Royal Magic

by K. M. Shea

  Benjimir had withdrawn a gold pocket watch and was staring at the time with a sharp frown.

  “Is something wrong?” Gwendafyn asked.

  The brothers twisted abruptly to face her. Arvel blinked slowly, but Benjimir dropped his watch—which would have shattered on the floor if not for the golden chain that attached it to the prince’s doublet.

  “Gwendafyn?” Benjimir croaked—the Elvish lilt he had nearly perfected crackled mid-word.

  Gwendafyn frowned slightly. “Why did you leave without me?” she asked as she bridged the last bit of distance between them.

  Benjimir stuffed his watch back in his pocket. “I apologize. I meant to return for you—you’re early, you know—but Arvel cornered me.”

  Gwendafyn turned to the younger prince with the intension of greeting him with the gesture for “well met,” but instead she squeaked when Benjimir swept her up in an embrace and dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

  A blush heated her face, but before she could dislodge her hands from their trapped location between her body and Benjimir’s, Arvel cracked a smile.

  He performed the gesture for “embrace” and “fun,” then tapped his nose before he turned on his heels and strode off.

  More than a little embarrassed, Gwendafyn leaned her head against Benjimir’s with more force than necessary. “Benjimir,” she hissed.

  “Did you notice when Arvel grew a wicked edge to him, because I certainly didn’t,” Benjimir said conversationally.

  “How would I know?” Gwendafyn asked.

  “He’s your bond partner.”

  “Yes, whom I saw at most once a year—and more recently barely ever,” Gwendafyn said. Benjimir still held her in a very public hug, and as he spoke he breathed on her neck, making the embrace seem more intimate that it was. Even though Gwendafyn knew it was all part of the public act, her heart beat erratically. I should step on his foot. Or maybe his face.

  “I guess that’s an adequate defense, but one of us should have noticed,” Benjimir said.

  “What wicked edge are you referring to? Arvel is the scholarly one out of you and your brothers. He’s the peace keeper.”

  “I wonder if that’s it,” Benjimir said. “His love of peace makes him cut-throat when someone is upsetting it.”

  “What are you babbling about?” Gwendafyn squirmed in Benjimir’s grasp.

  “Nothing. He was just acting…unusual,” Benjimir finally released Gwendafyn.

  Gwendafyn took a large breath and straightened her dress. She glanced at Benjimir, who was watching her carefully. “What is it?”

  Benjimir’s lips curved up slightly as he again invaded her personal space. “You look beautiful tonight.”

  Gwendafyn placed a hand on his chest—more to stop him from getting closer than for their public image. “Thank you.”

  “Your dress is of human design?” he asked as he clasped her right hand, entwining his fingers with hers.

  “It is.” Gwendafyn blinked as she tried to concentrate—it was difficult to think straight when he kissed her fingertips. What is he up to? Our honeymoon phase should have been weeks ago. “I decided it is time to start pushing the limits of tradition.”

  “How very like you,” Benjimir chuckled.

  Gwendafyn stared past Benjimir, watching the hall entrance. I will not be caught up in his little act. I won’t! She didn’t know whether she should droop or whoop in joy when she caught sight of her sister—as lovely as the sun—enter, wearing a white gown of elvish design.

  “Oh, look. Yvrea has arrived,” Gwendafyn said, trying not to fidget as Benjimir put a finger under her silver necklace and studied it with fascination.

  “Has she? How nice,” he said absently as he lowered his head to peer at the necklace, then shifted his gaze to her bare shoulder.

  If he kisses me on my shoulder again, I’m going to turn the most unappealing shade of red. Gwendafyn poked him in the ribs. “Benjimir!” she hissed in his ear. “I know we have an act to keep, but this is a bit much!”

  Benjimir finally met her gaze, and his green eyes glittered as a smirk settled on his face. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Gwendafyn rolled her eyes in disgust, then jumped when Rollo suddenly popped out from behind Benjimir.

  “Careful, my friends,” Rollo grinned. “If His Highness King Petyrr sees you in such an embrace, he’s sure to start asking about grandchildren!” The translator laughed at his own joke, then paused. “When will you two be having kids? As half elf-half humans, I imagine they’ll be skilled at both languages. Everyone says Lady Tarinthali and Sir Arion’s child will be as well given his parentage, but we have established Lady Tarinthali’s knack for languages comes from the magic of their bond…”

  “Benjimir,” Gwendafyn said wearily.

  “Hn?” Benjimir asked. He had given her a little breathing room with Rollo’s arrival, though he still held her hand.

  “You need new friends,” Gwendafyn said.

  Benjimir chuckled, then caught sight of Yvrea. “It seems your parents arrived with Yvrea. Shall we go greet them?”

  “Let’s,” Gwendafyn agreed. Though it means I get to watch you give her your secret glances of longing. “This is why I like swords,” Gwendafyn grumbled under her breath. “They are easier to understand.”

  “Did you say something?” Benjimir asked as he neatly tucked her arm in his.

  “I was noting how pretty Yvrea looks tonight,” Gwendafyn said.

  “Ahhh—yes, of course.”

  The feast was, as far as Gwendafyn was concerned, a success. Both elves and humans had complimented her on her dress, and several elves had even gone so far as to inquire who made the gown for her.

  “I really think you should sit, Tari.” Gwendafyn frowned slightly as she watched the Evening Star—who, at just over seven months—was showing markedly more.

  Tari rolled her eyes. “I am coddled all day long. The only reason I am not coddled right now is because Arion is talking to His Highness King Petyrr and Our King Celrin about the bandits. As soon as that is over, he’ll be back here, frowning at me so he gets that funny V shape between his eyebrows.” Tari prodded her own forehead in example. “And then he’ll keep that up until he gets a headache, which makes him grumpy, so then neither of us will be comfortable.”

  “I don’t understand what that has to do with your objection to sitting,” Gwendafyn said.

  “I want more food.” Tari slowly ambled towards one of the tables of refreshments that had been provided—even though dinner had concluded only an hour earlier.

  Gwendafyn grinned as she trailed the Evening Star. “Let me know if you need me to hold an extra plate.”

  Tari peered speculatively at her. “Was that a joke, Princess Gwendafyn?”

  “Fyn. And it was a genuine offer,” Gwendafyn said.

  “Lady Tarinthali, are you turning my wife into a beast of burden?”

  Gwendafyn stiffened, then turned around to suspiciously eye Benjimir. He had been overly affectionate the whole night and had even gone so far as to steal food off her plate at dinner. Has someone accused him of falsifying our relationship? But who would care?

  “I am a desperate female, Prince Benjimir,” Tari joked. “And Fyn is too kind.”

  “Where is that hell cat of yours? Couldn’t you put saddle packs on him and have him carry food for you?” Benjimir asked as he casually placed a hand on the small of Gwendafyn’s back.

  “I try to avoid bringing Sius to social gatherings after he shredded the drapes at one of your mother’s evening teas when he was but a kitten,” Tari said wryly. “Judging by your presence, can I assume the discussion of bandits has finished and my husband will soon appear?”

  “No, not at all,” Benjimir said. “I merely managed to escape.”

  “Escape?” Gwendafyn asked. “You must be jesting. I know you enjoy your duties as the Honor Guard Commander.”

  “Enjoy is a strong word,” Benjimir said with
his silver tongue. “Besides, they were talking about our next mission—where we would go and when we would leave. Thinking of that saddens me, as it means I will be parted from you, my wife.”

  Gwendafyn smiled with clenched teeth. “You are laying it on a bit thick, my love.”

  Tari, her eyes focused on the green tea cookies halfway down the line of refreshments, started to edge away. “You two enjoy your moment. I want to snatch at least a few cookies and a lemon bar before Arion realizes I’m not in the chair where he left me.”

  Gwendafyn laughed deeply, but her amusement died out when she caught Benjimir staring intently at her. She awkwardly cleared her throat, then smiled. “I hope you don’t have to leave for some time? You deserve to rest, and it seems cruel to drag Arion from Tari as the birth of their child comes closer.”

  “We won’t leave for a week, but that is a shortened timeline compared to usual. I imagine it is because of Tari. After this next trip, Arion won’t want to leave her again.” Benjimir speculatively looked from the pregnant Tari marching with great vigor towards a servant bearing a tray of lemon bars, and Colonel Arion, who was eyeing her even though he stood at King Petyrr’s side.

  “Where will you go this time?” Gwendafyn asked.

  “Sir Arion’s old stomping grounds—the Sacred Wood.” Benjimir rested his hand on the hilt of the decorative sword that hung from his belt. “There is a bandit cell in that area, and with the help of a sorcerer, Arion and I think we might be able to trap them.”

  Gwendafyn flicked a strand of her hair back into her coiffure. “I have heard that area is quite beautiful.”

  Benjimir nodded. “It is called sacred for a reason.”

  Gwendafyn nodded. Could I ask to come with them? It might irritate him, but I would like to see more than just Haven… Oh bother—I might as well just ask him. “Could I come with you this time?”

  Benjimir appeared to mull the idea over for a moment before he smirked and said, “No.”

  “I would happily stay in a village or city near the Sacred Wood,” Gwendafyn said. “I only want to see the area—I didn’t mean for you to include me in your pursuits.”

  “The answer is still no,” Benjimir said. “We are there to trap the bandits.”

  Gwendafyn arched an eyebrow. “Obviously. What has that to do with my request?”

  Benjimir’s smirk softened as he met her gaze. “I cannot risk taking you—you are too presumptuous.”

  “I’m what?” Gwendafyn was unable to keep all of the ire out of her voice.

  “Presumptuous,” Benjimir repeated, though he frowned slightly at her reaction.

  “I asked if I could come—I didn’t demand it. And if I was as presumptuous as you claim, I would have assumed I could come,” Gwendafyn shook her head a little as she took a step away from Benjimir, hurt by his casual coldness.

  Benjimir briefly glanced at the ceiling. “What does presumptuous mean?” he asked.

  “Arrogant and assuming,” Gwendafyn said.

  “I see. Then I used the wrong word. It sounds similar but means you are important or valued,” Benjimir said.

  Gwendafyn exhaled deeply as she watched Benjimir whisper Calnoric words to himself. I forget, sometimes, that he pursued the Elvish language on his own volition and that he didn’t grow up with it… He’s so skilled at it, and he’s only gotten better since our engagement, that it slips my mind at times.

  “Precious!” Benjimir declared.

  “I see.” Gwendafyn, having lost track of the conversation, paused. “Wait. What’s precious?”

  “You are. To me,” he said.

  Gwendafyn thought he smiled, but he crowded her space before she could get a good look at his face, and he set his cheek against hers.

  “And I really like this dress,” he murmured in her ear.

  “Daughter-in-law!” King Petyrr boomed, making Gwendafyn jump in Benjimir’s arms. (Daughter-in-law was a Calnoric word Gwendafyn had learned relatively quickly due to King Petyrr’s propensity to repeat it multiple times during each conversation.)

  King Petyrr strolled up to Gwendafyn and Benjimir with a bright smile and Princess Claire at one elbow. He wriggled his eyebrows at Gwendafyn and Benjimir as he rumbled in Calnoric, then looked expectantly to Benjimir.

  Benjimir, though he was no longer cheek-to-cheek with Gwendafyn, still had his hands on her waist. He raised an eyebrow at his Father and clearly said, “No,” in Calnoric. (Another word Gwendafyn had learned due to its frequent use—most often by Benjimir.)

  King Petyrr rolled his eyes, then barked at the short, human translator who stood behind him.

  The translator—looking as though he wished the floor would open beneath his feet—bowed stiffly, then said to Gwendafyn in Elvish, “His Highness King Petyrr bids Prince Benjimir to ‘stop pawing darling Gwendafyn in public’ and asks that you would accompany him and Princess Claire on a delightful father-daughter stroll around the room.”

  Gwendafyn chuckled a little as she stepped back from Benjimir. “Please tell him I accept.” She winked at Benjimir. “Please do try to find a way to occupy your time while I am gone, Benjimir.”

  Benjimir smirked slightly. “I’m afraid my only choice is to drink the night away.”

  Gwendafyn rolled her eyes. “Enjoy yourself,” she said.

  Benjimir raised his eyebrows at her, then turned to chase down a servant who held a tray of chalices filled with champagne.

  Gwendafyn shook her head in mock dismay as she rested a hand on King Petyrr’s arm and paused for only a moment when she realized Yvrea stood by a wall—speaking animatedly with an elven maiden—just a little down from Benjimir’s chosen location.

  Of course, Gwendafyn nodded. But at least, maybe, we’re becoming friends?

  Benjimir sighed loudly and made no attempt to hide his impatience as he trailed behind Sir Arion—Captain Stuffy Breeches himself.

  “Your wife is a grown elf, Sir Arion,” Benjimir said as Arion marched down a garden path with the stubbornness of a hunting dog on a scent. “And you use the Honor Guard like your personal network of spies. If she left the palace grounds, you would have been notified. I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “You underestimate Tari’s ability to find trouble,” Arion rumbled. He paused long enough to glance back at Benjimir and shake his head—as if disappointed. “Especially when she is paired with Princess Gwendafyn.”

  Benjimir frowned. “Gwendafyn is spirited, but not a troublemaker.”

  “Princess Gwendafyn is an instigator. She’s just been holding back,” Arion said.

  “Right.” Benjimir rolled his eyes. “That’s why I’m afraid of leaving her alone—wait, that would be you and your wife.”

  “Gwendafyn asked to accompany us on our next raid against the bandits, didn’t she?” Arion paused at a fork in the path and raised his chin—as if he were scenting his wife out—before decisively plowing down the left fork.

  Benjimir scowled at the colonel’s back. “She was fine when I told her no.”

  “Hn,” Arion said.

  Know-it-all, Benjimir internally scoffed. As if HE knows Gwendafyn better than I do. Hah!

  There was a brutish roar farther down the path, but it was silenced a moment later.

  Benjimir frowned. “What was that?”

  “Your non-trouble-making-wife, I think.” Arion sped up to a jog.

  Benjimir growled but stayed on his heels, so they popped out of Rosewood Park and arrived at the Honor Guard practice grounds at the same time.

  The noise was not Gwendafyn, but the soldier she was facing.

  He was just as tall as she and so muscled he looked like he could break her neck with one hand, but he was sweating profusely as he tried to drive Gwendafyn back into a stack of crates. She held her own—not giving an inch despite his onslaught.

  Three men Benjimir recognized as Arion’s favorite patrol leaders/minions—he thought their names were Wilford, Thad, and Grygg—stood on the sidelines shouting.

&nbs
p; Tari and Seer Ringali were there as well, sitting under parasols. Tari had dragged her chair closer to the grounds and cupped her hands around her mouth as she repeated in Elvish whatever Thad, Wilford, and Grygg shouted, but Seer Ringali watched with vague interest as he peeled an apple and occasionally fed bits of it to Sius, who lay in his shadow.

  Tari’s handmaiden stood off to the side, patiently holding a skin of water and a cloth—likely for Gwendafyn.

  “She’s a fast learner,” Arion said.

  “What?” Benjimir owlishly asked.

  Arion pointed to Gwendafyn. “Watch.”

  “Don’t let him corner you,” Thad shouted, nodding to Tari in thanks when she loudly translated.

  Gwendafyn gave no indication she heard the instruction, but when she blocked the soldier’s next strike, she swiveled her body so she bumped his side and made him stagger.

  “Stop mincing around like an elf, and fight dirty!” Grygg shouted. (The end of his bark was nearly lost in Tari’s translated shout.)

  Gwendafyn retreated behind the stack of crates, then kicked the top one into the soldier’s face, making him reel backwards.

  With an effortless hop, she jumped on top of the crates, purposely stood on the edge so they started to tip forward, then leaped into the air.

  The crates crashed into the soldier’s legs, making him pin-wheel his arms. Gwendafyn kneed him in the chest on her way down, and he tipped over like a chopped tree.

  Gwendafyn had to twist awkwardly to avoid landing directly on top of him and wobbled a little when she landed in a crouch, catching herself with her hands.

  “We’ve told you before—roll when you land a fancy jump,” Wilford squinted in the sunlight as he yelled. “Use your shoulder to take the brunt of your fall and move with it, or you’re going to twist an ankle or break a wrist one of these days!”

  Tari—impressively—managed to sound like an angry bear as she translated it into Elvish.

  Gwendafyn nodded as she stood and gave her sword a test twirl, then yipped when her opponent wrapped a meaty hand around her left ankle and pulled it out from under her.