Chapter 20 #2
“Hmm?” Myth brought herself back to reality with a snap. “I apologize, Your Royal Highness, what did you say?”
“Do we need to take a moment to recover before we go speak to my father and King Celrin?” Arvel asked. “It’d be understandable, considering what you just lived through.”
Myth traced out the tired shadows around Arvel’s eyes and the subtle tightness at the corners of his lips.
Today had been hard on him. Even though they survived, and Myth felt confident that the Fulton family would soon be crushed, the repercussions were many for Arvel.
He’d have to dismantle his own family…and bring additional charges against his mother, who very well might have conspired to try to kill her own son.
There is something to Princess Gwendafyn and Lady Tari’s advice. But I cannot add to the worries on his back already.
Eventually I shall have to reckon with my feelings, but for now it will be enough to help Arvel however I can in all of this.
Myth cleared her throat. “There is a time to grieve and process everything that happened. That time is not now. Your father must be informed.” The words served as a reminder to Myth, too.
A smile briefly flickered in Arvel’s eyes. “Yes. Thanks, Myth. I’m glad you’re with me.”
His words convinced her she’d made a correct assessment.
Besides, she didn’t trust herself to make a sound judgment at the moment, or she’d be tempted to read into things—like the casual way he spoke to her.
Because common sense said most princes didn’t go around talking to their translators that way.
His uncle just tried to kill him, and his mother might have been involved, she reminded herself. He’s allowed to be goofy and do whatever he must to get ready for what awaits him. I might love him, but he’s the crown prince. That means I must understand that, for him, a new battle has just begun.
* * *
Arvel leaned forward slightly, peering past his father to watch for Queen Luciee’s exit from Haven’s palace.
Benjimir shifted on his other side, and past him stood Gwendafyn…a sword dangling from her belt.
Sending a message, are we?
He was vaguely aware that somewhere behind him stood Myth. He’d almost wanted to spare her this—seeing Queen Luciee again—before he’d concluded he was too selfish and he wanted Myth present just to have someone he cared about at his back.
Arvel felt a dissatisfying mix of emotions at the moment.
He was gleeful, because it was all over— finally .
After the attack, Julyan had been formally stripped of his title and sentenced to life in prison.
The entire family had been denounced, removed from the ranks of nobility, and permanently lost the majority of their trading privileges.
Queen Luciee—although claiming to be uninvolved in the attack that had nearly cost Arvel and Myth their lives—was to be quietly exiled to a small manor that was one of the many holdings the Fultons used to own.
She was to remain there for the rest of her days, always guarded by an army fortification, and never allowed any visits from anyone besides locals.
The rest of the Fultons had been scattered.
Their lands and properties had already been divided up and were now retained by the royal family until someone did something worth being granted a title and land.
All of it was by Arvel’s design—King Petyrr had given him free rein in the judgment and made a public announcement that Arvel had also led the investigation that initially indicted the Fultons.
His father’s only request was that he be allowed to grant the Fultons’ largest mansion and the land that had been the seat of their power, as well as the Fultons’ town house.
Arvel suspected one of the properties would go to Sir Arion and Tari.
The pair had been instrumental to the country’s success for nearly a decade, and they deserved anything they were given.
But he wasn’t quite sure what King Petyrr intended to do with the other property.
The horses in the front line of the massive army company that surrounded the waiting carriages neighed and pawed at the ground.
Arvel glanced up at the sunny sky and fought the inclination to fuss with the collar of his jacket. I should have known Mother would keep us all waiting until the last minute, and forgone my jacket. This summer heat is awful.
Two footmen opened the double doors, and Queen Luciee finally stepped out of the palace.
Her chin was raised, and her hair was perfect, but instead of the usual precious gems and expensive gowns, today she wore a serviceable, dark green dress designed for travel, and she carried a basket which held one of her beloved pugs.
Arvel didn’t know when he last saw her so dressed down—probably when he was a child.
Two maids trailed her—each also carrying a basket that contained a pug—and they demurely followed the queen down the many stairs.
Arvel had to hand it to her—she had grit.
Even with the eyes of all the soldiers on her, Queen Luciee’s steps were sure, the tilt of her chin was proud, and she looked almost bored.
She swept past King Petyrr without looking at him—though Arvel didn’t miss the way King Petyrr closed his eyes like a man in pain—and she seemed prepared to sweep past both him and Benjimir as well when suddenly, surprisingly, she stopped.
Queen Luciee turned to Arvel, her eyes as icy and cold as ever.
Here it comes, she’s going to let me have it one last time before she’s exiled to the country.
Arvel inhaled deeply and steeled himself, his gaze unfaltering as he stared her down.
“I never meant for him to wound you.” Queen Luciee’s eyes briefly darted to the arm where Arvel had been injured in the first skirmish. “And I didn’t think he’d actually attack you.”
Arvel paused for a moment, trying to interpret his mother’s proud words.
“I was uninvolved with the second attack. And if I’d known…
” A tiny bit of human emotion escaped her control and flashed across her face, making her frown.
In a moment she’d reschooled herself, her chin held high.
She gave him a miniscule nod, then swept on without even glancing at Benjimir or Gwendafyn—though that might have been because Gwendafyn blatantly rested her hand on the hilt of her sword.
Once the queen reached her carriage, she ascended the stairs with the help of a footman and disappeared inside, the shadows of the carriage innards swallowing her up.
One maid climbed in after her while the other scurried over to the second carriage—which was piled with luggage, with one of the benches stacked with crates—and slipped inside after securing a spot for the pug she carried.
Everyone exhaled the collective breath they’d been holding.
“That’s it, then.” Benjimir stepped out of line first, turning to Arvel and King Petyrr. “My men and I will escort her to the manor, and I’ll set up a guard and a message system before returning.”
Arvel smiled. “Thank you, Ben. I appreciate it.”
“I can’t refuse my future monarch when he makes a request, can I?” Ben teased.
“Take care, and good luck,” King Petyrr said.
Benjimir shrugged. “It won’t be hard on me. I don’t intend to speak to her again if I can help it. And I’ll be home as swiftly as possible.” He swiped Gwendafyn’s free hand and kissed it, finally drawing his wife’s attention from the queen’s carriage.
“Are you sure Wulf and I shouldn’t come with you?” Gwendafyn asked.
“I’d rather have you here keeping an eye on Arvel.
Just in case.” Although his tone sounded cool and unconcerned, Arvel saw the furrow of his brother’s brow, and happily stood a little straighter.
“And I know you and Lady Tari are very excited to continue discussions with Translator Myth about reading High Elf runes.”
“We still haven’t had much time to speak of it,” Gwendafyn agreed.
King Petyrr chuckled. “Sounds like you’ll be busy, daughter-in-law. Safe travels to you, Benjimir.”
“Of course.” Benjimir snapped a salute to King Petyrr and Arvel, paused long enough to fondly smack Arvel on the back, then walked arm-in-arm with Gwendafyn, sweeping toward his waiting troops.
The line of waiting officers bowed gravely to King Petyrr and Arvel, then turned their attention to Benjimir as he started shouting instructions.
Arvel relaxed a little. Benjimir’s men had always treated Arvel with respect, but the way his father’s aides—clustered behind him—threw themselves into a bow whenever they caught sight of him was new.
Things had changed in the court as a result of the Fultons’ treatment.
Gwendafyn claimed the air was cleaner, but, personally, Arvel noticed that more of the nobles treated him with the kind of esteem they afforded Benjimir.
They didn’t speak so informally to him, or chase after him.
It seemed that King Petyrr crediting Arvel with the investigation and judgment of the Fultons had won him the nobles’ respect.
Arvel wasn’t sure it was as bad as he’d been dreading.
Certainly, they were more aware of his power, now.
But the young ladies had gotten less…open in their pursuit of him, and he’d come to befriend the Honor Guards assigned to protect him and Myth, and found he actually liked having them around to joke with instead of seeing them as a ball and chain—like he had feared.
“I’m sorry, lad.” King Petyrr spoke suddenly, breaking Arvel’s thoughts.
Arvel blinked and tried to puzzle the apology out. Failing to do so, he inquisitively tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”