by K. M. Shea
Two nights later, Benjimir, standing in his father’s study, was surprised to find himself still mulling over Princess Gwendafyn’s offer. What is she, really? He wondered. No elf would be so mercenary in their actions. And she’s Yvrea’s sister! Yvrea doesn’t have a cunning bone in her body, whereas Gwendafyn is obviously up to something…
He clasped his hands behind his back and only half listened to his father and younger brother—Arvel, the second born of the Calnor princes who was also the most likely candidate to be named Crown Prince after Benjimir’s disgrace.
“Bandits have been making raids on all the borders we share except for the one we hold with Lessa, of course,” King Petyrr rumbled. “How do you boys think we should handle them?”
Though Benjimir had his back to his father and brother—he had positioned himself on the far side of the study where he could stand by the ceiling-to-floor windows and stare out into the dimly lit Rosewood Park—he could feel his brother’s eyes on his back.
“You should answer, Arvel,” Benjimir said after staring out into the darkened park for a few long moments. “You need to take greater responsibility in military maneuverings—for the future of Calnor,” he said dispassionately.
“Er…must I?” Arvel asked.
“Go ahead; give it a try!” King Petyrr laughed. “That’s what discussions are for!”
“I’m really not a military person.”
“Try,” King Petyrr insisted.
“Fine, fine. Well…” Arvel haltingly began to lay out a plan while Benjimir let his mind wander again.
Gwendafyn must be getting more out of such a deal than she indicated. Or perhaps Seer Ringali is her true father. I never thought an elf would marry for any reason but love. And if that’s the case, why did she approach me?
“What do you think, Benjimir?” King Petyrr called.
Benjimir blinked, mentally replaying Arvel’s last few comments. “While fortifying the villages might make them harder to attack, it won’t take care of the bandits themselves. We need to stamp them out—and capture some in the process. The sudden surge in banditry is suspicious.”
“Well stated,” King Petyrr said with a surprising amount of satisfaction given that Benjimir had just poked holes in the future king’s idea. “And that’s what we ought to do. But we will transfer some army regiments closer to our borders…”
Perhaps her father put her up to it in a bid to control me? But no. King Celrin would never ask that of his own child—not when political marriages are frowned upon in their culture. This hairbrained scheme must really be of her own making. But what for?
Benjimir’s thoughts stilled as his eyes settled on three figures who were following the cobblestone path that wound around the edge of Rosewood Park.
It took a moment to see them—night had fallen, and besides a few flickering torches, Rosewood Park was dark compared to King Petyrr’s cheerfully lit study. But despite the glare of light thrown against the glass, Benjimir was able to make out Yvrea’s smiling face.
She walked with one of the male elves who had been trailing in her wake—one of her two marriage candidates—and two horse lengths behind them, a handmaiden followed.
Yvrea’s face flashed with the sparkle of her excitement, and she beamed up at her walking companion before turning to say something to her handmaiden with a mischievous wink.
The sight was a dagger to Benjimir’s heart, and every smile she wore twisted it.
Unbidden, Gwendafyn’s parting words echoed in his mind.
“Eventually, Your Highness, you will have to marry. Your parents will see to it.”
As soon as Yvrea announces her marriage, Father will grow twice as aggressive in throwing women at me, Benjimir grimly predicted. He will fear I’ll do something underhanded in retaliation. Rightfully so. But will I?
Benjimir pondered the thought for a moment, then physically shook his head. No, I would never do anything to make Yvrea unhappy or upset. It is not her fault I fell in love with her. I must leave her to the happiness she has found.
Apathy and misery simultaneously settled into Benjimir’s posture. And if that is the case, then frankly it doesn’t matter whom I marry. Whatever brainless twit of a female Father throws at me will be nothing compared to Yvrea. And I will have to put up with her every day of my life…
His upper lip curled in disgust.
Or I suppose I could match myself with the hawk who pretends to be a martyr and have at least the peace to be as cold as I like.
Benjimir watched Yvrea, her beau, and her handmaiden walk around an edge of the garden and disappear into the inky darkness.
Suddenly her offer does not seem quite so terrible. And I don’t really care about my domestic life. Marrying an elf will likely create…complications, but the knowledge that she won’t badger me is worth something. Though I still believe she’s trying to manipulate me.
He recalled the exotic purple hue of her eyes and the icy coolness of her expression. She’ll be more fun to outwit than any daughter of nobility Father will try to pawn off on me.
“So the Honor Guard should be used to address the bandits,” King Petyrr said. “Do you agree, Benjimir?”
His mind made up, Benjimir turned from the window. “If you’ll excuse me, Father, Arvel. Some rather important business has come up.”
He ignored the puzzled look Arvel gave him, as well as his Father’s confused squint, and strode from the room.
The clock struck eleven by the time he stormed the wing that belonged to elven royalty and their important visitors.
It took him a moment to remember which room Gwendafyn was usually assigned. (She so rarely visited Haven since they had become adults, he wouldn’t have been able to say for certain which one it was if not for the fact that it was next to Yvrea’s.)
As soon as he picked it out, he strode up to it and knocked heavily.
Nothing.
He knocked again, and finally a serene elven handmaiden poked her head out of the room. “Yes?” she asked, tranquil and unruffled despite the late hour.
“I must speak with Princess Gwendafyn,” Benjimir said in Elvish. He frowned a little in irritation when he nearly stumbled over the pronunciation of Gwendafyn’s name. It is unnecessarily long, he decided as the handmaiden retreated back into the room without replying.
A moment later, Gwendafyn appeared. She still wore the rose-pink dress she had donned during the day, but her ink-brown-black hair was unbound and draped over her shoulders.
“Prince Benjimir.” She offered him a skin-deep smile as she tucked her silky hair behind her ears. “What brings you calling upon me at this late an hour?”
“I’ll do it,” Benjimir said.
The princess blinked. “You’ll do what?”
“I’ll marry you.”
The statement made the elf princess’ careless grace fall away as she stood straighter and her eyes fixed on him with great intensity. “What has changed your mind?”
Benjimir shrugged. “You are right. All that awaits me is some empty-headed girl my parents choose for me.”
Gwendafyn tilted her head first to the right and then the left, as if she were trying to get a measure of him. “You understand what our union would mean to the country, though? It will have its own complications.”
“Perhaps, but we’re not the stars-blessed-golden-bond-pair like Tari and Arion. I speak Elvish, but you don’t speak Calnoric. We’ll likely become the protagonists in a million ballads, but I doubt we will be asked to jump through all the hoops and perform like Tari and Arion.” Benjimir paused and frowned a little. Wait, why does it sound as though I’m trying to convince her? She’s the one who asked me!
“I meant more in that we’ll have to pretend to love each other,” Gwendafyn said, her smile bordering on wry. “We must be believable, or we won’t change anything at all.” She hesitated, then added, “Nor would our families allow it if they thought we were anything less than in love.”
Benjimir pop
ped up an eyebrow. “My family won’t give a fig. Father would chop off his right arm if it meant he was given the chance to call one of King Celrin’s daughters his daughter-in-law. Your family will be the main factor—I hope they are especially gullible?”
Gwendafyn bit her lip. “Yvrea and Mother will believe it—I don’t think it would ever occur to them we would consider marriage otherwise. And Father…” she trailed off and thoughtfully frowned. “I think he’ll allow it.”
“Then there shouldn’t be a problem,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn’s expression didn’t change.
Hmm. It seems this might have something to do with her true motivation. But in what way? Benjimir pushed aside the thought to ponder later. “We’ll have to start appearing together at social functions for the next month or so. We could safely announce an engagement in five weeks, I think—”
“That’s not possible,” Gwendafyn shook her head, her eyebrow twitching in irritation when her hair fanned out around her. “I leave in a week. We have to announce it before then.”
For a moment, Benjimir thought he must have misheard her. “I apologize—how long do you have?”
“A week,” she repeated.
His jaw nearly dropped. “A week? You must be joking.”
“Once I return to Jubilee, I likely won’t be allowed to return for at least a full year,” Gwendafyn said. “If we’re going to go through with this, we must announce it immediately.”
Won’t be allowed to return? Who could stop her? Benjimir scratched his jawline. “Your culture-changing plan is transforming into something that might be more work than it is worth.”
Gwendafyn had been angrily fussing with her hair, but at Benjimir’s words, her face again cleared into a mask of tranquility. “You are backing out?”
“No,” Benjimir said, surprising himself. He grunted and stared at the ground. “A week, you say?”
Gwendafyn nodded.
“Fine. Then we will start tomorrow. We’ll ‘happen’ to meet at Rosewood Park—by the lily pond—after we break our morning fast. Agreed?”
“Agreed. Thank you for your sacrifice, Prince Benjimir,” Gwendafyn said. “It is for a noble cause. We will change our cultures through this.”
Benjimir shrugged. “I don’t really care what happens,” he said truthfully. “This is a means to an end. Good night, Princess Gwendafyn.”
Benjimir turned on his heels and strode down the hallway without checking to see if Gwendafyn slipped back into her room.
One week. He shook his head. This is never going to work.
4
Engaged
The day before she was scheduled to leave, Gwendafyn walked hand-in-hand with Benjimir.
His hand was surprisingly warm, though their fingers were intertwined with all the passion of marble statues as they paused just outside the study where their fathers were cloistered.
Gwendafyn’s heart beat frantically in her chest. I’m so close to freedom, I can almost taste it! If only Father will let this take place…
“Ready?” Benjimir asked in Elvish.
“Ready!” Rollo—the human translator—said cheerfully in kind. “Though I still don’t know what we’re doing.”
Benjimir peered over his shoulder so he could stare at him. (Apparently the duo were longtime friends—something Gwendafyn had not been aware of when she had first tried approaching Rollo.)
“I am ready.” Afraid he might back out at the last moment, Gwendafyn rapped her knuckles on the study door with enough force to make them itch.
A man dressed in the robes of a scholar opened the door and bristled his mustache when he set eyes on Benjimir. He nodded shallowly to him but then bowed deeply to Gwendafyn when his gaze shifted to her.
The scholar briefly turned around to address someone in the study, then shuffled aside, giving them entry.
Gwendafyn’s mouth was as dry and hot as a fire as she and Benjimir slipped into the room the Calnor King and Lessa King occasionally used as a joint study.
“Father,” Gwendafyn said—proud when her tongue proved it could still work. “May Benjimir and I speak to you and His Majesty King Petyrr alone?”
Celrin—seated in an armchair positioned beneath a ray of sun that peeked in through the skylight—nodded. “Of course, my daughter.” He gave her a warm smile, and his eyes lingered on Gwendafyn and Benjimir’s joint hands for only a moment.
The scholar, two knights, and a kennel boy dragged behind a giant deerhound made a rather noisy exit from the room, leaving Gwendafyn and Benjimir alone with Rollo and their fathers.
King Petyrr—who had been petting the dog from his desk chair—squinted at Benjimir and scratched his gut as he spoke to his son in the deep tones of Calnoric.
“His Majesty King Petyrr wishes to know why you are here,” Rollo said for Gwendafyn’s and Celrin’s benefit.
“I am wondering the same thing myself.” King Celrin smiled gently at Gwendafyn. “What is it, daughter?”
Gwendafyn sucked in a deep breath. Please work. Please let this be a blessing and not a curse… “Benjimir and I are engaged,” Gwendafyn said.
The clatter behind her was likely Rollo dropping his slate in response, nearly drowning out Benjimir’s voice as he delivered the same news to King Petyrr.
King Petyrr leaped to his feet and roared a word.
“King Petyrr expresses his astonishment,” Rollo said in a choked-sounding voice.
“I am rather astonished myself,” King Celrin said as he studied Gwendafyn with a curious light in his eyes.
King Petyrr whipped off his crown—tossing it onto his desk—and dug his hands into his thinning hair. He chattered away as he looked back and forth between Gwendafyn and Benjimir.
“Engaged—what marvelous news. The best news ever! What a good daughter-in-law Princess Gwendafyn will make—so says His Majesty King Petyrr,” Rollo parroted.
King Petyrr released a great gust of laughter, then ambled over to Celrin. Just when it looked like he was about to pluck Celrin out of his chair in a great bear hug, King Petyrr froze. He twirled around and suspiciously eyed Benjimir.
He stalked up to the pair, raising his eyebrows at Benjimir before giving Gwendafyn a sunny smile and speaking.
“King Petyrr wishes to ensure that this is indeed the lady’s choice, is it not?” Rollo asked on the Calnor King’s behalf.
“It is,” Gwendafyn said, nodding her thanks to Rollo when the translator spoke on her behalf. “Benjimir and I are very much in love.”
In the background, Celrin thoughtfully steepled his fingers together. King Petyrr planted his feet and rocked on his heels.
“Is that so?” Rollo translated when the Calnor King spoke again. “Are you certain you would rather not marry Arvel? He is your bond mate, is gentle, much more kind, and has a better personality.”
Benjimir rolled his eyes and replied in Calnoric.
“His Highness Prince Benjimir reminded King Petyrr that he is present,” Rollo said. He paused, and when the king barked a response, added, “King Petyrr says he is obviously quite aware and expressed the wish for Prince Benjimir to translate the offer on Arvel’s unknowing behalf.”
Though Benjimir fixed his father with a glare, Gwendafyn could see the tiny hints of worry in King Petyrr’s stance. It was the way he rocked slightly as he stood, and his brow furrowed deep with concern, not suspicion.
I think it’s Benjimir he’s really worried for. Gwendafyn smiled—a real smile she had been struggling to hide since Benjimir had agreed to her scheme.
“Please rest assured, King Petyrr. It is Benjimir I love.” Gwendafyn stepped closer to Benjimir and leaned into him. The prince glanced down at her and offered her one of his polite smiles, then patted her hand.
It is a good thing he has been so stoic in his admiration of Yvrea, Gwendafyn realized, or this idea would never work. Between the two of us, we are about as cuddly as porcupines.
“Benjimir?” King Petyrr asked—the single wo
rd discernable even to Gwendafyn’s untrained ears.
Benjimir removed his hand from Gwendafyn’s so he could curl his arm around her shoulders as he replied.
“Prince Benjimir says he will be content with you,” Rollo said.
King Petyrr nodded twice and slowly backed up. He slapped his belly once, then his face once again broke into a beaming grin of joy. He laughed as he embraced first Benjimir, then Gwendafyn. He embraced her with such strength, he picked her clear off the ground even though he was quite a bit shorter than she.
“His Majesty King Petyrr says he cannot wait for the wedding, and it is his hope that you two will hold it sooner than later,” Rollo said as King Petyrr shook a finger at Benjimir. “He adds that wedding or not, Benjimir will have to take the Honor Guards on that offensive attack before the ceremony can be held, as the people should be able to celebrate without fear of bandits.”
Gwendafyn tilted her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rollo said. “Neither does Benjimir. He’s asking why he is being sent with the Honor Guard. Oh, and now King Petyrr says he knows Benjimir’s mind must be muddled by love because he agreed to send the Honor Guard, and since he is the leader of the Honor Guard, obviously he must go with them.”
Benjimir’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement, but King Petyrr sniffed and brushed a tear from his eye. He smacked his son on the shoulder, then turned around and charged towards Celrin.
“Celrin, we are to be in-laws! And I get to call one of your beloved daughters one of my own—such joy! So says His Majesty King Petyrr,” Rollo said.
Gwendafyn chuckled, for Rollo not only translated the words themselves, but also recited them with the same exuberance that was present in the king’s booming celebration.
Celrin stood and patted King Petyrr’s back when the Calnor King threw his arms around him in a hug.
When King Petyrr finally released his bond mate, he laughed and planted his hands on his hips.
“This calls for a drink,” Rollo translated as the king rambled on. “No—a celebration! We must tell the Translator’s Circle that Benjimir’s language skills bagged him a wife. No—I want to go tell Lady Tari! Or wait—who should we tell first? Shall we start ringing the church bells?” Rollo said in a spot-on impersonation.
