Rise of the Unfavored Princess

Ch. 69: Call to War

A slow but definition conclusion is reached in the ensuing conversation, one that my father chimes little into as the clerics exercise their vocal cords and compete in who can repeat the same message with as much fancy vocabulary and vernacular as possible: no one can know the princess’ powers.

To say the following atmosphere is tense would be like saying the sky is blue. It’s so thick I could cut it with a knife and spread it on toast like butter. I know the bad blood between the Holy Church and imperial family runs deep, and my father’s usurp- ahem, ascension was not the ideal situation they had hoped for.

You see, there can’t be two suns in one sky. And considering how the Holy Church’s crest is a sun, I don’t need my high school English teacher to point out that it’s a metaphor to how they consider their religion to be central to the empire’s needs even above that of the Erudian imperial family. However, unlike the unrivaled power the popes had in the Europe of old in my past world, our royal family is actually related to Helio, the very god that is worshipped. That would be as if the French royal family were actual descendants of Jesus, which would significantly undermine the papal authority the church was able to hold over European royals’ heads and make executive decisions with.

Coupled with the rumors of the emperor’s dabbles in forbidden magic and his mysterious killing aura better suited for a battlefield than the throne, it would not be an understatement to say that the Holy Church is on terrible terms with my father. In the carriage ride back, I can’t help but smirk to myself as I look out the window. Helio is just the name my father gave himself after he took the throne, perhaps under a misguided belief that naming himself after the god would make the Church and people look more favorably upon him. But judging from the fiery glares between some of the high ranking clerics who clearly decide the Church’s agenda and Emperor Helio, it has only worked out halfway.

Is this why he married Empress Katya? House Duvernay and the Holy Church have a strong relationship, with one of the five bishops, the highest rank within the Holy Church after the Holy Priestess, being Katya’s uncle. Did he marry her to somewhat repair the broken relationship between the Church and imperial family? I think of the towering, imposing character of my father, especially the first time I had ever seen his majestic self. I was terribly frightened by the sight of Emperor Helio seated upon his throne, his cutthroat yet cavalier handsomeness very much like that of a cobra, its deadliness adorned by its glorious scales.

Perhaps my father and I are alike, chained to a destiny neither of us chose. I never asked to become a princess in this deadly game of power. He never asked for these checks and balances to his imperial might. But my pity doesn’t last long, as Emperor Helio had the initial choice to go down this path. I didn’t.

The icy state of the carriage practically lowers the interior temperature despite the summer heat filtering in through the shimmering glass windows. I can feel both Julia and Empress Katya sending waves of hatred and malignant thoughts in my direction. Well mostly from Julia and her beady little eyes. When I looked up briefly, Katya had a somewhat detached look, the same glazed effect in her eyes that I often spy before she ‘lovingly’ beats me. It scares me right into staring out the window once more.

When we return my father exits first, then Augustus. After which, Empress Katya, Julia, and Julian slowly exit and return to their luxurious dwellings deep within the elaborate palace grounds. Julian doesn’t cast his annoying puppy dog look in my direction, which I appreciate. For someone who was a grown man before transmigrating, he is far too attached to his psychotic mother. Or perhaps, he recognizes that my unofficial investiture instead of Julia could be detrimental to his chances of making it to the throne. I decide to be optimistic and assume it’s the first.

.....

As is custom, I am last to leave, the footmen looking rather bored as they set a cushioned step for me to exit from. I do not have the same procession of attendants and servants as anyone else leaving the stables, because I am not deemed important enough to warrant it.

A family bound by rules, tradition, and blood, both shared blood and spilled blood. I look down at my clean palms and wrists, free of any jewelry or adornment but royal nonetheless thanks to the precious gold jewels that are my eyes. How much blood was spilled for me to exist here as an imperial princess instead of the starving child of a foreign slave? I remember the web vaguely mentions that Emperor Helio killed several extended members of the imperial family, even the distant offshoots with lower-ranking titles and quiet wealth. Indirectly just by existing, my little hands are stained too.

“Your highness!” Marie is waiting in the small yard beside the royal stables, the grass shorn short so that any noble or royal woman wouldn’t trip on her heels in the grass. Emma stands behind her like a little guard and I break out into my first genuine smile since learning the earth-shattering news that I’m the chosen one, erm the promised child. I flash a quick middle finger at Empress Katya’s long gone back, finally enjoying the chance to mock her for her slip up.

Even though she hid it well, I’m sure it must burn her soul to know that the fake but fancy title she was going to hand to Princess Julia on a gem-encrusted platter not only turned out to be real but also became mine! I mutter a quick thank you to Helio, who I did not believe in until that moment, for being a real one and giving me this boon. Now it’s simply a question of what I’m going to do with this promised child role to set myself up for life.

“Marie!! Emma!!” I squeak in my high pitched voice, rushing over to hug them both.

There is a loud intake of breath as I try and fail to wrap my arms around the fluffy maid skirts. Marie smells like the roses of my palace, perhaps the only source of the floral scent that I don’t hate. Living at the imperial palace has managed to ruin the most romantic flower permanently for me.

“Where’s Sir Finn?” I mumble in Marie’s skirt, my face still buried in them. I had thought for certain that he would come to greet me with Marie and Emma.

There is a brief silence, prompting me to look up at Marie who has a rather serious expression on her face. There is never a good reason for her ever-smiling appearance to look this way and without realizing it I hold my breath. The silent claws of dread begin to dig into my heart.

Noticing that I am affected by her mood, Marie forces out a laugh but it looks fake and is just a flash of teeth.

“It is nothing to worry about, your highness. He was just summoned away urgently for a meeting with the Royal Guard. He shall return soon,” she says reassuring, taking my hand to lead me back to the Rose Palace.

But if anything, her words only make me more nervous.

I let go and step back. “Urgent meeting?” I repeat, the sense of dread growing stronger.

I rub my chest unconsciously and Emma nods in confirmation. The royal guards never break from their patrol unless there is a state-level emergency. And to my knowledge, there is only one large oncoming event to warrant this kind of urgency.

I feel physically ill and the sudden shift in my mood throws off my two loyal companions.

“Do not fear, your highness, Sir Finn will return soon,” Marie says in an effort to comfort me. But I feel freezing cold on this summer day and a bizarre urge to laugh. Is this Peppermint’s doing? Or was this how it was meant to be in the web? Because I feel more and more certain with every step, that the war with Sarsaval must have begun.

Over a late-night cup of warm milk, the confirmation spills out in the palace, not even leaving even quiet corners uninformed. It is war indeed.

When I hear the news, the cup in my hand shakes then tumbles from my hands, even though I held it with my strong, left hand. It is all too fresh in my mind what happened the last time Emperor Helio wasn’t in the imperial palace.

The loud crash draws in Marie. Emma, who told me the news, shifts my seat back with unexpected haste so not a single splash of milk gets on my nightgown.

“I’m so dead,” I mutter in my breath, shaking my head with a half-grin on my face although there’s no laughter in my heart. It’s the kind of tired amusement one has when they realize that all their labor, all their toil was for naught.

My instincts were spot on from the start. I look at the messily scrawled message sitting on the delicate coffee table beside me, the cheap ink bleeding in some places and still not fully dry. It’s from one of Marie’s old friends who works in the laundry department and informs me crudely of whatever news she hears from the talkative lot she works with.

There are but a few words on the page, but I can interpret what she’s saying with ease since I’m supplemented by what I read in the web:

The traitorous baron who escaped to Sarsaval not long ago has managed to prompt the neighboring kingdom not only to fight for its long lost territory, but against the entire Erudian Empire. Sarsaval boasts of its new secret weaponry capable of ripping several grown men to shreds within seconds and already has forces set to march across the border and into the Dredgen Woods.

I let out a loud, shaky breath as I reread the last line of the note, claiming that my father and the crown prince will be leaving for the frontlines being set up in Belhelm with great haste as soon as dawn alights the sky. It is already dark outside and by the time it is light, I shall be abandoned here in the great, beautiful prison with a tantalizing prize everyone wishes to snatch from me.

I similarly recall that Sarsaval directly borders the duchy of Avernall within which Belhelm is a prominent city, so Sir Finn will no doubt be leaving with the earliest forces as well. The implications for me are grave, so much so that my selfish self has not even begun to compute what war means in this era of cannons and swords for the common people.

If the cookie-cutter words of my textbooks held any truth, it will be brutal and ugly, an utter devastation upon the land. A devastation I will never live to see if I stay here in the palace.

There is a knock on my door, the first one I’ve heard in a while that is not from Marie or Emma. Usually, the maids here just barge in without care to complete their duties.

“Come in!” I say cheerily, slowly shifting the long victorian style nightgown over the broken shards of my teacup on the ground that reflects my current mental state.

A maid peeks her head in, a cute teenager with buck teeth and a more trustworthy face than the other maids of my palace.

“Hello, your highness. Is there anything you may require before turning in for the evening?” she asks dutifully, the very picture of an obedient servant.

It’s the treatment I’ve always deserved from the careless maids of the Rose Palace who always ignore my existence, but now it sends tremors running down my spine. This is nothing but a welfare check disguised as a maid doing her job. Perhaps a quick look to see if I know the critical news and whether I’m going to run. It makes my mouth go dry with terror as I appease the maid quickly and she shuts the door with a satisfied expression.

My paranoia induces me to believe that I suddenly feel something thin and cold against the back of my neck and I slap it frantically, drawing a troubled gaze from Marie and Emma who cast worried glances at me after coming to the same dark conclusion as myself.

I can already feel the guillotine carving mercilessly into my tiny neck. Because I know for a fact that if I do not leave the imperial palace within the next 24 hours, tomorrow’s sunrise will be the last I shall ever live to see.