by K. M. Shea
King Petyrr held his hands up. “I know. Benjimir has already stated something similar to me, and I agree with both of you.”
“Then why didn’t you do something sooner?” Arvel demanded.
“Because I still had hope,” King Petyrr said wearily. “I dared to think she wouldn’t follow her brother this far. It was a miscalculation. I’m sorry.”
Arvel sighed, and all the heat in him seemed to evaporate. He reached out to brush Myth’s shoulder.
She looked up at him and tried to smile, but her lips trembled too much.
Arvel shut his eyes and faced his father again. “What of the library? Have we any leads there?”
“Based on the reported estimations, it seems the fire was started at approximately the same time,” King Celrin said through Rollo. He glanced over a few of the papers Sir Arion had personally delivered not five minutes ago and pressed his lips together, sorrow darkening his face. “It is safe to assume it is the work of the Fultons, but the librarians recall no suspicious activity.”
“How much?” Myth croaked.
Arvel spun around to face her as she set her teacup down with determination and made herself stand, gathering up her strength.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and forced herself to meet the kings’ gazes. “How much of the library burned?”
King Celrin held out a paper. “It wasn’t as bad as initially feared. The first-floor materials are entirely unscathed due to the protection spells layered there. The windows need replacing, but the building is still structurally sound.”
He paused to let Translator Rollo catch up, then continued, “It seems the study area on the second floor was worst hit. All the furniture from that area is cinders, and we lost several collections of rare materials, and a number of original artifacts from the library’s founding. However, due to two fountains that were strategically placed on the second floor, the Honor Guards were able to contain the blaze, so much of the second story books and materials are salvageable, although it will require the cooperation of the wizards and enchanters to restore them.”
Myth glanced at Arvel, who was already watching her.
When she met his gaze he nodded slightly, his eyes crinkling with pain.
He agreed…the library was retaliation.
The second-floor study area was where Myth and Arvel always sat when working at the library. The fire was a warning shot from the Fultons. They had struck the building, most likely thinking to rattle Arvel. There was no way Lord Julyan could have known how it would affect Myth.
Unfortunately for Lord Julyan, there was much he didn’t know about Myth.
Rage, as hot as lava and peppery as brimstone, simmered in Myth’s belly. It was a foreign feeling. Never before had she been so angry—so hurt.
Wait, she told herself. Just wait.
She rolled back her shoulders and tried to appear calm as she asked the question she most dreaded hearing the answer to. “And how will this affect the case against the Fultons?”
King Celrin set a hand on one of the branches of his chair. “In many ways, it will make things worse for them. There were several elves working in the library at the time of the fire, and while there were no fatalities, they suffered painful wounds. Because of this, it is no longer an incident isolated to Calnor. The Fultons have brought Lessa into matters as well. Of course, they were already treading on thin ice since you were present for the attack on Arvel, but you were unharmed. However, taking both incidents into account, it is more than enough reason for myself and Gwendafyn to become involved.” King Celrin’s voice hardened to a crushing degree, and the unusual purple eyes he shared with his daughter looked less beautiful and more deadly by the moment.
It appeared the Fultons had awoken an unexpected enemy.
King Petyrr scratched his beard as he studied his friend. “Speaking specifically of the case Arvel built, we still have all the original copies of the logbooks and, thank the heavens, Arvel insisted on keeping the original logbooks you swiped from Julyan’s study, so we still have all the necessary information. It’s just a matter of reorganizing everything and reproducing all you had done.”
“That took Myth and me weeks,” Arvel said. “The case was scheduled to be the day after tomorrow. We don’t have enough time to gather and re-organize the necessary information.”
King Petyrr sighed. “Yes. Even though we still have access to all the evidence, it pains me to say it, but it seems like we’ll have to delay the case.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like it—it feels like we’re playing into their hands. It’s possible the Fultons have another plan in place to either prove their innocence or escape during this delay. The best we can do is put more people on the investigation—I’ll hire whatever number of translators is necessary to see to it that you’re able to reproduce your work—but given that elves were hurt in the library fire, that incident must take precedence for now.”
King Celrin slightly tipped his head and made the hand gesture for “thanks”.
King Petyrr replied with the gestures for “honor”, and “sorrow”.
Even though her heart ached from the loss of the library, and her belly churned with anger, Myth still noticed, and wondered…King Celrin signed that before Rollo finished translating what King Petyrr was saying.
“Since the fires undoubtedly involve the Fultons, I’m putting you on the investigation, Arvel. Sir Arion and Benjimir have both already volunteered to help you,” King Petyrr continued.
“Gwendafyn will likely involve herself as well,” King Celrin added.
“Thank you, Father, King Celrin.” Arvel bowed to each of them, his back almost stiff in its straightness. “I will uncover the perpetrators and mete out justice.”
“Be careful, son,” King Petyrr warned. “If Julyan is willing to go this far, I don’t know what he won’t do. Which is why your mother has been confined to the royal wing of the palace and will receive no visitors.”
“An appropriate decision,” Arvel said, though Myth noticed the slight bend in one of his eyebrows that betrayed his real feelings.
He doesn’t know if it’s enough. And I wonder if he’s right. King Petyrr may have been correct in his assumption that the Fultons are trying to delay the case for their own plan. Surely, they must have known that attacking the library—a structure built by humans and Lesser Elves—would stir Lessa as well. They are too calculating to do so without expecting such consequences…which means Lord Julyan feels he can either escape, or get away with it all.
Something deep in Myth shook—not in fear, but in an emotion she couldn’t quite identify.
If they do…all our work will be for naught, and they will have escaped justice, escaped the punishment they so richly deserve, and will continue to damage both Calnor and Lessa.
The thought made Myth clench her jaw and suck in a rattling breath.
But I’m just a translator. I don’t have any power. How could I stop them?
Arvel couldn’t help but glance at Myth every five or ten steps they took.
When he started the investigation of the Fultons, he never imagined she’d get hurt in this way. Granted, the Fultons hadn’t harmed her yet—that was the only thing keeping him from going to Uncle Julyan’s town house in the middle of the night and dragging him off to prison, evidence or no. But it was obvious that the fire in the library had wounded her deeply.
I thought I could keep her safe…and I failed.
Idly, he tilted his head as he listened to the drilled steps of the Honor Guards behind them and wondered if it would be enough protection for Myth.
“Are you certain I should stay here?” Myth asked abruptly.
“Myth, I am not letting you go back to the Translators’ Circle. Not tonight—not for a couple weeks at least,” Arvel said. “I want you safe, and that’s far easier to accomplish if you stay in the palace.”
“Yes, but in the Calnorian royal wing?” Her voice lilted up, the tiniest trace of an Elvish accent returning to
her words in her apparent reluctance.
“You stayed there before,” he pointed out.
“For one night! If you believe I need to stay in the palace for weeks, it seems inappropriate given that I am a mere employee.”
“Are you certain that would be your choice? This time I made arrangements so now you’re just a little way down from Ben’s and Fyn’s rooms,” Arvel said, throwing out the best bait he could cast. “Don’t you want the chance to possibly step into the hallway the same time as your hero? Maybe walk to breakfast with her and laugh over…” Arvel hesitated. “Actually, I don’t know what you’d laugh over. Swords, maybe? Fyn likes swords.”
A tiny quirk of a smile flittered across Myth’s lips. “You make My Princess Gwendafyn sound like a rusticated brute.”
“That’s because she is,” Arvel grumbled.
“You! Take that back!” Myth poked him in the side.
Arvel relaxed as more of the calm weariness Myth had been wearing ever since she’d seen the library drained away. “No. Once you face her with a bladed weapon you can tell me to stop, but I still have the bruises she inflicted on me from this morning’s dagger practice!”
Myth rolled her eyes, but said nothing more as they passed through a stone archway draped with Calnorian flags.
The Honor Guards standing watch there—at the entrance of the royal wing—saluted Arvel as he passed. He smiled at them and looked back at the long line of Honor Guards following them again.
He shook his head and murmured to Myth, “I feel like we’re leading a parade.”
“There is no ‘we’ in this matter,” Myth said. “It is all you.”
“Oh, no.” Arvel chortled in glee. “You missed it—you’re getting at least half of our fine escort.”
“Why?”
“Because my harpy of a mother also happens to be housed in the royal wing, and I want at least ten swords between you and her at all times,” Arvel said.
“This could be easily solved by simply not housing me in the royal wing.”
“Yes, but maybe I want the chance to possibly step into the hallway the same time as you so we can laugh as we walk to breakfast together.”
Myth peered up suspiciously at Arvel with the same cagey look she used whenever he got overly flirtatious. She watched him for a moment or two before her posture straightened once she was assured he wasn’t going to jump her in the middle of the hallway.
It is such fun provoking her—and very enjoyable, too.
“I am glad you are in such high spirits,” she wryly said.
Arvel motioned for her to take a turn at an intersection and follow him up a different hallway. “Indeed. But I wanted to ask, how are you feeling?”
Myth opened her mouth, but Arvel could tell by the return of that cursed elven calmness that she was going to give him a useless platitude, so he added, “The truth, Myth.”
She shut her mouth with enough force that Arvel heard her teeth click.
He tried to discreetly slow down and prolong their walk with a slower pace, but judging by the flat look she gave him, he hadn’t hidden the transition as well as he thought.
“I’m upset,” she said after a few moments. “The library is…important to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Myth narrowed her eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The Fultons did all of this. They deserve the blame and the consequences.”
“Yes…but I’m still remorseful this happened,” Arvel said. “Even though I can’t regret the investigation—the Fultons need to be brought to justice—I can’t tell you how much I regret that this has harmed you in any way.”
“Thank you,” Myth said. “But I don’t mourn my role in this. And I wouldn’t change a thing. Working with you has been a joy.”
Arvel didn’t dare look at her. If she was even half as adorable as she sounded, there was a high possibility he’d kiss her in front of the Honor Guards.
That wouldn’t be so bad, but I’m pretty sure she’d give me a lecture about workplace appropriateness, and quite possibly hit me. I’ve been careful not to push her too far with my flirting…mostly because I know she won’t hesitate to give me a set down.
He stopped at the door to the room he had wrangled for Myth and squinted down the hallway. “Gwendafyn is just one door down, and Ben’s is right next to hers, though they have a private parlor between them. I’m in this hallway too, so if you need me all you have to do is scream,” he said, intentionally failing to tell her his room was directly next to hers, and much closer than Fyn’s.
“I’m certain nothing will make that necessary,” Myth dryly said.
“Maybe…” Arvel paused. “Tomorrow I’ll be neck deep in the fire investigation, but I’ll have Ben and Arion with me, and both of them can speak Elvish, so why don’t you take the day off?”
He could read her silent mulishness in the way she set her lips, so he added, “You need the break, Myth.”
“And you don’t?”
Arvel laughed harshly. “If I sit around, I’m afraid it will only make me contemplate murder.” He leaned against the doorframe and rubbed his head. “And I’ll just wonder why…or what I could have done differently.”
Myth set her hand on top of his and squeezed.
“I wish we had made doubles of everything and stored them in Father and King Celrin’s study. Then we’d be able to proceed with the case, but…” He broke off with a sigh.
She smiled sadly at him, then gazed at the door for several long moments. “I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to a day off. However, could I have the Fultons’ logs?”
“You want Uncle Julyan’s ledgers?”
“Yes.”
Arvel scratched his arm as he tried to buy himself more time and think it over. She’s not going to let them fall into their hands…but what does she want them for? “You’re not going to stay up all night and try to recreate everything we did?”
Myth snorted. “Please. I am not so stupid as to think I alone can recreate what took us weeks. Besides, I’d still face the same problem we had that made our first round of information collection so tedious: I’m a mere apprentice. It takes a full translator to work on something like this in order for it to be admissible in court.”
18
“Yes.” Arvel adjusted his belt so the dagger that poked him in the side settled back into place. “But…having the logs is going to make you into a target.”
“Perhaps, but only if the Fultons know I have them,” Myth pointed out. “As far as they know, they burned with the rest of the documents in the department fire.”
I don’t like even the possibility of that risk, but I shouldn’t be overbearing. It’s not fair to her. He studied her from the corner of his eyes, but Myth’s polite expression gave nothing away. She’s not going to tell me why she wants them. I could ask…but I’d rather she willingly tell me than force something. And this seems important to her.
“Very well.” Arvel slipped his leather satchel off his shoulder. “Here they are. I’ll tell Father you have them, and I’m going to assign more Honor Guards to you as a result.”
“Understandable. And thank you.” Myth smiled at him—one that held a hint of sadness, and maybe something like worry, but once she had the satchel slung over her shoulder, she seemed taller, and more determined somehow.
I made the right call.
“If I am to have a day off, then I shall wish you all favor and luck with the investigation tomorrow.” Her hand was on the door latch—in a moment she’d be through that door and gone.
The thought stupidly made Arvel’s chest twinge, but he straightened up and forced a smile. “Thank you. Sir Arion and Benjimir are the best. With the three of us working together, I’m certain we’ll find a clue—at the library, or the Department of Investigation. Preferably both.”
Myth’s smile turned kind. “You’ll do well.”
Arvel’s control broke, and he swept Myth up in a hug that made her squeak. She was a little stiff, b
ut didn’t protest as Arvel leaned his head against hers. “Thank you.”
She relaxed enough to awkwardly pat his back once, then seemed to melt into the embrace as she leaned into him and hooked one arm around his neck. “Sleep well, Arvel. Don’t let this drive you into exhaustion,” she whispered.
She’s worried for me, he realized, and automatically squeezed her just a little tighter. In all the upheaval she’s been forced through because of me, she’s still concerned for me. I don’t think I deserve her.
The hug was already a breach of propriety, but he let it last a few seconds longer than he should have—she was so warm, and even under the scent of smoke that permeated her clothes, she still smelled faintly of paper and ink.
It took all his self-control to pull back and smile at her. “Goodnight, Myth. Remember—just a scream away.”
A loose frown invaded Myth’s lips. “You need to reword that. It sounds disturbing.” And just like that, she took her leave of him.
Arvel laughed at her closed door for a moment before he turned to the Honor Guards. “You have your assignments?”
The guards parted into pre-organized groups, half clustering around Myth’s closed door while the other half remained in formation behind him.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” One of the soldiers who moved to stand guard at Myth’s door saluted him. “A squad under Captain Wilford will replace us after midnight, and another squad from Captain Grygg will replace them in the morning.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness!”
Arvel nodded to the men and women standing guard, then headed back the way they had come—this time at a markedly faster pace.
As he passed through the stone archway, he wasn’t quite able to stop the laughter that threatened to break the quiet of the hallway.
