Chapter 1 #2
He glanced at her, taking in the way she fumbled with her books, and nodded.
No greeting, no exchange of words; he didn’t even wait for her to bow her head in return. He swept off, focused on his own business as Myth expected.
Her father had always been more apathetic toward her existence than anything else. At best he could be described as…distant.
He is what he has always been , Myth briskly reminded herself.
It’d been years since her father’s actions had caused her any kind of pain.
Myth stepped into the trade workshop and couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on her lips.
The bustle of translators moving from desk to desk was as hushed and quiet as the scratch of the numerous quill pens moving across paper.
Moving swiftly so she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way, Myth made her way to the tables where she would unload her treasured burden.
Here, as a trade translator, she’d have a place.
She’d be one of the men and women who worked together to keep trade open between Lessa and Calnor.
Once she graduated from apprentice to translator, she’d join in the well-rehearsed dance the workshop followed as the translators copied logs, recorded orders, and sent off messengers.
Just seeing the workshop renewed Myth’s determination to make her goal.
I should fit in another study session tonight at the Library of Haven after my shift. I could use the practice in copying out more Calnoric.
She set the books down, then dashed through the workshop, making her way to the senior translator who needed to be informed of the books’ arrival.
She slipped unseen past a gaggle of translators discussing a recent trade order, and smiled at a harried student who was retrieving an abacus for a senior translator.
Yes, this was where Myth belonged. She just had to prove herself with a great deal of work and diligence, but there was no place she’d rather be.
Recalling the conversation between the three senior translators, she shivered in revulsion.
One thing I can be sure of, I am so very grateful I chose to be a trade translator. With all the delicate customs and emotional undertones required for social translating, it sounds miserable.
Miserable was an understatement—it sounded wretched . She preferred numbers and figures any day, even with all the extra studying.
Myth stopped in front of a senior translator’s desk, and as she waited for his acknowledgment, she concluded that she was glad she would never, ever be asked to serve as a social translator.
* * *
Arvel kept his smile in place as he purposefully strode through the Celebration Hall. That was the trick—to keep moving at a swift pace so people would assume he was going somewhere. Because if he stopped, the crowds would close in on him in a second.
Arvel made it to the far wall. He was so close to an exit, he could feel the cool breeze that slipped in through the open door.
Almost there…
He turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the crowds as if he were searching for someone. And he was—his mother. But not because he wanted to speak with her. He wanted to make sure she was occupied so when he left she wouldn’t notice and send a servant racing after him to verbally drag him back.
Since he’d become the crown prince, his peaceful days of dodging whatever social events he wanted to were over.
He wasn’t entirely sure of the tradeoff.
He hadn’t wanted to be the crown prince, and he didn’t believe for a second his father’s vows that he was the best choice due to his passion for economics and general love of learning.
But his eldest brother had turned the position down flat, and his younger brothers had no interest in ruling. So now he was the heir.
Arvel smiled at a gruff knight, who bowed to him. “Your Highness.”
“Good evening.” Arvel kept on smiling as the older man edged past him.
Another quick glance and it looked like the coast was clear. All that was left was to—no.
He froze in place when he spotted the three beautiful young ladies watching him with the intensity of snow cats. When they saw him looking in their direction, the trio curtsied and started to weave through the crowd.
No, no, no! Not again!
Arvel knew those ladies—not because they were friends or even acquaintances, but because they were titled, wealthy, noble ladies that his mother had tried pushing him at for the past three royal socials.
But hidden beneath the girls’ perfect hair and beautiful dresses was a ruthless streak that had them aiming for him even though he wasn’t interested.
So, he fled.
It wasn’t glorious. But faced with the oncoming storm, it was the only survival technique that came to mind. And determined ladies, Arvel had learned, were the most dangerous sort of enemy there was.
Arvel darted through the open door and blinked rapidly in the dimly lit hallway, where only the occasional torch in a stand bolted to the wall sputtered in the breezy corridor. He inhaled the fresh air and wiped his brow off.
“Your Highness?”
Arvel lunged into a fast march that was just short of an actual run. “I need to shake them off my trail,” he muttered to himself.
He turned up a random hallway, trying to find an even more shadowy stretch where flickering light wouldn’t reveal him. He found his sanctuary in one of the long hallways that wound around the Celebration Hall.
This particular one was cluttered with suits of armor.
Most of them were human forged, but Benjimir and Gwendafyn—his older brother and sister-in-law—had brought back a few High Elf armor sets on their last visit to Gwendafyn’s home country and the dwelling place of the Lesser Elves, which was so originally named Lessa.
Those armor sets were displayed in prominent spots that had been cleared to properly showcase the ancient and beautiful work of the long-gone High Elves.
Arvel dove behind the massive marble block one of those stately sets of armor was displayed on. He pulled his long limbs close, making sure he was adequately hidden by the block.
Just as he adjusted one of the daggers that hung from his belt, the quiet tap of shoes on stone told him his feminine pursuers had entered the hallway.
“Are you certain he went this way?” one of the young ladies asked.
“Yes!” another said, her voice lined with irritation. “That strawberry blond hair of his nearly glows in the dark.”
“He made a run for it then,” the third young lady concluded. “As expected.”
“No, not as expected,” the irritated lady said. “How dare he treat us so shabbily?”
“It’s hardly surprising,” the third girl continued, her voice growing louder as they neared the armor Arvel hid behind. “He’s been running from other girls for months. I heard this past winter he crossed a frozen pond to escape Lady Regeenia.”
“He’s either addled, or a coward,” declared the irritated girl. “Neither bode well for the future of Calnor.”
Arvel grimaced at the callous observation, but he couldn’t outright deny it.
He fled from the marriage candidates his mother insisted on presenting as if he was running for his life.
And indeed, he might be. His mother would never suggest someone who might actually like Arvel; only ones she could manipulate, or who would serve some purpose for her.
“Perhaps, but the title of crown prince has passed to him,” the first lady timidly said—she was obviously the type Arvel’s mother, Queen Luciee, knew she could boss around.
“It’s a shame Benjimir fell out of favor,” the third lady sighed. “He’s more handsome.”
“And married ,” the first girl said. “To a princess of the Lesser Elves.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the irritated girl declared, her voice fading as they continued down the hallway. “Arvel is the heir. Eventually he’ll have to pick a bride despite his slippery ways.”
Arvel waited until their voices became muted hums before he stood, uncurling from his folded position.
They didn’t say anything I don’t already know. There’s not a female alive in my court who’d marry me for anything but political reasons.
Ruefully, he ran a hand through his hair.
There were several things he regretted about becoming crown prince of Calnor. His sudden popularity with all the single ladies of Calnor was just one of them.
He brushed his fingers against his belt and slightly rearranged his daggers both hidden and openly sheathed before he headed off in the opposite direction the girls had gone in.
He smiled and nodded to the occasional Honor Guard he saw standing watch in the royal palace as he took the long way to his desired destination in hopes of throwing off anyone else who had happened to see him.
He went up and down a few staircases, and crossed some nearly endless hallways, but he wasn’t winded by the time he reached his personal sanctuary, the Library of Haven.
There was no other place quite like the library as it was the product of human and elven ingenuity.
A stone archway crouched over the entrance, and two unicorn statues were posted at the end of the carpet that led Arvel deeper inside.
Bookshelves built into the walls and arranged in an orderly manner through the building were stacked with books, scrolls, models, maps, and the occasional artifact or two.
Tables and desks were scattered throughout the library in clutches or solo nooks meant for deep study.
While the bookshelves were of sturdy human work with straight lines and shapes adorning their molding, the tables and chairs were more delicate and curved with flowers and animals carved into the legs and sides—elven carpentry for certain.
Twinkling elven lamps—flame shaped creations crafted with colored lampshades that could be removed or lowered to brighten or dim the light shed by candles—were placed on every desk.
The air smelled of paper, ink, and the faint scent of spices the elves added to their candles.
In the distance, Arvel could see the banister that marked the start of the second floor. But here, around the entrance, the walls stretched high above his head, giving the library a deep, cavernous feeling that was strangely comforting.
One of the librarians pushing a wooden cart stacked with books paused nearby. “Good evening, Your Royal Highness.”
“Good evening, Thomus. Quiet night?”
The librarian swapped two books on his cart, reordering them. “So far. You’re going to your usual haunt?”
“Yep—as long as that’s fine?”
The librarian grinned, his impressive beard parting to show his teeth. “You are always welcome to the Library of Haven, Your Royal Highness. We’re happy to have you in our ranks.”
Arvel laughed. “Buttering me up so you can ask for funds for a new purchase, huh?”
The librarian tapped his nose. “Perhaps! That is to say, one of my elf colleagues has a contact in Lessa who says they’ve uncovered a collection of High Elf books. We’d like to purchase the set.”
“That’s fine. Send the proposal to my study, and I’ll talk it over with Father.”
The librarian nudged his cart forward, which produced a loud squeak from one of the wheels. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness!”
Arvel waved to the man and continued on, heading deeper into the library as he tried to mentally calculate how much extra money he’d earmarked for the library when he’d worked with his father and the royal advisors to create the year’s budget.
Until recent times, the library was perhaps the greatest symbol of Haven and represented the friendship between Calnor and Lessa.
Haven was poised on the border of the human country of Calnor and the Lesser Elf country of Lessa.
The city had been constructed to serve as a sort of bridge between their people, back when the Calnorians and the Lesser Elves were new to their peace treaty.
The library had been one of several buildings the two peoples had constructed together.
But, in truth, the symbolism was no longer needed.
Great strides had been made in the past decade.
Previously the humans of Calnor and the Lesser Elves had struggled deeply to communicate.
All of that had changed when the elf maiden Tarinthali Ringali had been bonded to the Calnorian captain Sir Arion Herycian, and it was discovered that despite the enormous language barrier, they were able to understand each other.
Tari became fluent in Calnoric in a matter of weeks, and in the ensuing years Arion had come to speak passable Elvish. But that was only the first crack in the previously impenetrable barrier between the people.
The second blow had come from Benjimir, Arvel’s older brother, and Gwendafyn, the second elven princess. After they had married nearly five years prior, the formality seemed to fade from the two people groups.
Now, there were multiple elf-human couples living in Haven, and for the first time in recorded history, Calnorians were allowed entry into Lessa, just as the elves were invited to visit and tour Calnor.
It’s fascinating, to think that I am living in a time of so many historic changes.
Arvel smiled as he wove around the smattering of tables, then grimaced when another thought—this one unwanted—invaded his mind.
Though perhaps I will not be so happy when I am forced to reckon with the changes myself in the far off day I am made king.
History was, he imagined, not very much fun to live through.
Arvel familiarly wove around the looming shelves, relaxing more and more with every step he took as he made his way to his favorite part of the library.
The shelves parted, opening up into a small gap that held two wooden staircases built in glossy swirls. Arvel climbed up the nearest, entering the second floor of the library, which afforded him a tremendous view of the floor below.
Carelessly, he glanced down, his gaze naturally wandering to a tiny study nook tucked against a row of bookshelves so tall, the librarians needed ladders to reach the top shelves.
As usual, she was there.