by K. M. Shea
“Ah.” Gwendafyn reluctantly took the letter. It’s probably just a written lecture telling me to return home as swiftly as possible so as to not shirk my role. “Thank you.”
The servant bowed, then backed away.
Gwendafyn fiddled with the letter for a moment. I had better get it over with. She turned her gaze back to the translator. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Rollo?”
Rollo bent over in another bow. “Of course, Princess Gwendafyn. Thank you for your time!” He strode off in a jaunty walk before she could say more.
Gwendafyn thoughtfully tapped the top of the letter. The hardest part about my plan might be getting a human to see me as more than an elf princess. It is just as Tari said: they care too much. That is perhaps another reason why Benjimir would be the ideal choice if not for his gray scruples—he doesn’t care at all.
She shook her head as she tore the envelope open and skimmed the letter.
As expected, it held the passive aggressive request that she return to Jubilee and take up her role again, but as she reached the bottom of the letter, there was a line that made her blood run cold.
Given that I know you are a dutiful and honorable daughter, I have taken the liberty of disposing of all three of your swords so they will not tempt you upon your return…
Gwendafyn’s breath caught in her throat. No… “Father?” Gwendafyn turned around and espied her father on the far side of the flower garden, admiring a rose bush. She hastened to his side, walking faster than she should. “Father,” she said, when she reached him. Her breath was painful as she passed the letter to him, and her eyes stung.
King Celrin glanced at her curiously, but he took the letter and began to read it. When he reached the end of the letter, the light of his eyes grew sad, and his noble brow wrinkled. “I am so sorry, Little Fyn.”
“Can’t you stop her?” Gwendafyn asked. “Or make her give them back?! Those were—one of those swords was a ceremonial one given to me by Grandfather before he died.”
King Celrin shook his head. “I doubt Lorius disposed of them as she claims to have, but she likely locked them up beyond your reach. But fret not—I will send word to a trusted attendant. He will see you get another sword.”
“I don’t want another sword; I want my swords,” Gwendafyn said.
King Celrin studied her. “Do they individually matter that much to you?”
“Yes! I’ve spent hours practicing with them, and it took me three miracles and a unicorn to even get them. They’re my friends,” Gwendafyn said.
Her father slowly nodded. “I see. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, but I am sorry the situation has upset you so. In reparation, I will send a letter to the treasurer to let you into my personal vault so you may select any sword of your choice. There are many relics from the High Elves there. Will that be suitable?”
It wasn’t. Gwendafyn’s swords had seen her through many a rough season. She had spent months learning the balance of their blades, how to best wield their weight, and more. But it doesn’t matter because Father doesn’t understand, she realized as she stared into his eyes. It’s not that he is cruel or cold-hearted; it is that he cannot comprehend why I should feel so strongly about what he sees as a piece of metal.
Her throat ached, and Gwendafyn could have sworn she felt her heart rip a little as she forced herself to smile at her Father. “Yes. Thank you.” She took the letter from him and clenched it in her hand.
King Celrin slightly narrowed his eyes as he looked her over from head to toe. “Gwendafyn…”
“I’m going to get some more cider,” Gwendafyn announced—not entirely able to banish the shake of emotion from her voice. “Excuse me.” She turned away before he could say more, easing her way through the happy chatter of the luncheon.
She stopped only when she reached a shaded glen at the edge of the flower garden and collapsed against a flowering apple tree.
It’s hopeless. She thought. Or maybe I’m the one that’s hopeless. How can I be so different from my own family? There must be something wrong with me—but I cannot fix it. If that was possible, Aunt Lorius would have stamped it out of me years ago. So instead I’m banished to a life of loneliness among a people who can’t understand me. Who can’t understand my apparently twisted ways.
The thought was enough to make Gwendafyn collapse on her knees and cry, but she couldn’t. Not now, in public, in the middle of a gathering.
Gwendafyn inhaled the sweet scent of the apple blossoms and tried to calm the raging storm in her heart, but it seemed as if the last tether in her had snapped.
She had no hope—only a lifetime of being forced into a role she hated and acting for the benefit of tradition around the people who loved her the most.
Gwendafyn stared unseeing at the crowd, until a particular head of glittering gold hair caught her eye.
Prince Benjimir was unobtrusively watching Yvrea again, pain flickering in his eyes.
He was a big enough dolt to embrace his pain—and choose it. Gwendafyn thought rather unsympathetically. I didn’t ask to be this way. He dove in knowingly. As she watched, Benjimir edged even farther away from the luncheon. He didn’t go unnoticed long, though, before his father spotted him.
King Petyrr laughed and slapped him on the back, then nudged him and looked pointedly at a clutch of young ladies who were giggling together. Benjimir shook his head and turned his body to put his back to the ladies. The Calnor King rolled his eyes, then gestured at a new trio of young ladies—this one of mild-mannered females who seemed deep in discussion as they thoughtfully sipped at their tea. Again, Benjimir shook his head and turned away.
Gwendafyn couldn’t hear the father and son’s exchange—and even if she had, she couldn’t have understood it—but the message was obvious.
King Petyrr wanted him to move on; Prince Benjimir wanted to be left alone.
I could give that to him…
The thought came to Gwendafyn unbidden, but she welcomed it all the same. In addition to Benjimir being a snake, another reason Gwendafyn had rejected him as a candidate was that all the power rested with him. She needed him, but what need did he have of her?
Now she could see it. By marrying her, Benjimir would be left alone to unobtrusively worship her sister for the rest of his life. It wasn’t as great of a bargain for him as it would be for Gwendafyn, but as long as she had something to bargain with—particularly when going against a schemer like Benjimir—it made her much more at ease.
Gwendafyn watched as King Petyrr shook his head at his son, then spotted his youngest son and only daughter-in-law—Prince Vincent and Princess Claire—and hurried over to them, the paunch of his belly jingling with jolliness.
She kept her gaze on the manipulative, shady Prince Benjimir, and something dark and despairing shuddered in her. She crushed the letter from Aunt Lorius in her hand. It seems I am finally that desperate.
She should plot and plan the best method to appeal to Benjimir, but the letter burned in her hand like a hot iron. I can’t live like this any longer, and I’m running out of time.
Gwendafyn’s mind was blank as she crossed the flower garden. She shoved her overflowing emotions down and forced herself to be calm. I’m about to enter negotiations with a serpent. I’ll need every scrap of my wits for this.
Prince Benjimir glanced at her when she joined him at the edge of the garden. “Princess Gwendafyn,” he said in his slightly accented Elvish. “I hope you are enjoying the famed flower gardens of Rosewood Park?”
“I am.” Gwendafyn made her shoulders relax and set a slight smile on her lips. Her heart buzzed in her throat, but her mind was ruthlessly focused on the prince. I wonder if this is what it is like to fight. The tips of her fingers tingled, and she felt something shiver inside her as she mentally circled the Calnor prince.
“Haven is very beautiful,” Gwendafyn said.
“I imagine that is because it is the one place where our wonderous cultures mingle,” Prince Benjimir said with a smile
that did not reach his eyes.
Oh, he’s good. This might be harder than I thought—it’s not going to be a fight, but a battle. “Indeed, beautiful things come out of Lesser Elves and Calnorians working together.” Gwendafyn angled her body so she faced a gravel path that led out of the flower gardens and deeper into Rosewood Park. “Would you join me for a stroll, Prince Benjimir?”
“Certainly.” Prince Benjimir moved so they walked shoulder-to-shoulder, though he did not offer her his arm—a gesture that would have signified friendship.
Gwendafyn tugged at the skirts of her silver gown as they left the gardens behind them, the buzz and chatter of conversation slowly fading away.
“You have an excellent grasp of Elvish,” Gwendafyn said. “It’s quite impressive.”
Benjimir shrugged. “I have practiced since a young age and happen to have a close friend who is a member of the Translator’s Circle.”
“I see.” Gwendafyn waited until she was absolutely certain they were far enough away from the luncheon that they would not be overheard. “Prince Benjimir, will you allow me to speak plainly?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Plainly?”
“Frankly, informally,” Gwendafyn explained as the gravel path turned into a wooden walkway.
“I hope you would always feel comfortable speaking plainly to me and my family,” Benjimir said, as would be expected of him, though he spoke the previously unrecognized word slowly as if committing it to memory.
Gwendafyn stopped when they reached a rock garden—a practice of the Lesser Elves—which was raked into perfection and dotted with moss-covered boulders.
“I know what you’ve done,” Gwendafyn said bluntly.
Prince Benjimir smiled insincerely, but Gwendafyn could see it in his eyes that he didn’t guess she knew of his affection for her sister.
“I sit as the Lessa Royal Regent in Jubilee in place of my father and Yvrea when they are not there,” Gwendafyn continued. “As you may be aware of, Talon—an elf and the bond partner of Sir Arion’s little brother—actively targeted and attacked Tari and Arion. After Tari was given her chance to seek justice, I was given charge of him in Jubilee.”
I do believe presiding over Talon’s case was the one time Aunt Lorius actively encouraged my “wild ways,” Gwendafyn recalled with a pang in her heart. “As a result, I was also debriefed when you were exiled. I know what you feel for my sister. I know you love Yvrea.”
That got his attention.
Prince Benjimir’s expression of polite disinterest crumbled, leaving something darker in its wake. A slight frown tugged on his lips as he tipped his head back and studied her with narrowed eyes. “Am I to guess that Yvrea knows as well, then?”
Should I hold back this information in an attempt to coerce him? I don’t think it’s wise. He’s already proven he is willing to act ruthlessly; I can only see it ending poorly for me. “I’m not certain,” Gwendafyn finally confessed. “But I don’t believe she knows the entirety of it.”
“You mean you don’t think she was told of my love for her, when you—the second-born princess was?” Prince Benjimir asked.
Gwendafyn raised her shoulders in a barely discernable shrug. “It was I who dealt with Talon. As we were unsure if he still had other allies targeting Arion and Tari, I was kept informed of the situation. Naturally my father would inform me when things were resolved.”
“Of course, the golden pair had to be protected.” Prince Benjimir shook his head and briefly stared out at the sea of pebbles that surrounded the boardwalk.
“They signify much for our people,” Gwendafyn said, “and are considered harbingers of change. Something I hope you’re open to.”
Prince Benjimir shifted like a shadow as he returned his dark gaze to Gwendafyn. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Here goes nothing! Gwendafyn didn’t take a breath; she didn’t even blink. She couldn’t risk showing any hint of hesitation or nervousness. “Prince Benjimir, will you consider aligning yourself with me in marriage?”
The prince blinked twice, then shook his head. “I’m afraid my Elvish is not quite up to par with you. Did you say marriage?”
“Yes.”
“You want to marry me, when you just acknowledged that you are aware I have feelings for your sister?” He rocked on his feet and folded his arms across his chest as he studied Gwendafyn with apprehension.
“For our countries, yes.” The half-truth fell smoothly from Gwendafyn’s lips. I’m not confident in my ability to outright lie to him, but I don’t want him to know how desperate I am to avoid returning to Jubilee. This is a careful balancing act.
Prince Benjimir raised one golden eyebrow. “And you expect me to sacrifice myself along with you? For that’s what this is, a sacrifice—you do not love me.”
“I don’t,” Gwendafyn agreed. “And it is a sacrifice, but it is a necessary one. Our countries need to change, faster. Tari and Arion can only do so much—particularly given their special status. But if we—the children of the Calnor and Lessa rulers—marry, we can escort our countries out of the dark ages of the ancient traditions we’ve been cowering in.”
Careful, she inwardly chided herself. That last bit had a little too much fire!
Prince Benjimir narrowed his eyes. “You are not like other elves,” he said.
He barely knows me! How can he tell that quickly? Unless he is merely comparing me to Yvrea? “In what way?” Gwendafyn asked with a calmness she didn’t feel.
He scratched his jaw as he still considered her. “None of your kin would ever think of marrying someone they did not love—even if it was for the betterment of their countries. Lesser Elves are too noble of temperament to do something so…political.”
Gwendafyn shrugged. “Most of us, yes. But there are always exceptions.”
“Name one,” Prince Benjimir challenged.
“Lesser Elves with strength of mind—from Lady Tarinthali to Seer Ringali to my father—do what is necessary for Lessa,” Gwendafyn said truthfully. “It just so happens my marriage partner is the strongest bartering chip I have.”
The prince blinked. “Please repeat that more slowly.”
Gwendafyn thought for a moment as she tried to mentally rephrase the sentence so it would be easier for him to understand. “The greatest amount of power I can wield in my life is deciding whom to marry.”
He looked unconvinced, and he slipped past Gwendafyn to wander farther down the walkway. “So why should I marry you?” he asked. “You may be noble enough to throw yourself away for your country, but I’m not.”
“No,” Gwendafyn conceded. “But you have nothing to lose and more to gain.”
“In what way?” Prince Benjimir scoffed.
“Yvrea is down to two potential marriage candidates,” Gwendafyn said. “She’s going to decide soon.”
“Just because I have no hope of winning your sister doesn’t mean I’m willing to become a martyr for Calnor,” Prince Benjimir said.
“Perhaps not. But King Petyrr will continue to push you towards eligible ladies. Women who don’t understand the state of your heart. Would you rather be tied to such a woman for your entire life?” Gwendafyn asked. “A woman who will likely be of your family’s choosing if you don’t act soon, and who will have certain expectations of love and affection.”
“And those are expectations you will not hold me to?” Prince Benjimir smirked.
Gwendafyn couldn’t help the sour stare she gave him. “If I were starved for affection, Your Highness, I would marry an elf. We have much superior looks and are far more loving than someone like you.”
“You certainly know how to win a man over,” the prince laughed—a harsh and jaded sound.
“I would expect nothing from you,” Gwendafyn continued. “You would be free to adore Yvrea for the rest of your life, and I will not care. We will have to appear to be loyal, or no one will believe in our relationship, but pretenses aside you may do whatever you like.”
Prin
ce Benjimir twisted around so he faced her, his eyes again narrowed in judgement. “And what do you get out of this?”
“As I said before, our countries—”
“I don’t care about that drivel. If you were just concerned about our dear countries, you would choose someone else. Not me. If you are indeed informed of my past misdeeds, you know I am not as lilywhite as my siblings; yet it is me you have approached. There is something besides this elven sense of sacrifice that is driving you.”
Gwendafyn made a show of tapping her lower lip in thought. “I will receive the same freedom as you.”
“That’s not the whole truth,” Prince Benjimir stepped closer to Gwendafyn, his body radiating heat as he met her gaze. “If you had someone you secretly sighed over, you would skip me and approach him.”
“I am not looking for freedom from my parents’ badgering, but rather the freedom to do as I wish,” Gwendafyn said.
Prince Benjimir slowly tipped his head as he studied her. “Hn,” he said.
“So will you agree to it?” Gwendafyn asked.
“No.” Benjimir turned around again and stalked away, his boots thudding on the wooden walkway.
For a second Gwendafyn’s heart stopped, and she couldn’t breathe. I can’t give up yet! Remember my swords, remember the lonely life that awaits me in Jubilee! It took a lot of effort, but Gwendafyn’s voice was uncaring as she called after the prince. “Eventually, Your Highness, you will have to marry. Your parents will see to it.”
The prince didn’t turn around, nor did he stop walking. “When the time comes, that will be my concern, not yours.”
Gwendafyn curled her hands into fists at the prince’s retreat. I thought I did fairly well, but I suppose my opponent was Prince Benjimir. She sighed and turned back in the direction of the flower garden, mentally bracing herself against the hopelessness that threatened to drown her. I guess I’ll have to come up with an alternative idea or keep pressing my luck with Benjimir and see if I can move him before I return to Jubilee. If that doesn’t work, I guess I’ll have a long time to plan my next move.
She groaned and briefly let her shoulders droop. I can’t let this defeat me. I won’t!
