by K. M. Shea
I never dreamed I’d come to love someone as much as I love Arvel.
The thought echoed in Myth’s mind for a moment that seemed to stretch on for eternity.
What?
She…loved Arvel?
The realization was so shocking, Myth had to question it. She couldn’t—no, she didn’t.
But even in the privacy of her mind, that refusal rang false.
Her stomach rolled, and Myth allowed herself the luxury of leaning into Arvel—realizing belatedly that finding comfort in his arms probably was a more correct indicator of her true feelings.
Arvel’s chest vibrated as he spoke. “I thought…I didn’t know what I’d do if…and you can read and speak High Elvish runes? And you didn’t tell me?”
Myth was too busy mulling over her own mental discoveries to seriously listen to what he said—all she did was speak another language, anyway. Her love for Arvel was far more noteworthy at this moment.
He was special to her—she’d known that for weeks. But when had it moved into something more? When he held her as she cried about the library? When they’d rejoiced together over the Fultons’ punishment? Or had it even started earlier, during late nights of joint work and shared laughter?
Myth pressed her face into Arvel’s shoulder, hoping the Honor Guards that were rearranging themselves around her and Arvel couldn’t read her embarrassment.
“Is she hurt?” Thad asked in a tight voice.
Myth took a deep breath, shoved her untimely realization aside for the moment, and tried to step out of Arvel’s grasp. He didn’t let her go entirely, but he loosened his hold enough that she was able to lean back and address the captain.
“I’m fine, Thad.” She forced a smile. “You and your men were impressively fast in taking down that door.”
Thad gave her a once over, then nodded. “I’m afraid I have something of a paranoia about accompanying royals who get attacked,” he drawled. “I prepare for every possibility.”
“That’s right, you were the leader of the squad that got captured with Benjimir by those brigands a few years ago, weren’t you?” Arvel asked. “I’d say I’m sorry, but thanks to you, help arrived just in the nick of time.”
“Yes,” Myth agreed. She watched as two new squadrons of Honor Guards—led by Wilford and Grygg—poured into the room, relieving Thad’s men.
Princess Gwendafyn appeared behind Thad. She clasped him on the shoulder, but her purple-blue eyes were focused on Myth with such force, Myth almost wanted to shrink in her shoes.
“You used High Elf magic,” Princess Gwendafyn said.
“Please allow me to correct you, My Princess Gwendafyn, but actually I did not use magic myself. I merely spoke a rune, which ignited the High Elf magic already present in the sword,” Myth said.
Princess Gwendafyn wrinkled her noble brow. “You just saved yourself from a hostage situation. You can abandon titles and manners at times like this.”
Myth tried to bow to her, but it was awkward because Arvel still hadn’t let her go. “I must politely disagree.”
Princess Gwendafyn narrowed her eyes, then jostled when Lady Tari flung her arms around the elven princess and leaned around her shoulder.
“You spoke the runes!” Lady Tari looked far less frightening now, with her blond hair tucked over her shoulder and her eyes widened.
“I spoke the word the rune represented,” Myth said.
Lady Tari peered up at Princess Gwendafyn. “I didn’t even know that was still possible. Have you heard of anyone doing such a thing?”
“No. But Mythlan has already proven her remarkable skills—don’t you remember that I told you she’s been able to translate High Elf manuscripts she found in the library?”
“Translate is an incorrect description,” Myth said. “I’ve been able to slowly work my way through pieces, but I am by no means able to give full and proper translations.”
Lady Tari brightened. “Really? That’s incredible! You must show us and tell us how you’ve done it—”
“I’m glad you’re getting a chance to witness Myth’s genius, but could we perhaps discuss it at a better time?” Arvel narrowed his eyes and watched Grygg and Wilford keep their swords pointed at Lord Julyan—who was still crumpled on the ground and whimpering in pain as a guard tied his arms behind his back.
Princess Gwendafyn put her hands on her hips. “I don’t think you understand, Arvel. Mythlan’s ability to speak High Elf magic—”
“Runes,” Myth dared to correct.
“Is unheard of in this millennium,” Princess Gwendafyn finished.
“No, I do understand,” Arvel disagreed. “It’s just one of the ways Myth is incredible and deserves far more recognition than she gives herself. However, I’d prefer not to discuss it when she is still in the same room as the madman that nearly killed her.”
“Oh.” Together, Princess Gwendafyn and Lady Tari turned to look back at Lord Julyan.
A guard was now creating a rope hobble, of sorts, that would limit the length of Lord Julyan’s stride, but it didn’t look necessary. The lord’s face was a sickly green color, and his hand was still bleeding.
“That’s reasonable,” Princess Gwendafyn agreed.
Arvel still hadn’t let Myth go. In fact, he tightened his grip and pressed her against his chest again. “I know,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl.
Princess Gwendafyn grinned, and she looked like she was going to say something, but was interrupted by a call. “Fyn!”
Princess Gwendafyn looked up and then screeched like a hawk when Prince Benjimir grasped the balcony railing and hopped over the side, leaping off the second floor.
He casually rolled to his feet and jogged up to his wife. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but you’re an idiot!” Princess Gwendafyn sheathed her sword, and the leftover bits of her magic evaporated. “Why did you do that?”
“It was the fastest way down.”
“SO? Wulf, make a note of it, Ben is an idiot.” Princess Gwendafyn swung around to face the man who perpetually lurked in her shadow. At the moment he was scuffling around recovering the daggers he’d tossed Arvel.
“I can’t make such a note, Princess.” He calmly wiped blood off the blades and inspected their edges.
“Why not?”
“He pays me too well.”
Lady Tari put her hands on her hips and shouted up at the balcony, “Arion, you better not be thinking about copying him.”
“I would never,” Arion calmly said.
“Good!” Lady Tari nodded and squinted up at him. “Then should I harass Thad or Grygg into letting me stand on their shoulders so I can climb up to you?”
“No,” Arion snarled. “We’re coming down.”
“How convenient!” Lady Tari brightly said.
Arvel slid one hand off Myth, but instead of entirely releasing her, he used his arm to scoop her into his side. “Come.”
The move made Myth’s traitorous heart beat faster. “What? Why?”
He glanced at Lord Julyan. “I want to get you as far away from him as possible. Captain Thad?”
The resolute captain popped out of the crush of guards. “Yes, Your Royal Highness?”
“We’re heading out.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
Myth initially considered protesting, but the smell of burned flesh was starting to make her sick, and it struck her that it wasn’t a bad thing to get Arvel away from Lord Julyan, either.
She waited until they left the Celebration Hall before she disentangled herself from Arvel—if she kept touching him much longer, she was pretty sure she was going to turn bright red with a blush.
“You’re not going to protest?” Arvel asked. He walked with her and ignored the guards that protectively surged around them.
“No.” Myth couldn’t even look at him, her feelings were too close to the surface. “Besides, we’re really leaving so you can tell His Majesty King Petyrr, aren’t we?”
>
Arvel sighed deeply. “Yes.” He reached out and caught Myth’s hand, holding it just long enough to squeeze her fingers. “You’ll translate for King Celrin?”
“If Translator Rollo isn’t with them.”
In the following silence, Myth mashed her lips together as her thoughts circled back.
She loved Arvel.
Of course I, priding myself on my practicality, would fall in love with a prince. Not just any prince, but the crown prince! How very addled of me.
Myth snuck a glance at Arvel. His hair was mussed, and his jacket was slightly rumpled, but even Myth knew she couldn’t blame how handsome he looked in the moment on his charm as his face was lined with worry.
Perhaps it isn’t so illogical. He loves books just as much as I do, and even if I overlook that blasted grin of his that would let him charm a horn off a unicorn, his integrity is to be admired no matter what station he holds. But what is there to do about it? He’s my employer. I’m his social translator.
Bleakly, Myth recalled Lady Tari’s and Princess Gwendafyn’s warnings—apparently the pair had seen the symptoms of love much earlier.
They had said not to hide her love, but to boldly share it.
I suppose confessing to Arvel would be one way to get myself back in the trade department with all haste. Surely he’d ask someone to reassign me?
“Do we need to stop for a moment before we reach them?”
“Hmm?” Myth brought herself back to reality with a snap. “I apologize, Your Royal Highness, what did you say?”
“Do we need to take a moment to recover before we go speak to my father and King Celrin?” Arvel asked. “It’d be understandable, considering what you just lived through.”
Myth traced out the tired shadows around Arvel’s eyes and the subtle tightness at the corners of his lips.
Today had been hard on him. Even though they survived, and Myth felt confident that the Fulton family would soon be crushed, the repercussions were many for Arvel. He’d have to dismantle his own family…and bring additional charges against his mother, who very well might have conspired to try to kill her own son.
There is something to Princess Gwendafyn and Lady Tari’s advice. But I cannot add to the worries on his back already.
Eventually I shall have to reckon with my feelings, but for now it will be enough to help Arvel however I can in all of this.
Myth cleared her throat. “There is a time to grieve and process everything that happened. That time is not now. Your father must be informed.” The words served as a reminder to Myth, too.
A smile briefly flickered in Arvel’s eyes. “Yes. Thanks, Myth. I’m glad you’re with me.”
His words convinced her she’d made a correct assessment. Besides, she didn’t trust herself to make a sound judgment at the moment, or she’d be tempted to read into things—like the casual way he spoke to her. Because common sense said most princes didn’t go around talking to their translators that way.
His uncle just tried to kill him, and his mother might have been involved, she reminded herself. He’s allowed to be goofy and do whatever he must to get ready for what awaits him. I might love him, but he’s the crown prince. That means I must understand that, for him, a new battle has just begun.
Arvel leaned forward slightly, peering past his father to watch for Queen Luciee’s exit from Haven’s palace.
Benjimir shifted on his other side, and past him stood Gwendafyn…a sword dangling from her belt.
Sending a message, are we?
He was vaguely aware that somewhere behind him stood Myth. He’d almost wanted to spare her this—seeing Queen Luciee again—before he’d concluded he was too selfish and he wanted Myth present just to have someone he cared about at his back.
Arvel felt a dissatisfying mix of emotions at the moment.
He was gleeful, because it was all over—finally.
After the attack, Julyan had been formally stripped of his title and sentenced to life in prison. The entire family had been denounced, removed from the ranks of nobility, and permanently lost the majority of their trading privileges. Queen Luciee—although claiming to be uninvolved in the attack that had nearly cost Arvel and Myth their lives—was to be quietly exiled to a small manor that was one of the many holdings the Fultons used to own. She was to remain there for the rest of her days, always guarded by an army fortification, and never allowed any visits from anyone besides locals.
The rest of the Fultons had been scattered. Their lands and properties had already been divided up and were now retained by the royal family until someone did something worth being granted a title and land. All of it was by Arvel’s design—King Petyrr had given him free rein in the judgment and made a public announcement that Arvel had also led the investigation that initially indicted the Fultons.
His father’s only request was that he be allowed to grant the Fultons’ largest mansion and the land that had been the seat of their power, as well as the Fultons’ town house. Arvel suspected one of the properties would go to Sir Arion and Tari. The pair had been instrumental to the country’s success for nearly a decade, and they deserved anything they were given. But he wasn’t quite sure what King Petyrr intended to do with the other property.
The horses in the front line of the massive army company that surrounded the waiting carriages neighed and pawed at the ground.
Arvel glanced up at the sunny sky and fought the inclination to fuss with the collar of his jacket. I should have known Mother would keep us all waiting until the last minute, and forgone my jacket. This summer heat is awful.
Two footmen opened the double doors, and Queen Luciee finally stepped out of the palace.
Her chin was raised, and her hair was perfect, but instead of the usual precious gems and expensive gowns, today she wore a serviceable, dark green dress designed for travel, and she carried a basket which held one of her beloved pugs. Arvel didn’t know when he last saw her so dressed down—probably when he was a child.
Two maids trailed her—each also carrying a basket that contained a pug—and they demurely followed the queen down the many stairs.
Arvel had to hand it to her—she had grit.
Even with the eyes of all the soldiers on her, Queen Luciee’s steps were sure, the tilt of her chin was proud, and she looked almost bored. She swept past King Petyrr without looking at him—though Arvel didn’t miss the way King Petyrr closed his eyes like a man in pain—and she seemed prepared to sweep past both him and Benjimir as well when suddenly, surprisingly, she stopped.
Queen Luciee turned to Arvel, her eyes as icy and cold as ever.
Here it comes, she’s going to let me have it one last time before she’s exiled to the country.
Arvel inhaled deeply and steeled himself, his gaze unfaltering as he stared her down.
“I never meant for him to wound you.” Queen Luciee’s eyes briefly darted to the arm where Arvel had been injured in the first skirmish. “And I didn’t think he’d actually attack you.”
Arvel paused for a moment, trying to interpret his mother’s proud words.
“I was uninvolved with the second attack. And if I’d known…” A tiny bit of human emotion escaped her control and flashed across her face, making her frown. In a moment she’d reschooled herself, her chin held high. She gave him a miniscule nod, then swept on without even glancing at Benjimir or Gwendafyn—though that might have been because Gwendafyn blatantly rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.
Once the queen reached her carriage, she ascended the stairs with the help of a footman and disappeared inside, the shadows of the carriage innards swallowing her up.
One maid climbed in after her while the other scurried over to the second carriage—which was piled with luggage, with one of the benches stacked with crates—and slipped inside after securing a spot for the pug she carried.
Everyone exhaled the collective breath they’d been holding.
“That’s it, then.” Benjimir stepped out of line fir
st, turning to Arvel and King Petyrr. “My men and I will escort her to the manor, and I’ll set up a guard and a message system before returning.”
Arvel smiled. “Thank you, Ben. I appreciate it.”
“I can’t refuse my future monarch when he makes a request, can I?” Ben teased.
“Take care, and good luck,” King Petyrr said.
Benjimir shrugged. “It won’t be hard on me. I don’t intend to speak to her again if I can help it. And I’ll be home as swiftly as possible.” He swiped Gwendafyn’s free hand and kissed it, finally drawing his wife’s attention from the queen’s carriage.
“Are you sure Wulf and I shouldn’t come with you?” Gwendafyn asked.
“I’d rather have you here keeping an eye on Arvel. Just in case.” Although his tone sounded cool and unconcerned, Arvel saw the furrow of his brother’s brow, and happily stood a little straighter. “And I know you and Lady Tari are very excited to continue discussions with Translator Myth about reading High Elf runes.”
“We still haven’t had much time to speak of it,” Gwendafyn agreed.
King Petyrr chuckled. “Sounds like you’ll be busy, daughter-in-law. Safe travels to you, Benjimir.”
“Of course.” Benjimir snapped a salute to King Petyrr and Arvel, paused long enough to fondly smack Arvel on the back, then walked arm-in-arm with Gwendafyn, sweeping toward his waiting troops.
The line of waiting officers bowed gravely to King Petyrr and Arvel, then turned their attention to Benjimir as he started shouting instructions.
Arvel relaxed a little. Benjimir’s men had always treated Arvel with respect, but the way his father’s aides—clustered behind him—threw themselves into a bow whenever they caught sight of him was new.
Things had changed in the court as a result of the Fultons’ treatment.
Gwendafyn claimed the air was cleaner, but, personally, Arvel noticed that more of the nobles treated him with the kind of esteem they afforded Benjimir. They didn’t speak so informally to him, or chase after him. It seemed that King Petyrr crediting Arvel with the investigation and judgment of the Fultons had won him the nobles’ respect.
Arvel wasn’t sure it was as bad as he’d been dreading. Certainly, they were more aware of his power, now. But the young ladies had gotten less…open in their pursuit of him, and he’d come to befriend the Honor Guards assigned to protect him and Myth, and found he actually liked having them around to joke with instead of seeing them as a ball and chain—like he had feared.