by K. M. Shea
“I’m sorry, lad.” King Petyrr spoke suddenly, breaking Arvel’s thoughts.
Arvel blinked and tried to puzzle the apology out. Failing to do so, he inquisitively tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
King Petyrr watched Benjimir mount up and lead the massive military escort as they started to file out of the palace grounds, marching toward the main gates that divided the palace from the rest of Haven. “This shouldn’t have been your burden. You shouldn’t have had to muzzle your own family, and sentence your own mother like that.” He sighed, and for once his jolly smile was gone, giving Arvel a rare glimpse at the incredibly intelligent man hidden behind the laughter and happy shouts. His eyes were troubled as he peered up at Arvel. “But I was overly optimistic…and as a result you had to clean up my mess for me.”
Arvel glanced behind them—Myth, Rollo, and all of King Petyrr’s aides and usual procession stood back far enough that they wouldn’t hear this quiet conversation. “You’re referring to Mother and the Fultons?”
“Yes. I knew when I married her that Julyan had…ambitions, and that she’d toss aside just about anything to help him. But when we had you and your brothers, I’d hoped she’d change, or at least not do anything illegal. I let her have run of the court because I frankly don’t care what noble has hurt feelings, and I thought that would be enough.” The smile lines around King Petyrr’s mouth and eyes seemed deeper, and made him look older, unlike his usual good cheer. “It wasn’t. I was too optimistic, too hopeful to stop her and Julyan before it became too much. I’m sorry.”
Arvel thought for a moment. “You can’t apologize for Mother’s decisions—or Uncle Julyan’s conduct. They made their own choices.”
“Perhaps, but as king it is my role to do what is best for my people—and that includes you, Benjimir, Peregrine, and Vincent. And I failed you all.” King Petyrr rested his thumbs on his sword belt and watched Queen Luciee’s carriage disappear through the gates.
Arvel stood with him, any words refusing to come.
I know Father is a good king—an excellent king. He’s brought so much prosperity to Calnor…but I think Mother’s actions hurt him more than they hurt me. And I don’t know that I can say anything to lessen that pain.
“You’ll be a good king, Arvel. The way you handled the Fultons proves you were the right choice to name as my heir.” King Petyrr nodded several times, then glanced at Arvel again. “But because you’re going to be a good sort of king, there will be a few times when you’ll be tempted to do what you believe is right for the country instead of what’s right for you. Mark my words, lad. Marry for love. Because any woman who loves you—not as the future king, but for yourself—will love our country, and she’ll be just the sort of queen you need, no matter her station or lineage.”
Arvel rapidly blinked, shocked by King Petyrr’s words. He risked glancing back at Myth, placidly standing next to Rollo—who hadn’t stopped talking ever since Benjimir and Gwendafyn had made their exit. Does he know? I haven’t tried to hide it, but I didn’t think he’d notice…
“Father, are you saying…?”
King Petyrr met Arvel’s gaze, his expression giving nothing away. He nodded once, then his face bloomed into his usual hearty smile. “And you’d best find love soon, lad! Another wonderful daughter-in-law to add to the family, and then maybe Gwendafyn and Benjimir will finally settle down long enough to give me a few blessed grandchildren.” He smiled dreamily, then slapped Arvel with enough force to make him stagger.
Arvel coughed as King Petyrr laughed.
“I’m off to find Celrin and Firea—best let them know Luciee is gone. Good luck, my boy!” A wink, and King Petyrr was off. Rollo, his aides, and a few guards ran to catch up with him as he marched up the tall staircase.
Arvel shook his head as he watched his father trundle away.
“Is everything all right?”
Arvel swung around and smiled for an entirely different reason when he found Myth standing next to him.
She was impeccably dressed with her pristine jacket, crisply pressed shirt, and smooth breeches. Her silvery hair—still pulled back into a ponytail—swayed in the breeze, and she glanced worriedly from Arvel to King Petyrr.
Yes. She’ll make a fantastic queen.
He had loved Myth for a while, now. But every day in the nightmare that was the Fultons had shown him a new way he loved her.
She was concerned about him—not as the crown prince, but as her friend. She was fearless, diligent, and she hadn’t shied away when he’d revealed the ugly side of his family to her.
But how am I going to convince her to marry me?
“Arvel?” she asked, biting her lower lip.
“Everything is great.” Arvel grinned at her. “And it’s only going to get better.”
Three days after they had seen Queen Luciee off, Myth sat at her table and carefully studied Arvel.
It was night. The hour of dinner had already passed—Myth had gone off and eaten, but Arvel remained behind. She’d come back to check on him, and was surprised to find him still working.
What could possibly have him pulling these late hours? She glanced outside, where dusk was settling in the sky and casting a gray light over the gardens.
She still hadn’t told him how she felt—she suspected he needed more time to process all that had happened. This…overworking seemed to prove her suspicions, even if a tiny voice in her wondered if she was doing exactly what Princess Gwendafyn and Lady Tari had said not to do and was hiding behind the potential embarrassment.
“The Fulton investigation is over.” Myth’s voice broke the stillness of his study as they were the only two inside—Arvel’s designated guards all stood outside in the hallway.
Arvel finally looked up from his work and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, what was that?”
“The Fulton investigation is over,” she repeated.
“Yes. And?”
Myth tapped her finger on his desk. “Why, then, are you still working?”
Arvel leaned back in his chair and had the grace to look uncomfortable.
“Is there a new, more pressing project King Petyrr gave you that I am unaware of?” Myth asked.
“No.”
“Another investigation, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Then why? No, Arvel, hear me out. Why are you still working at this hour?” Myth stood up so she could slap her palms on his desk and lean over it. “You work like a man possessed. Something must be bothering you.”
Arvel opened and closed his mouth a few times, then laughed. “It seems I can’t keep a secret from you.”
Myth watched him with narrowed eyes. “Is it your mother?”
“What? Heavens—no!”
“You’re not feeling guilty for exiling her?”
Arvel puffed his cheeks out with the power of his exhale. “I didn’t enjoy it, but no, I don’t feel guilty. It was a verdict she deserved.”
“Fine, then what is bothering you?” Myth asked.
Arvel stared at his desk. “I guess I’m just trying to avoid some things. I thought I could keep putting them off…because I don’t know that I could face the consequences right now.”
Myth furrowed her brow, her heart aching as she studied the prince.
He looks…exhausted. He’s been through so much, and to have something new weighing him down? It must be related to his position. Oh—I hope he’s not thinking of marriage candidates. Although I suppose, with Luciee stripped of her rank, he’ll likely need to marry soon to fill the power gap…
That made the pending discussion even less enjoyable to take part in, but to Myth, loving meant doing what was best for the recipient of her love. Even if it meant pain for herself. She cleared her throat and smiled gently. “Can’t it wait?”
Arvel looked up at her, horrified. “Can’t it wait?” he repeated. “No—this isn’t just…no!”
“Then what must we do so you are not so driven to kill yourself with work?” M
yth asked.
Arvel stared at her so long, Myth self-consciously shifted in place.
“All right,” he said abruptly. “I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Myth nodded. “Do what?”
Arvel stood and walked around his desk. “Myth?”
“Yes?”
He stopped just in front of her and clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re dismissed from your position.”
Myth’s mouth slackened, and she blinked very slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“You will no longer fill the role of my social translator.”
Shock, hurt, and disbelief vied for Myth’s attention, but she made her voice bland so she could speak without crying. “May I inquire why I have been dismissed?”
“Yes. Because I love you.”
Apparently, it was possible for Myth to be shocked even farther. “Y-you what?”
“I love you,” he repeated. “And every day—no—every hour we’ve worked together I’ve fallen deeper in love with you.”
Myth was still imitating a fish on land and found that she couldn’t answer.
Arvel didn’t seem to mind, his words pouring out in a beautiful storm. “I never told you why I asked Father to assign you to me as my translator. It was quite selfish of me, but it’s because I thought you were beautiful. But since then I got to know—got to love you—and I know I don’t want a future without you in it. I don’t want a life where you’re not with me. Not standing behind me as my translator, but at my side.” He nervously lifted his hands up over his head, clasping them at his neck. “But, as you like to remind me, even though I knew you were my trusted friend, you work for my family. And I never wanted to put you into a spot where you felt you couldn’t be honest, so I’m dismissing you. Because then you can give me the answer you want.”
He pressed his lips together and watched her with great anxiety.
Myth, however, was finding that for all her language skills, somehow, she still couldn’t use the right words. “I’m…that is to say…”
“Yes?” Arvel dropped his arms and looked afraid to hope.
Speak the words you already know: I love you too! I can’t keep standing here with my jaw hanging open! He’ll get the wrong impression!
Sure enough, as Myth gaped at Arvel, he was looking more and more downcast.
SPEAK!
“Iloveyoutoo!” Myth was so desperate to answer, the words gushed out, nearly indecipherable.
Arvel blinked. “What?”
Myth tried to breathe and found it surprisingly difficult. “I, just so happen, to love you,” she said to her feet.
“I couldn’t hear you.” Arvel’s tone was sly and teasing. “What was that?”
“I said—NO!” Myth looked up in time to see that the Prince of Seduction had surfaced. “No, no! None of this!” She shook her finger, indicating to all of him.
“Why not?” Arvel asked with a false innocence as he invaded, moving a few steps closer.
“Because I can’t handle you like this! And, and no!”
“But you said you love me,” Arvel pointed out.
Myth could feel her cheeks burn as she rapidly backed up. “I, I do.”
“But you don’t like it when I do this?”
Myth squawked when Arvel scooped her up into an embrace that tipped her against his chest.
“N-no?” she squeaked with no conviction whatsoever.
“Personally, I think you’re adorable when you’re ruffled.” Arvel laced his fingers through the fringe of her ponytail with one hand, and kept the other at her waist. “It’s fun to know I can affect you so, when you’re often unflappably calm.”
“So glad I can amuse you.” Myth groused into his chest and grabbed the lapels of his jacket—as she seemed prone to doing. “I—”
Arvel had one eyebrow raised, and his smile was roguish as he slipped his hand from her hair to the back of her neck. “Yes?”
Just desserts, her mind whispered. Because he’s enjoying this too much. And if I can switch from a trade to social translator in the span of a day, I can summon the guts to do this.
Before she could back down or talk herself out of it, Myth leaned in and kissed Arvel. She could feel her cheeks burn, but Arvel’s choked exclamation of surprise made the embarrassment worth it, and it only took an additional moment for her to realize she really liked kissing Arvel.
The warm pressure of his lips was so satisfying, it bordered on overwhelming. She could practically feel the love that flowed between them.
He tilted her head just so and deepened the kiss, and Myth lost all sense of time as she clung to his jacket—probably wrinkling it beyond hope.
When they finally came up for air, Myth was almost stupid in her joy.
“Please say—after that kind of a kiss—you’ll marry me?” Arvel begged.
Myth laughed and slid her hands up to link them behind his neck.
“It means you’ll have to become the queen someday, but I’ll try to make it worth the trouble.” He practically purred as he kissed her ear.
“It sounds like work,” Myth impressively managed to say. “How can you say for certain you’ll be able to properly compensate me?”
“The finest dresses, the best food, jewels—anything you want.”
“Do you really think that kind of answer is going to move me?” Myth dryly asked.
“Ah, I suppose I should have chosen better for my audience. In that case, you can buy as many books as you want, learn as many languages as pique your interest, you’ll have more access than ever to Fyn, and there’s me of course.” Arvel batted his eyelashes at her and grinned winningly.
Myth made a show of narrowing her eyes. “Hmm…I suppose I’m willing to marry a crown prince if I must in order to get you out of the deal.”
The laughter in Arvel’s eyes faded into something deeper and more enduring. “Myth, I don’t think you know just how much that means to me. Which is why I’d do anything for you.”
Myth tilted her head so their foreheads touched. “And I don’t think you realize just how much that means to me. Thank you, Arvel.”
He scooped both of his arms around her shoulders, wrapping her in a tight hug that felt like he was pushing every bit of love that he could into the gesture.
Myth’s eyes fluttered shut as she treasured the moment.
She had never wanted a prince—she’d never aspired for anything beyond becoming a trade translator.
And while Arvel had laid waste to the only career she’d ever pictured—and she knew the life he offered her would be harder—their relationship would be filled with a special kind of love she’d never thought she’d find.
Myth loved Arvel. And, incredibly, he loved her back.
“Can I interpret that as a yes?” He interrupted her thoughts with a cheeky poke to her shoulder. “Yes, you’ll marry me?”
“Yes!” she said with exasperation.
Before she could say anything more, Arvel swooped down and kissed her again, this time more deeply.
And in his arms, with his lips pressed to hers, Myth knew she’d never been happier.
In a different part of the castle, King Petyrr poured King Celrin a cup of elven wine and smiled so widely it threatened to split his face. “It’s done, Celrin!” he said in broken Elvish.
“It is indeed,” King Celrin responded in thickly accented Calnoric. “Allow me to congratulate you on the most perfect of outcomes.” He took his cup and raised it in a toast.
The two were alone in their joint study, and—due to years and years of practice and perseverance—were finally to the point where they could communicate with each other through broken phrases, bad accents, and a swirl of hand gestures.
“It worked out well.” King Petyrr eased himself into his cushioned chair. “There were a few times I mis-stepped, but in the end it went as planned.”
“You were right, taking down the Fultons was the display of power Arvel needed to win the respect of the nobles,” King Cel
rin said.
“And just in the nick of time.” King Petyrr patted his lap, attempting to encourage a furry orange cat to hop on before he gave up and picked the purring animal up. “Our children are glorious, but Benjimir and Gwendafyn are almost too dazzling. If Arvel sat around and contemplated his navel much longer, he’d never win his people over and would have to rely on Benjimir and Gwendafyn to provide all the social and military power needed to do anything in Calnor.”
“A position that surely would have made Benjimir and Gwendafyn most unhappy,” King Celrin acknowledged. He watched his long-time friend out of the corners of his eyes. “And how are you?”
King Petyrr sneezed when the cat swished its tail under his nose. “Hmm? What do you mean?”
“I am not so optimistic as to call your marriage with Luciee warm…but I know you loved her.” King Celrin chose his words delicately. “It was why you waited so long to correct the Fultons.”
“Rather, it’s why I was forced to pawn off the unpleasant task on my own son, hmm?” King Petyrr’s smile was sad, and he petted the cat with a gentleness that belied his gruff appearance. “I did love Luciee. And I let that love get in the way not only of doing what was right, but acting in love. If I had done something earlier, it would not have gotten this bad.”
King Celrin leaned across the gap between their chairs so he could set his hand on King Petyrr’s shoulder. “It was Luciee’s choice to aid her brother.”
“Yes,” King Petyrr agreed. “And her exile was necessary. But I’m glad my sons have chosen worthy women.”
King Celrin observed his wine cup. “It seems Arvel has made his choice.”
“Indeed!” King Petyrr chortled. “That was a match I never saw coming—though they suit each other quite well. Translator Mythlan will make an excellent queen, and her skills will complement Arvel’s once they become monarchs. I imagine their reign will be a time of economic and intellectual boom for both Lessa and Calnor, while Benjimir and Gwendafyn can keep us all safe.”