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  The very thought made Gwendafyn nauseous. She doesn’t care what I need. She’s just trying to force me to follow tradition and be exactly like every other elven princess that has come before me. She wants me to be something I’m not. No—it’s even worse—she doesn’t accept me and thinks this is a personal choice I have made!

  “No,” Gwendafyn repeated. “I will do anything you ask of me, but I will not give up my sword.” For if I do that…there will be nothing left of me at all.

  Lorius studied Gwendafyn for several long and quiet moments. “I think you need to visit your family in Haven.”

  Gwendafyn blinked at the unexpected offer. She had last visited Haven when Tari and Arion were married. “Really?” She perked up but was afraid if she showed too much joy, her aunt would scrap the idea simply due to her “loud enthusiasm.”

  “Yes,” Lorius said. “It is high time you speak to your father about these…ideas of yours. You might not listen to me, but I know you are honorable enough that even you would not disobey a direct order from Our King Celrin.”

  “What do you mean?” Gwendafyn asked slowly.

  “I mean that this trip will be your last reckoning. You must adhere to your role, Gwendafyn. It is your father’s turn to see that this happens.”

  In other words, you’re sending me to face Father who will serve as my executioner—emotionally if not physically. You’re giving me this last bit of freedom, thinking it will prepare me for a life of tight-fisted control and an unerring mask of calm. Her stomach rolled, and for a moment Gwendafyn thought she may be sick.

  Lorius nodded as if the issue were already settled. “Good evening, Gwendafyn. We will begin preparations for your trip in the morning.” Her aunt swept from the room with the grace of a swan.

  Once the door closed behind her, Gwendafyn collapsed to her knees. She released her sword and set her hands on the cold stone flooring as she tried to gasp for air.

  She loved visiting Haven and the bright colors and unfamiliar smells and sounds…but already she could feel the collar of regent tightening around her neck…choking her.

  Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at the unforgiving stone floor.

  Is there no way I can escape…is there no one who will accept me as I am?

  Prince Benjimir of Calnor stood tall as he hesitated just outside the Crystal Hall. This celebration—one of many parties thrown to celebrate the yet unborn child of Lady Tarinthali and Sir Arion—would be his first social gathering in Calnor since he had been exiled nearly three years prior.

  “Exiled” is not the term Father used, but it is undoubtedly what it was. After trying to separate Tarinthali and Arion, his punishment had been to visit other neighboring and allied countries in what amounted to little more than a trick-pony-show—in addition to the removal of his position as heir to the crown.

  Both of the punishments stung, though not for reasons most would guess…

  “Prince Benjimir?”

  Benjimir pulled himself from his thoughts and was surprised to see Lady Tarinthali positioned by the hall entrance.

  Her tapered ears poked out of her butter-blonde hair, and the blue fabric of her elvish style dress—long sleeves and a full skirt with a tapered waist—showed the barest hint of her stomach.

  Benjimir kept a neutral expression on his face. Stay strong, like steel. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks except for her…and I never stood a chance there anyway. With his shoulders rolled back, he sauntered into the room, ignoring the rush of whispers that swirled around the hall with his arrival.

  To his complete and utter surprise, Tarinthali smiled brightly.

  “Thank you for coming, Prince Benjimir. We are honored with your presence,” she said in flawless Calnoric.

  She doesn’t even have an accent anymore. Those of the Translator’s Circle must envy her—or adore her.

  Tarinthali curtsied to him, slightly bowing her head, and her smile only grew. “I had heard you recently returned from your travels. I hope they did not strain you?”

  “Not at all. It was good to meet with our allies and renew old friendships,” Benjimir smoothly lied.

  Tarinthali raised an eyebrow at him, though she did not outright call him out. “I imagine so.”

  “Yes.” Benjimir looked past Tarinthali, looking for her, when his view was abruptly blocked by the large and hulking body of Sir Arion Herycian.

  “Prince Benjimir,” the Honor Guard Captain rumbled.

  No—he’s a colonel now. The Honor Guard Commander sent the promotion request to me while I was abroad.

  “Sir Arion, allow me to offer my congratulations to both of you,” Benjimir said.

  Tarinthali blushed pink and bashfully leaned into Arion, who curled his arm around her shoulders. Together, they were the very picture of domestic bliss.

  How sickening.

  “Thank you,” Arion said. The colonel slightly narrowed his eyes as he studied Benjimir with suspicion—the reaction Benjimir had steeled himself for.

  Benjimir resumed his visual search of the room, ignoring the whispers that still crept through the Crystal Hall.

  Tarinthali also glanced around the room, and just as Benjimir took a step in preparation to stand aside for new guests entering the party, she spoke. “I really am glad you are here, Prince Benjimir,” she said.

  Benjimir didn’t let himself scoff and instead stared blankly at her. “I’m sure,” he said.

  Because who wouldn’t be glad to see the man that nearly succeeded in ruining their love at a celebration for their unborn child?

  “I am,” Tarinthali insisted. “I would like to hear of your travels later. We Lesser Elves don’t often venture outside of Lessa—or beyond Haven for that matter. I am certain you have some diverting tales to share.”

  Benjimir stared at her. Has she turned daft with the pregnancy? He glanced at Arion, who still eyed him with suspicion, though he did not gainsay his wife.

  “Though I imagine you and Arion have much news to exchange regarding the Honor Guard,” Tarinthali rattled on as she briefly touched the hair stick topped with a pink orchid that pinned a few locks of her light blonde hair to her head.

  “Yes,” Benjimir said reluctantly. “Although the Guard Commander kept me appraised, I need to catch up on the reports if I am to remain in charge of the Honor Guard.”

  Traditionally, the Honor Guard was run by the Calnor heir to the throne. But given that Benjimir was no longer the Crown Prince, he imagined it was only a matter of time before he was asked to forfeit the honor—even though his father had yet to announce which of Benjimir’s three younger brothers would be the new heir. Yet another mark of dishonor on my record. Oh well.

  Tarinthali’s smile didn’t even flicker at Benjimir’s words. “Indeed,” she said.

  Arion shifted slightly, and the suspicion in his narrowed eyes morphed into a brow furrowed in thought. “There has been an increase in banditry near our borders over the last few months,” he said. “A marked increase.”

  Why on earth has this hulking giant not tossed me from this hall after what I did to the pair of them? Benjimir clasped his hands behind his back. “I recall reading something of the like in one of the reports I received while traveling.”

  Arion nodded. “Since you have returned, I expect His Majesty King Petyrr will hand the matter over to you.”

  Now it was Benjimir’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Not if he’s planning to give the Honor Guard over to his new heir. “We shall see, I suppose.”

  Tari flipped a lock of her hair over her shoulder as she glanced at the entrance where more well-wishers waited. “If you will excuse us, Prince Benjimir, we really should greet the other guests. I do look forward to seeing you around Haven again.”

  Benjimir nodded. “Of course. Congratulations once again.”

  Tarinthali smiled at him before she turned away to embrace another blonde-haired elf.

  Arion held his gaze for a few long moments, then bowed. “Welcome home, Your
Highness,” he murmured before he also swiveled to face the incoming guests.

  Benjimir observed the pair with slight amusement. I suppose, being an elf, Tari likely has a greater capacity for forgiveness, but Sir Arion? Even though he said he understood when it came out that I was attempting to separate them, I don’t think it could make him be…cordial. Unless he pities me now because of her.

  He dropped the thought when a stabbing sensation clawed at his heart. Raising his chin, he briskly crossed the hall, ignoring the whispers that swirled around him.

  “—no longer the Crown Prince.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Does anyone know?”

  “No…”

  “Dishonored…”

  “Queen Luciee didn’t even receive him last night!”

  Benjimir ignored the gossip that nipped at his heels and stopped at the refreshments table. He frowned slightly as he took in the many barrels of beer, ale, and the flagons of elvish wine. Is this a party to celebrate an unborn child or a wild and carousing festival? He chose a wine goblet at random when a familiar laugh tugged at his heart.

  He twisted around, the pain in his heart increasing when he saw Yvrea, his bond partner and the elvish Crown Princess, standing with two male elves, laughing with one of them.

  He hadn’t seen her since his exile, but she was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her blonde hair was bright as the sun and her eyes as blue as the summer sky. She carried warmth and gentleness with her like a cloak, settling it over all who basked in her presence.

  Benjimir tightened his grasp on his goblet until he was clenching it and watched Yvrea blush as she briefly rested a hand on one of her suitor’s arms.

  She was never going to be mine, he reminded himself. It was an impossible, beautiful dream.

  Still, he didn’t know what was worse, not being able to see her for the duration of his exile or returning to see at least two possible suitors vying for her hand.

  Regardless, I ruined everything. In my worry that Tarinthali would speak ill of me given that she was and remains the only elf outside the Translator’s Circle to speak Calnoric and because Yvrea considers her a companion, I tried to separate her from Arion and earned my father’s anger.

  Though King Petyrr had never publicized what Benjimir had done, all of Calnor knew something had happened. King Petyrr was not a brash man who would remove Benjimir’s right as heir apparent in a fit of fancy.

  If I had remained the Crown Prince, I would see her all the time to discuss economics, defenses, and everything involved with ruling. Now I am merely her bond partner and little more than a royal decoration.

  Benjimir sipped his wine, mostly to avoid the temptation of chucking the cup in his regret. He sighed and settled in against the wall, angling himself so he could hear Yvrea when she laughed but couldn’t see her.

  “Prince Benjimir!”

  Benjimir glanced up and watched his longtime friend, Translator Rollo, hustle across the Crystal Hall.

  Unlike Benjimir, who wore breeches, boots, and a leather doublet, Rollo wore the robes of a scholar and had enough rope belts tied round his waist to strangle a hydra.

  The translator—who was nearly a decade older than Benjimir but acted as if he were a decade his junior—nearly skid out when he locked his legs and stopped just short of Benjimir.

  “You’ll never guess who just arrived in Haven!” Rollo said, nearly jumping in glee.

  “Oh?” Benjimir asked without enthusiasm.

  Rollo tugged his robes straight. “I’ll give you a hint: you’re going to be glad you kept up your elvish language drills while we traveled!”

  Rollo had been the one gift his father had given him during his exile. Though Calnor and Lessa could scant afford to lend out any translators, Rollo had traveled with Benjimir even though he had no translation duties to perform during the trip as he only spoke Calnoric and Elvish.

  But as Rollo had been Benjimir’s tutor in Elvish for years, his friendship and presence were appreciated—even though he made Benjimir keep up his studies in Elvish despite its uselessness.

  What’s the point of speaking Elvish when Yvrea will never be mine?

  “I assume that means some sort of Lesser Elf dignitary has arrived?” Benjimir inquired with very little real interest.

  “Yes!” Rollo enthusiastically beamed. “And not just any dignitary—Princess Gwendafyn! And she’s on her way here, right now!”

  As if by magic, the entrance of the Crystal Hall was flooded with another round of whispered murmurs.

  2

  An Alternative Route

  Princess Gwendafyn, the second daughter of the elvish King Celrin and the younger sister of Crown Princess Yvrea, entered the Crystal Hall with all due grace and elegance.

  Though Yvrea was known as a beauty, Gwendafyn was gorgeous with glossy hair that was a shade of dark brown—almost black—rarely found in Lesser Elves. Her eyes were also an unusual shade of dark purple. She most resembled her dark-haired father—from whom she had inherited her rare looks—but she shared the same slender build as her sister, though Gwendafyn was markedly taller.

  As Benjimir observed the younger princess’s entrance, his thoughts were entirely dispassionate. Many likely consider her more beautiful than Yvrea, but not I. His eyes strayed to Yvrea again, who hadn’t yet caught sight of her sister, until Rollo nudged him.

  “Why do you think she’s here?” Rollo asked. “She so rarely visits Haven as long as the rest of the royal family is here, given that she is the Lessa Royal Regent.”

  Benjimir shrugged as he glanced at her again. “Perhaps my father finally intends to announce Arvel as his heir, and as his bond partner, her presence was requested.”

  Rollo frowned. “Nonsense. His Majesty King Petyrr would have told you if that were so.”

  Benjimir considered his goblet before taking another sip of the fine elvish wine. “Perhaps.”

  Yvrea finally caught sight of her younger sister and released a tinkling laugh as she moved forward and embraced her.

  Gwendafyn smiled briefly at something her sister said but continued to survey the room until Tarinthali approached her.

  The Evening Star curtsied to Gwendafyn, then reach out and took her hand, concern wrinkling her noble brow.

  “Whatever it is that brought her here, she does not appear overly pleased with it,” Benjimir observed before he tipped back the rest of his wine.

  A scuffle marched through the pocket of guests to Benjimir’s right before King Petyrr popped out of the crowd.

  “There you are, my boy!” King Petyrr boomed as he strode up to Benjimir. Two rather bedraggled secretaries, three footmen who carried more parcels wrapped in pink paper than they could realistically hold for any length of time, and an unhappy translator who carried the king’s favorite orange tabby cat trailed in his wake.

  “Come and greet Princess Gwendafyn,” King Petyrr smiled widely. “She’s just come from Haven!”

  “Shouldn’t you be telling Arvel this?” Benjimir asked. “Princess Gwendafyn is his bond partner.”

  King Petyrr swatted a hand through the air. “Gobbledygook! She’s Celrin’s daughter and deserves a proper greeting from our family. Plus, you can put to use that basic Elvish you’ve been working on for so long and greet her on our behalf.”

  Though Benjimir set his goblet on a table and turned to follow his father through the crowds, he said, “Lady Tarinthali would gladly translate, I am sure.”

  “You are right, but Tari shouldn’t have to work at her own party! And she needs to rest for the sake of her baby—who, if she and Arion are blessed, will be a little girl!” King Petyrr plunged through the crowd, leaving Benjimir and the rest of the king’s retinue to trail in his wake.

  “Not everyone shares your passion for daughters,” Benjimir said.

  “That’s a shame, for they are such fun. You should have brought a wife back from your travels abroad,” King Petyrr laughed.

  Benjimir shrugge
d as they stopped just short of the elf princess—who was still speaking with Tarinthali in the lilting language of the elves. “I don’t know that I ever will marry.” Why would I when I could never love another—and who would want me now that I am not the Crown Prince?

  King Petyrr clucked and shook his finger at Benjimir. “You are young and naïve, Benjimir. One day a sweet maiden who will make the perfect daughter-in-law shall enter into your life.”

  “If I was looking for a marriage partner, I would not be overly concerned with the kind of daughter-in-law she could be,” Benjimir said sourly.

  King Petyrr laughed and slapped Benjimir on the back with enough force to nearly smack the wind out of him. “See? You do have opinions. Now wipe that sour look off your face and say hello! And tell the princess she’s pretty!”

  Gwendafyn fixed a serene smile on her face as she swept into the Crystal Hall. Her purple gown was wrinkled from the journey, and she felt weary. But, given that her trip was not scheduled ahead of time, it was rather imperative she inform her father of her arrival—and the reason for it.

  When they told me Father was in the Crystal Hall for one of many celebrations for Tari and Arion, they promised the party had just started. Either those who live in Haven are far more punctual for social engagements, or the attendants who received me meant something else.

  “Fyn!” Yvrea laughed in joy as she threw her arms around Gwendafyn. (She had to stand on her tip-toes to reach her.) “What a pleasant surprise! Did you come here just for the party?”

  “Not quite…” Gwendafyn offered her a quick smile before she resumed her search for their father, but King Celrin was nowhere to be seen.

  “My Princess Gwendafyn.” Tari curtsied briefly before reaching out to take her hand. “Please allow me to welcome you to Haven. I hope all is well?”

  She’s an Evening Star. She’s likely concerned about those watching the sea… “Yes,” Gwendafyn was quick to supply. “All is well in Lessa. I have come bearing a message from my Aunt Lorius for Our King Celrin.”