The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,26
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