The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,51

in a situation where human stupidity reigns. Come, Arvel.”

Arvel snagged Myth’s wrist and tugged her along as the Honor Guard surged around them, entirely encasing them like a physical barrier.

Finally, Myth relaxed. Arvel was safe. They’d see to his wounds, and most likely send her off on her way once the guards finishing sweeping the palace.

Her night was nearly over.

It wasn’t over at all.

In fact, it seemed to Myth that the night stretched on and on even worse than the all-nighter she and Arvel had pulled to fix the Fultons’ order of elven goods several weeks prior.

In the hour Arvel was checked over and had his wound dressed, Prince Benjimir and Sir Arion—once he arrived—meticulously reviewed the attack with Myth.

“You saw no facial features at all—not even when they first approached?” Sir Arion asked.

“No,” Myth said. “As I have stated numerous times, all three of them wore hooded cloaks and had black fabric covering their mouths and noses. Only their eyes were visible.” Myth took a sip of the hot cider Sir Arion had presented her with, savoring the sweet flavor that helped shake off the chill that had invaded her since the attack.

Although the two men had been questioning her incessantly—trying to see if they could dislodge any additional details from her narrative—they had seen to her comforts and brought her to a warm parlor, stuck her in a pleasantly plump chair, and poured warm drinks down her throat.

“Have you been unable to find them, then?” Myth glanced from Sir Arion—broad shouldered and dark haired—to Prince Benjimir—golden and lean. “The one with the leg wound was bleeding enough I would have thought he’d leave a trail.”

“He did.” Sir Arion rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “But he must have done a patch bandage job because when they doubled back through Rosewood Park the trail disappeared, and our dogs can’t pick up a scent. Presumably they followed the stream through the gardens, but we can’t find a hint of their scents near any of the park exits.”

Prince Benjimir had taken up pacing back and forth, his hands folded behind him. “Have we swept the entrance points from the palace to the gardens?”

“Not yet,” Sir Arion said. “It was labeled the lowest priority. My men should be getting to it about now.”

“The Fultons have to be behind this.” Prince Benjimir paused by Myth’s tray of refreshments and methodically filled her mug with more hot cider.

I wish he wouldn’t. My bladder will soon burst.

But the last time she’d protested, Sir Arion had instead pushed cookies at her until she ate three of them, and she didn’t want to encounter that again.

Is comforting victims with food and drink a usual Honor Guard protocol? It seems…unexpected?

“Nobody besides the Fultons has any sort of quarrel with Arvel.” Prince Benjimir returned to his pacing, his eyes straying to the door a palace healer had whisked Arvel through once they arrived.

“Unfortunately, we’ll have a difficult time pinning the attack on them if we can’t find the assailants.” Sir Arion narrowed his eyes. “We don’t even know if the attackers were from Calnor, in which case the Fultons will likely claim it’s another one of our neighboring countries stirring up trouble once more.”

Prince Benjimir snorted. “No one’s been foolish enough to pick a fight with us since Gwendafyn revealed her magic.”

Sir Arion shrugged. “We have no proof to show otherwise.”

Myth frowned as she stared at her steaming mug and tried to pick out any tiny detail from the attack that might help. “Would other countries hire Calnorian assailants?”

Sir Arion swung his intimidating, gray gaze to her face. “Why would you say the assailants are from Calnor?”

“The one that spoke had a Calnorian accent,” Myth said. “And I assumed the others were from Calnor given that they seemed familiar with each other. They were rather purposeful when they attacked His Royal Highness together.”

Prince Benjimir’s frown was slight, but sharp wrinkles stretched across his forehead. “I thought you said the one that spoke only said one line. How can you detect an accent in a single—not to mention short—sentence?”

“I am a linguist, Your Highness.” Myth nudged her mug farther away from her. “I would bring great shame to my profession if I couldn’t tell that much.”

Prince Benjimir studied her. “Hmm.”

“It’s not enough proof to use against them, but it answers a few questions,” Sir Arion said. “If they were Calnorian they pass as servants, and the Fultons could easily smuggle them into the palace.”

Prince Benjimir tapped his