The Prince's Bargain

by K. M. Shea

  “I’m not blind, Your Highness,” Sir Arion said plainly. “I made that request when I sent off the order.”

  What does he mean by that?

  “I hate to say it, but is it proper to house her there?” Prince Benjimir asked.

  Princess Gwendafyn, Lady Tari, and Myth all swung their gazes to the prince.

  “What do you mean?” Princess Gwendafyn asked.

  Myth bowed slightly. “He is referring to the unnecessary grace sleeping in the royal wing would bestow upon a translator. I agree with His Highness.”

  Prince Benjimir looked slightly uncomfortable as he ruffled his gold hair in a mannerism Myth had witnessed in Arvel before. “No, I was more referring to your reputation. People talk, especially the gossiping shrews…”

  Lady Tari frowned and peered up at Arion, who was caressing his baby’s cheek with a finger. “He’s referring to a trivial human convention, isn’t he?”

  “Must be,” Gwendafyn muttered. “We elves wouldn’t worry over a silly thing like reputation. Do nobles think royal titles are contagious diseases?”

  “No, I’ve read about reputations.” Myth shook her head. “It has to do with a person’s sterling character. If I get a poor reputation, I may be doubted in a court of law, correct? We can’t have that—my work may be doubted in the investigation against the Fultons.”

  Sir Arion glared at Prince Benjimir. “As you can see,” he said grimly, “it doesn’t occur to our elven peers to be concerned about anything improper, because they haven’t the mind of a deviant.”

  “Yes, I should have known,” Prince Benjimir said. “I guess it doesn’t matter, then? None of the elves will care.”

  “The Fultons will care,” Arvel darkly said. “But that’s fine. I have plans for them, anyway.”

  Now it was Prince Benjimir’s and Sir Arion’s turn to stare at Arvel as if he’d grown another head.

  Lady Tari adjusted her baby, tucking a blanket around his feet. “If the matter is settled, then, we’ll be taking our leave. Sius, come!”

  The large snow cat prowled after his mistress, his long tail twitching behind him.

  “After you, Mythlan.” Princess Gwendafyn smiled at Myth and stood aside, beckoning for her to go first.

  Myth moved to join her, but paused when Arvel caught her hand.

  “Sleep well, Myth,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Myth nodded. “You as well. I’m…I’m glad you weren’t hurt worse. Be careful.”

  The concern that wrinkled Arvel’s forehead disappeared, and he smiled. “If you wish it, I will.”

  Across the room, Sir Arion looked like he wanted to strangle the crown prince, and rested his hands on his sword belt so he wouldn’t be tempted.

  Myth squeezed Arvel’s hand, then hurried after Princess Gwendafyn and Lady Tari. Exhaustion was starting to close in on her, making her eyelids heavy and her eyes feel gritty.

  When Lady Tari bumped her arm against Myth’s, Myth jumped in surprise. Lady Tari caught her eye and winked. “Don’t worry. You’ll be able to sleep soon.”

  Myth ducked her head. “I apologize for my selfishness.”

  “It’s not selfish at all,” Lady Tari said. “I have some experience with garden attacks, so I can personally attest that they are tiring experiences.”

  “Speaking of which, you did well, Mythlan.” Princess Gwendafyn was taller than both Myth and Lady Tari, so she had to look down slightly to smile at them. “I heard how you kept your head and shouted the number of armed assailants all while switching between Calnoric and Elvish. It made you that much easier to find, and is to be commended.”

  “You are too kind,” Myth said. “I merely did what I was able to at the time, which was disappointingly little since I lack any kind of combat abilities.”

  “I disagree,” Lady Tari said. “Fyn is quite right—you acted very admirably tonight. You should be proud of yourself.”

  Myth pressed her lips together, sensing this was an argument she wasn’t going to win.

  “It’s heartwarming to see how Arvel cares for you,” Princess Gwendafyn continued. “I’m glad for him. He’s excited that being the crown prince means he’ll have the chance to institute change, but I know the title has made him lonelier.”

  “Yes,” Lady Tari agreed. “I am glad he has found you.”

  The way they say it, it makes us sound like a pair of star-fated lovers.

  “I don’t know that I understand what you mean,” Myth politely said.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lady Tari raised both of her eyebrows at her. “Arvel acts half in love with you.”

  “Quite so,” Princess Gwendafyn agreed.

  Myth didn’t know if shock from the attack was finally setting in or if the exhaustion from staying up so late was getting to her, but she had a hard time keeping up with the legendary duo. “I must beg your pardon, Lady Tari and Princess Gwendafyn, but you might be reading a little too deeply into our companionship.”

  Lady Tari slightly tugged on Myth’s arm, towing her down a different hallway when they reached an intersection. “Oh?”

  “We’re friends,” Myth acknowledged. “And I may overstep myself in saying I believe he enjoys my presence. But it is not as deep as you seem to think it.”

  “Are you certain he thinks that?” Princess Gwendafyn asked.

  “He’s my employer,” Myth said.

  “You say that as if it is some sort of defense,” Lady Tari said.

  “My advice is that if something does happen, you’ll be much better off if you fight off your embarrassment and gut instinct to hide it, and just tell Arvel,” Princess Gwendafyn said.

  Even though Princess Gwendafyn was her hero, Myth could only shake her head. “Nothing is going to happen.”

  Lady Tari and Princess Gwendafyn exchanged looks.

  “If you say so,” Lady Tari said. “But enough of this. We’re almost to the royal wing—and your room for tonight. I hope you find it comfortable…”

  “Your performance this morning was rather impressive.” Benjimir studied Arvel’s bookshelves—probably trying to find a tome he could filch, the over-grown rat. “I’ve said it before, but it’s a shame you didn’t take up fighting as a hobby.”

  Arvel rolled his shoulders back—even though it was just an hour past dawn, Benjimir had already subjected him to a grueling practice session, one he’d feel all day long. “It doesn’t interest me much. And I only learned daggers because you told me I had to learn a weapon when we were children, and that was the only kind that was light enough that I could use it and carry a bag of books at the same time.”

  Benjimir shrugged. “That intellectual bend of yours is what makes you the better crown prince. But I still regret your incomprehension of your own fighting potential. Wouldn’t you say, Arion?”

  Sir Arion was standing by the door, studying a paper. When Benjimir addressed him he looked up, not bothering to veil his impatience. “What.”

  Benjimir laughed. “Did I interrupt daydreams of your happy wife and beautiful children?”

  “No. This is the official guard rotation for His Royal Highness’s protection.”

  “As always, Arion, please call me Arvel.” Arvel smiled at the older man and glanced outside, where the bright sun bathed the gardens in warm light. “Once Myth arrives, we can do with the introductions.”

  “Introductions to who?” Myth asked.

  Arvel twisted around and smiled at his translator, who was hovering in the doorway with a suspicious look. “Myth, there you are. Arion and Benjimir are here to introduce us to our new protective retinue.”

  “I see. Good morning, Prince Benjimir, Sir Arion.” Myth bowed to each man.

  “Good morning, Translator Mythlan,” Benjimir politely greeted her.

  Arion had no time for such pleasantries. He stiffly nodded and disappeared into the hall where he barked an order at the soldiers gathered there.

  Myth glanced back at him as she slowly made her way int
o Arvel’s study, pausing at her designated table.

  Arvel abandoned his spot by his windows and approached her, carefully observing her for any sign of malady.

  You’d never guess by the crispness of her jacket, the perfect swish of her ponytail, and her calm expression that the previous night had been so long—and dangerous. She was as well dressed and lovely as usual. Next to her, Arvel felt a little like a slob—he was still in the doublet Benjimir had drilled him in.

  I hope I don’t smell too strongly of sweat.

  “Was your room to your liking?” Arvel asked. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Myth stared at his shoulder. “How is your wound?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. It’s so small Benjimir had no prickle of conscience when he made me practice with my daggers this morning.”

  “Practice keeps you alive.” Benjimir was back to studying Arvel’s shelves—a sure sign he was thinking of taking something.

  Arvel made a face at his older brother’s back and was rewarded with a throaty chuckle from Myth.

  “I’m glad you are well.” Her mirth was slow to fade, leaving a charming smile on her lips.

  Myth was an elf. She was beautiful in everything she did. But privately, Arvel liked it best when she smiled—or when she looked at him bug-eyed when he was flirting outrageously. Then she was adorably ruffled.

  He reconsidered his thoughts as he basked in her smile, and gulped guiltily.

  Myth is a good friend of mine—at least she believes that’s all it is. But despite my inexperience with the opposite gender, I’m fairly certain friends shouldn’t be mesmerized by the lips of another friend. But I don’t quite know what to do about it. I’ve always known she was beautiful, and I thought I’d like her. That’s why I bartered for her to be my translator.

  Myth’s smile faded, and she slightly tilted her head as she met Arvel’s open stare. “Arvel?”

  “Your Royal Highness, Translator Mythlan, please allow me to introduce you to the captains of the squadrons assigned to you,” Sir Arion announced.

  That snapped Arvel out of his sappy reverie. “Wait, captains?”

  Three men stood in a perfect row behind Sir Arion, every inch the ideal Honor Guard Captains in their uniforms with light armor and red capes that marked their station. “Your Highness,” they said in perfect unison as they snapped off salutes.

  “Captain Grygg, Captain Thad, and Captain Wilford,” Arion supplied to Arvel and Myth. “They are the best captains under my command, are loyal, and they lead excellent guards who are well versed and experienced in combat. They are dedicated to the royal family of Calnor.” He abruptly swung back around and said almost menacingly, “And they will be wholly professional, serious, and will not run any side businesses while serving you. Is that understood?”

  The three captains visibly buckled, and they saluted Arion with the same enthusiasm they had saluted Arvel. “Yes, sir!”

  Benjimir turned away from his plotting. “Your little Trio of Daftness? Yes, they’ll be perfect for Arvel.”

  “I don’t need three squadrons of Honor Guards,” Arvel said.

  “Come, now, Arvel. You don’t know what esteemed guards you have here.” Benjimir actually nodded respectfully to the middle captain—Thad, Arion had called him. “Captain Thad here was captured with me and was nearly killed defending me before Fyn came and rescued us. And Fyn is usually accompanied by the Trio of Daftness and their men if she’s sent out on a mission that involves the Honor Guard.”

  “If you esteem them so, has it not occurred to you that your nickname for them is hurtful?” Arvel suggested.

  “It matters not,” Arion said stonily. “They deserve it.”

  Arvel glanced at the Honor Guard Captains, curious to see if they were angered. To his surprise, the trio looked rather contrite. Captain Thad guiltily stared at the ground, Captain Wilford stared at the ceiling, and Captain Grygg veered between wincing and looking pleased.

  What an interesting group. Perhaps it will be fun to work with them.

  “However,” Arion continued, “there is no one else I trust more in the Honor Guards. Given your intention to pin the Fultons down, you need protection—specifically from guards you can trust.” Arion motioned to the trio. “That is them.”

  “Commander,” Captain Grygg sniffed. “You’re going to make us emotional with such kind statements like that!”

  “They are also insipidly stupid,” Arion acidly said. “But I believe you have an abundance of intelligence, so you will balance them out.”

  Arvel slowly nodded—not that he agreed with Arion’s assessment, but the earlier part about the Fultons. “Thank you for your great concern in this matter, Arion. I’m aware there’s a chance I’ll be attacked again; but I’m personally hoping Uncle Julyan will change his tactic and make a political move to throw doubt on me as the crown prince instead.”

  “Uncle Julyan has the temperament of a thug,” Benjimir said. “He wouldn’t think of doing anything with even a fraction of the finesse needed for a social campaign against you. Nor is he that skilled in subtlety—as you have told me, his illegal dealings became quite flagrant when Grandfather died and he took over as the leader of the Fultons.”

  Arvel shrugged. “I’d rather overestimate than underestimate my enemy.”

  Benjimir rolled his eyes, but Arvel was more concerned with Myth. He glanced over at her and warred with himself for a moment.

  No, I need to make the offer. I care more about her wellbeing than my satisfaction or happiness.

  “Myth,” he began. “As you’ve probably assessed, things are going to get dangerous from here on. There’s a high chance I’ll be attacked again—or maligned in some way. You don’t have to keep working with me.”

  Myth glanced at Arion and Benjimir before she responded with a touch more formality than anything she would have used if it was just the two of them. “It is my honor to aid you, Your Highness. I believe your work is worthwhile.”

  “Maybe, but you are an apprentice trade translator. You didn’t sign up for any of this political garbage.” Arvel brushed his fingers against her forearm. “I want you to know you’re free to leave, and I don’t expect you to put your life on the line to help. Normally I’d say you’re safe because you’re an elf, but your role in helping me in all of this might blind Uncle Julyan to regular propriety.”

  Myth pressed both of her lips together, and her eyes went steely for a moment. “As made obvious by his trade scheme—through which he drags us Lesser Elves into the mud as cohorts in a way.”

  “No one could conceive any way to blame the elves for this, Myth,” Arvel said firmly.

  She nodded, accepting the fact as her gaze drifted down. She studied her feet for a few moments, then blurted out, “I’d like to stay.”

  Even though she was the one who had spoken them, Myth seemed surprised by her words because her eyes widened and she briefly glanced to the side. A moment of her fine lips pressed together, and she nodded, having made her decision.

  “Yes, I’ll stay,” she repeated. “Although if you feel I am not a big enough help, I make the request that you release me so you may bring in someone to better fill this vital role in your investigation.”

  Arvel couldn’t help his smile, or the warmth that filled his heart. She’s staying. It might be foolhardy for both of us, but I’m glad she’ll stand with me in this. “Thank you, Myth.”

  He wanted to hug her or at least squeeze her hand—it would probably make her squawk adorably—but Benjimir and Arion were still present, and Benjimir was watching them with too much interest.

  Myth slightly bowed. “Of course, Your Royal Highness.”

  “We’ll continue with the investigation soon. I just need to finish up with Arion and Benjimir.” He stepped back so Myth could slip into her seat.

  “Understood.” She started opening logbooks and organizing her notes, pausing only to offer him her polite smile—Arvel was perhaps deluding himself, but he
could have sworn it held a fragment of affection in it.

  Arion waited until Arvel finally focused on the Guard Commander before he spoke.

  “Each captain has multiple squads under his leadership.” Arion shuffled through his papers, then handed one to Arvel. “Here is their schedule for the next few days—the squads rotate off and on at different rotation hours from usual, and they are assigned to you without a pattern to make it impossible for anyone to predict who will be watching you when…”

  Four days after the attack, Myth pawed through a trade logbook written in Elvish, searching for the particular entry Arvel wanted her to read.

  One of the guards in the hallway adjusted his stance, and when she glanced outside Myth could see a few of the guards standing at attention in a ring around Arvel’s bubbled window seat.

  In general, the guards were unobtrusive. They stayed at a far enough distance that, even in the library, they wouldn’t be able to hear Myth and Arvel’s muted conversations.

  And as an added bonus, Myth had come to like the three captains in their short acquaintanceship. Every day they reported in to Arvel during their frequent check ins with any observations or concerns their men had noticed.

  The captains were professional, but kind and lighthearted. As each day passed and Arvel looked more and more grim, Myth couldn’t help but think he needed whatever laughter he could muster.

  “Do you need a break, Myth?” Arvel asked.

  Myth jumped a little, and guiltily glanced at him. “Sorry, I’m afraid my mind wandered.”

  Arvel snorted. “You were lost in thought for a moment. Not five minutes ago I made you read the same paragraph no fewer than five times because I couldn’t record a single word correctly. It is I who should be apologizing.” Arvel leaned back in his chair and glanced out the window. “But I think a break would be a fine idea. Our brave captains should arrive soon to give us the day’s report. I’ll call for refreshments—enough for us and them.”

  “I’m certain they would appreciate such thoughtfulness.” Myth dutifully flipped through the logbook, even as Arvel stood and stretched his arms above his head with a groan.