by K. M. Shea
“He is also quite splendid as well.”
Arvel leaned back so he could study her with narrowed eyes. “What? He’s not a lesser like me?”
“He is married to My Princess Gwendafyn; thus, I am fully prepared to embrace him as a legend as well.”
“But you gave me that look when I pointed out that I’m Fyn’s bond partner!” Arvel squawked.
Myth, unable to help herself, gave him another pitying look. “It’s all right. One day I’m sure your position of…” she purposely paused and looked extra pitying, “crown prince…will bring you glory just as your brother and My Princess Gwendafyn have found.”
“Considering you can look as polite as the best of the elves and have that face that hides what you’re thinking, you have a poisonous tongue, Myth,” Arvel complained. “Besides, you said I was your employer; haven’t you heard of employee loyalty?”
“I shall endeavor to display all signs of employee loyalty once you personally hand me my wages.”
Arvel laughed deeply. “Oh, Myth. I think social events are going to be a great deal more fun with you around.”
“One can only hope. Should you not join your family in the line to receive guests?”
“Yes, I don’t think we can avoid it much longer. Come.” Arvel abandoned his glass to the care of a servant. “I’ll squirm between Benjimir and Fyn so you can stand by your hero.”
“I’ve always said crown princes make the best employers.”
“That’s what I want to hear!”
“That sounds beautiful! Translator Myth, please express my delight on my behalf?” a Calnorian lord asked.
His wife nodded excitedly. “And please add my awe—Jubilee sounds like a place of beauty. Does it really have one thousand trees in it?”
Myth was already murmuring to the two visiting elf nobles who made up the other half of the conversation, using subtle hand gestures to motion to the Calnorian lord and lady and express their feelings on the matter.
The elves smiled and gracefully tipped their heads in bows of acceptance, before they made their reply in Elvish.
Arvel appeared to listen to the conversation webbed around him, but in reality, he was watching Myth.
As a translator, she kept the conversation spinning flawlessly—as if it were a dance. There wasn’t the usual awkward stop-and-go that most translated conversations had. Rather, it was almost like Myth was presiding over the conversation, and kept it going with a few subtle nudges. He hadn’t noticed that in other translators—was he just blind to it, or was Myth really that good?
I can’t say for certain. I’m aware I’ve only paid more attention to the role since Myth joined me.
She wasn’t perfect—or maybe a better description was she felt she wasn’t perfect enough. She hadn’t made any mistakes so far in their first social event, but she’d hesitated a few times before apparently finding the rhythm in her translations.
Arvel shifted his stance, allowing him to discreetly adjust one of his daggers hidden inside his waistcoat, which had been poking him in the ribs. He paused when the Calnorian lady said something directly to Myth, which made her smile before she turned and relayed the comment to the elf lords.
“Arvel, my boy! Good to see you, lad!” King Petyrr exploded onto the scene with the sudden appearance of someone who shouldn’t be able to move around so silently while a translator, a kitchen boy carrying a puppy, two aides, and a chef trailed in his wake.
He affectionately smacked Arvel between the shoulders, and gave his sunny smile to the Calnorian nobles and the visiting elf lords. “Sorry to interrupt this delightful little meeting of yours, but might I steal my son for a moment? His lovely little translator will stay with you to translate until I bring him back.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the two Calnorian nobles were quick to say.
Myth appeared to translate this to the elves with the serenity of a tranquil stream, which surprised Arvel a little. Most people weren’t so unflappable when faced with the fullness that was King Petyrr. He was a joyful man to behold and was even more larger-than-life when viewed closer.
The elves murmured a response to Myth, then bowed slightly.
“Elves Inthreal and Pharryc wish to express their delight in seeing His Majesty King Petyrr, and hope that your conversation with His Royal Highness Crown Prince Arvel is enlightening and restful.”
“Thank you! I also hope it can be enlightening. Come along, Arvel!” King Petyrr had to reach up to throw his arm around Arvel—who was quite a bit taller than he—but he yanked Arvel along as if he were one of the king’s favorite pets.
Arvel staggered, but righted himself quickly enough so he didn’t trip as his father relentlessly marched on.
Numerous lords and ladies tried to flag the king down, but he determinedly marched past them, gently declining invitations with a merry wave and matching smile.
Arvel was somewhat surprised when King Petyrr walked him all the way out of the Little Hall, then turned around to his tail. “All right all of you, time to scram for a bit. I need some time with my son—except you. I’ll take that.” King Petyrr stopped the kitchen boy with a wink and took the fuzzy puppy from him, cradling the dog in his arms.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Rollo bowed, then slipped back inside the Little Hall, making a dash for King Celrin.
The rest of his followers were not so easily dissuaded. It took King Petyrr puffing up like a cat and sternly barking, “Off with you all!” before they scattered, leaving the father and son alone.
The king petted the puppy for a few moments, then turned to Arvel with a wide smile of good humor that instantly put Arvel on his guard.
It wasn’t that Arvel was afraid of his father. Not at all. If Queen Luciee was icy and unmotherly, King Petyrr made up for it by showering love on his sons and giving them all of the warmth a child could hope for. But Arvel was enough like his father to pick out when he was scheming something…because he always hid it uncannily well.
“Enjoying the luncheon?” King Petyrr asked with an alarming amount of harmlessness.
“Yes…” Arvel cautiously said.
“Your new translator is a pretty little thing. Are you sure you only think of her as a sort of library companion?”
Arvel narrowed his eyes. “What is this about, Father?”
King Petyrr side-eyed him. “Going to avoid answering that, are you? Very well!” He chuckled when the puppy snuggled into his arms. “I thought I should let you know that after a bit of consideration, I’ve decided to make you the Chief Liaison of the Elven Trade Division in the Commerce Department. You’ll be responsible for all facets of Lessa trade, and you are now the ultimate leader of that trade division. What you say, goes.”
Arvel leaned back on his heels.
I had prepared myself for a lot of things. This was not one of them.
“I’m in charge of the trade just with Lessa?” Arvel asked.
“Indeed.” King Petyrr rested his arms on the bulge of his own belly. “You are the crown prince. It is time for me to hand off more responsibilities. I mean to shift leadership of the entire Commerce Department to you in the next few years, but this is the perfect way to learn what will be expected of you.”
“And you just happened to decide on putting me in charge of all Lessa trade?”
“You’re already involved in that practice. It seemed like a simple jump.”
“It is,” Arvel agreed. “But I’m already involved in another half a dozen departments—ones that I already play a larger role in: like economic development and guild regulations. I’m curious to hear why you didn’t decide on one of those.”
King Petyrr rested a hand on the puppy’s back as it started to fall asleep. “That intent on figuring it out, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Ahh, well. I’m giving you this position because it will give you the chance to fight back against your mother.”
Arvel had been edging over to the side of the hallway, so they wouldn’t stand in the
dead center in case anyone came upon them. But upon his father’s proclamation, he froze. “What?”
“I know how she yanked you around two days ago, and I know why she decided to do it. It is to your credit that you outfoxed her and finished the changed order regardless of the short notice.”
Arvel reached out to gently rub the puppy on the top of its head. “I couldn’t have done it without Myth—my translator. Since she’s a trade translator she had some of the training necessary to fill out all the logs and proper forms.”
“Then I’m all the more glad you requested her. Arvel, look at me.”
Surprised by the gravity that lined King Petyrr’s voice, Arvel met his gaze.
“I’m making you chief liaison because that gives you the power to fight back,” King Petyrr said. “The next time your mother tries to punish you in that way, you’ll have the power to refuse her.”
Arvel sighed.
“You’ll have to face her sooner or later,” King Petyrr said, his voice still unusually quiet and grim. “You’re my heir. Objectively, that means you have more power than her, but you won’t really have it until you take on more and more responsibilities. That will give you an arsenal to fight back. And you’ll need to, Arvel. I married a power-hungry woman. Even though you are her son, she’ll use you if it means securing what she wants. She’ll do her best to tame you into something she can use.”
Arvel rubbed his face. “Why did you ever choose Mother to marry?”
“I didn’t,” King Petyrr plainly said. “Ours was an arranged marriage forged by politics. It was fine enough at the start, but once my own parents passed on…” He shook his head and trailed off.
This could be my future, Arvel realized as he stared at his father. Even if I won’t have an arranged marriage, can I really trust that whomever I choose won’t marry me just for the power?
“Of course, you could always thwart her and find a lovely bride yourself.” King Petyrr’s voice had taken on a slightly petulant tone, but his jolly smile was back and his eyes twinkled once again.
Whatever seriousness he had allowed Arvel to see was gone.
“I’m not ready for marriage,” Arvel said.
“Nonsense! You’ve been the most responsible and empathetic of my sons since you were a child,” King Petyrr chortled. “But, of course, you must take your time in choosing a woman worthy of being the future Queen of Calnor—and my daughter-in-law.”
The puppy woke from its short nap and barked in joy, wagging its stubby tail.
Arvel carefully scratched under its chin. “Perhaps I’m just waiting.”
“Don’t wait too long,” King Petyrr warned. “Or I shall be severely displeased. Because of you I haven’t gotten any more grandchildren!”
“Because of me?” Arvel raised an eyebrow. “I object; that certainly seems more of a problem on Benjimir’s and Gwendafyn’s end. And you already have grandchildren.”
“Yes, but they aren’t here because Vincent and Claire are off visiting Peregrine as he fulfills his duties as Calnor’s foreign ambassador. I ought to just make that boy the minister of foreign affairs, he does so delight in traveling,” King Petyrr grunted.
“They’ll be back soon, and then you can encourage them to have more children.”
“I can, and I shall!” King Petyrr beamed, then shook his head. “I mean, no! I wish to see little half elves running around, calling me grandpa in sweet elven tones!”
“Then, as I stated earlier, that problem lies on the shoulders of Benjimir and Gwendafyn. You can hardly complain to me because they haven’t had any children,” Arvel said.
“Oh yes I can complain! You’re the reason why they haven’t had any children!”
Arvel mirrored his father and folded his arms across his chest. “How can I be the reason why they haven’t had any children?”
The king was momentarily distracted when the puppy tried licking his face. “I say, stop that you little rascal—though you are a cute scamp.” He shook his head and refocused. “That is to say, they’ve chosen not to have any children because of you.”
“What?”
“You’re the crown prince,” King Petyrr pointed out. “Yet you’re not married, so there’s not even the prospect of future heirs on the horizon.”
“And?”
“Benjimir and Gwendafyn are both very aware of their popularity. Well, darling Gwendafyn is popular. Given that she travels with the Honor Guards on select missions and is powerful to boot, the general populace views her as a warrior of the people. And the courts practically hang off her every word—as they should!” King Arvel stoutly nodded, and the puppy gave a little howl of agreement. “And everyone knows Benjimir is powerful given his position as commanding general. He’s greatly solidified our military powers, and with Gwendafyn at his back our dear allies have backed off considerably from their usual hostile talk. Goodness knows how much fun Peregrine has reminding our neighboring countries of their power.”
“I’m well aware that Gwendafyn and Benjimir create an amazing power base for Calnor, and I’m extremely thankful to them because it means for the first time in a long time we can focus on things like our economy and trade,” Arvel said. “But I still don’t see what this has to do with their lack of children.”
“It’s because they know, Arvel, that if they had children, nearly everyone would push to make their child the next heir as long as you skip about your merry, unfettered way and give the people no security in your lineage,” King Petyrr bluntly said. “And that is why I have no delightful half-elf grandchildren to play with.”
Arvel paused. “Truly?”
King Petyrr hesitated as the puppy inquisitively sniffed his beard, then nodded. “Yes. Once you’re married you can solidify your position as king, and your brother and sister-in-law can cement their roles as being more on the military end. The people could settle, then.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps they don’t think I’m the best choice for crown prince.”
“I know you’re the best choice, and the people trust me,” King Petyrr declared. He scratched behind the puppy’s ears. “What evil thing has settled in your belly to make you say that? When I made you my heir you were surprised, but you didn’t mind.”
“I still don’t.” Arvel sagged against the hallway wall, and exhaustion nipped at his heels.
He was tired, not just because of the all-nighter he’d pulled the previous day—it had been harder to pull off than it used to be, giving Arvel the sinking suspicion he was getting old—but also because he just felt beaten.
“I’m honored to be given the role, and while I’m aware it’s a responsibility, I am grateful for the chance to help my people and my country. It’s just…” Arvel stared at a worn spot on the red and purple diamond-shaped carpet spread across the floor. “I feel like I can’t find a woman—a future queen—who can see me past my crown.”
King Petyrr shifted the puppy to one arm so he could pat Arvel on the arm with his newly freed hand. “I’m sorry, lad.”
“How do I do it, Father?” Arvel asked. “How do I know when someone sees me?”
King Petyrr heaved a deep sigh. “I wish I knew. I really do. But I can promise you that you’ll find the right lass. And then you’ll know. Correct?”
Arvel reluctantly nodded.
“Good! I trust you to marry for love.” King Petyrr swiveled on his heels and started to march back to the Little Hall.
“How can you know I’ll end up with someone I’ll love who could also be a good queen?” Arvel asked.
“Hah!” A gust of laughter burst out of King Petyrr, and he turned around long enough to grin. “You are my most studious and intellectually brilliant son. Any girl you love will have the intelligence, reason, and manners required of a queen!”
8
It was quiet in the library.
The sunshine drifting down through the skylights painted the pages of Myth’s books—A History of Calnorian Table Manners, and An Introductory Manual of
Social Translation—deep reds and swirls of gold.
She glanced up from the books and smiled as she studied Arvel, who was poring over a stack of logbooks. A wooden tray holding two tea cups was positioned in front of him, and tiny swirls of steam rose from the fragrant cups.
Myth suspected the tea inside the library was a perk of being a royal, but Arvel insisted drinks were allowed in the meeting area they had taken over on the second floor. They were pushed back against the farthest wall, nestled into a corner. To reach any books Myth would have had to fling her teacup with the strength of a warrior—they were surrounded by tables dappled with light shed by elven lanterns. But Myth had never received the treat of refreshments in the library until she started working for Arvel.
She took a sip of her tea—which had a faint peach flavor to it—and her cup clacked when she set it down. All in all, she was deeply pleased by the evening.
Arvel, sadly, was not half as happy. He sighed and pinched his nose as he pushed the records away from him.
“Are the various records not matching up?” Myth asked. “You’re still working on the trade reports between Lessa and Calnor, aren’t you? Or have you switched back to studying tariffs?”
“I’m still looking at the trade logs.” Arvel set his hands on the desk and stretched his fingers wide. “I’m trying to churn up dirt on the Fultons. I think I’ve found enough, but I’ll have to do some digging and circle back to the treasury department to access the Fultons’ tax records.”
“What have you found?”
“I noticed a pattern—they frequently like to make last minute changes to their orders, and at least half of the time when they receive a shipment of elven goods, some sort of tragedy befalls their caravan on the way home. Occasionally it’s taken by bandits, or a road washes out and they lose the wagon, or the weather ruins the goods. It is entirely my guess, but I suspect they’re taking whatever goods they ‘lose’ and selling them illegally outside the country.”
Myth frowned. “Why on earth would they do that?”
“Because we’ve imposed a heavy tariff on all elven exports sold beyond Calnor’s borders,” Arvel explained. “The tariffs force the prices to go so high that only a small percentage of potential customers can afford it. It’s necessary, because it’s the only way we can keep nobles from ordering an excessive amount of goods and then forgoing selling to our people entirely in lieu of marketing them outside of Calnor, where there is a tremendous demand and they can charge more.”
