Page 7 of The Crimson Princess (The Ravengale Chronicles #1)

Chapter five

T he Tribute ceremony, the gales’ version of a funeral, comes far too soon and yet stretches eternally long, a full week in which different types of flowers adorn the castle in the queen’s, my mother’s, honor.

These are flowers of our natural gales’ habitat, all of which symbolize the many blessings bestowed on us by our ancestors.

The corridors of the castle are filled with blossoms that would be gloriously beautiful if not for the death masked beneath each lovely petal.

As the future queen, it is critical that I remain strong and regal, and the only way I succeed is with the belief it’s what my mother would want from me. It is tradition for the royal family to formally welcome the gale public to the castle each of the seven days.

I’m expected to dress for the celebration of life, and each day, the most famous of gale designers adorn me in luxury that I do not wish to wear.

I do not wish to look as if I belong on a runway while grieving, no matter how full my skirt or demure my intricately stitched corset.

There is something about the human tradition of black for mourning that calls to me.

When I dare speak this preference, my father’s rejection is filled with disgust.

“You are not a weak human, and you would be smart to remember as much, or you will get you and them killed.”

And so, I wear the gowns, and I cry in private, the way I often saw my mother cry when I was a little girl—not because someone had died, but rather because of the ways she was forced to live.

I know now that she’d felt lonely, and I didn’t understand that feeling, but now that my mother is gone, I do.

I so do. My father might be by my side, but he’s never with me.

And for five days, I sit in the throne room next to him, not in my mother’s seat, but one made long ago for me, and welcome the gales who wish to honor the queen they have loved and lost.

There are gifts for my mother, brought by adoring gales, and while my instinct is to reject what will always remind me of my mother’s brutal end, I do not.

I understand this to be yet another way to celebrate her leadership; therefore, I accept them with the graciousness they are given.

Throughout all of this, the mood between me and my father is tense at best and angry at worst. We finish the day at a long table so far from each other we are unable to speak.

Servants who look upon me with sad, understanding eyes serve us, often whispering their support and comfort.

It’s on the seventh day that Ambrose Osgood appears before us.

He is the boy I once had a crush on, who often talked to me when others were too afraid of my father to dare.

Life in Ravengale had been lonely. Life with the humans had been filled with happiness, until it was not.

“My king,” he says to my father, bowing to him, a show of ultimate and expected respect I’ve always despised.

It feels as if we are better than the people of Ravengale, and we are not.

Ambrose, a distinguished member of our armed forces, wears a formal military uniform, his formal jacket adorned with the emerald colors of the Osgood family crest. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he offers humbly to my father.

“Thank you, Ambrose,” my father replies. “What gift do you have for us?”

“It is a gift for your daughter, sir. If I might?”

My father holds out his hand in my direction. “Of course.”

Ambrose turns his attention to me. “Princess,” he greets, bowing before me, which I hate, and I wave off the actions.

He’s tall and blond, with the green of his eyes declaring him highborn.

His body is, of course, that of a towering warrior, and yet, his voice is as gentle as it is deep. “I hope you are well.”

“I’m…as expected,” I reply, and there is a tiny lift of my spirits just speaking with someone familiar, someone I consider a friend wh en I have no one here in Ravengale that my father hasn’t shut out beyond formality.

“Understood,” he says, and removes a blade from his holster, a cluster of Ravengale sapphires glistening on the hilt. “Perhaps this might offer you comfort. May I approach?”

“Please,” I say, sitting up straighter now.

My father welcomes a new visitor, his attention thankfully pulled elsewhere, while Ambrose eases forward and offers me the hilt of the blade.

“From my family to yours, princess. We wish to be with you, as we wish we would have been with your mother, anytime you are in battle. There’s Osgood magic weaved into the blade. ”

One large stone decorates the hilt, while the stones of my guardian blade are many. Both are beautiful. Both are to be cherished in different ways.

“I…I don’t know what to say.” My voice trembles with emotion. “That’s too generous.”

“You’re not alone,” he whispers. “Please. We want you to have it.”

I accept the blade, and the warmth of his hand brushes against mine, a tiny flutter to my heart, emotion welling in my throat. Families do not share magic with bloodlines outside their own. “Thank you so much,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “I’m indebted to your family.”

“As we are to you. My mother was quite fond of your mother.”

My gaze lifts from the emerald hilt to his face. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

“They met for coffee once a week. My mother considered her a great friend.”

“I love that so much,” I say. “Thank you for sharing that. And please thank your mother for being a friend to my mother.”

“Of course.” He lowers his voice. “Can you take a walk with me this evening? In the gardens?”

His request pierces the darkness of my grief and in return delivers a tiny hint of light.

There’s a desperate need for human conversation burrowing inside me with cutting precision.

I really need someone to talk to that might actually understand—so many things.

So much that I’m feeling. “Yes,” I say. “Yes. I’d like that. ”

His eyes light with my approval. “Eight o’ clock?”

“Ten,” I say, certain I will need to sneak out after my dinner with my father.

“I’ll see you then,” he says, and his eyes are warmer than the sun I have not seen in days.

He bows again and then backs away as my father leans toward me and indicates a diplomat from Druid City, the farthest corner of Ravengale, who he wishes me to meet for dinner tonight.

Many of the druids remain exiled to the Fifth World’s gray zone, where all the misfits have united, but as peace talks have processed over the year, albeit slow, their elites have been allowed to return to Druid City.

And since these are the druids who are the peacekeepers, seeking a path to a peaceful co-existence, it would be insulting for me to decline such a meeting.

In other words, there will be no garden rendezvous with Ambrose.

Instead, I must play the role of the future queen, and every part of me rejects the role that should be my mother’s.

But my mother would tell me my role is to selfishly protect and serve gales and humans alike.

Peace with the druids avoids a war that would surely bleed between worlds.

The druid diplomat is actually the druid prince, who I met once as a child.

Even at sixteen, Bellar had towered over me and everyone else in the palace, well on his way to the famous warrior stature of the male druids.

Now, at twenty-eight, he’s at least six foot five.

Bellar might appear a fine specimen of a man, all warrior, but there is intelligence in his eyes.

He knows that bloodshed is not in the best interest of either of us.

And maybe, just maybe, we’re close enough in age to find a path to peaceful cohabitation.

“Princess,” he greets. “I would be honored if you’d accept the invitation.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’d be honored to join you this evening.”

And I can almost feel my mother’s pride from Nirvana, where she most certainly is now, watching over me. A sense of being overtakes me, a sense of purpose. I belong here in Ravengale. I had to return. Something is coming. Something I have to be here to stop.