept escaping her.
“Hoodwink?” Arvel suggested.
“Yes! It is too late to hoodwink me now.”
“Maybe, but I feel like the biggest git sitting here eating when you have to stand behind me.” Arvel abandoned his bread for baked apple slices.
“It is what is custom for our positions.”
“Who cares about what’s proper? Father routinely brings his favorite cat to court sessions. That can’t be considered proper in any world.”
“When you are king, you also won’t have to care about what’s proper.”
“One of the upsides of the job,” Arvel agreed.
Myth counted the places at the table—which was heavily decorated with porcelain dishes and enough flowers to make the room smell like a garden. “Is Princess Gwendafyn going to break her fast this morning?”
“Yes, she’ll be here. She got back in last night. If she arrives before Benjimir I can ask her to sit by me, if you like.”
Myth opened her mouth to reply.
“Provided you don’t tell me she’s too good to sit with a lesser like me.” Arvel nonchalantly buttered a hot muffin, then twisted in his chair to grin at her.
Myth laughed quietly, but snapped her jaw shut when the door opened to admit another royal, Queen Luciee.
“I knew we shouldn’t have gotten here so early,” Arvel sighed.
The queen’s eyes narrowed, and she swept up to the elaborately set table, her fingers clenched white with fury. “Arvel,” she said. “My silly boy. What have you done?”
“I buttered my muffin,” Arvel blandly said.
“I am referring to your massive error in opening an investigation against the Fultons—my family, and your flesh and blood!” The queen’s voice was icy in her anger, but she sat in her chair directly across from Arvel with all elegance and poise.
“It’s not an error,” Arvel said. “They broke the law.”
“You have no right!”
“I do, actually. Father made me Chief Liaison over Elven Trade.” Arvel methodically consumed his muffin and ignored his mother.
Myth, however, wished she could meld with the wall. This was not a conversation she wanted to be privy to.
Think of trade logs, she told herself. And balance sheets.
“And you actually believe you are smart enough for such a responsibility?” Queen Luciee waved off the maid who tried to fill her teacup.
The maid dipped a curtsy and beat a hasty retreat, slipping through the door that the kitchen staff used.
Myth wished she could follow her.
Arvel speared a second muffin. “Father thinks I am.”
“Your father has always lacked in wit,” Queen Luciee said. “He is hardly a competent judge.”
Arvel finally looked up. “Father is a brilliant king.”
“He’s a dreamer, and too inept to harness the power he has. You will make the same mistakes if you don’t wise up and begin establishing the right social connections.” Queen Luciee’s eyes hardened. “Which is why you need to announce you are dropping the investigation against the Fultons.”
Arvel wiped his fingers off on his napkin. “No.”
“You foolish boy. You will regret this, if you don’t fix it,” Queen Luciee warned. “The Fultons have stayed in line this long because of the respect the Crown shows them. If you step out of line, they will strike, regardless of their blood ties to you!”
Myth’s attempt to muse over the latest records she’d been assigned to copy was dashed with the queen’s blatant fury. Instead, she itched to throw one of the beautiful vases of flowers at the older woman’s head.
“You seem to be mistaken, Mother.” Arvel’s voice was still as amiable as ever, and he paused to sip his tea. “It is our family that rules Calnor. Not the Fultons.”
Queen Luciee bared her teeth, which were gritted, and her veneer of elegance cracked as she leaned forward. “Listen well, Arvel. You are useless as a crown prince. Your popularity now is only a direct result of your brother and his wife. If you wish to have any sway over the other nobles, you will need the Fultons. Alone you haven’t the strength to make the nobles bow to you, nor have you the intelligence based on your social incompetence!”
“Brow-beat me all you like, Mother. But it’s not going to intimidate me, or make me drop the investigation,” Arvel calmly said.
Myth heard footsteps in the hallway, through the cracked door. They were quiet and long strided, and there was no familiar click of weapons in the gait, which was a sound that accompanied every member of the Calnorian royal family. This most likely meant that it was elven royals outside, specifically King Celrin and Queen Firea, as Her Princess Gwendafyn frequently carried a sword or dagger as well.
The pair lingered outside the door, likely in respect for Queen Luciee’s conversation with Arvel. Unless Translator Rollo was with them, they had no idea what was taking place inside the room.
Well. They’re best suited out of everyone to spare Arvel.
“You fool,” Queen Luciee spat at her son. “I had hopes you wouldn’t disappoint me as Benjimir did, but you’re worse than him. He, at least, had the intelligence to marry up.”
Myth discreetly slithered down the wall. She cast one last glance at Queen Luciee—who was still snarling at Arvel—then “happened” to bump the door open.
Sure enough, on the other side of the door stood the stately elven king and his beautiful queen. Myth curtsied and murmured in a voice that she hoped Queen Luciee wouldn’t register, “My King Celrin, My Queen Firea.”
“Good morning, Translator Myth,” King Celrin said.
Queen Firea offered Myth a quick smile, but her attention was mostly on Arvel and Queen Luciee…her gaze hardening the longer she watched the queen shout at her progeny.
Myth stepped to the side, giving them the option to enter.
King Celrin took a few steps toward his customary seat, but paused when he realized Queen Firea had remained with Myth.
The elf queen slightly narrowed her eyes and tilted her head back. “What is she saying to the dear crown prince?”
Myth had been hoping she’d ask. She bowed slightly to hide the satisfaction she was sure encased the curve of her lips. “Currently, Queen Luciee is telling Crown Prince Arvel that he is an unintelligent and weak child who is not worthy of the position he’s been granted.”
Queen Firea narrowed her eyes. “What?”
King Celrin strode up to his seat. “Please inform Queen Luciee I was under the impression she was better than this, Translator Myth. Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure
,” Myth feelingly said.
Queen Luciee had finally noticed the elven monarchs’ arrival, and she stiffly sat back in her chair. “Good morning to you, King Celrin, Queen Firea.”
Myth waited until Queen Luciee looked at her before delivering the translation. “King Celrin wishes to inform you that he believed you were better than this.”
“I’m sure I don’t know to what he is referring,” Queen Luciee airily laughed. “This was just a cherished moment of parental advice.”
Myth faithfully relayed the translation.
King Celrin benignly studied his empty teacup. “Really? Calling your son unintelligent and weak is what Calnor calls parental advice?”
Myth made the exact translation, taking great satisfaction at the sallowness that spread across Queen Luciee’s face.
“No, I didn’t state that…it must have been a mistake in the translation,” she coyly said. She stood and came around the table, aiming for Myth—who was still standing by Queen Firea. When she got close enough, she said in a harsh whisper, “You dared to translate a private conversation between a mother and her son? You wretch.”
Arvel stood up so fast he kicked his chair to the ground. He whirled around, his upper lip curled back, but Myth spoke before he could reply.
10
“I apologize, Queen Luciee. But you’re not my queen. I am not beholden to you as I am to My Queen Firea,” Myth said in her calmest tone. She met the queen’s enraged gaze and slowly let the tiniest hint of a smile grace her lips.
Queen Luciee snarled. “You—”
“Enough!” Queen Firea shouted the word in Elvish, but the anger in her voice made the meaning plain. “Translator Myth.” Queen Firea’s voice was ageless in her anger—like the fury of a storm. “Kindly inform Queen Luciee that if she threatens anyone again—especially Arvel or yourself—the elves will cease all trade with the Fultons and refrain from acknowledging her publicly—even after her death.”
Myth relayed the words in the most toneless voice she could muster.
Queen Luciee’s rage-white skin tone spread, and she cast Myth a poisonous look. However, she refrained from speaking, and instead strode from the room with an angry huff.