The Prince's Bargain

by K. M. Shea

  “I hope you’re joking.”

  “My sense of humor is too dead to summon such a joke.”

  Myth watched the red stain on Arvel’s jacket grow. The longer the brothers argued, the bigger it got.

  And that’s enough.

  “It seems to me,” she said, interrupting Arvel, who had his mouth open and ready to continue the verbal fight, “we had better move indoors where His Royal Highness will be safer. Presumably, whatever medical attention he receives would be better done there.”

  “Ah, yes. Thank you, Translator Myth.” Prince Benjimir made a few hand gestures to the Honor Guards standing behind him. “As usual, you elves are able to inject good sense in a situation where human stupidity reigns. Come, Arvel.”

  Arvel snagged Myth’s wrist and tugged her along as the Honor Guard surged around them, entirely encasing them like a physical barrier.

  Finally, Myth relaxed. Arvel was safe. They’d see to his wounds, and most likely send her off on her way once the guards finishing sweeping the palace.

  Her night was nearly over.

  It wasn’t over at all.

  In fact, it seemed to Myth that the night stretched on and on even worse than the all-nighter she and Arvel had pulled to fix the Fultons’ order of elven goods several weeks prior.

  In the hour Arvel was checked over and had his wound dressed, Prince Benjimir and Sir Arion—once he arrived—meticulously reviewed the attack with Myth.

  “You saw no facial features at all—not even when they first approached?” Sir Arion asked.

  “No,” Myth said. “As I have stated numerous times, all three of them wore hooded cloaks and had black fabric covering their mouths and noses. Only their eyes were visible.” Myth took a sip of the hot cider Sir Arion had presented her with, savoring the sweet flavor that helped shake off the chill that had invaded her since the attack.

  Although the two men had been questioning her incessantly—trying to see if they could dislodge any additional details from her narrative—they had seen to her comforts and brought her to a warm parlor, stuck her in a pleasantly plump chair, and poured warm drinks down her throat.

  “Have you been unable to find them, then?” Myth glanced from Sir Arion—broad shouldered and dark haired—to Prince Benjimir—golden and lean. “The one with the leg wound was bleeding enough I would have thought he’d leave a trail.”

  “He did.” Sir Arion rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “But he must have done a patch bandage job because when they doubled back through Rosewood Park the trail disappeared, and our dogs can’t pick up a scent. Presumably they followed the stream through the gardens, but we can’t find a hint of their scents near any of the park exits.”

  Prince Benjimir had taken up pacing back and forth, his hands folded behind him. “Have we swept the entrance points from the palace to the gardens?”

  “Not yet,” Sir Arion said. “It was labeled the lowest priority. My men should be getting to it about now.”

  “The Fultons have to be behind this.” Prince Benjimir paused by Myth’s tray of refreshments and methodically filled her mug with more hot cider.

  I wish he wouldn’t. My bladder will soon burst.

  But the last time she’d protested, Sir Arion had instead pushed cookies at her until she ate three of them, and she didn’t want to encounter that again.

  Is comforting victims with food and drink a usual Honor Guard protocol? It seems…unexpected?

  “Nobody besides the Fultons has any sort of quarrel with Arvel.” Prince Benjimir returned to his pacing, his eyes straying to the door a palace healer had whisked Arvel through once they arrived.

  “Unfortunately, we’ll have a difficult time pinning the attack on them if we can’t find the assailants.” Sir Arion narrowed his eyes. “We don’t even know if the attackers were from Calnor, in which case the Fultons will likely claim it’s another one of our neighboring countries stirring up trouble once more.”

  Prince Benjimir snorted. “No one’s been foolish enough to pick a fight with us since Gwendafyn revealed her magic.”

  Sir Arion shrugged. “We have no proof to show otherwise.”

  Myth frowned as she stared at her steaming mug and tried to pick out any tiny detail from the attack that might help. “Would other countries hire Calnorian assailants?”

  Sir Arion swung his intimidating, gray gaze to her face. “Why would you say the assailants are from Calnor?”

  “The one that spoke had a Calnorian accent,” Myth said. “And I assumed the others were from Calnor given that they seemed familiar with each other. They were rather purposeful when they attacked His Royal Highness together.”

  Prince Benjimir’s frown was slight, but sharp wrinkles stretched across his forehead. “I thought you said the one that spoke only said one line. How can you detect an accent in a single—not to mention short—sentence?”

  “I am a linguist, Your Highness.” Myth nudged her mug farther away from her. “I would bring great shame to my profession if I couldn’t tell that much.”

  Prince Benjimir studied her. “Hmm.”

  “It’s not enough proof to use against them, but it answers a few questions,” Sir Arion said. “If they were Calnorian they pass as servants, and the Fultons could easily smuggle them into the palace.”

  Prince Benjimir tapped his hands on the back of a chair. “And Lord Julyan was in attendance at tonight’s celebration. It was quite risky of him to coordinate the attack while he was present.”

  “Lord Julyan has proved he has no reservation in flaunting his belief that he is above the law.” Sir Arion’s voice was deep—like a boulder crashing down a mountain. “I imagine he believes that even if he was caught, he would face few consequences. Particularly because the crown prince attested that he didn’t think the men meant to kill him.”

  “It’s a message, I imagine,” Arvel said.

  Myth stood and swung around with Sir Arion and Prince Benjimir to face Arvel, who was standing in the doorway.

  He’d changed clothes. Instead of wearing fancy dress clothes, he was in fawn colored breeches and a leather doublet, much like the sort Prince Benjimir was prone to wear.

  Based on the straightness of his posture and the watchful brightness to his eyes, Myth guessed he must have been telling the truth and that the large cut on his shoulder was a graze, not a serious injury as she had started to fear.

  “Arvel, how are you feeling?” Prince Benjimir asked.

  “Fine,” Arvel said. “I was barely hurt.”

  Myth smiled in relief, and the last bit of tension left in her chest eased when Arvel glanced in her direction and gave her a grin of his own.

  “Good. Then you can report in to your first training session with Gwendafyn tomorrow,” Prince Benjimir said.

  Arvel finally pulled his eyes off Myth. “What? No—Ben, that’s cruel!”

  “I’ll need your statement on the attack,” Sir Arion said before the brothers could continue the argument. “But given Translator Mythlan never saw your attackers’ faces, I assume it is the same for you?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Arvel sighed.

  Sir Arion nodded, then went to the parlor door and exchanged murmured words with the guards just outside.

  Myth watched the whole thing with relief.

  If Arvel is here they’ll begin questioning him, and my presence will no longer be required.

  Pleased with the idea—at this point she wanted nothing more than to slump into her soft bed, even if she wasn’t entirely sure she’d be able to sleep—Myth bowed slightly. “If that is all that is required of me, may I take my leave now?”

  “No.” Arvel strode across the room and gently nudged her back into her chair. “There’s no way I’m letting you leave until we have the whole palace searched. I don’t want those fiends coming for you.”

  Myth arched an eyebrow at him. “Why would they come for a mere translator?”

  “Because,” Arvel said. “Uncle Julyan would have to b
e blind not to see how close we are. He might try to use you as leverage.”

  Myth shifted in her chair and barely suppressed a scowl. If Lord Julyan and Queen Luciee have been so odious all this time, I find it disgusting they were left to their own devices for so long. Royalty or not, how could King Petyrr have let it continue in this manner?

  “It’s doubtful he’ll arrange for anything more tonight,” Prince Benjimir said. “He’ll wait to see if he’s successfully cowed you, and will strike again once he knows he hasn’t. That is, I’m assuming you’re not cowed?”

  “No!” Arvel left Myth’s side and prowled in front of the fireplace behind her. “This only proves the worth in what I’m doing. The Fultons need to be dismantled—not just slapped with a fine. After this little show, I intend to strip them of their trading privileges—there’s no way I’ll allow them to trade elven goods again, and I’m of a mind to limit their ability to trade within Calnor itself.” Arvel narrowed his eyes. “Calnor is a country of honor, and Lessa, our greatest ally, is renowned for its purity. Nobles like the Fultons, have no business being in power here.”

  “Good.” Sir Arion pushed the door shut as he rejoined the conversation. “Although, as the Guard Commander, I find your sudden change in heart perplexing. Because if you were really this angered with them since the beginning, you should have heeded my suggestion and allowed a guard rotation around you.”

  “He’s not wrong,” Prince Benjimir added.

  “Which is why you are receiving around the clock guards.” Sir Arion stood in an attentive stance, but his general largeness seemed to fill the room and offer no space for argument. “I will pick the squads tonight. You’ll meet the day shift tomorrow morning. In the interim I have several squads on standby.”

  Arvel stopped his restless movements and leaned against Myth’s chair. His arm dangled so close to her shoulder she suspected strands of her ponytail brushed his fingers. “Yes, I expected as much.” Arvel sighed. “You have my thanks, Arion. I just wish it hadn’t come to this.”

  “Start expecting the worst of everyone,” Prince Benjimir advised. “Then you’ll be prepared.”

  Arvel grimaced. “I’d rather not get to that point, thanks, or I’ll be a grumpy, paranoid badger by the time I’m made king.”

  Prince Benjimir shrugged. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  “I don’t care about the emotional reasoning behind your acceptance, just that you agree,” Arion bluntly said.

  “Ah, ah, I haven’t agreed quite yet!” Arvel glanced down at Myth. “I want guards in the Translators’ Circle at night.”

  Myth twisted in her chair to gape up at Arvel in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  Sir Arion rubbed his eyes. “You do realize the translators are going to violently protest this.”

  “It’s my price for dragging guards around after me,” Prince Arvel said. “I want Myth safe at night.”

  “You can hardly think to barter using your safety,” Sir Arion persisted. “It’s asinine.”

  “Then you better take Lady Tari with you to convince the translators, because I want it done.”

  Sir Arion studied him. “And then you won’t try to evade your guards—or complain about them?”

  “Do you take me for a child?” Arvel scoffed. “Yes, I won’t try to sneak out without them!”

  Sir Arion shrugged. “Fine. As you will.”

  Prince Benjimir watched Myth long enough to make her uncomfortable.

  When she finally gave in to the impulse to meet his gaze, he nodded to himself, then switched the object of his watchfulness to his brother. “You suggest he take Lady Tari and not myself because Lady Tari is the Translators’ Circle’s darling with her language skills?”

  “No,” Arvel said. “I suggested her because he needs to convince the Translators’ Circle, not frighten them.”

  Prince Benjimir made a noise at the back of his throat. “Gwendafyn says I’m charming.”

  “Gwendafyn’s favorite birthday gift is bladed weapons,” Arvel said. “I’m not convinced she’s the best judge of charm.”

  “Hm,” Prince Benjimir said.

  “I beg your pardon,” Myth politely inserted herself into the conversation.

  Sir Arion glanced in her direction. “Are you going to argue against the sense of guards, too?”

  Myth paused. “They won’t interfere with my job or studies?”

  “Correct.”

  “And they won’t disturb my colleagues’ work?”

  “That’s right.”

  Myth folded her hands in her lap. “Then I don’t see why I would take offense to their presence.”

  Prince Benjimir was back to studying Myth, though this time he tilted his head. “I’ve heard about this.”

  “What?” Arvel asked.

  Prince Benjimir wagged a finger at Myth. “Sensible people. I thought they were a legend.”

  Arvel rolled his eyes. “For someone who claims his sense of humor is dead, you persist in making terrible jokes.”

  “Just wait until Father gets his hands on you,” Prince Benjimir said with great satisfaction. “I predict he’ll half kill you in a hug so tight you can’t breathe, and then he’ll shake the life out of you when he yells at you for forgoing guards for so long.”

  “I would like to return to my rooms,” Myth interjected.

  “Not until the palace is officially cleared,” Arvel said.

  Myth frowned. “For a person who previously argued against guards, you seem overly worried about safety.”

  Sir Arion nodded his approval, and Prince Benjimir laughed outright.

  “Myth!” Arvel staggered back a step away from her chair and pretended to fall to his knees. “You have wounded me.” He collapsed against the arm of her chair, carelessly throwing his hands on top of hers.

  Myth tried to ignore the tingling sensation of his warm fingers on hers and daintily picked his hands off. “Also, the Translators’ Circle isn’t part of the palace,” she continued. “Even if the palace is cleared, it doesn’t mean the Translators’ Circle is.”

  “That’s true.” Arvel remained slumped against Myth’s chair, but craned his neck to peer at Sir Arion. “Arion, have the Honor Guards check the Translators’ Circle, would you?”

  Myth flattened her lips. “That’s not what I was asking for. Couldn’t some guards escort me and stand watch in the Translators’ Circle tonight? Surely, even if the Circle isn’t willing to allow the guards to remain posted there without a conversation about the matter, once they are told what happened this evening, they will gladly accept the extra guards.”

  “That’s a sensible solution—at least partially, anyway,” a melodic, feminine voice said.

  12

  Myth paused at the beautiful sound and turned in the direction it had come from.

  Lady Tari and Princess Gwendafyn stood in the doorway together. Sius—Lady Tari’s giant snow cat—struggled to poke his furry head between them.

  Lady Tari was dressed in loose elven robes and carried a sleeping baby, whereas Princess Gwendafyn wore a light set of leather armor, and had two swords strapped to her hips.

  “My Princess Gwendafyn, Lady Tari!” Myth rocked to her feet and slowly bowed to each of them.

  “Hello!” Lady Tari rocked her child, her smile bright and refreshing despite the late hour.

  “Hello, Translator Mythlan.” Princess Gwendafyn’s silky bangs fanned across her forehead before she tucked them back. “She’s right, Arvel. You need to let her get back to her room and sleep. This has been a traumatic night. Making her stay up so you feel better about endangering her by not accepting guards earlier isn’t a very kind thing.”

  Myth blinked in confusion. What is she saying? That couldn’t possibly be why he’s being so insistent on this. Given all the implications tonight brings I can’t believe the endangerment to me was his biggest regret.

  “Fyn,” Arvel groaned.

  “My Princess Gwendafyn has a proper point.” Lady
Tari smiled down at her snow cat when it rubbed its head against her legs. “Which is why we have come.”

  Myth frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I called for Tari so she can take Translator Mythlan to a temporary room in the palace tonight.” Sir Arion strode across the room, heading for the door, but Tari beat him to it and flitted gracefully across the remaining distance, leaning against her husband and kissing his temple. “I’d rather drop the news of tonight’s events upon the Translators’ Circle tomorrow so I can immediately use it for negotiations, as it will make them more likely to gratefully take guards than gloomily accept them.”

  “I ran into Fyn on my way here, and I thought you might like the extra company. We’ll wait together while the palace staff pick out a room for you and get it cleaned.” Lady Tari smiled at Myth, her eyes glowing.

  Myth carefully pondered the suggested plan.

  Waiting until tomorrow would lessen the burden placed on the Translators’ Circle. I don’t want to bother them, and if I arrive with guards this late at night it won’t cause anything but an uproar. Yes, Sir Arion is right. It would be best not to disturb them tonight and to sleep in a borrowed room. Arvel can’t complain that it’s not safe, then, either.

  “Could you have them find a room in the Calnorian royal wing?” Arvel asked, surprising her.

  Myth made a scoffing noise. “That is entirely unnecessary.”

  “I want you near me,” Arvel said.

  Myth gave him a flat look. “There is no need. You aren’t going to experience a sudden, fierce need for a translation in the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t care,” Arvel said. “I want you in the royal wing.”

  Prince Benjimir studied his brother as if he had suddenly sprouted wings. “Funny,” he said. “I recall you being a pretty cheeky but easy-going brat. And yet now you make all these demands? Is the title going to your head, little brother?”

  Arvel ignored him and focused on Sir Arion. “Can you send word to the palace staff?”