Chapter 18 #3
She’d seen the enraged nobleman when Grygg and his men bodily escorted him into the courtroom—he was white with fury.
It makes me glad my presence isn’t required.
Chairwoman Errim had offered to stand testimony and answer any trade-related questions King Petyrr might have, and, given the setting, Arvel required a governmental translator, not a trade or social translator.
So, she was free to sit in the private parlor Arvel had reserved for her, which was conveniently in the same hallway as the court room, with Wilford and Grygg for company.
Myth sipped her tea and nudged the plate of tea sandwiches closer to Wilford, who was longingly watching them.
“Thank you, Lady Mythlan!” Wilford grinned sheepishly as he took two of the small sandwiches.
“Indeed. But I do have a question for you.” She set her teacup down and scrutinized Wilford. “Why have you suddenly taken to calling me Lady Mythlan, when you insist I shouldn’t use your titles as captains?”
Wilford choked on his sandwich, and the usually cool and even tempered Grygg looked a little panicked.
“Er, that is to say…what do you mean? It’s just a nickname!” Grygg laughed louder than the situation required.
“Except I’ve already told you my nickname is Myth, and Lady Mythlan is a far longer moniker.”
Wilford thumped his chest a few times, then croaked, “Practice?”
“Practice for what?” Myth asked.
The captains exchanged nervous looks.
“Is this a custom, or a cultural thing?” Myth continued. “I’d like to know. If I am doing something wrong I need to correct my ways.”
“It’s nothing, Lady—er, Myth,” Wilford said. “It’s just…we’re just…”
Grygg held a finger up in the air. “Practice!” he declared. “As we rise in the ranks of the Honor Guards, we’ll rub elbows with more nobles. We’re practicing for then.”
“Except I am not a noble, and I was under the impression you frequently visit with Lady Tari, who is quite noble,” Myth pointed out.
Wilford rubbed his eyes. “Why do you have to be so observant?” he complained.
There is some undertone to this that I don’t understand…
“Very well.” Myth avoided their eyes as she poured herself some more tea. “I perhaps grasp what you mean.”
“Do you?” Wilford asked, sounding frightened.
“Yes. You used to call me Myth because we were friends, but you have rescinded your offer of friendship and incorrectly call me by a noble title to draw a clear separation between us,” Myth said.
She was almost certain this wasn’t the case, but she was hoping this would guilt them into telling her the truth.
“Ahh, this is worse,” Grygg hissed.
“It’s not like that at all, L—Myth.” Wilford clasped his hands almost pleadingly at her. “It’s just, we notice things—particularly Grygg and I—”
“Because we’re the two that are forever alone even though everyone around us seems to have heaven-blessed romances,” Grygg grumbled.
Wilford shot him a poisonous look then returned to smiling pleadingly at Myth. “And we’ve come to see a certain pattern to these things and—”
The parlor door swung open, and Arvel poked his head in. “They’ve been found guilty!”
Myth popped to her feet. “The Fultons?”
“And Lord Julyan, yes!” Arvel laughed, throwing his arms wide.
Myth crossed the short distance and accepted the unspoken invitation, hooking her arms around Arvel’s neck as he swept her up in a hug. She couldn’t say anything—she was too happy for that—and instead she let herself laugh giddily as Arvel spun her around.
“You did it!” she said into Arvel’s shoulder.
He set her down, but didn’t release her. “ We did it!”
Myth’s smile was so full her cheeks ached, but she excitedly turned to Grygg and Wilford. “They’re guilty!”
Grygg laughed boisterously. “As expected!”
“Well done, Your Highness, Myth.” Wilford beamed at the two, even as he edged his way out of the room, dragging Grygg in his wake. “We’ll go check on our men standing guard.”
“What? Why?” Grygg asked. “We’re off hours. OW .” He grimaced when Wilford kicked him in the shins.
“We’re going!” Wilford cheerfully yanked Grygg through the doorway, shutting it behind them.
Myth watched them go, mildly confused at Wilford’s conduct, but even her curiosity wasn’t enough to distract her. “The Fultons are guilty, but what is their punishment?”
“An extremely hefty fine, and the punishment I was really after.” Arvel’s grin took on a slightly darker edge to it. “Father has ordered the destruction of their trade permit with Lessa.”
“They can’t purchase goods from elves anymore?”
“Nope. They can’t even purchase them from other families to use for trade later,” Arvel said.
“And he’s also temporarily frozen their ability to trade luxury goods here in Calnor.
They can still deal regular goods—cloth, crops, tools and the like—but anything foreign or expensive is outlawed for now. ”
Myth tilted her head back as she considered the punishment. “Because of their misreported taxes?”
“Exactly. Father’s reasoning was that those were the things they lied about and misrepresented, so they’ve lost the privilege to trade in them—for now. The Fultons will never have another chance to deal in elven goods, though.”
“That naturally limits Queen Luciee’s power to help them with their illegal dealings then,” Myth said.
“Exactly so. With their permit destroyed, even she can’t throw her title around to insist they be given a chance to order—she’s furious.”
Myth sighed happily. “Then it was a just punishment, and well thought out.”
“I would have liked to squeeze them more, but knowing Father intends to limit Mother’s power and ban her from any governmental activity at all, I believe it will bring them more pain than one would think.
They’ve essentially lost all their power between Mother’s disgrace and the annulment of their permit,” Arvel said. “ And… ”
Myth looked expectantly up at him. “Yes?”
“If Sir Arion, Ben, and I can find enough evidence, we’ll drag them back into court again for the fires, and Father will wallop them all over again!”
“I hope you find the evidence—I still can’t believe Lord Julyan sought to ruin a symbol of our countries’ union that has stood for centuries.”
“It shows how twisted the Fultons are, I’m afraid.” Arvel sighed, and his hands slipped from Myth’s upper back to her waist.
The sensation made Myth blink, and she realized she and Arvel hadn’t stopped hugging. Rather, they’d been grinning at each other and still loosely embracing.
Oh my. I haven’t read a rule that says it’s improper to embrace the crown prince for so long, but I’m almost certain it must be some variation of a faux pas.
How do I extract myself from this? Never mind why Arvel hasn’t corrected me.
He’d go around breaking every social rule dictated by his title if he could.
“Are you satisfied with their punishment?” Arvel asked.
“Hm?” Myth refocused on the prince.
“Do you think Father was hard enough in their punishment?”
Myth thought for a moment. “For the crime they’re currently accused of, yes.
I imagine when you do find evidence of arson and bring them forward again, their punishment will be even more harsh.
But I believe even this sentence alone will accomplish what you wanted, and that is to break their power beyond mending. ”
Recalling the house stuffed with elven goods—and that some of them, like the High Elf sword, were most likely illegal—Myth saw the simple elegance of King Petyrr’s decision.
“I don’t know the Fultons will be able to survive without access to elven goods given that they seemed to make the majority of their fortune from it.
And barring them from luxury goods—even only temporarily—will make it that much more difficult for them,” she said.
“Given several years, I suspect they will self-destruct from lack of funds.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, too.” Satisfied with her answer, Arvel pulled her closer.
Myth felt her cheeks heat and tried to lean back a little, but it was near impossible given the embrace.
No—no. This isn’t the Prince of Seduction. I’m not going to get flustered.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Myth. I couldn’t have done it without you—we wouldn’t have had this hearing if not for you.” Arvel’s voice didn’t drop—a sure sign of Him —but he was quieter than usual as he lowered his head to murmur in her ear.
“You were the one who found all the connections,” Myth said. “I just copied your findings.”
Arvel chuckled. “And then found them again with your fellow translators. You underestimate yourself, you know.”
“I could say the same of you.”
Arvel was so close, she felt his warm breath fan across her temples. “Isn’t it a lucky thing, then, that we have each other?”
Myth swallowed, and found all she could do was stare up at Arvel like a bedazzled woodland creature.
He drew closer and closer, and his breath was on her lips. Just a hair closer and they would—
The parlor door was thrown open without ceremony. “Arvel—well done!”
Myth ripped herself out of Arvel’s hug, her cheeks burning.
“Sorry, did I interrupt something?” Princess Gwendafyn smirked a little as she strolled deeper into the room. Today she was dressed for battle, wearing a leather doublet, fitted breeches, leather bracers, and a lightweight breastplate.
Behind her lurked a Calnorian man. He was a little grizzled looking—or perhaps wild was a better word—and wore a tunic with Gwendafyn and Benjimir’s emblem emblazoned on it.
Arvel groaned and let his shoulders slump. “Fyn, are you and Ben coordinating your attacks? Because— oof !”
Myth almost ran Arvel over as she greeted Princess Gwendafyn. “My Princess Gwendafyn,” she chirped, magnifying the genuine happiness that came with seeing her personal hero by about ten in hopes of covering up the awkward interlude. “It is a pleasure to see you again!”
Princess Gwendafyn had been looking thoughtfully from Arvel to Myth and raised her eyebrows. “Is it?”
“No!” Arvel sourly called.