slope of his belly. “Given his aspirations for trade and Calnor’s economy, I thought to foster his relationship with the future leadership of the trade translators—to make his future a little easier. That is my one regret; Chairwoman Errim is going to murder me—financially speaking.”
“I imagine Mythlan will continue to work as a translator—socially and in matters of trade—all her life,” King Celrin said.
“Yes, but Chairwoman Errim was setting her up to be her replacement, and Mythlan can’t very well be that if she’s the queen.” King Petyrr shivered. “I expect all trade translation fees are going to double this year.”
King Celrin chuckled and sipped his wine some more. “She’ll make an exceptional daughter-in-law.”
King Petyrr instantly brightened. “She will, won’t she? She’ll be another beautiful jewel of Calnor—intelligent and stunning! Do you think she’ll call me Father?” He hopefully peered at King Celrin, upsetting his cat.
“Perhaps,” King Celrin offered. “Regardless, I am certain she will be happy to join your family.”
“I hope so.” King Petyrr returned to petting the orange feline, soothing it into purring again. “I do like her. I was worried Arvel wouldn’t find a match—that boy is almost too smart for his own good. But she is an excellent foil to him.”
King Celrin stood up to refill his wine cup and fetched King Petyrr’s pint of human mead from the table. “To the future monarchs of Calnor?”
King Petyrr took the wooden pint and tapped it against King Celrin’s wine chalice. “To the future monarchs of Calnor! May they be better than the previous generation, and may their love be the stuff of stories.”
King Celrin sipped his wine and watched as King Petyrr took a massive swig. “You know,” King Celrin said. “This match will double the number of half Calnorian half elven grandchildren you could have.”
King Petyrr actually spat out his drink in his glee. “You really think so?”
“I do. And it means the next generation of Calnorian royalty will be half elf.”
“…”
“…”
“This calls for more celebration! More wine, more mead! This is one of the best days in my life—no, that’ll be the day more of my grandchildren are born. But such happy times await us, Celrin!”
King Celrin laughed, gratified to see his friend’s good humor restored. “They do indeed, my friend. They do indeed.”
Epilogue
“We have all the necessary paperwork, Your Royal Highness. I think we will be successful?” The leader of the caravan heading to Lessa’s capital city of Jubilee was a young Calnorian man who gripped the cuffs of his jacket with apparent nervousness, and he glanced up worriedly at her from his bow.
Myth smiled. “You’ll do very well,” she assured him. “We’ve gone over the paperwork, you know the proper way to act in Lessa, and you’re bringing Crown Princess Yvrea news of her new niece and nephew. The elves will greet you warmly, and you will enjoy your time there.”
“I’m not worried about the elves—or the orders! I know you looked them over, so they’re perfect. But…” The man hunched his shoulders a little. “What if I mess up a word or something and offend them?”
“The elves will not hold it against you, I promise.” Myth gave him a smile before switching to Elvish. “They will be overjoyed you are trying.”
The man nodded, and gave her a tense smile. “Thank you for all your help, My Princess Mythlan,” he said in accented but understandable Elvish. He bowed again and hurried off, hopping on the saddled horse that waited for him among the wagons. “We’re heading out! To Jubilee,” he yelled.
The pale morning light of the winter sun cast the wagons and travelers in an orange color.
Myth pulled the fur collar of her cloak tight around her neck, but waited on the steps until the caravan passed through the palace gates before she turned around to address her Honor Guards. “It’s to the library, next.”
The squad leader, a serious woman, bowed to Myth—a gesture she still had a hard time mentally accepting. “Yes, Your Royal Highness. Guards!” She made a few hand gestures, and the squad fanned around Myth in a now familiar formation, with Myth at the center.
Summer had changed from fall to winter, and already the blush of spring was starting to invade the icy blast of winter, and the Fultons remained broken. But once Arvel and Myth married in the early fall, Arvel had insisted she travel with a full squad of soldiers, just in case.
Given her inability to defend herself, Myth agreed easily enough to the entourage—though she wished