by K. M. Shea
There is some undertone to this that I don’t understand…
“Very well.” Myth avoided their eyes as she poured herself some more tea. “I perhaps grasp what you mean.”
“Do you?” Wilford asked, sounding frightened.
“Yes. You used to call me Myth because we were friends, but you have rescinded your offer of friendship and incorrectly call me by a noble title to draw a clear separation between us,” Myth said. She was almost certain this wasn’t the case, but she was hoping this would guilt them into telling her the truth.
“Ahh, this is worse,” Grygg hissed.
“It’s not like that at all, L—Myth.” Wilford clasped his hands almost pleadingly at her. “It’s just, we notice things—particularly Grygg and I—”
“Because we’re the two that are forever alone even though everyone around us seems to have heaven-blessed romances,” Grygg grumbled.
Wilford shot him a poisonous look then returned to smiling pleadingly at Myth. “And we’ve come to see a certain pattern to these things and—”
The parlor door swung open, and Arvel poked his head in. “They’ve been found guilty!”
Myth popped to her feet. “The Fultons?”
“And Lord Julyan, yes!” Arvel laughed, throwing his arms wide.
Myth crossed the short distance and accepted the unspoken invitation, hooking her arms around Arvel’s neck as he swept her up in a hug. She couldn’t say anything—she was too happy for that—and instead she let herself laugh giddily as Arvel spun her around.
“You did it!” she said into Arvel’s shoulder.
He set her down, but didn’t release her. “We did it!”
Myth’s smile was so full her cheeks ached, but she excitedly turned to Grygg and Wilford. “They’re guilty!”
Grygg laughed boisterously. “As expected!”
“Well done, Your Highness, Myth.” Wilford beamed at the two, even as he edged his way out of the room, dragging Grygg in his wake. “We’ll go check on our men standing guard.”
“What? Why?” Grygg asked. “We’re off hours. OW.” He grimaced when Wilford kicked him in the shins.
“We’re going!” Wilford cheerfully yanked Grygg through the doorway, shutting it behind them.
Myth watched them go, mildly confused at Wilford’s conduct, but even her curiosity wasn’t enough to distract her. “The Fultons are guilty, but what is their punishment?”
“An extremely hefty fine, and the punishment I was really after.” Arvel’s grin took on a slightly darker edge to it. “Father has ordered the destruction of their trade permit with Lessa.”
“They can’t purchase goods from elves anymore?”
“Nope. They can’t even purchase them from other families to use for trade later,” Arvel said. “And he’s also temporarily frozen their ability to trade luxury goods here in Calnor. They can still deal regular goods—cloth, crops, tools and the like—but anything foreign or expensive is outlawed for now.”
Myth tilted her head back as she considered the punishment. “Because of their misreported taxes?”
“Exactly. Father’s reasoning was that those were the things they lied about and misrepresented, so they’ve lost the privilege to trade in them—for now. The Fultons will never have another chance to deal in elven goods, though.”
“That naturally limits Queen Luciee’s power to help them with their illegal dealings then,” Myth said.
“Exactly so. With their permit destroyed, even she can’t throw her title around to insist they be given a chance to order—she’s furious.”
Myth sighed happily. “Then it was a just punishment, and well thought out.”
“I would have liked to squeeze them more, but knowing Father intends to limit Mother’s power and ban her from any governmental activity at all, I believe it will bring them more pain than one would think. They’ve essentially lost all their power between Mother’s disgrace and the annulment of their permit,” Arvel said. “And…”
Myth looked expectantly up at him. “Yes?”
“If Sir Arion, Ben, and I can find enough evidence, we’ll drag them back into court again for the fires, and Father will wallop them all over again!”
“I hope you find the evidence—I still can’t believe Lord Julyan sought to ruin a symbol of our countries’ union that has stood for centuries.”
“It shows how twisted the Fultons are, I’m afraid.” Arvel sighed, and his hands slipped from Myth’s upper back to her waist.
The sensation made Myth blink, and she realized she and Arvel hadn’t stopped hugging. Rather, they’d been grinning at each other and still loosely embracing.
Oh my. I haven’t read a rule that says it’s improper to embrace the crown prince for so long, but I’m almost certain it must be some variation of a faux pas. How do I extract myself from this? Never mind why Arvel hasn’t corrected me. He’d go around breaking every social rule dictated by his title if he could.
“Are you satisfied with their punishment?” Arvel asked.
“Hm?” Myth refocused on the prince.
“Do you think Father was hard enough in their punishment?”
Myth thought for a moment. “For the crime they’re currently accused of, yes. I imagine when you do find evidence of arson and bring them forward again, their punishment will be even more harsh. But I believe even this sentence alone will accomplish what you wanted, and that is to break their power beyond mending.”
Recalling the house stuffed with elven goods—and that some of them, like the High Elf sword, were most likely illegal—Myth saw the simple elegance of King Petyrr’s decision. “I don’t know the Fultons will be able to survive without access to elven goods given that they seemed to make the majority of their fortune from it. And barring them from luxury goods—even only temporarily—will make it that much more difficult for them,” she said. “Given several years, I suspect they will self-destruct from lack of funds.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, too.” Satisfied with her answer, Arvel pulled her closer.
Myth felt her cheeks heat and tried to lean back a little, but it was near impossible given the embrace.
No—no. This isn’t the Prince of Seduction. I’m not going to get flustered.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Myth. I couldn’t have done it without you—we wouldn’t have had this hearing if not for you.” Arvel’s voice didn’t drop—a sure sign of Him—but he was quieter than usual as he lowered his head to murmur in her ear.
“You were the one who found all the connections,” Myth said. “I just copied your findings.”
Arvel chuckled. “And then found them again with your fellow translators. You underestimate yourself, you know.”
“I could say the same of you.”
Arvel was so close, she felt his warm breath fan across her temples. “Isn’t it a lucky thing, then, that we have each other?”
Myth swallowed, and found all she could do was stare up at Arvel like a bedazzled woodland creature.
He drew closer and closer, and his breath was on her lips. Just a hair closer and they would—
The parlor door was thrown open without ceremony. “Arvel—well done!”
Myth ripped herself out of Arvel’s hug, her cheeks burning.
“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” Princess Gwendafyn smirked a little as she strolled deeper into the room. Today she was dressed for battle, wearing a leather doublet, fitted breeches, leather bracers, and a lightweight breastplate.
Behind her lurked a Calnorian man. He was a little grizzled looking—or perhaps wild was a better word—and wore a tunic with Gwendafyn and Benjimir’s emblem emblazoned on it.
Arvel groaned and let his shoulders slump. “Fyn, are you and Ben coordinating your attacks? Because—oof!”
Myth almost ran Arvel over as she greeted Princess Gwendafyn. “My Princess Gwendafyn,” she chirped, magnifying the genuine happiness that came with seeing her personal hero by about ten in hopes of
covering up the awkward interlude. “It is a pleasure to see you again!”
Princess Gwendafyn had been looking thoughtfully from Arvel to Myth and raised her eyebrows. “Is it?”
“No!” Arvel sourly called.
“Yes,” Myth firmly said. “It is always a pleasure to see you.”
Princess Gwendafyn smirked, resembling her husband with the expression. “I’m not sure I believe you, Myth. Ahh, but I am here to congratulate you regardless. Both of you, that is.” She bowed first to Arvel and then to Myth. “You have my eternal thanks.”
“My Princess.” Myth bowed, just on principle—because someone she esteemed as much as Princess Gwendafyn should never lower herself to Myth in this way. “I only followed my role as translator. I have done nothing praiseworthy.”
“That’s not how I hear it.” Princess Gwendafyn glanced at Arvel when he joined them. “However, I am not here to argue over semantics, but rather express my genuine thankfulness.”
Arvel tilted his head. “Why is that?”
Princess Gwendafyn’s eyes flashed and her fingers brushed the scabbard of her sword. “Queen Luciee has been inordinately spiteful to Benjimir—to all of you princes, really. I am thankful you have finally broken her power once and for all. With this, I hope she will no longer spew such false lies to you.”
Arvel shrugged. “If she does, we can finally tell her to muzzle herself. She can’t threaten to retaliate and has no way of punishing us any longer.”
“Yes.” Princess Gwendafyn smiled wolfishly. “Which is why this is such a wonderful day. I hope you two plan to celebrate?”
“I think the whole family will,” Arvel said.
Princess Gwendafyn grimaced. “It makes me sorry that such a celebration is warranted. But I am glad, nonetheless, that you have finally broken the Fultons’ power. Congratulations to both of you.”
Princess Gwendafyn looked like she was going to bow again, so Myth preemptively bowed. “It was my honor, My Princess Gwendafyn.”
Princess Gwendafyn turned around to speak to the man behind her. “Ready, Wulf?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed slightly to her, then more deeply to Arvel and Myth. “Your Royal Highness, Lady Translator.”
Together the two swept from the room, their steps accented by the clinking of armor.
Myth frowned slightly as she watched them go. “I seem to be collecting a wide variety of incorrect titles.”
“Consider it destiny,” Arvel suggested as he edged closer.
“Destiny? We must have a different definition of the word,” Myth mused. She could hear more voices in the hallway from the open parlor doors, so she sidled away from the crown prince.
“If something is destined, it means it’s going to happen,” Arvel said. “What does it mean in Elvish?”
“Work—or an object—your family or brethren inflict upon you—whether you want it or not.”
“Yes, that’s pretty different, although in this case it might be the better usage.” He took a giant step toward her, but at that moment Prince Benjimir blew into the parlor, and—judging by the booming laughter echoing in the hallway—King Petyrr wasn’t far behind.
“Brother, and Translator Mythlan, please allow me to offer my congratulations.” Prince Benjimir smirked.
Arvel rolled his eyes. “Now I know you’re coordinating,” he grumbled.
Myth, judging that she had been momentarily forgotten, tried to edge away as unobtrusively as possible.
“Gwendafyn isn’t, but I may be,” Prince Benjimir said.
“Why?”
Myth had made it halfway to the door when Prince Benjimir prodded Arvel in the side. “One for every single time you goaded me about being Gwendafyn’s bond partner during the first six months of our marriage.”
“You are petty.”
“Indeed, which is why I’m going to ask where you’re running off to, Translator Myth?” Prince Benjimir asked.
Myth, on the brink of making her escape, twirled around and pasted a professional smile on her face. “I thought to give you two a moment of privacy—which surely must be required for a meeting between such close brothers.”
“Nonsense,” Prince Benjimir said. “You have to come with us to greet Father. He’s pleased to bits with all the work you and your fellow translators have done and wishes to thank you. Personally.”
“It’s really not necessary,” Myth said.
“But it is. Come along—the both of you. We ought to go to Father before he squeezes someone to death with those jubilant hugs he’s giving out. This way—no, Arvel, you can’t shuffle off with her and escape this.”
“You’re overbearing.”
“And you are ever so deserving of every moment of this. Come.”
“I’m stuffed—I overate.” Arvel lifted his hands above his head and groaned.
Myth glanced at him, a smile budding at her lips. “Rather, I think you ate too fast.”
Arvel grimaced. “Perhaps—no, certainly. But Mother kept trying to talk to me, which means she wants something. She’s probably hoping she can talk me into telling Father to soften the punishment on the Fultons—which will never happen.” He glanced at her. “But you hardly ate at all.”
Now it was Myth’s turn to grimace. Although the food at the luncheon was delicious, she had spent most of the unwanted honor avoiding eye contact with everyone seated at the table. “I’m your translator,” she reminded him. “I shouldn’t be eating at a luncheon meant solely for the royal families of Calnor and Lessa at all.”
“Pft!”
“Translator Rollo didn’t eat,” Myth pointed out.
“Translator Rollo didn’t single-handedly save an entire investigation that let us give the Fultons the set down they deserve.”
Myth rolled her eyes. “It was still inappropriate.”
“Yes, well, you didn’t have the guts to tell Father that, so I’m going to forcefully interpret it as an event you would happily repeat.”
“I tried to say something, but I was ignored!”
“Run over is the phrase you’re searching for, I believe.” Arvel winked at Myth, then twisted to address Thad and the squad of soldiers trailing behind him. “Isn’t that right, Captain Thad?”
“I couldn’t say, Your Royal Highness,” Thad politely said.
Arvel rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to back me up, Captain Thad. You know, loyalty and all of that.”
“I am married to an elf, My Lord,” Thad reminded him. “Loyalty and all of that.”
“I see how it is.” Arvel laughed and gestured for Myth to follow him when they turned up a different hall. “We’re going back to my study, so we’ll take a shortcut through the Celebration Hall.”
“I thought this afternoon you were slated to continue to work on the investigation into the fires?”
“Not for another hour or so. There’s some work I’d like to finish before we trot down to the library—I think your friend is one of the wizards on the restoration team, so you should be able to see her,” Arvel said.
Myth tugged on the sleeve of her jacket, smoothing a wrinkle. “She had mentioned she volunteered.”
Blaise had also mentioned Wizard Edvin had blithely agreed, but the rest of the wizards on the restoration team had instantly gotten suspicious. Blaise complained they watched her with such scrutiny that she and Wizard Edvin were the only ones getting much of anything done.
Myth smiled at the thought, her heart lighter than it had been since the fire in the library.
Only a week had passed since the Fultons were judged, but it felt like a blissful month instead. Arvel was still deep in his investigation into the fires, but Myth was no longer dreaming of copying out ledgers and trade records at night, and most of the socials Arvel attended took on a lighter feeling without Queen Luciee icily glaring her disapproval.
“Are you sure you’re fine with returning to the library this afternoon?” Arvel asked.
“Yes. Seeing it yesterday was re
assuring, in a way. It wasn’t as damaged as it seemed at the time of the fire—though I’m still sorry for the ancient banners and tapestries that were lost.”
“As am I,” Arvel said. “But we can restore it and rebuild it.” The smile he gave Myth was gentler and more caressing than his usual bright grin. “The relationship between Lessa and Calnor has changed. The library will always be a symbol of our relationship, but we’re better now.”
“Yes.”
They were almost to the doors of the Celebration Hall when a servant bearing a sealed message trotted up behind them. “Captain Thad?”
“Yes?” Thad held up his hand to stop his men.
“I have a letter here for you.”
Thad stiffened. “From Evlawyn?”
“I dunno, Sir.”
Myth watched Thad open the letter as Arvel pushed open the hall doors.
Thad glanced over the letter, and his brow wrinkled in confusion. “It doesn’t say anything.”
Myth and Arvel, standing on the threshold of the Celebration Hall, frowned.
“What?” Arvel took a step toward Thad.
Unfortunately, he didn’t get any farther.
19
Myth felt hands on her shoulders, and she was roughly yanked backwards. She tried to yell a warning, but someone was already pushing the doors shut. Arvel, his daggers out, barely slipped through before a man slammed the doors into place.
The crown prince chopped the side of his hand into the man’s throat, toppling him, then tried to open a door. Two more men were on him in an instant, lunging at him with short swords as a third man slipped a timber of wood through the door handles, barring it shut.
The doors shook—presumably as Thad and his Honor Guards rammed into them.
Arvel tried to kick the timber out of place, but his assailants were keeping him too busy.
Myth struggled, fighting against the man dragging her deeper into the hall. It wasn’t until she thought to elbow him in the throat that she got a chance to scream. “Arvel!”
With a curse, Arvel gave up on the doors, evaded the two swordsmen, and chased after her.