Page 8 of The Crimson Princess (The Ravengale Chronicles #1)

Chapter six

O nce I’m alone in my room, I ink an apologetic note to Ambrose and hand it off to one of my sweetest maidens, Helena.

Helena is petite and redheaded, with beauty to rival any flower in the tribute.

She’d spent several years serving my mother and has now blessed me with joyful stories of my mother’s random acts of kindness toward the gales.

She often, I’m told, snuck out to visit those in need and offered them aid.

It’s balm to my tortured heart to listen to the recounting of these adventures that Helena often helped her arrange and even accompanied her on.

As good to me as she was my mother, she departs with my message to Ambrose in hand.

Cellphones are easily spied on through magic and not a thing outside the human world; thus, Helena plans to hand my note off to a carrier, a galbird, who will deliver the message to him.

Galbirds are literal birds and the street fighters of gale.

They are black as a starless night, with grumpy human-looking faces and deadly beaks.

You try to steal their messages, you will bleed.

With my galbird in action, I’m confident Ambrose will be notified of my new assigned commitment.

With a long dinner most certainly in my future, and my night with Ambrose officially off the table, I trade my hoop skirt in for a silk gown that flows to my feet in our royal color of emerald green.

It’s our red, white, and blue. When and how this was decided is a piece of history no one seems to know.

It simply is. I might be a warrior, capable of fighting off the worst monsters that dare walk amongst peaceful beings, but tonight I am a princess seeking peace, not by blade, but by way of negotiations .

There’s a knock on my door, and I walk that direction, opening the door to find my father standing in the hallway.

At the sight of him, dressed in his formal royal garb, the collar on his long black jacket stiff and high, the emerald buttons adorning his jacket, parted wide to display his warrior conditioning, my stomach roils.

If magic granted wishes I’d allow mine to make him short, bald, and unattractive.

At least then a few of the rumored women in his bed would stay away.

“You certainly look the title of princess at present, my daughter,” he greets.

“It’s hard to believe you’re as deadly as your mother claims when you look as delicate and stunning as one of the perfect allos she fussed over in the gardens.

” His voice softens. “You remind me of her.” His voice breaks, and for a moment, just a moment, I believe he’s grieving, but in the next breath, his expression is blank.

I tell myself it’s necessary for a king to appear emotionally aloof, but what king of any worth would not be brought to his knees over losing his queen, the woman he supposedly loved with all his soul?

Emotion wells in my throat, all sticky and thick, and it’s all I can do to accept my father’s arm and allow him to lead me downstairs.

Dinner will be held in our gardens, and we travel a stone path adorned with the high flames of magical torches nestled inside bushes of allos, their sweet scent lifting in the air.

The lilac petaled flowers remind me of human roses, and there is a pinch in my chest as I remember my mother’s love of both.

She took her role, our role, as gales to protect humanity seriously.

And so do I.

Our path ends with the rectangular table where Bellar stands in wait, a drink in hand, as he chats with one of my father’s top military officers.

Idris is tall, blond, and far too good looking for the sake of his ever-growing ego.

He’s an arrogant prick who I had no idea would be here tonight.

“Thanks for the warning, father,” I grumble .

“He’s not staying. I just wanted the two warriors to size each other up.” He glances down at me. “All the reasons you dislike him are the same reasons Bellar will fear him.”

“I doubt Bellar has any fear in him, father, and I think you underestimate him if you believe that to be true.”

“You underestimate Idris. He’s a force of nature and you, my dear, are the silk to calm Bellar’s nerves when Idris is done with him.”

Magic knows magic, but only some are gifted enough to sense who is stronger or weaker, and to some degree it’s irrelevant anyway.

Those who train often and effectively can potentially defeat those more magically gifted.

But I have secretly held the gift of omniscience since I was a young child, possessing the unique ability to feel magic at the most elemental level.

I’m rather surprised my father, the keeper of the book’s magic, does not.

Otherwise, he’d know that Bellar is far more powerful than Idris, and that my core magic, even before my coming of age, trumps both of Bellar’s and Idris’s abilities.

My father steps forward, signaling for me to follow, and both warriors immediately stand at attention, Idris homed in on my father, while Bellar’s attention is locked on me.

I can feel the power radiating off of him, a charge in the air that is all but fire licking at my skin.

And I think he might actually sense the force of my magic.

If this is true, he knows what no one else knows.

This makes him as interesting as he is dangerous, but I suspect he feels the same of me.

I step in unison with my father, closing the space between us and the two warriors, and I feel Bellar’s attention as I would the flame of a visiting demon I’m meant to destroy.

We halt, me in front of Bellar and my father in direct alignment with Idris.

My father lowers his voice and speaks to Idris.

Bellar offers me his hand. “Princess,” he greets.

I hesitate, aware of the charge between us, aware of how forbidden a connection is between a gale and a druid, and regardless, I do not want one.

Steeling myself for trickery, I press my palm to his.

There’s a burn against my skin, and his eyes light with amusement, as if he’s testing me, exploring what I can or cannot sense, feel, touch.

I’ve killed all kinds of nasty beings in battle and done so on repeat.

He doesn’t scare me, but neither do I feel the need to show my hand.

I don’t react.

“Prince,” I greet. “Welcome to our home.”

He folds his arms in front of his chest, lowers his chin, and studies me, shadows shifting in his silver druid eyes.

He’s trying to figure me out. Good luck with that, druid , I think.

I might be younger than him by ten years, but I possess far more practical experience in battle, far more of a chance to assess true enemies, than he does.

And at this point, I consider him a potential enemy.

“Let’s sit,” my father orders, not even bothering to formally greet Bellar, but Idris isn’t about to leave without speaking to me.

“Princess,” he greets, angling toward me, an action that ensures I must turn away from Bellar, and I’m certain that’s his intention.

“Idris,” I say, “will you reconsider and stay for dinner?”

“No thank you, princess. I’m otherwise occupied with prep for the Challenge.”

“Is your brother competing?” I ask, as he himself is a chosen military leader, thus immune to such things. Some might believe I should be as well, but I never say never, as the book seems to deviate frequently from the expected where I’m concerned.

At this point, my father has led Bellar to the table, and I’m alone with Idris.

“He is,” Idris confirms. “I won’t pretend otherwise. I’m not pleased about it.”

Nor would I be if it were my sibling. There’s always the risk of death. “How old is he now?”

“A year your junior.”

“Age is only a number.”

“Age translates to a level of experience. ”

“I started battling monsters at one of the portals when I was younger than he is at present and I’m still standing before you now. He’s had you to train him. That’s a big advantage. Is he ready?”

“As ready as one can be.”

“Just make sure he’s not as arrogant as you are,” I warn, only half teasing. “That can backfire.”

He bristles. “I’m confident, not arrogant.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Whatever the case, your queen used to tell me that confidence doesn’t need to be announced, while arrogance is boisterous and cocky. And too often, it overrules caution. So I ask again, which is he?”

He grunts. “He is pretty arrogant.”

“Fix that.” That’s all I say before I turn and walk toward the table and claim my seat across from Bellar and to the right of my father, where he sits at the head of the table.

For long moments, I feel Idris staring at me as if he wants to pull me back and demand I say more.

But there’s nothing I can say beyond what I have to help him save his brother.

In the end, the book knows what we do not, and I suspect our destiny was long ago decided.

It’s not until an attendant, a servant in my father’s eyes, but not mine, fills our wine glasses that I feel the disconnect of Idris’s attention.

“This is quite civilized,” my father states, lifting his glass. “Shall we toast to friendship beyond civility?”

My eyes meet Bellar’s, where I find amusement. “No,” I say firmly.

Bellar’s brow jolts upward. “No?”

“No,” I say.

“What are you doing, Satima?” my father demands.

“Keeping things honest,” I state. “Bellar isn’t ready for friendship. We can’t toast to what isn’t achievable. At least, not yet. I don’t believe in being disingenuous.”

The laughter has faded from Bellar’s stare. “Tonight is about change.”

“Or sizing up our opponents,” I counter .

Now Bellar laughs, and he lifts his glass in my father’s direction. “To your daughter, who certainly won’t allow this dinner to be anything but interesting.”

My father grumbles under his breath and then clinks his glass against Bellar’s. “To my daughter, the future queen of Ravengale.”

I don’t toast. I taste my wine, a fruity, rich note beneath a woodsy flavor, my eyes meeting Bellar’s, and there’s something sharp and cutting in the depths of his stare.

He doesn’t like how this night is playing out, and the salads haven’t even arrived.

A sharp, unexpected warning sizzles through me, and I know, in every part of me, that the druids, all of them, this one at the helm, wish to take what is ours. No, plan to take what is ours.

Protectiveness for my people, for my world, flares inside me, and my magic licks at my mind, but my mother’s voice defeats the fire within me, reminding me that emotion is deadly to me. Calm is deadly to my enemies.

My lips curve, and I reach for the druid’s magic, touching it with my own, just a whisper of my power that is so a part of me, I deliver it as easily as I do my next breath.

His eyes go wide, his spine stiff. Now I have his attention.

I’ve shown him a tiny sliver of my magic, tiny enough to allow him to underestimate me.

Enough, though, to ensure he knows I’m not just a girl in a dress here to please him.

I’m something he will never understand, no matter how he tries.

And the most dangerous thing outside emotion in battle is the unknown.