Chapter 5 #3
Arvel snorted. “Not at all. But you have a point. Back to work it is!”
* * *
“Myth.” Arvel groaned and raised his head off his desk so he could drop it again, rattling his skull. “Myth, if I die from this, tell Benjimir it was me who broke his best sword when we were kids.”
“We’re almost done.” Myth pursed her lips in a way that Arvel knew meant she narrowly avoided using his title as she carefully wrote out an elven number in her logbook—the last copy they needed to finish to put this ugly project behind them.
Arvel could barely keep his eyes open. His vision was blurry—he had no idea how Myth could handle staring at the tiny rows and columns of her logbook. Just glancing at the squiggly elven script made the pain behind his eyes flare. Even if it was in Myth’s perfect, tidy hand.
He sat upright and twisted in his chair, looking outside.
It was getting light. He couldn’t see the pink glow of dawn, but the black-blue of the midnight hour had softened to a sort of purply color, and the clouds were starting to glow orange.
They were going to finish with time to spare.
Everything was perfect—the orders, the records, and the logs. Not a single figure was wrong—he was confident.
Won’t that make Mother sick with irritation? And I have Myth to thank for it. I couldn’t have done this without her.
Arvel was faintly aware that statement was true on more than one level.
“Thirty-two bolts of elven silk,” Myth read back. “What’s next?”
Arvel stared down at his copy of the order written in Calnoric. “One hundred spools of white elven thread.”
Myth nodded. She was bent over her record, her head steady despite the fatigue lining her gray eyes.
Besides that, and the fact that the high ponytail her silvery-blond hair was always pulled back in was a little droopy, she didn’t show much weariness.
Her posture wasn’t quite as perfect as usual, but Arvel would like to think some of that wasn’t exhaustion, but a sign she was comfortable with him.
I don’t think I can repay what she’s given me—not just her aid, but the genuineness of it. But I will try.
“One hundred spools of white elven thread,” Myth repeated. She stared at her writing, then set her quill down and rubbed her face. “Just four more entries.”
“And then breakfast ,” Arvel said feelingly.
Myth leaned back and let her head droop on her neck. “I think I’d prefer to snatch what bit of sleep I can before our day starts.”
Arvel snorted. “Our day starts? Please. After I hand deliver these to the merchants, we can dispatch a messenger with the updated records for the trade logs, and then we’re sleeping like the dead.”
“You have morning appointments.”
“I’m a prince. That means I get to cancel appointments as long as I have a good excuse,” Arvel grunted.
“Besides. We need our minds sharp. In two days—wait, no—tomorrow is our first official social event with you as my translator. There’s a royal luncheon in the Little Hall.
We need to make sure we’re at the top of our game for that… ”
“In that case, what’s the next entry?”
Arvel stirred. “Sixty-nine spools of black elven thread.”
“Sixty-nine spools…”
A few minutes later, and they finished.
Arvel could hardly believe it. They did it. They had successfully finished the corrections! He stood with a groan, and every bone in his body felt heavy. “You’re a real gem, Myth.”
“Hmmm.” Myth blew gently on the record book, then glanced at the sheaf of papers stacked on Arvel’s desk. “Is it too early to drop the papers off?”
“No, actually. The caravan to Jubilee is leaving shortly after dawn. The translators and few merchants that were allowed to go should all be assembling outside already.”
“Then let us deliver the orders.”
“And get breakfast.” Arvel offered out his hand.
“Yes. Afterwards.” Myth took his hand, and he effortlessly pulled her out of her chair.
Together they staggered a little, but with the terrible task behind them some of Arvel’s willpower was returning. He righted himself and plucked up the papers. “Let’s go.”
Myth was already pulling the study door open.
They walked side by side down the quiet hallways, and there was something in the moment that seemed… different .
Arvel glanced down at Myth.
It’s not her candor—I’ve been in awe of that all night.
Myth hadn’t put on her jacket before they left, so she was still in her pale blue shirt, dainty and elegant—until she yawned widely and shook her head like a dog. “I was unaware elven thread was such a hotly desired good.”
“It’s better for embroidery,” Arvel absently said—still trying to nail down this feeling. “And Sir Arion made it vogue to use it on fighting garments because it’s more durable.”
“Hmm. Personally, I think our paper is a finer product, but I suppose wherever the demand is, it should be filled.” Myth shrugged a little, then glanced up at him. “Tarinthali Ringali has made those metal-forged flower hair sticks found here in Haven all the rage back in Lessa.”
Arvel indicated that they needed to make a turn, which popped them out in one of the open-air corridors that followed the exterior of the palace. The floral scent wafting from Rosewood Park already filled the air as the sky took on a golden hue. “Why is that?”
“It’s a different style—one that appeals to our aesthetic as a culture. We elves are not particularly good at creating new things—we endlessly recycle past styles and arts.” Myth rolled her shoulders, which brushed Arvel’s. “It’s why we’re so good at what we do.”
It was then that it hit Arvel.