The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,5

when another thought—this one unwanted—invaded his mind. Though perhaps I will not be so happy when I am forced to reckon with the changes myself in the far off day I am made king.

History was, he imagined, not very much fun to live through.

Arvel familiarly wove around the looming shelves, relaxing more and more with every step he took as he made his way to his favorite part of the library.

The shelves parted, opening up into a small gap that held two wooden staircases built in glossy swirls. Arvel climbed up the nearest, entering the second floor of the library, which afforded him a tremendous view of the floor below.

Carelessly, he glanced down, his gaze naturally wandering to a tiny study nook tucked against a row of bookshelves so tall, the librarians needed ladders to reach the top shelves.

As usual, she was there.

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Surrounded by a stack of four massive books and studying a scroll that she was carefully unrolling, was Arvel’s favorite library companion.

Her hair glittered such a pale blond it appeared silvery, even as the elven lamp carefully arranged on her desk shed a blue light from behind the aqua glass that covered it. A quill was tucked behind one of her tapered elven ears, and even though it was late in the evening her posture was straight and graceful as she studied her materials with great seriousness.

Arvel didn’t know her name. He hadn’t even met her, ever. But she frequented the library as much as he did, and despite their lack of conversation—although they’d exchanged smiles and nods before—he’d come to think of her as a friend. He was bound to think of anyone who loved the library even half as much as he did as an outstanding person, anyway.

He did, however, know she belonged to the Translators’ Circle—her dark gray jacket and cobalt lapels and cuffs marked her as an apprentice.

As if she could feel eyes on her, the elven translator briefly raised her gaze, happening to look up where Arvel stood leaning against the banister.

Arvel gave her his friendliest smile.

She respectfully bowed her head, then returned her attention to her scroll.

Arvel’s smile faded into a fond grin. He tapped the banister railing, then slipped deeper into the library. The air on the second floor still smelled of paper and ink, but soon the scent of plant life veined it.

The lower floor of the library bore more traces of Calnorian design with its orderly rows and ornamental stone work—though the furniture and decorations were mostly elven. The upstairs, however, was a different story.

Skylights were carefully fitted into the vaulted ceiling that was painted with several gargantuan frescoes depicting important pieces of history between the elves and humans.

Giant tree trunks—some of which actually bore leaves—crept up the walls, and leafy ivy tendrils grew up the sides of more than a few bookcases.

The desks and tables were stockier and more solid—produced by Calnorian carpenters—while the chairs were lighter with thin, curved legs, soft cushions, and chair backs that were either carved in sharp V’s or perfectly round ovals—elven design for certain.

When Arvel was a child, he’d been taught that elven enchanters and Calnorian wizards frequently regulated the library, casting spells to keep the damage to books and materials minimal. Arvel believed it, because there was a gurgling fountain pressed next to one of the massive tree trunks, and he had no idea how they got water to feed into it without the use of magic.

A few more minutes of peacefully meandering through the shelves brought Arvel to his favorite alcove: a small table placed directly under a skylight that—in the daytime—would shed rays of yellow sunshine. Sometimes at night it was diffused with the softer, silvery light of the moon, but clouds covered the sky at the moment, so Arvel only saw the twinkling glare the elven lamps cast on the glass panes.

He dropped into the nearest chair and exhaled. Leaning on the back two legs of his chair, he stared up at the skylight and considered searching for a book to skim.

“Ahhh, I knew you’d be here!”

Arvel bolted out of his chair and turned around in time to watch his father, King Petyrr of Calnor, march through the shelves. The squat but wiry monarch carried one of the squash-faced pugs that belonged to Arvel’s mother and patted the little creature as it squirmed in his arms and tried to lick his face.

Behind him trailed four Honor Guards, two secretaries, and Arvel’s translator—a man named Rollo who had a