Chapter 6
M yth was casually chatting with him about things that interested him.
She wasn’t pumping him for information on court politics like his mother, lecturing him for not having guards like Benjimir, or even just exchanging pleasant but casual chit-chat like he did with Gwendafyn.
Myth was talking about trade, and had the knowledge to go toe-to-toe with him.
It wasn’t just that she had dropped the titles and slightly more formal tone she’d used over the past few days and become his friend. It was that she was listening to him—not with bemusement or forced interest forged out of dutiful love—but because she actually enjoyed the conversation.
He stared down at Myth, keeping step with her, but strangely unwilling to look away from her. As if she—perhaps the rarest kind of person he’d ever met—would disappear if he did.
Myth yawned again. “I hope at breakfast we’ll be served something stronger than tea?”
“Do you mean coffee?”
“I mean something with alcohol.”
Arvel gaped down at Myth and almost burst into laughter when he saw how serious her expression was. “I’m sure one of the maids could pour a few drops of something into your coffee for you.”
Myth pushed one of her already arched eyebrows up, making her look disdainful. “What you mean to say is, no. There is nothing stronger.”
“You make me think that you elves are a bunch of raging alcoholics.”
“It’s not our fault you humans can’t hold your liquor.”
Arvel laughed. “You are a light in this dark world.”
Myth brushed a stray thread off her fitted breeches. “Is that a Calnorian custom? To frequently compare a person to commonly found items? Should I be calling you a chair?”
His laughter was so deep, Arvel almost forgot himself and slung an arm over Myth’s shoulders before he stopped in time. “After everything you have done for me, you can call me whatever you like!”
He didn’t think she knew just how truly he meant it, but he did. In fact, as he staggered through the palace with his translator, it occurred to Arvel that he’d give Myth whatever she wanted if she was willing to stay with him.
* * *
A full day’s sleep did wonders for Myth, so the day after Arvel had turned in the corrected paperwork, Myth was refreshed and ready for her first event as his translator.
The pressure of acting as a social translator was a steady weight that made the seams of her translator jacket dig into her shoulders, but a tiny part of her was giddy with the prospect of attending the royal luncheon.
Not because she cared about social events—she’d rather review records any day. But because this was a royal luncheon, and Princess Gwendafyn was going to attend!
However, Myth was a professional. And even if she wasn’t a social translator—by her emphatic choice—she’d make sure she perfectly played the job she’d been given.
So, when Arvel and Myth arrived in the Little Hall just before the guests were slated to begin arriving, Myth was the image of the perfect translator.
Her jacket was crisp and perfectly pressed, her expression was calm and serene, and her fingers were interlaced in a “waiting” gesture as she kept her expression downcast.
“That excited about the luncheon, hm?” Arvel led the way around the room’s exterior.
The Little Hall was one of the smaller halls used for socials and events, but it was still beautiful and ornate, with brightly colored draperies and carpets, and walls covered in wallpaper of a repeating floral and woodland creature pattern.
In preparation for the luncheon, it was cluttered with tables and chairs, and the kitchen staff were rushing in and out with platter after platter of delectable delicacies.
“I will do my best this afternoon,” Myth said.
“I wasn’t concerned you’d be anything but wonderful.” Arvel gave her another one of his charming smiles—which Myth was by now used to.
Once Arvel made the complete circuit, he stopped a few table lengths from the hall entrance. “We’ll be part of the greeting line with my parents and Benjimir, but the rest of the elven royal family has to arrive first.”
Myth scanned the room, looking for Princess Gwendafyn—it didn’t appear she had arrived yet. “I see.”
“You don’t have to hang around while we eat—I’m sitting with Lady Tari today, and she’s practically a translator.”
When a servant stopped in front of him with a tray of glass flutes filled with elven wine, Arvel took one.
He offered it to Myth, but she shook her head—she didn’t want anything affecting her mouth, or tongue.
“I am proud to say Lady Tari is more fluent in Calnoric than the best translator,” she said.
Arvel had been about to sip the wine, but he paused in the middle of raising the flute to his mouth and curiously studied her. “You’re proud to say that?”
Myth, just as curious, peered up at him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You study your whole life to be a translator, and Tari learned Calnoric in a few weeks because of her magical bond with her husband.”
Myth furrowed her brow. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Then why are you proud?”
“Because she’s an elf. Through her, all elves are raised,” Myth said.
Arvel thoughtfully tapped his wine flute. “I’m beginning to see why our people have had difficulties communicating in the past. Our cultures have very different outlooks on things that muddied the waters. I’m sure of it.”
“Perhaps that is so.” Myth did another scan of the crowd.
King Celrin of Lessa—stately, tall, and proud—had arrived with his beautiful Queen Firea, but their youngest daughter was still nowhere to be seen.
“Given that you show no inclination to be interested in political agendas, I assume you’re watching for someone in particular?” Arvel asked. “A colleague, perhaps.”
“No.” Myth squared her stance and fixed her posture, mentally scolding herself for so obviously lapsing in her duty. “I was hoping to see—”
She stopped talking when the most beautiful being in Calnor and Lessa stepped into the Little Hall.
Princess Gwendafyn—the second princess of the elves who had married Prince Benjimir of Calnor and become a Calnorian princess as well—was gorgeous with her dark hair and exquisite purple colored eyes.
A wide smile adorned her lips, multiplying the princess’s already abundant beauty, and the purple shade of her uniquely styled gown—a gauzy dress with a high waistline that turned into a split, revealing the fitted white breeches and delicate white sandals the princess wore underneath—perfectly matched the scabbard of the sword strapped to her waist.
“My Princess Gwendafyn,” Myth uttered, unable to keep the adoration from her voice.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Looks like Fyn has arrived.” Arvel waved to his sister-in-law.
She smiled and took a step in his direction, until King Petyrr’s bellow ripped her attention away.
“Daughter-in-law!” King Petyrr dashed across the hall, almost knocking over Prince Benjimir to reach Gwendafyn. When he reached her, the much shorter man gave her an exuberant hug, producing a delightful laugh from the princess.
“Fyn’s a lot of fun,” Arvel casually said.
“My Princess Gwendafyn is amazing ,” Myth firmly said. “She is of the royal house of the Lesser Elves, has made great strides in connecting our people, and is the first elf in centuries who can use a form of High Elf magic.”
“Yes.” Arvel finished off his wine. “She’s pretty impressive.”
Outraged, Myth turned on her employer. “Pretty impressive? Pretty impressive? My Princess Gwendafyn is a walking legend, and I dare you to find anyone more outstanding, kind, and deadly!”
Arvel thoughtfully tilted his head. “It seems like you have a bad case of hero-worship for Fyn. Want me to introduce you two?”
“Don’t you dare ,” Myth hissed. “My Princess Gwendafyn is the smiling sun which we lessers can bask in the warmth of! You cannot bother her with a simple matter like introductions when she has so many demands on her time.”
Arvel rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how I like being considered a lesser.”
“Compared to My Princess Gwendafyn, you are quite lesser.” Myth watched Princess Gwendafyn with fascination as the elven princess embraced her mother and then her father.
“Quite lesser? Are you forgetting that I, too, am a royal?” Arvel playfully complained. “Much less the crown prince?”
Myth stared blankly at him. “So?”
“Wouldn’t being the future monarch of Calnor put me on equal footing with Gwendafyn, even if she is legendary?” Arvel winked and nudged her a little.
Ohhh, he’s fishing for a compliment, is he? He’s going to be doomed to disappointment. With everyone fawning over him, he hardly needs my praise!
Myth went through the extra effort of keeping her expression calm and her voice insistent. “She is My Princess Gwendafyn. You are just a crown prince.”
“ Just the crown prince?” A strangled sounding noise escaped from Arvel’s mouth, and he gaped at her as if she’d grown another head. “Your sense of hero-worship makes you mean , Myth.”
Myth sniffed. “Hardly. It is simply that you cannot compare to the splendor of My Princess Gwendafyn.”
“Fine. Then what does that make me in your thoughts?”
Myth tapped her chin and looked thoughtful, before innocently widening her eyes. “My employer?”
This time Arvel’s mouth dropped. “ Employer ? Not even a royal?”
Myth shrugged. “As I am an elf, you’re not my prince.”
“But, but—Gwendafyn is my bond partner! That should give me some claim to a higher status.”
Myth gave Arvel her best pitying look.
Arvel narrowed his eyes. “What’s that look for?”
“I am sad for you that you are resorting to citing weak connections to claim a higher level of importance. I did not know you needed such praise to thrive.”
“What? You…” Arvel gaped at her for a moment, then erupted into loud laughter.
Myth took his wine flute from him so he didn’t drop it, then demurely looked down as many of those present in the room peered in their direction.