The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,88

my role as translator. I have done nothing praiseworthy.”

“That’s not how I hear it.” Princess Gwendafyn glanced at Arvel when he joined them. “However, I am not here to argue over semantics, but rather express my genuine thankfulness.”

Arvel tilted his head. “Why is that?”

Princess Gwendafyn’s eyes flashed and her fingers brushed the scabbard of her sword. “Queen Luciee has been inordinately spiteful to Benjimir—to all of you princes, really. I am thankful you have finally broken her power once and for all. With this, I hope she will no longer spew such false lies to you.”

Arvel shrugged. “If she does, we can finally tell her to muzzle herself. She can’t threaten to retaliate and has no way of punishing us any longer.”

“Yes.” Princess Gwendafyn smiled wolfishly. “Which is why this is such a wonderful day. I hope you two plan to celebrate?”

“I think the whole family will,” Arvel said.

Princess Gwendafyn grimaced. “It makes me sorry that such a celebration is warranted. But I am glad, nonetheless, that you have finally broken the Fultons’ power. Congratulations to both of you.”

Princess Gwendafyn looked like she was going to bow again, so Myth preemptively bowed. “It was my honor, My Princess Gwendafyn.”

Princess Gwendafyn turned around to speak to the man behind her. “Ready, Wulf?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed slightly to her, then more deeply to Arvel and Myth. “Your Royal Highness, Lady Translator.”

Together the two swept from the room, their steps accented by the clinking of armor.

Myth frowned slightly as she watched them go. “I seem to be collecting a wide variety of incorrect titles.”

“Consider it destiny,” Arvel suggested as he edged closer.

“Destiny? We must have a different definition of the word,” Myth mused. She could hear more voices in the hallway from the open parlor doors, so she sidled away from the crown prince.

“If something is destined, it means it’s going to happen,” Arvel said. “What does it mean in Elvish?”

“Work—or an object—your family or brethren inflict upon you—whether you want it or not.”

“Yes, that’s pretty different, although in this case it might be the better usage.” He took a giant step toward her, but at that moment Prince Benjimir blew into the parlor, and—judging by the booming laughter echoing in the hallway—King Petyrr wasn’t far behind.

“Brother, and Translator Mythlan, please allow me to offer my congratulations.” Prince Benjimir smirked.

Arvel rolled his eyes. “Now I know you’re coordinating,” he grumbled.

Myth, judging that she had been momentarily forgotten, tried to edge away as unobtrusively as possible.

“Gwendafyn isn’t, but I may be,” Prince Benjimir said.

“Why?”

Myth had made it halfway to the door when Prince Benjimir prodded Arvel in the side. “One for every single time you goaded me about being Gwendafyn’s bond partner during the first six months of our marriage.”

“You are petty.”

“Indeed, which is why I’m going to ask where you’re running off to, Translator Myth?” Prince Benjimir asked.

Myth, on the brink of making her escape, twirled around and pasted a professional smile on her face. “I thought to give you two a moment of privacy—which surely must be required for a meeting between such close brothers.”

“Nonsense,” Prince Benjimir said. “You have to come with us to greet Father. He’s pleased to bits with all the work you and your fellow translators have done and wishes to thank you. Personally.”

“It’s really not necessary,” Myth said.

“But it is. Come along—the both of you. We ought to go to Father before he squeezes someone to death with those jubilant hugs he’s giving out. This way—no, Arvel, you can’t shuffle off with her and escape this.”

“You’re overbearing.”

“And you are ever so deserving of every moment of this. Come.”

“I’m stuffed—I overate.” Arvel lifted his hands above his head and groaned.

Myth glanced at him, a smile budding at her lips. “Rather, I think you ate too fast.”

Arvel grimaced. “Perhaps—no, certainly. But Mother kept trying to talk to me, which means she wants something. She’s probably hoping she can talk me into telling Father to soften the punishment on the Fultons—which will never happen.” He glanced at her. “But you hardly ate at all.”

Now it was Myth’s turn to grimace. Although the food at the luncheon was delicious, she had spent most of the unwanted honor avoiding eye contact with everyone seated at the table. “I’m your translator,” she reminded him. “I shouldn’t be eating at a luncheon meant solely for the royal families of Calnor and Lessa at all.”

“Pft!”

“Translator Rollo didn’t eat,” Myth pointed out.

“Translator Rollo didn’t single-handedly save an entire investigation that let us give the Fultons