The Prince's Bargain

by K. M. Shea

  He smiled and leaned in again, this time his lips coming close to hers…

  BANG!

  The dining room door was unceremoniously thrown open.

  Prince Benjimir strode in, his face stormy, his step fast and irritated. He glanced around the dining hall, pausing when he saw Arvel and Myth standing together. “You,” he said.

  Arvel groaned and stepped away from Myth—who found she miraculously could breathe again. “Really? You really had to come see me now?”

  “You will find me remarkably lacking in sympathy,” Prince Benjimir growled. “I got kicked out of my wife’s bedroom because she insisted I come check on you.”

  “I’m not a toddler that needs minding,” Arvel said.

  “Of this I am well aware. But Fyn felt it was cruel of me to let you work all night without seeking you out. But it’s just as well. I met up with a messenger trotting her way down here to tell you some troubling news.” Prince Benjimir folded his arms across his chest.

  Myth’s embarrassment faded away, and she took a step forward to stand side by side with Arvel. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Someone attempted to break into your study, Arvel, and it’s believed the same person had first searched Mythlan’s rooms.” Prince Benjimir glanced at her, concern furrowing his eyebrows. “The Honor Guards couldn’t tell for certain because they heard nothing, but the window to her bedroom was open, and it hadn’t been when they first took up their posts.”

  Arvel rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Of course. They aren’t going to take this quietly. They’re going to go out of their way to actively make it worse.”

  “You said attempted to. Does that mean they weren’t successful in breaking into Arvel’s office?” Myth asked.

  “Correct.” Prince Benjimir’s smile was dark and spiteful. “Sir Arion is awake and shoring up our defenses. But I’m calling in an army company of soldiers. If the Fultons make one more move, they’re going to get armed nannies to make them behave. As long as you’re fine with that, Arvel?”

  “I initially had hopes that the Fultons would do something stupid and get themselves backed into a corner, but I don’t think that’s a viable plan any longer. If we could make them behave, I’d prefer it,” Arvel said.

  “What made you change your mind?” Prince Benjimir asked.

  “It’s that I’m not sure just how much farther they’ll go,” Arvel said. “Surely Uncle Julyan must be aware that even Mother’s position as queen can’t protect them if he’s actively engaging in treason. If he’s willing to risk that, I don’t know what else he’ll do, and I won’t risk our people just to trip him up.” He sighed, then met his brother’s gaze. “Call in your men. We’re going to make the Fultons heel, even if we have to strong-arm them into it.”

  Prince Benjimir nodded. “Consider it done—I’ll send out a messenger now. The company should arrive in under two weeks—perhaps one. Take care, and keep your daggers on you and guards with you at all times.” He paused at the threshold of the door. “That includes you, Mythlan. Actually, it especially pertains to you.”

  Myth blinked. “You don’t think he’s going to forget about me after Arvel brings formal charges forward?”

  “No,” Prince Benjimir said grimly. “I think that stinking rat of our uncle will target you because of Arvel.”

  Rosewood Park was peaceful and calm…the opposite of how Myth felt as she walked with Arvel, His Majesty King Petyrr, and King Celrin.

  Although the three royals were smiling and laughing, Myth’s nerves strained with the knowledge that she was the sole translator for King Celrin, given that he and King Petyrr had shooed Rollo away when she and Arvel first approached the monarchs for a mid-morning meeting that had stretched on to include lunch and an afternoon stroll in the gardens.

  “You’ve done well, Arvel,” King Celrin said. “You’ve put together a solid case against the Fultons in a very short amount of time; you should be proud.”

  “My King Celrin wishes to extend his praise to Arvel.” Myth flicked her hand from King Celrin to Arvel, then bowed slightly, following the conversation’s flow as she had read in her borrowed library books. She continued on with the translation, keenly aware that all three of the royals watched her as if she was included in the conversation instead of merely translating it.

  She couldn’t quite figure out why that was—all the social translators she saw stood at the fringe, murmuring translations when required. And as she was exactly copying her books, she didn’t think it was because she was intrinsically doing anything unspeakably wrong…

  King Petyrr laughed and shifted the pug he carried to one arm so he could slap Arvel on the shoulder once Myth finished the translation. “Celrin is right! I certainly know I’m proud of you! You’ve acted not only with honor and speed, but great intellect. You’re righting wrongs that I’ve ignored far too long.”

  “Not at all,” Arvel argued. “I was able to catch the Fultons’ initial transgressions only because you happened to assign me the position of Chief Liaison, and I had the time to review all the paperwork.”

  “Ahh yes.” King Petyrr’s usual grin grew. “I happened to, indeed.”

  When Myth made the translation, for a moment she thought she saw the light of laughter in King Celrin’s eyes, but it was gone immediately.

  Privately, Myth agreed with the two kings’ praise. It had been just a little over a week ago that she had retrieved Lord Julyan’s private records from his home. As Arvel had planned, the following day King Petyrr ordered the Honor Guards to search the Fultons’ town house.

  “It’s a shame Julyan was smart enough to destroy most of the paper-trail evidence after you got those two logs of his,” King Petyrr continued. “But it turned out right enough since the fool failed to clean out his storage rooms under the house.”

  After Myth translated for King Celrin, the elven monarch thoughtfully tilted his head. “I do not believe it was foolishness so much as greed. The items in storage were all ones that implicated him, given that he had previously claimed they had been lost and misplaced from a prior order, but destroying them would have meant letting go of a large profit, and it seems to me that money is Lord Julyan’s main concern.”

  Myth took a breath and then translated the elf king’s words, using grasping hand gestures to help get her point across.

  King Petyrr nodded thoughtfully when she finished, and then used the hand gestures for “yes” and “regret”.

  Myth couldn’t have guessed what exactly he was referring to, and judging by Arvel’s confused expression, neither did he.

  But King Celrin understood. He set his hand on King Petyrr’s shoulder and gave him a painful smile.

  Feeling like she was intruding on a moment between dear friends, Myth folded her hands in front of her and made an effort to look around the gardens and admire them.

  The overcast sky above held back the hot and oppressive summer sun, making the stroll pleasant as they walked down a path marked out by hedges nearly as tall as Myth and bushes trimmed to resemble animals.

  Despite the clouds, the songbirds were out in droves, as were fat bees and jewel-colored butterflies, though the air had a slightly smoky scent to it compared to its usual floral smell.

  “What’s important is that Arvel has built a solid case. When the Fultons come to trial in two days I’ll be able to make a true and sound judgment that they cannot deny given the mountain of evidence you have turned over to the Department of Investigation,” King Petyrr said abruptly. He jiggled the happily panting pug that he carried in one arm, then softly stroked the dog’s head.

  The pug seemed almost overcome with joy at the attention and snorted happily in the king’s arms.

  “I’m glad—though I wasn’t alone. Myth helped my two trade translators copy all the orders that were recorded in Elvish, and she made duplicates of my finds in Elvish for King Celrin.” Arvel’s smile was as warm as the sun as he reached out and briefly cupped Myth’s elbow.

  Ki
ng Petyrr tilted his head like a curious bird, and he studied Arvel as Myth translated the crown prince’s words for King Celrin.

  “Yes, we must thank you for the pivotal role you have played in all of this, Translator Mythlan,” King Celrin said in response. “You have helped in many portions of the investigation.”

  “Indeed,” King Petyrr added once Myth had translated for him. “We are highly gratified for all you have done—particularly since none of it is in your job description.” His curious look was back, and Myth was happily able to ignore it since she was busy translating for King Celrin.

  “It was my honor to aid Arvel,” Myth said in Calnoric. When King Petyrr blinked, she realized her error. “That is, His Royal Highness Prince Arvel.” She rushed to translate her words into Elvish faster than necessary. She didn’t like how intrigued King Petyrr looked—as if he was seeing a new palace cat he hadn’t noticed before.

  King Petyrr looked like he wanted to ask her a question, but Arvel—thankfully—took pity on her and spoke first. “We’ll both be grateful when this is over and the Fultons are sentenced.” He smiled at Myth. “And things will slow down a bit then.”

  “Aherm, yes. Perhaps.” King Petyrr busied himself with looking at the sky, until the shouts were audible.

  “Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness!”

  A pair of Honor Guards jumped a stone bench and sprinted around the hedges. They skidded to a stop and folded over in bows so fast Myth almost missed them.

  “Your Majesty, there’s been an attack at the Department of Investigation,” one of the Honor Guards relayed through gasps of air.

  “What?” King Petyrr barked.

  “What happened?” Arvel asked as Myth murmured a translation for King Celrin.

  “A fire,” the Honor Guard said. “A fire was lit inside the department. It was mostly contained, and there were only a few minor injuries, but the director of the department wanted to send word because the fire started in his office.”

  Myth turned white. “Wasn’t he handling all the records for the Fultons’ trial?”

  “Yes,” Arvel said grimly. “What are the chances they’ve all been destroyed?”

  Myth’s tongue felt thick and clumsy as she tried to tell King Celrin what had happened.

  The elven king’s expression darkened just as King Petyrr shook his head and roared.

  “No,” King Petyrr growled. “I’ll not tolerate this.” He gently passed off the pug to the Honor Guard and started to stride in the direction of the Department of Investigation, King Celrin, Myth, and Arvel right behind him.

  “Your Majesty! Your Royal Highness!”

  Dread filled Myth’s belly—what else could be wrong?

  Two more Honor Guards sprinted through the hedges, coming from the opposite direction.

  “Yes, what is it?” King Petyrr called.

  “Fire,” one of the guards managed to wheeze out as he almost toppled over while bowing.

  “I’ve already been informed about the fire in the Department of Investigation.”

  The second Honor Guard shook his head. “No—fire…in the library!”

  17

  Myth didn’t think, she didn’t stop to consider if it was the right thing to do.

  As soon as the guard finished, she ran, sprinting for the library.

  “Myth—wait!”

  She ignored Arvel’s call and tore off, her heart pounding in her throat.

  No, it can’t be. The library is safe—it must be safe!

  Since she had arrived in Haven as a lonely, frightened child, the library had been her one refuge.

  It was always safe, always quiet, always welcoming. The librarians often had a kind smile for her, and while no one seemed to notice her much, the endless volumes of books were all too glad to share their knowledge and distract her from many a lonely night.

  The Library of Haven was special. It couldn’t be destroyed.

  Myth cleared the gardens, jumped a low railing that separated one of the palace open-air corridors from the park, and ran, hurtling down the empty passageway.

  Her breath came in heavy pants, and her side ached. But she didn’t slow down. She pumped her arms and kept running, navigating the twisting halls of the palace.

  The scent of smoke grew overwhelming as she followed the twisted passageways to her personal sanctuary, and eventually the air grew hazy.

  Two guards stood outside the library doors, fabric wrapped around their lower faces. When they saw her coming, they stepped in front of the doors, barring her way.

  “You can’t enter—it’s too dangerous,” one of the guards shouted.

  “Please, let me see!” Myth sobbed.

  They caught her by the arms so she couldn’t stagger in, but they couldn’t block out the sight of the carnage.

  The fire was on the second story. Myth could see it had eaten its way through charred bookcases, and given how far back the flames appeared to go, it might have consumed most of the second floor. But even that wasn’t enough wreckage, for the fire burped out an angry black smoke that would ruin whatever books weren’t burned and destroyed.

  The building itself suffered under the raging fire as well. Some of the gorgeous elven stained glass windows had shattered, and if the continued cry of breaking glass was any indication, the skylights were caving in. Wood groaned, and Myth could see the occasional flash of color as Honor Guards dragged in wet carpets and cloth, draping them to stop the spread of the fire.

  The banners that were hundreds of years old and cascaded from the ceiling burned before Myth’s eyes. Tapestries from the times of the High Elves went up in flames.

  And Myth’s heart exploded in pain and shock.

  She dropped to her knees, unable to find her breath. Not because of the smoky air, but from the sheer loss.

  It was burning. The library, which had been her home for so long, was burning.

  Tears filled her eyes, and she screamed, all of her pain and rage ripping from her as the fire burned on.

  “I’ve got her.”

  Arms closed around her, and Arvel’s familiar red waistcoat filled her eyesight as he picked her up.

  Myth sobbed into his shoulders, her body trembling with the force of her feelings.

  She was vaguely aware of voices, and that Arvel kept walking as she clung to him, her eyes stinging from the smoke and her hot, burning tears.

  She couldn’t breathe. All she could do was feel the loss of the one place she had considered her home.

  She didn’t know how long she cried, but when she finally regained enough control and blearily pulled her face from the crook of Arvel’s shoulder and neck, she realized he had carried her back into the gardens.

  They were sitting on the ground of a grassy knoll, the stream chortling only a few feet away as Arvel held her in a scooped embrace—as if he could forcibly hold her together while her heart broke.

  Myth’s tears returned as Arvel gently pushed her hair out of her face. “They burned the library, Arvel,” she croaked.

  “I know.” Arvel leaned forward so their foreheads touched. “I know,” he repeated.

  She didn’t even have to say who “they” were.

  This was obviously the work of the Fultons. They believed they had destroyed the evidence against them, but that wasn’t enough. They had to strike a place they knew Arvel treasured as well.

  How could anyone be so cruel? It’s a library! It’s supposed to be a space for everyone!

  Myth coughed, and her lungs burned with the exertion. “How could they?” She felt lost and far angrier than she ever had when she and Arvel had been attacked.

  Arvel pressed his lips to her temple, and his arms tightened around her. “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  Myth’s eyes blurred with more tears, and she let herself go limp and lean into Arvel’s embrace as she cried more, her heart breaking…and her rage building.

  A few hours later, Myth sat dumbly in one of the most guarded and rarely seen rooms of th
e palace—the study shared by His Majesty King Petyrr and King Celrin: their inner sanctum.

  Myth stared at the black and white swan design woven into the carpet, her fingers limply holding a cup of tea that had cooled long ago. She was barely aware of the conversation flowing around her; she barely registered anything besides Arvel’s warm hands whenever he paused to touch her or brush her hand.

  “It was the Fultons,” Arvel declared, his voice tight with anger.

  “Obviously.” King Petyrr sighed and lowered himself into a chair next to King Celrin.

  King Petyrr’s chair was very Calnorian in design—square with fat cushions and a footstool—while King Celrin’s was made of polished wood and cut into intricate branches so it looked like he was perched on a tree that had grown specifically to seat him.

  Rollo stood between the kings, leaning back and forth between the two as he murmured translations, and Myth couldn’t bring herself to care enough to help him.

  “The reports confirmed what we feared; we lost all the information and reports you had gathered for the case in the blaze. Since they were stored in the director’s office, they burned immediately,” King Celrin said.

  “Yes, but how did they do it?” Arvel asked. “Is there a leak in the department?”

  “No.” King Petyrr sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. “The secretary said that when the majority of the department was out on lunch…Queen Luciee came.”

  “What?” Arvel thundered in a voice Myth hadn’t ever heard him use before.

  “She couldn’t have started the fire herself,” King Petyrr continued. “She spoke to the secretary for a few minutes and then left. But the fire started shortly after, so it’s likely she let in the perpetrator and served as the distraction.”

  Arvel laughed and shook his head as he paced back and forth in front of Myth’s chair. “I can’t believe it. I knew she held an unhealthy amount of loyalty to the Fultons, but to go this far? She has chosen them over the country!” Arvel whirled around to face his father. “And I will do everything I can to rip whatever few bits of power she has left from her. Never again will she be allowed to visit any of the governmental offices I run!”