Chapter 20
M yth flung the High Elf blade away so she didn’t risk injuring Arvel with it, then struggled to turn around in his grasp.
The Honor Guards were exchanging shouts as they surrounded Lord Julyan’s men, taking their weapons as their fellow guards standing in the balcony watched with their still-drawn bows.
“You’re safe,” Arvel murmured as he embraced her. “You’re not hurt.”
Myth opened her mouth with the intention of telling him that she very obviously knew she wasn’t hurt, before it dawned on her that Arvel wasn’t actually telling her that, as much as he was reassuring himself.
“Yes,” she gently said. “I’m unharmed. Everything’s fine.”
It wasn’t until he hugged her tighter, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, that something in her dislodged, and the tight ball of fear she’d been holding in shifted to something closer to shock.
Her fingers shook as she grabbed the lapels of Arvel’s favorite chocolate-brown jacket, holding tight so she remained upright.
I never dreamed I’d come to love someone as much as I love Arvel.
The thought echoed in Myth’s mind for a moment that seemed to stretch on for eternity.
What?
She… loved Arvel?
The realization was so shocking, Myth had to question it. She couldn’t—no, she didn’t .
But even in the privacy of her mind, that refusal rang false.
Her stomach rolled, and Myth allowed herself the luxury of leaning into Arvel—realizing belatedly that finding comfort in his arms probably was a more correct indicator of her true feelings.
Arvel’s chest vibrated as he spoke. “I thought…I didn’t know what I’d do if…and you can read and speak High Elvish runes? And you didn’t tell me?”
Myth was too busy mulling over her own mental discoveries to seriously listen to what he said—all she did was speak another language, anyway. Her love for Arvel was far more noteworthy at this moment.
He was special to her—she’d known that for weeks. But when had it moved into something more? When he held her as she cried about the library? When they’d rejoiced together over the Fultons’ punishment? Or had it even started earlier, during late nights of joint work and shared laughter?
Myth pressed her face into Arvel’s shoulder, hoping the Honor Guards that were rearranging themselves around her and Arvel couldn’t read her embarrassment.
“Is she hurt?” Thad asked in a tight voice.
Myth took a deep breath, shoved her untimely realization aside for the moment, and tried to step out of Arvel’s grasp. He didn’t let her go entirely, but he loosened his hold enough that she was able to lean back and address the captain.
“I’m fine, Thad.” She forced a smile. “You and your men were impressively fast in taking down that door.”
Thad gave her a once over, then nodded. “I’m afraid I have something of a paranoia about accompanying royals who get attacked,” he drawled. “I prepare for every possibility.”
“That’s right, you were the leader of the squad that got captured with Benjimir by those brigands a few years ago, weren’t you?” Arvel asked. “I’d say I’m sorry, but thanks to you, help arrived just in the nick of time.”
“Yes,” Myth agreed. She watched as two new squadrons of Honor Guards—led by Wilford and Grygg—poured into the room, relieving Thad’s men.
Princess Gwendafyn appeared behind Thad. She clasped him on the shoulder, but her purple-blue eyes were focused on Myth with such force, Myth almost wanted to shrink in her shoes.
“You used High Elf magic,” Princess Gwendafyn said.
“Please allow me to correct you, My Princess Gwendafyn, but actually I did not use magic myself. I merely spoke a rune, which ignited the High Elf magic already present in the sword,” Myth said.
Princess Gwendafyn wrinkled her noble brow. “You just saved yourself from a hostage situation. You can abandon titles and manners at times like this.”
Myth tried to bow to her, but it was awkward because Arvel still hadn’t let her go. “I must politely disagree.”
Princess Gwendafyn narrowed her eyes, then jostled when Lady Tari flung her arms around the elven princess and leaned around her shoulder.
“You spoke the runes!” Lady Tari looked far less frightening now, with her blond hair tucked over her shoulder and her eyes widened.
“I spoke the word the rune represented,” Myth said.
Lady Tari peered up at Princess Gwendafyn. “I didn’t even know that was still possible. Have you heard of anyone doing such a thing?”
“No. But Mythlan has already proven her remarkable skills—don’t you remember that I told you she’s been able to translate High Elf manuscripts she found in the library?”
“Translate is an incorrect description,” Myth said. “I’ve been able to slowly work my way through pieces, but I am by no means able to give full and proper translations.”
Lady Tari brightened. “Really? That’s incredible! You must show us and tell us how you’ve done it—”
“I’m glad you’re getting a chance to witness Myth’s genius, but could we perhaps discuss it at a better time?
” Arvel narrowed his eyes and watched Grygg and Wilford keep their swords pointed at Lord Julyan—who was still crumpled on the ground and whimpering in pain as a guard tied his arms behind his back.
Princess Gwendafyn put her hands on her hips. “I don’t think you understand, Arvel. Mythlan’s ability to speak High Elf magic—”
“Runes,” Myth dared to correct.
“Is unheard of in this millennium,” Princess Gwendafyn finished.
“No, I do understand,” Arvel disagreed. “It’s just one of the ways Myth is incredible and deserves far more recognition than she gives herself. However , I’d prefer not to discuss it when she is still in the same room as the madman that nearly killed her.”
“Oh.” Together, Princess Gwendafyn and Lady Tari turned to look back at Lord Julyan.
A guard was now creating a rope hobble, of sorts, that would limit the length of Lord Julyan’s stride, but it didn’t look necessary. The lord’s face was a sickly green color, and his hand was still bleeding.
“That’s reasonable,” Princess Gwendafyn agreed.
Arvel still hadn’t let Myth go. In fact, he tightened his grip and pressed her against his chest again. “I know,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl.
Princess Gwendafyn grinned, and she looked like she was going to say something, but was interrupted by a call. “Fyn!”
Princess Gwendafyn looked up and then screeched like a hawk when Prince Benjimir grasped the balcony railing and hopped over the side, leaping off the second floor.
He casually rolled to his feet and jogged up to his wife. “Are you hurt?”
“No, but you’re an idiot !” Princess Gwendafyn sheathed her sword, and the leftover bits of her magic evaporated. “Why did you do that?”
“It was the fastest way down.”
“ SO ? Wulf, make a note of it, Ben is an idiot.” Princess Gwendafyn swung around to face the man who perpetually lurked in her shadow. At the moment he was scuffling around recovering the daggers he’d tossed Arvel.
“I can’t make such a note, Princess.” He calmly wiped blood off the blades and inspected their edges.
“Why not?”
“He pays me too well.”
Lady Tari put her hands on her hips and shouted up at the balcony, “Arion, you better not be thinking about copying him.”
“I would never,” Arion calmly said.
“Good!” Lady Tari nodded and squinted up at him. “Then should I harass Thad or Grygg into letting me stand on their shoulders so I can climb up to you?”
“ No ,” Arion snarled. “We’re coming down.”
“How convenient!” Lady Tari brightly said.
Arvel slid one hand off Myth, but instead of entirely releasing her, he used his arm to scoop her into his side. “Come.”
The move made Myth’s traitorous heart beat faster. “What? Why?”
He glanced at Lord Julyan. “I want to get you as far away from him as possible. Captain Thad?”
The resolute captain popped out of the crush of guards. “Yes, Your Royal Highness?”
“We’re heading out.”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
Myth initially considered protesting, but the smell of burned flesh was starting to make her sick, and it struck her that it wasn’t a bad thing to get Arvel away from Lord Julyan, either.
She waited until they left the Celebration Hall before she disentangled herself from Arvel—if she kept touching him much longer, she was pretty sure she was going to turn bright red with a blush.
“You’re not going to protest?” Arvel asked. He walked with her and ignored the guards that protectively surged around them.
“No.” Myth couldn’t even look at him, her feelings were too close to the surface. “Besides, we’re really leaving so you can tell His Majesty King Petyrr, aren’t we?”
Arvel sighed deeply. “Yes.” He reached out and caught Myth’s hand, holding it just long enough to squeeze her fingers. “You’ll translate for King Celrin?”
“If Translator Rollo isn’t with them.”
In the following silence, Myth mashed her lips together as her thoughts circled back.
She loved Arvel.
Of course I, priding myself on my practicality, would fall in love with a prince. Not just any prince, but the crown prince! How very addled of me.
Myth snuck a glance at Arvel. His hair was mussed, and his jacket was slightly rumpled, but even Myth knew she couldn’t blame how handsome he looked in the moment on his charm as his face was lined with worry.
Perhaps it isn’t so illogical. He loves books just as much as I do, and even if I overlook that blasted grin of his that would let him charm a horn off a unicorn, his integrity is to be admired no matter what station he holds.
But what is there to do about it? He’s my employer. I’m his social translator.
Bleakly, Myth recalled Lady Tari’s and Princess Gwendafyn’s warnings—apparently the pair had seen the symptoms of love much earlier.
They had said not to hide her love, but to boldly share it.
I suppose confessing to Arvel would be one way to get myself back in the trade department with all haste. Surely he’d ask someone to reassign me?
“Do we need to stop for a moment before we reach them?”