by K. M. Shea
Once Queen Luciee had left, King Celrin retreated to his wife’s side and kissed her forehead. “I knew Gwendafyn didn’t get it solely from my family.”
Queen Firea shook her head. “I’ve seen that woman eye up Gwendafyn too much, and I’ll pick up a sword myself before I let someone harass Fyn like that again.” She turned the full power of her gaze on Myth, who felt the keen difference between a monarch greedy for power, and one brimming with power. “If she targets you, Translator Mythlan, please do not hesitate to tell myself, or Celrin, or Gwendafyn.”
Myth bowed. “I thank you, My Queen, but I am just a humble translator.”
It’s sweet of her to offer, but I’d be surprised if she remembers it a week from now. Not that it would reflect poorly upon her. However, she has bigger worries than protecting an apprentice translator.
Queen Firea studied her for a moment and must have read something in Myth’s expression. “A good ruler cares for all her people. Tell us, Translator Mythlan. That’s an order.” She set a motherly hand on Myth’s cheek and smiled to soften her words.
“Yes, My Queen,” Myth gurgled.
“King Celrin, Queen Firea, I apologize you had to witness something so ugly.” Arvel’s smile was tired and worn out. “And I thank you for stepping in on behalf of my translator.”
Once Myth made the translation, King Celrin patted Arvel on the shoulder. “You’re an excellent crown prince, Arvel. Your father thinks so as well.”
Myth was slightly confused at the sudden change in topic, but relayed King Celrin’s words regardless.
“Thank you, King Celrin. It means much to know you think so.” Arvel’s pleasant smile made its return as Myth translated his thanks.
The elven monarchs kept up a steady trickle of entertaining conversation until Princess Gwendafyn and Prince Benjimir arrived. Then, Myth was allowed to fade into the background as Benjimir, sitting next to his brother, translated for him. King Petyrr marched into the room minutes later with Translator Rollo, two footmen, and a scullery maid carrying an excessively fat orange cat, and breakfast proceeded in a delightfully civil fashion without the presence of a certain queen.
It wasn’t until they left the breakfast room, however, that Myth let her shoulders slump, and rubbed her eyes. “That was awful. I don’t understand how you survived…” She trailed off when she realized her rude comments were warranted but were, perhaps, a little too informal given she was conversing with the crown prince—friend or not.
“Having that woman as my mother?” Arvel supplied. “Come. We both could use some sunshine.” He led Myth out of the open-air corridors that snaked around the outer edge of the palace and down a brick path that weaved into Rosewood Park.
Birds played in a bird bath, and several hummingbirds buzzed around Myth’s head as she followed Arvel deeper and deeper into the gardens.
“It wasn’t this bad when my brothers and I were children,” Arvel said. “And even once I was older, Mother wasn’t too interested in me until Father made me his heir. Before then, Benjimir took the brunt of it.”
He slowed to a stroll and peered up at the leafy canopy created by giant trees that stretched their branches out over the path. “But she got even worse once Benjimir married Gwendafyn. The role of queen has more power than one would think, usually. She can work within the governmental system, but her real power lies in her sway over society. Mother used to run the place…but even though Gwendafyn is only a princess, she’s eclipsed Mother. That’s really gotten Mother…upset. As she is queen, she should still have all the power and control. But it seems like she hasn’t realized that if she wasn’t such a harpy, everyone wouldn’t have flocked to Fyn so quickly.”
“I see.” Myth briefly rubbed her nose, which itched from the heavy floral scent of the yellow and purple blossoms they passed. “That’s going to affect whomever you marry, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Arvel agreed. “No matter who I marry, the courts aren’t going to abandon Gwendafyn’s lead when she successfully saved them from Mother’s clutches.” He sighed and stopped his forward progress through the gardens. “Unfortunately, based on the girls who have approached me with very obvious matrimonial goals, I don’t think it’s occurred to them.” He took refuge under one of the trees and seemed to stare unseeingly at the gurgling stream that trickled along with them.
Myth observed him for a moment, and then shrugged. “No one could hope to compete with My Princess Gwendafyn.” She made the statement with a bit more pride and challenge than she normally would have, in hopes of inspiring a smile or something less serious than the expression Arvel wore currently.
As it was, she was rewarded with a chuckle. “Yes. You are perhaps one of Our Princess’s biggest supporters.”
“She’s My Princess, not yours. And I would not presume to place myself so highly in her lengthy list of admirers.” Myth sniffed for effect.
“She is a princess of both countries.”
“Indeed.”
He shook his head slightly. “Thanks, Myth.”
“Whatever for?”
“For cheering me up.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Myth gave Arvel her best stoic translator look, but was unable to hold it when his smile unfolded.
“You’re amazing, do you know that?” Arvel asked.
Myth rolled her eyes. “Now you’re getting sentimental.” She was casting around her mind for something hopefully clever to say, when she felt it.
The air changed, again.
She was afraid to look, but almost unwillingly, she turned to peer in his direction.
And there he was, the Prince of Seduction. His eyes seemed to smolder even in the shade of the trees, and his smile was just the barest twitch of his lips, but his presence filled the area around him, making Myth uncomfortably aware of him. He took only a step closer to her, leaving plenty of room between them, but Myth swore she could feel the heat he radiated anyway.
Why, why must his body posture change so markedly? That’s the one language I cannot understand!
She just about jumped when Arvel picked up her hand and kissed the back of it.
“No, you really are wonderful, and intelligent, and beautiful.” He hadn’t released or lowered her hand, so his lips brushed her skin every time he spoke.
“Um.” Myth tried to give her mind a good kick in hopes of rekindling her intelligence—which would apparently leave her disoriented at the sight of a pretty face.
Naturally. I couldn’t be a smooth and controlled elf. Goodness, no. Too advantageous for a peasant like me when working with princes!
Myth squeaked, and even her internal thoughts went up several octaves when Arvel switched his grip so their fingers were now intertwined. “W-what?” she stammered.
The Prince of Seduction rubbed the top of her hand with the pads of his fingers. “We’ve got work waiting for us in the study. We’d better go,” he purred.
Myth finally found her voice. “No, no, no—no, no.” Despite her words, she let Arvel pull her along by their clasped hands, their shoulders brushing every other step. “This is—people will get the wrong idea.”
“And what idea is that?” Arvel innocently asked.
“That we are involved!” Myth hissed.
“Oh.” Arvel paused and nodded. “I see. Yes, you are right. We can’t have people thinking that.” He still hadn’t lost his Prince of Seduction aura—Myth’s hands were rapidly warming and heading alarmingly toward sweating as he still hadn’t released her. She looked up at him with suspicion instead of relief at his words.
As such, she only bulged her eyes when he smiled down at her. “We’re only at the point where I’m trying to sway you into being involved with me.”
“Arvel!”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Yes!”
“A creepy uncomfortable?”
Under his intense gaze, Myth sucked her neck into her shoulders. “No,” she mumbled in hopes that he wouldn’t hear.
I’m going to die, Myth realized. Like this. My heart can’t take…him, and so it will just stop. It will be the most embarrassing recorded death ever. Here lies Mythlan, daughter of Wylorym and Lusana. Her heart was overcome by a handsome human, and she DIED!
Myth cleared her throat. “You seem…overcome. Perhaps you are hungry and we should call for some tea for you.”
The Prince of Seduction chuckled and let go of her hand, only to raise his fingers and brush Myth’s jawline. “What if I said I was hungry, but not for food?”
Myth exploded into motion, taking a huge leap down the garden path that she, frankly, wouldn’t have had the strength for at any other moment in her life. “Since you seem to need a breather, I’ll meet you at your study!” She hustled down the path, her coat flapping behind her, and Arvel’s laughter chasing after her.
Odious prince. She checked behind her to make sure he wasn’t hot on her trail. He can’t seriously be attempting the human courtship Blaise mentioned, can he? But I’m just a translator—I’m not even the right social class!
Because of the unexpected exercise—not at all due to the blushing heat Arvel evoked in her with the caressing touch of his fingers—by the time she reached the garden exits, Myth was huffing and sweating terribly. One thing is for certain. I’ll have to be on my guard! I may be realistic and logical, but I don’t stand a chance against that smile of his. She pulled off her jacket and shook it out, glanced back at the gardens, then shook her head and stepped into the cool shadows of the palace. And I cannot allow myself to become a fool because of Arvel. I have a job to do, and goals I intend to meet. I will become a trade translator!
A week passed, and blessedly(?) the Prince of Seduction hadn’t made a reappearance.
Arvel had been chirpier and inclined to spoil Myth with whatever tea and food she wanted, but besides an attempt to force her to eat dinner with him in his study one night, his actions could only be construed as something found in close friends.
But Myth wasn’t deceived. Arvel was clever. It was possible he was biding his time so she’d lower her guard again. Naturally, that meant she had to be in a state of constant vigilance. Which, it turned out, was exhausting after an extended period of time.
Myth sipped her tea and was highly gratified that, at this night’s social, translators were allowed to partake in refreshments as well. She didn’t know if she’d be able to make sense of anything if not for her near-constant guzzling of tea.
She peered around the room, and was satisfied to see that Arvel was still involved in a conversation with Sir Arion, and had no need of her services at the moment. She settled back into place and took another sip of her tea, paying some attention to the conversation of the three apprentice social translators she stood with.
“My master had me try to translate a few lines for Seer Ringali tonight. That was frightening enough to turn my hair white,” one of the apprentices—a Calnorian man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties—gloomily said.
“As long as he didn’t rap your knuckles with his fan, you did well enough,” the second apprentice—a male elf—said.
“Maybe so, but I’d rather avoid translating for him in the future.”
Myth smiled a little at the grim statement—she’d met the trio at prior social engagements. They were the only apprentice social translators in Haven at the moment—they had told her a few were out traveling with visiting elves in Calnor and visiting humans in Lessa—but that meant they’d become familiar during the frequent meetings.
“What do you think, Mythlan?” asked the last apprentice, another man of Calnor. He looked younger, but that might have been the effect of the good-natured smile he wore most of the time. “Have we won you over to the side of us social translators?”
Myth placed her empty teacup on a sideboard set up for the express purpose of dirty dishes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hesitate!” the smiling apprentice said. “Won’t you even consider it?”
“No,” Myth repeated.
“It would be a real coup if our department won the Mythlan over, but it’s too much to hope for,” the elf apprentice said.
Myth was slightly puzzled why he called her the Mythlan, but before she could ask, the quieter of the human apprentices submitted his own question. “What do you think of social translating?”
Myth tilted her head as she thought. “Before I took this position, I don’t think I understood just how many social events nobles and royalty attended.”
“That’s the truth,” the smiling apprentice said. “I signed up before the time of Lady Tari and Sir Arion. Back when I was a student, there weren’t nearly as many socials.”
“It’s a product of the increased interaction between the two peoples,” the male elf said. “More of elven nobility have begun visiting in the past few years, and it seems to me that the nobles of Calnor feel that when the elves visit, they must be properly entertained.”
“Perhaps,” Myth agreed.
“Mythlan, if you are available tomorrow, could you help me go over an essay I’ve had to write in Calnoric?” the elf translator asked.
Myth slightly dipped her head. “Of course. I can meet you in the mess hall of the Translators’ Circle directly after dinner.”
He bowed. “Thank you. I appreciate your aid in the matter.”
“Hey, why don’t you ask us?” The younger, smiling apprentice translator elbowed him. “Calnoric is our native tongue!”
“That doesn’t mean you actually write it correctly.”
“What?”
“No, no. He has a point.”
Myth smiled at the good-natured argument, but her eyes drifted to Arvel, checking in on her employer.
She straightened up when she realized the crown prince had finished his conversation with Sir Arion, and instead was watching her with a fond smile.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Myth murmured to her fellow apprentices.
“Good evening, Mythlan.”
“Bye, Mythlan!”
Myth raised her hand in farewell and slipped through the crowd. She paused to incline her head whenever an elf—usually clothed in colorful robes or a long, sweeping dress—noticed her. When a human noble saw her—most of the younger set of this group wore shades of purple that were reminiscent of Princess Gwendafyn’s beautiful eyes—she offered them a smile and pleasant greeting.
Eventually, she made it over to where Arvel stood just shy of the hall door.
“I think it’s about time to make our exit,” he said. “We’ve been here long enough, haven’t we?”
“No one else has started leaving yet,” Myth pointed out.
“You responded wrong, Myth,” Arvel said. “You’re supposed to tell me ‘yes, this party is a dreadful bore, let’s go’.”
Myth shrugged. “It has good tea.”
“I thought I supplied you with all the tea you’d ever need in your life in my study. But it seems I was wrong.”
“One can never have enough tea. So, are we going, or no?”
“Yes, let’s—”
“Nephew!”
The muscles around Arvel’s mouth tightened before he put on a polite smile. “Good evening, Uncle Julyan.”
Myth stepped behind Arvel’s shoulder under the guise of taking up the traditional position of a translator. It also happened to let her turn around and see the newcomer, whose name she recognized as the head of the Fulton family.
“Lord Julyan of the Fultons?” Myth confirmed in a whisper as the man strode toward them.
“Yes, my mother’s older brother,” Arvel murmured back.
“Uncle Julyan” was tall and lean—almost to a gangly extent
. His jacket was made of crimson colored elven silk, his boots were polished to a shine, and every part about him looked respectable…except for his smile. He greatly resembled Queen Luciee with eyes that seemed to glow with hunger for power—the power of siblinghood, it seemed. The muscles of his face seemed frozen—as if he didn’t change expressions very often.
“I’m glad I caught you before you could shirk your duty like a naughty boy.” Lord Julyan laughed—which wasn’t quite musical enough to pass as genuine. “I was hoping to speak to you tonight—since you’ve denied my requests to meet with you.”
“You’re under investigation, Uncle, and I’m working on it with the Department of Investigation. For the sake of justice, it’s against the law to meet privately with you—unless you meant to make it official and meet with Father, too, for mediation?” Arvel politely asked.
“I thought since you are my nephew, you’d be willing to talk it out friendly like, but I can see you’ve inherited your father’s flair for drama. No matter!” Uncle Julyan’s teeth poked past his lips as he smiled, but it looked more like a growling bear. “I’ll still take this opportunity to ask that you drop your investigation against the Fultons.”
“No,” Arvel said. “We’ve found enough proof of inconsistencies in your reported trade records. I’m afraid it’s out of my hands, now.”
Lord Julyan shrugged. “My staff was careless and inept. It’s my fault for hiring such people. But I’ve had them replaced, and I promise there will be no such mishaps in the future. Given it was only a few clerical errors, the investigation is entirely unnecessary.”
“If it’s not necessary, then it doesn’t really matter if I continue with it, does it?” Arvel’s pleasant smile felt like a bear trap at the moment. “If it is, as you said, only a few errors, it means the investigation won’t uncover anything additional, and you’ll be cleared from all suspicions, which will also have the added benefit of clearing your reputation!”
Lord Julyan’s smile had stayed so unmovable in his cheeks, Myth was starting to wonder if they were made of wax. “You are so thoughtful, Arvel—to be thinking of our family like that. But I believe in the high quality of our reputation; we could stand to take a hit. Rather, I fear that the investigation will be such a colossal waste of the kingdom’s resources. I’d rather spare the king’s coffers than clear my reputation.”