Royal Magic

by K. M. Shea

Gwendafyn frowned slightly. “What do you mean by that?”

  “They might be men from other countries, sent to wreak havoc in Calnor. Or they might be exiles, convicts on the run, and so on.”

  Gwendafyn brandished one finger in the air. “I beg your pardon, you said they might have been sent here?”

  “Yep.” Benjimir stared at his boots.

  “But why?” Gwendafyn furrowed her brow as she tried to comprehend the idea. Why would you actively seek to cause trouble for your neighbor?

  Benjimir shrugged. “Calnor has always held high prominence on the continent. As you Lesser Elves refuse to trade with anyone else, we are the continent’s only source of elven goods. Elven goods have become high in demand over the past century or two, and we have gained a lot of revenue as a result.”

  “But if that’s the way things have been, and they have not tried such a thing before, that implies something changed,” Gwendafyn said.

  Benjimir smiled at Gwendafyn with enough warmth to make her clear her throat and drop her eyes.

  “I do so adore that crafty mind of yours,” he said.

  Gwendafyn winced. “That’s not really a compliment for a Lesser Elf.”

  Benjimir sat upright in his chair and groaned as he rolled his shoulders. “Who cares—you seem to have more of the High Elf blood in your veins anyway.”

  That idea made Gwendafyn scowl. “Again, not a compliment for Lesser Elves.” At least, not in the way he meant it.

  It was true that Evening Stars had to have more High Elf blood in them—that was partially why the sarcastic and caustic Seer Ringali was so freakishly powerful. But as the second elf princess, it was not a desirable trait.

  “Regardless,” Benjimir drawled—quite the achievement given that he did so in Elvish, “you are correct in thinking something has changed in recent years to upset that status quo.”

  Gwendafyn briefly bit her lip. “Tari and Arion? But they’ve mostly had repercussions on Lessa’s and Calnor’s communication. What do other countries care of such things if Lessa is only available to Calnor anyway?”

  “Ahh, this is where as an elf you aren’t quite aware of the changes they’ve brought because you’ve lived with them all your life,” Benjimir said. “Since their ability to talk to each other was established—months before they were married—Lady Tarinthali and Sir Arion have met on a weekly basis to discuss issues that the Translator’s Circle has been incapable of broaching.”

  “I vaguely remember Yvrea saying something similar in one of her letters home.” Gwendafyn tried to tuck a few locks of her loose hair back in her braid. “But I never understood the point of it.”

  “The Translator’s Circle strives to achieve conversational fluency,” Benjimir explained. “They are trained for communication. The topics Tari and Arion discussed ranged from medical practices to agricultural methods—things that are hard to discuss without full mastery of the language, and topics that would normally never be discussed socially.”

  “That seems valid,” Gwendafyn said doubtfully as she gave up fixing her braid and yanked the ribbon out of her hair, letting it spill everywhere.

  Benjimir cracked a smile. “Those talks brought about huge knowledge breakthroughs for Calnor. Through Tari and Arion, we were introduced to new medical practices, revolutionary building methods—even things as mundane as cloth production.”

  “Did you say breakthroughs?” Gwendafyn asked.

  Benjimir nodded. “You elves have advanced practices and knowledge that are hundreds of years old that no human country was aware of or had yet discovered.”

  Gwendafyn stared at Benjimir, not certain if she should laugh at the thought of Aunt Lorius’ much lauded traditions actually being good for something, or if she should pity humans for being that dimwitted.

  Benjimir laughed. “I can see shock and perhaps horror in your eyes, but I’m afraid that yes, it is true. Whether it’s due to your natural wisdom, or knowledge given to you by the High Elves that they did not wish to share, as a culture, your people are far more advanced than any country on the continent.” Benjimir rubbed the back of his neck. “It is also likely why so many have forgotten the threat of High Elves. It’s easy to be lulled into acceptance when you have a race as bright and pacifist as yours standing before them.”

  “You think these changes might have caused envy among the other human countries?” Gwendafyn guessed. “Because it suddenly took you from being the sole exporter of elven goods to also having similarly advanced knowledge?”

  Benjimir rested his elbows on his legs and leaned forward to adjust one of his boots. “Exactly. That’s quite the sudden jump in power—and it happened over the span of a few years instead of resulting from decades of careful work.”

  “The other countries see us as tame kittens, don’t they?” Gwendafyn asked.

  “By us, I assume you are referring to the Lesser Elves?” Benjimir asked.

  Gwendafyn nodded.

  “In some ways. As I said before, they’ve forgotten the High Elves—and they’ve forgotten your connection to them,” Benjimir said.

  “And you have not,” Gwendafyn stated more than asked, but she was curious for the difference in opinion. Even most Calnor citizens seem to think High Elves are a distant memory—one without teeth.

  “As I said at the market, it’s more a defense decision.” Benjimir lazily leaned back again so he could study her. “And it doesn’t hurt to be married to a Lesser Elf who could probably take on a squad of my best Honor Guards.”

  Gwendafyn felt her cheeks warm in the threat of a blush. “I’m not that skilled.”

  “Yet,” Benjimir said. “You learn faster than anyone I’ve seen, and you adapt extraordinarily well. That’s probably what makes you so capable—your ability to instantly apply a move that someone attempts to pull over you.”

  Gwendafyn busied herself with arranging her hair over one shoulder. I love my lessons—I love fighting with a sword…but that’s a grim thing for a Lesser Elf to enjoy.

  “And that’s one of the reasons why I’m comfortable bringing you on the bandit raids,” Benjimir continued. “I’ll be leaving on another one soon—we must capture those leaders. If the bandits really are seeded by another country, we have to discover whom. It’s too dangerous not knowing when they might choose to strike with more than bandits. And if the raiders truly are organized by our people, we must track down the origins of this strife.”

  “Of course,” Gwendafyn said.

  Benjimir tilted his head as he studied her. “If you’d like to, you can come along.”

  Gwendafyn perked. “Really?”

  The slightest hint of a smile curved Benjimir’s lips. “Truly.”

  “Then yes, I’d like to come. Where are we going? When are we going?” Gwendafyn asked.

  “We don’t have any details yet, but we will be going to our western border,” Benjimir said. “And while I expect we will leave in the next two weeks or so, we will await my father’s command to move out.”

  Gwendafyn had a hard time keeping an idiotic grin off her lips. I’m going with Benjimir—and I didn’t even have to ask him this time! I get to leave Haven and see Calnor with my own eyes!

  Benjimir sighed deeply, breaking Gwendafyn from her internal celebration.

  “Do you not want to go?” Gwendafyn asked as she gazed at his face—which was smooth and expressionless. It will mean parting with Yvrea, after all. “Is that why you are up so late?”

  Benjimir shook his head. “Not at all. It’s part of my duties. No, it’s the troubling knowledge that we don’t know who is organizing the bandits. And if this is all really a scheme of one of our dear neighbors…”

  “How, then, are you to stop them?” Gwendafyn finished, speaking the words Benjimir did not.

  Benjimir grimly nodded and returned his gaze to the still crackling fire. “We must avoid war, but we can’t let anyone think they can stomp over Calnor as they choose. It would affect not only our lands, but Lessa as well.�
� He frowned as the flames cast a burnished gold light upon the planes of his face, making him look even more royal than usual.

  Gwendafyn watched him for several moments. I’ve underestimated him, she realized with a prickling of guilt. I’ve always assumed Yvrea was his biggest worry. But he does concern himself with his country. He may not relish in his duties, but he will still perform them to the best of his abilities.

  Gwendafyn briefly dropped her gaze to her fingers and stretched them out. I don’t believe I married a “nice” man, but it seems I have married a valiant one. She tied her hair back in a low ponytail, just to give her fingers something to do, then abruptly stood.

  “I understand,” she said, “but you need rest.”

  Benjimir raised an eyebrow—though he did not look away from the fire.

  Gwendafyn stepped closer and rested her hand on his forearm. “You should go to bed.”

  Benjimir roused from his stupor long enough to smirk at Gwendafyn. “The fire is good enough for me tonight.” He twisted slightly to glance behind his chair, at the door that led into his chambers. “I don’t much fancy being alone in my room at the moment.”

  Whether it was the guilt spurring her on or her over-confidence in their friendship, Gwendafyn found herself saying, “If that is so, then sleep in my room.” Her lips turned numb with horror when she realized what she had said, and it took every ounce of her self-control to keep from bulging her eyes and slapping her mouth shut in repayment for loosening such a stupid and impertinent offer.

  Benjimir jerked his gaze back to her. “What?” he asked.

  Gwendafyn wished she could swear in Elvish under her breath, but there was a fairly good chance Benjimir would know what the words meant, so she couldn’t risk it. Instead, she straightened her robe and shrugged uncaringly. “If you don’t want to be alone tonight, sleep with me in my room.”

  Benjimir stared at her, his expression blank.

  Gwendafyn awkwardly cleared her throat. “If you touch me, though, I will smother you,” she promised.

  The threat made a rare, full smile break across Benjimir’s face. “Not feeling cuddly tonight?” he asked.

  Gwendafyn turned on her heels and started to march back to her room. “Forget I asked.”

  “Gwendafyn,” Benjimir called, his voice serious.

  She paused and turned around to face him.

  He furrowed his brow and shifted in his armchair. “Did you mean it?”

  “The smothering or the offer?” Gwendafyn asked.

  “The offer.”

  It was Gwendafyn’s turn to tilt her head and study him. “Of course.”

  Benjimir stood, and there was a foreign light in his eyes as he slowly took a step closer to her.

  “Though I also will make good on my threat,” she was quick to add.

  His expression didn’t change as he drew closer to her, but he wordlessly nodded.

  Gwendafyn awkwardly cleared her throat. “Yes. Well then.” She padded back to her room, incredibly aware of Benjimir following behind her.

  I don’t believe this—what is happening? And what possessed me to make this offer?

  As Gwendafyn shed her robe, she was incredibly thankful she had chosen a long, thick nightgown that covered her as much as a gown and hopped into bed with all due speed, quickly sliding under the covers.

  Benjimir sat on the opposite side and removed his boots before collapsing on top of the duvet with a sigh.

  I’ve never seen him without his boots on. It feels strangely…personal.

  Seeing—and thankful—that he wasn’t going to slide under the covers, Gwendafyn sat up long enough to fish a soft, purple blanket off the foot of her bed.

  She ignored the amused quirk in Benjimir’s eyebrows as she laid the blanket over him, then immediately snuggled back under the covers.

  He laid on his back and seemed to stare up at the gauzy canopy that hung over her bed.

  Gwendafyn smiled sadly. Ahhh, yes. That’s why I offered. Because he needs a safe haven tonight. I’m not sure if I can truly offer him peace, but at least I can try.

  She poked one arm out from under her covers. “Benjimir,” she said as she laid her hand on his cheek.

  The prince twisted his head so he could meet her gaze. “Yes?”

  Gwendafyn brushed her fingers against his cheek and couldn’t help her fond smile. “Goodnight.”

  Benjimir exhaled deeply as she withdrew her hand. “Goodnight,” he echoed.

  Gwendafyn flipped to her side so her back was to him. It took a moment to calm her erratically beating heart.

  Don’t be foolish, she reminded herself. He loves Yvrea.

  She heard him shift, and the bed moved a little as he adjusted.

  He loves Yvrea, she repeated. Someone I can’t come close to at all. I’m just too…me.

  Even with the mental scolding, warmth radiated from Gwendafyn’s chest as she slowly drifted off to sleep.

  Sunlight caressed Gwendafyn’s cheek, slowly prodding her awake. She yawned as she stretched her arms out in front of her and sat up in her bed, nearly putting her hand on Benjimir in the process.

  The Calnor prince had kept his promise and hadn’t touched Gwendafyn at all. But sometime during the night, he had traversed the giant bed and gotten as close to her as possible.

  He slept on his side, his body slightly contorted to fit around Gwendafyn without touching her.

  She leaned over him to peer down at his face, which was more peaceful and open than Gwendafyn had ever witnessed. Sunlight cascaded in from the thinly veiled windows, bathing him in light, and his breath was deep and even.

  Still sleeping then.

  Gwendafyn slipped from her bed and once again donned her robe. She stopped in front of her unnecessarily large mirror to grab a brush and drag it through her long, dark locks as she studied her husband.

  This morning is traditionally a day where we eat breakfast with the Calnor Royal Family, but he’s sleeping so peacefully, I’d hate to wake him.

  Gwendafyn pondered the matter as she tossed her brush aside and instead tucked her hair into a half braid that ended at the base of her skull and let the rest of her hair cascade over her shoulders.

  Her hair temporarily taken care of, Gwendafyn pressed her lips together then nodded. I don’t care if this is a royal breakfast morning. He looked tortured last night. I’m not rousing him only to immediately plunk him down to eat with that mother of his.

  Her mind made up, Gwendafyn silently stalked to her quarter’s private entrance that opened up into the hallway. As usual, two Honor Guards and two human handmaidens were stationed there.

  “Good Morning, Your Highness,” the handmaidens chorused as they curtseyed.

  Gwendafyn took a deep breath—if she spoke carefully, the girls would understand her Calnoric. “Good morning.”

  One handmaiden beamed in pride, while the other serenely clasped her hands in front of her.

  “Can we help prepare you for the day?” the hand-clasper asked.

  “Not yet,” Gwendafyn said. “I’d like breakfast in my room today,” Gwendafyn said, finding it hard not to pause and cough with the guttural consonants of the language. (Thad, Wilford, and Grygg understood her despite her thick accent; unfortunately almost everyone else did not.)

  “Very good, Your Highness. We will fetch you a tray,” the other handmaiden said.

  “Two,” Gwendafyn quickly added. When the handmaidens blinked at her, she licked her lips in concentration as she tried to clearly enunciate. “I need two trays.”

  The handmaidens blinked, until one of them glanced past Gwendafyn, then immediately covered her smile with her hand. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

  Gwendafyn closed the door, relieved she had gotten the message across—and padded across her room.

  She intended to select a dress from her wardrobe but paused by her bed when she noticed Benjimir had crept a hand out into the space she had vacated, as if searching for her.

  She s
at on the edge of the bed and admired the way the sunlight glittered in his gold hair.

  His features were striking—very different from the soft and serene features of a Lesser Elf. They were harder and more unforgiving. But as he continued to venture around her abandoned spot, his hair falling over his face and making him look years younger, Gwendafyn didn’t think he had ever looked more handsome.

  His hand brushed her leg, and he stirred. “Fyn?” He murmured in a rusty voice as he slowly blinked his eyes open.

  Gwendafyn smiled at the family nickname but was more than a little surprised to hear him utter it. “Good morning,” she said. She paused for a moment, wondering if she dared to, then brushed some of his hair from his eyes.

  Benjimir rolled onto his back and inched closer to her. “Morning,” he yawned, his voice still deep with sleep.

  “You can sleep longer,” Gwendafyn offered. “My handmaidens are bringing us breakfast.”

  He offered her a rare, unguarded smile. “I did well in marrying you.”

  Gwendafyn flicked another lock of his hair from his eyes. “It has turned out better than we anticipated, hasn’t it?”

  “Certainly.” Benjimir was still for a moment, then started to sit up. He paused when he was entirely upright, then leaned into her. “Good morning,” he whispered into her ear.

  Gwendafyn stiffened her spine to keep from shivering. “You already said that,” she pointed out.

  “Did I?” Benjimir’s voice was lazy and unconcerned as he kissed her cheek.

  “You did,” Gwendafyn confirmed.

  Benjimir grumbled under his breath and briefly rested his forehead against her shoulder so his breath brushed her neck. “Right, I’ll get up,” he said—even though he didn’t budge.

  “Why would you have to get up?” Gwendafyn asked.

  “So we can eat?” Benjimir suggested as he kissed her cheek again.

  Cripes—he’s more affectionate when he gets in a mood than an elf. Gwendafyn did her best to push the thought of her husband’s attractiveness from her mind. “We’ll have breakfast in bed.”

  Benjimir frowned slightly. “Have what?”

  “Breakfast in bed. You know…you eat while in bed,” Gwendafyn attempted to explain. “Didn’t you do that occasionally as a child?”