by K. M. Shea
“Calnoric, as a language, seems to be in a perpetual hurry,” Gwendafyn grumbled before she took the new sword Grygg offered her.
Wilford didn’t seem to trust Grygg’s judgement, for he took the rejected swords and marched back to the wooden rack, then shouted something in what sounded like excitement.
“Why did you decide it was better for me to learn sword fighting from humans?” Gwendafyn asked as Wilford trotted back and swiped the wooden sword from her hand, replacing it with the one he had picked out.
The trio studied her for a moment, nodding, then Thad slapped Wilford on the back in what appeared to be approval. Grygg nodded as well and ambled back to the rack to return the last rejected sword.
Gwendafyn continued, “Since I am no longer regent—and I’m too old to become an Evening Star—I assumed you could teach me since I would pose no physical threat.”
She nodded when Grygg stood in front of her and arranged his body into a basic sword stance Gwendafyn recognized from a book she had once read while staying in Haven.
She adjusted her stance to copy him, eliciting a whistle and thumbs up from the guard.
“Regardless that you would be unable to become an Evening Star at this age, you still would have to take an Evening Star vow before we could train you,” Seer Ringali said, sounding bored.
“And that would be a bad thing?” Gwendafyn glanced first at Tari, then Seer Ringali as Thad and Grygg circled her.
Thad made a minor adjustment to her grip on the sword, and Grygg crouched and nudged her foot until she slightly changed the angle at which she held it.
“Not bad.” Tari rubbed her belly—then had to wave Wilford off when the guard said something to her. She responded in Calnoric, but Wilford did not look at all assured and instead trotted off again. “An Evening Star’s vows are honorable.”
“But I don’t think it’s a poor idea to have a human-trained elf capable of combat—with humans—who also happens to have the ruthlessness of a High Elf running around Haven,” Seer Ringali said. “Also, I’m curious to see what they’ll mold you into.”
Tari shot her mentor a look. “Our Princess is not an animal to be trained.”
“Of course not.” Seer Ringali flicked his fan open and closed. “But that doesn’t mean she won’t be interesting to watch.”
Tari opened her mouth to respond, but then she caught sight of Wilford returning, carrying a giant fan in his arms.
“Wilford!” Tari broke off into Calnoric, her tone scolding.
The patrol leader ignored her and instead positioned himself before her, blocking the sun as he began to fan her.
Wilford shouted something to his cohorts, and Thad nodded before making a miniscule adjustment to Gwendafyn’s arm.
Grygg nodded in satisfaction, then jumped into a defensive position, holding his sword out before him.
Gwendafyn adjusted herself so she copied him, and again he praised her—this time with an impressed clap.
Tari gave up on waving Wilford away and instead leaned into the breeze he made. “I must say I was rather surprised when Benjimir approached me with his request to help find you a teacher.”
“I imagine so,” Gwendafyn said. “Knowing your…complicated history, I was surprised when Benjimir sent me to you as well.”
When Thad adjusted the angle of her elbow, Gwendafyn snapped her mouth shut and focused on committing the feel of the stance to memory.
“I was also surprised,” Seer Ringali announced. “I didn’t think Benjimir would ever do anything that didn’t directly benefit him.”
“Seer Ringali! How could you possibly say that knowing how much Benjimir and Gwendafyn are in love?” Tari objected with a squawk.
“It is precisely because I know how much in love Benjimir and Gwendafyn are, which is to say, not at all.”
Gwendafyn so agreed with his assessment and was concentrating so much on her stance, that it took her several long seconds to realize that she should object. “Um,” she said, distracted when Grygg whirled his sword from a defensive to an offensive position.
“See? Our Princess does not even deny it!” Seer Ringali snapped his fan open again and hid the lower half of his face behind it.
Gwendafyn copied Grygg’s move twice before she glanced at the Evening Stars. Catching Tari’s scandalized look, Gwendafyn said, “Perhaps Benjimir and I don’t have as close of a relationship as others’…”
“Hah,” Seer Ringali said. “I knew it. You are shrewd, but even you would need a few months to tame that wild beast. He did not come to you house-broken, unlike Tarinthali’s Arion.”
“But he loves you,” Tari insisted.
No, no. He loves Yvrea, Gwendafyn grimly reminded herself as she eased into the offensive lunge Grygg was demonstrating—another move she had painstakingly copied from a book.
“He treats you with an affection he doesn’t treat others,” Tari continued. “He is at ease with you.”
I find it surprising that Tari—who was concerned for me given Benjimir’s background when we were first married—is now the one defending him. Gwendafyn could not help the snort that escaped her. “Hardly. Whenever I think he is warming up, I smack my nose on an emotional barrier he raises.”
“What did I say? Poorly trained!” Seer Ringali sniffed. “You have your work cut out for you, My Princess.”
“I don’t know that I can get through to him,” Gwendafyn confessed. “At least not in the way you are thinking, Seer Ringali.”
“You will, Fyn,” Tari predicted. “You match each other.”
Match each other? What is that supposed to mean?
“Give it time, My Princess.” Seer Ringali snapped his fan shut again. “Not everyone can fall in love in the epic and overly-dramatic way Tarinthali and Sir Arion did.”
“Seer Ringali.” Tari glared at her mentor around Wilford’s bulk.
“Just be true to yourself,” Seer Ringali continued, unhindered by his protégé’s complaints. “Prince Benjimir will love you, not the image you have been raised to pretend to be.”
Gwendafyn glanced unbelievingly at Seer Ringali before she copied Grygg as he shifted into another new stance. “And how can you know that?”
“Because no matter how that selfish prince matured during his little exile, it would take someone who impressed him—directly or indirectly—to give up on Yvrea when he has already done so much to stay with her.” Seer Ringali leaned back in his wooden chair.
Gwendafyn opened her mouth to counter him, but when she saw him throw his fan out of the corner of her eye, she instead twisted to the side and struck out with her sword, blocking the fan, which clattered against the blade before dropping to the ground.
Wilford, Grygg, and Thad stared opened-mouthed, and even Tari blinked in surprise.
“Tarinthali, tell your nursemaids to increase the difficulty of Our Princess’s exercises,” Seer Ringali said boredly. “If she has the air and brainpower to talk while so perfectly following their stances, she is obviously much better than they think she is.”
Tarinthali switched to Calnoric as she relayed the message—although likely in nicer words.
Wilford and Thad nodded in agreement, but Grygg grinned deviously before he ran at Gwendafyn, whirling his wooden sword.
Gwendafyn crouched in a defensive stance and blocked four of his strikes before he flicked her sword from her hands with a fancy combination of a kick and forward strike.
Gwendafyn picked up her sword when it fell to the ground and circled her shoulders to loosen them up. She paused, then made the hand motion for “again.”
Grygg smiled. “Again,” he said in Elvish.
Smiling, this time Gwendafyn was the first to move, her heart singing with joy as her mind raced, taking in all of Grygg’s movements and shifts.
Finally…I’m free.
Gwendafyn rocked forward on her tip toes as she watched guards march through the palace gates, returning home from the hunt for bandits. “I don’t see Benjimir
, yet. Or Arion.”
“They’ll be riding, I think.” Tari leaned against the limestone railing of the ornate palace stairs.
King Petyrr strolled past—with Translator Rollo, a cook bearing a tray of puffy pastries, and two footmen running behind him. When he caught sight of Gwendafyn and Tarinthali, he threw his arms wide open. “Tarinthali…Gwendafyn!” He boomed other words Gwendafyn did not recognize, but she guessed were probably the king’s typical warm welcome.
Rollo winked as he sidled up next to Gwendafyn. “His Majesty King Petyrr wishes to express his joy in seeing Lady Tarinthali and his favored daughter-in-law, Princess Gwendafyn.”
Gwendafyn smiled and moved to hug her father-in-law, letting herself get swept up by his secure embrace.
This made King Petyrr chortle. When he released her, he patted her hand and chattered away. “…beautiful…generous…”
It took all of Gwendafyn’s concentration to pick those two words out, and it made her head ache with the focus. Yes, Benjimir definitely deserves praise for his language abilities, she decided.
“King Petyrr praises both your beauty and your kind and generous spirit,” Rollo added.
Gwendafyn made the hand gesture for “thank you” and “too much.”
King Petyrr shook his head as he turned around and whisked the pastry tray off his shocked cook’s fingertips.
“Pastry?” Rollo said for the king when he held the tray out to both Tari and Gwendafyn.
Tari took two—one for each hand—and thanked the king in Calnoric.
Gwendafyn espied a cream cheese pastry—a delight invented by the humans that hadn’t yet made its way into Lessa, though Gwendafyn was determined to have it do so—and snagged it with a grin.
She nibbled on it, then craned her neck, searching for Benjimir. “Does my father-in-law know when Benjimir and Sir Arion will arrive?” she asked.
Rollo relayed the question to King Petyrr, who beamed at the familial title—as Gwendafyn knew he would—and stood on his tip toes so he could pat the top of her head as he spoke in Calnoric.
“His Majesty imagines they will arrive at any moment,” Rollo translated.
Gwendafyn took a bite of her pastry—savoring the taste—but smiled when Arvel popped out of King Petyrr’s entourage, exchanging confused looks with the cook.
“Arvel,” Gwendafyn called. When he smiled at her, she attempted to make the gesture for “well met” with one hand, earning a laugh from her bond partner.
He nodded and leaned in for a one-armed hug after he snatched up a puffed pastry as Gwendafyn finished hers off.
“I see how it is,” Benjimir said in Elvish over the excited din of the crowd. “While I’m off vanquishing foes, my little brother is busy flirting with my wife.”
Gwendafyn pulled herself from Arvel’s embrace and laughed when she saw Benjimir not five feet away, handing off his horse’s reins to a stableboy. “Benjimir!” She nearly crashed into him in her enthusiasm as she flung her arms around his neck. “Welcome home!” She leaned into his shoulder as she would to a close friend, then paused.
Wait, this is Benjimir—he has the personal space of an angry bear.
She was surprised when Benjimir encircled his arms around her waist, then kissed her cheek. “I am glad to be home,” he said.
Gwendafyn blinked in surprise, then smiled up at him. “You’re uninjured?” she asked, leaning back—though she kept her arms around his neck—as she tried to survey him and seek out any bandages.
“I’m uninjured,” he confirmed.
Gwendafyn nodded in satisfaction and let her hands slide down so they rested on his chest. “Thank you for my sword lessons.”
“Are your teachers satisfactory?” he asked.
“Very much so.” Gwendafyn knew she had to have looked like an idiot as her smile grew bigger, but she couldn’t help it. Benjimir wasn’t usually so…warm.
King Petyrr sighed and said something behind them.
“Ahh, young love,” Rollo translated on her behalf.
Benjimir kept one hand around Gwendafyn’s waist as he greeted his father in Calnoric and nodded at Arvel.
Gwendafyn glanced over her shoulder to watch Arion and Tari greet each other—the tall, taciturn knight scooped Tari up with great care and kissed her brow as she laughed. Wrapped up in their own private world, they slipped from the crowd.
“Did you have a nice time while I was gone?” Benjimir asked, pulling Gwendafyn’s attention back to him.
“I really enjoyed my lessons, but I fear I’m as terrible as ever at Calnoric,” she sighed.
Benjimir smiled—another warm smile that actually seemed to reach his eyes—and wrapped a strand of her hair that had come loose from her blasted braid around his finger. “I’m sure you are better than you think.”
“How did your trip go?” Gwendafyn asked. “Did you uncover any information about the bandits?”
“We rooted them out of one of their strongholds and captured at least a dozen men,” Benjimir said.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn daringly tapped his furrowed forehead. “Then what is this?”
His brow eased when she prodded it. “It’s merely that I know one stronghold isn’t enough—particularly when we’re plagued on almost every side. But we don’t want to come down too hard on our own people…”
He trailed off and stared past Gwendafyn.
Gwendafyn waited for a moment before she realized he wasn’t going to finish. Curious, she turned around, and all of her good cheer left her.
“Welcome home, Benji!” Yvrea greeted as she glided down the stairs. She smiled affectionately at both Gwendafyn and Benjimir with her regular welcoming and kind temperament.
Of course, Yvrea. Outwardly, Gwendafyn kept her smile on, but inwardly she drooped. That’s right…this is an act. He wasn’t really happy to see me; he was just pretending since we’re in public. He still loves Yvrea. As usual, I have to stand in her shadow…but this was my choice.
Gwendafyn forced herself to smile. “Hello, Sister!”
Smiling cheerfully, Yvrea squeezed Gwendafyn in a tight embrace, then stepped back and nodded at her and Benjimir. “I am so glad you two have each other. I hope you had pleasant weather during your travels, Benji?”
Benjimir rubbed his jaw and nodded. “We did, thank you.”
“Good! Father said there is going to be another feast tonight. I am so glad you and Sir Arion were able to make it in time. I believe it’s even themed,” Yvrea chattered. “There is going to be dancing! Seer Ringali might even perform for us—though I think Tari is perhaps a little too late in her pregnancy to join him…” Yvrea paused, then looked wide-eyed from Benjimir to Gwendafyn. “You two were planning to attend, weren’t you?”
“Of course,” Benjimir said without looking at Gwendafyn. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
Yvrea clapped. “How perfect!”
Benjimir gave her one of his smiles, and though his cool hand still rested on Gwendafyn’s waist, it felt wooden and false.
Yes, he’s just acting. Gwendafyn reminded herself, even as Benjimir tugged her a little closer when King Petyrr plowed between her and Yvrea, declaring—according to Rollo—his love for the Lesser Elves.
None of this means anything.
7
Companionship
Gwendafyn stood in the empty sitting room that connected her bedroom with Benjimir’s. The fire crackled, but in general the room was untouched. Neither she nor Benjimir used it for anything besides a place to meet before they left for an event…as they were supposed to be doing right now.
Gwendafyn shifted nervously and wished Benjimir would appear from his quarters.
She had decided to really strive for change tonight. Instead of wearing a pretty but traditional elven dress, she had taken a chance and ordered from a human dressmaker.
The dressmaker had spun a creation of dark purple silk with a veil-like black
material stitched over it. Tiny gems were sewn into the black gauze, making the dress resemble a night sky. The sleeves had taken some time for Gwendafyn to sort out—the dress only had one as it cut across her chest and hooked over her left shoulder before draping down to her elbow. (Her right shoulder, however, was uncovered—something Aunt Lorius would have found scandalous even though it was a style Gwendafyn had seen several humans, including the younger Princess Claire, wear.)
Silver pins were secured into her hair at the back of her skull, making it look as though she was crowned with stars, and a silver belt hung from her waist, while a gem-encrusted silver bracelet was secured to her right wrist.
Gwendafyn self-consciously fiddled with one of her star hairpins and bit her lip. She crossed the sitting room and knocked on Benjimir’s door. She waited a minute, then another, before she knocked again.
Nothing. Where has he gone?
Gwendafyn cautiously exited the sitting room via the door that led into the hallway of the Calnor royal wing. She was relieved to see Rollo there, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“Rollo,” she called as she softly closed the door behind her. “Can you tell me if you’ve seen Benjimir?”
“Of course!” Rollo smiled happily. “He left for the feast not an hour ago.”
Gwendafyn blinked in surprise and perhaps a little hurt. “I see.” She smiled at the translator. “Thank you. I had best follow after him.”
As she walked, the air brushed her bare shoulder—a strange sensation she hadn’t felt before. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have worn a dress of elven design. No—I want to break tradition. It’s why I’m doing this.
Her resolve gathered, Gwendafyn set her chin.
The feast hadn’t really begun yet. Neither of the kings nor the queens had yet arrived, but Gwendafyn espied Benjimir and Arvel standing in the middle of the dance floor as the musicians just started to play a song.
Gwendafyn glanced around the room as she swept inside—making a beeline for the brothers.
I wonder what is bothering Arvel. As she drew closer, she could detect a lecturing—and perhaps slightly angry—tone to the younger prince’s voice as he spoke quickly and efficiently, without giving Benjimir the chance to speak.
