The Prince’s Bargain (The Elves of Lessa #3)

Chapter 1

M yth believed books were precious, so when the bottom book of the massive stack she’d been asked to take to the trade translators’ workshop started to slip, she considered flinging herself to the ground—back first—if the rest of the pile started to shift.

The muscles of her arm ached, and she had to hop for a few steps and support the books with a raised knee as she tried to fix her grip.

She was so distracted, she almost didn’t see the flustered Honor Guard.

He was Calnorian—a human. His stocky build and rounded ears made that obvious.

But, in a building full of human and elven translators, he stuck out like a sore thumb with his standard issued sword and Honor Guard uniform.

The awkward way he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet only underlined his discomfort.

If Myth had to hazard a guess, he needed help—he was clutching a worn piece of paper and watching the translators that bustled past with a hopeful expression.

No one stopped to help him. Too many translators with dark circles under their eyes passed him unseeingly. Others ran by, their schedules packed so tightly they had to sprint from one meeting to the next.

Myth hefted her stack of books a little higher and tipped them against her torso to steady them.

It’s going to take him an hour before he works up the courage to ask for help.

She pressed her lips together and considered the options. As an apprentice translator, she wasn’t supposed to do any kind of translation work without a senior translator or an instructor nearby. But maybe she could tell him where to go?

Myth, her grasp on her books still weakening, marched over to the guard and slapped on the polite smile she used whenever translating. “May I help you?” she asked in Calnoric, hoping the Elvish lilt to her words wasn’t noticeable.

As an elf, Myth’s accent was usually expressed by making words more musical than they should be. She’d been stubbornly trying to stamp the lilt out, aiming for perfect fluency, but sometimes it still curled around her words.

The Honor Guard drooped with relief and stopped fidgeting.

“Yes, please!” He held out the paper. “My squad is supposed to be guarding several visiting elf nobles who wish to leave the palace and go see the market in Haven today. They don’t have a translator, though, and I’m rather bad with hand gestures, so we’ve been unable to make the arrangements of when they want to leave.

I think they wrote down the details, but I need a translator to tell me what it says. ”

It was a simple request—and the paper was in Elvish, and there was no chance Myth would misread her mother tongue. Perhaps it would be better to help the guard herself rather than bother another overworked translator.

She stared at the paper as she struggled to hold her books. “Maybe…could you unfold it please?”

“Oh! Of course!” He fumbled, unfolding the scrap of paper and holding it up to Myth’s face.

She adjusted the bottom book of the stack—which was digging into her stomach—as she read the note over. “They ask if it would be possible to meet you at the city gates in the third afternoon hour.”

“Really?” The guard flipped the note around and peered at it. “All of this for that one sentence, huh?”

Myth renewed her polite smile. “Elvish is a descriptive language.”

It was a pleasant way to describe the difference between Elvish and Calnoric.

In truth the two languages—much like the two countries—were so different, it was incredibly difficult to master the opposing language.

Calnoric was deep and guttural with thick words that Myth had to spit from her mouth, whereas Elvish was almost musical and relied a great deal on intonation mixed with its complex words.

It took translators years of schooling and diligence to learn everything required—which was partially why they were so few in number when one considered the strength of the relationship between Calnor and Lessa, the country of the elves.

The guard bowed to Myth. “Thank you so much for your help, Translator!”

“I’m afraid I’m a mere apprentice, but it was my honor to aid you.” Myth tried to bow in return, but stopped when one of her books almost slipped out of her arms.

The guard waved and trotted off, navigating around a trio of senior translators.

One of them belonged to Myth’s translation department, trade, marked out by the dark jacket and tidy but serviceable boots, breeches, and undershirt.

The other two were social translators, decked out in bright fabrics and far flashier clothes designed to allow them to blend in to the fashions of nobility and fade into the background as they translated during parties, dinners, and all types of social interactions.

Myth bowed her head in respect to the trio, then turned to go.

“Apprentice.” Translator Krim, the trade translator of the trio who had been one of Myth’s instructors when she was a student, held up her hand to forestall her. “A moment.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Myth tried to discreetly heave her books higher—the arm cradling them was starting to get a cramp that was turning her muscles numb.

“Do you not remember that as an apprentice, you are not certified for official translation work without supervision?” Translator Krim—who happened to be an elf—observed Myth with a slightly puckered mouth.

“My apologies.” Myth bowed again. “I only thought of helping him, and given his request I didn’t think it counted as official work.”

“Any translations between languages is official work, Apprentice,” Translator Krim said. “Because everything we translate has the potential to shape the alliance between Calnor and Lessa. One misspoken word could ruin everything.”

Still unable to bow, Myth cast her eyes down. “Yes, ma’am.”

Translator Krim was right, of course.

Due to the language difficulties between Lessa and Calnor, their relationship was rather delicate even though their alliance was centuries old.

And while recent events had brought the two countries considerably closer, the new activities—like the trade caravans traveling from Calnor to Lessa, and the visiting elf nobles who wished to tour the markets of Haven—demanded more translators when there was already a shortage.

But a shortage is no excuse for mistakes. And even though it’s my goal to speak with perfect fluency, I’m not yet there.

“Is it really necessary to be so strict?” asked one of the social translators—Myth recognized him as the official translator for the eldest two Calnorian princes. His name was—she believed—Translator Rollo.

Translator Krim gave him a frosty sniff. “She is a trade apprentice. We translate all trade and number exchanges between Lessa and Calnor. It is vital that our work is precise and perfect.”

Myth nodded in agreement.

The other social translator shook his head. “Sounds fussy.”

Translator Krim pressed her lips together.

“It is considerably ironic you say that, given that—not one minute ago—you complained how you were forced to translate for two elf nobles who were engaged in a conversation with Lord Julyan Fulton, who persisted in calling Crown Prince Arvel a foolish boy.”

The social translator cringed. “That, perhaps, was more of a personal failing. I would have taken great delight in popping Lord Julyan in his teeth for speaking so disrespectfully of the crown prince.”

Translator Rollo ruefully rubbed his jaw at his fellow social translator’s observation. “It’s not only rude, but horribly incorrect. Crown Prince Arvel is still proving himself. He never expected the position—Benjimir was the heir for most of Arvel’s life.”

Very aware this was a conversation she should not be privy to, Myth tried to edge away, then paused.

I haven’t been dismissed yet…can I go anyway ?

She glanced at Translator Krim, who was shaking her head at Translator Rollo’s words.

“You’re his personal translator, what do you make of it?” the other social translator asked Translator Rollo.

“With his intelligence, he’s got the potential to be an excellent ruler. But his open temperament seems to make certain nobles believe they can manipulate him. He’ll teach them—once he adjusts to the title.”

“He’s been the crown prince for several years,” Translator Krim cryptically pointed out.

Oh, no. I’m not going to listen to a political discussion. I chose to be a trade translator because this is exactly the sort of thing I wish to avoid.

Myth loudly cleared her throat, and shifted her books from one arm to the other when the translators all looked at her.

Myth bowed her head. “I shall remember your wise words, Translator Krim.”

“Of course. Dismissed.” The trade translator made a shooing motion.

Myth gratefully slipped off, moving as fast as she could without appearing unsightly.

She didn’t flee quite fast enough to avoid hearing a bit of Translator Rollo’s response.

“There is a big difference between expecting to be an advisor—a position where being likeable is considered a skill—and suddenly becoming the heir and being saddled with ruling over all the people who previously considered you affable and fun…but, say, that was Apprentice Mythlan, wasn’t it?”

Myth doubled her efforts to retreat, daring to jog so she closed in on the rounded workshop door much faster.

Just as she reached the entrance, the circular door unexpectedly opened, and Myth had to drop her chin to the top book on her pile to keep it from sliding off as she abruptly checked her pace.

When she saw the tall body that filled the doorway, she leaned back in surprise, getting a book spine to the rib.

An elf enchanter stepped out of the trade workshop, his long blond hair pulled back in a loose plait. Time, as it did for all Lesser Elves, hadn’t left much of an imprint on him—a few thin wrinkles on his forehead, though some of his pale blond hair was threaded with gray.

Even though enchanters didn’t commonly frequent the Translators’ Circle, Myth knew him.

He was one of the senior enchanters…and was Myth’s father.