Chapter 88

Chapter 88: Ch. 88: Jesus Take the Wheel

I feel nothing when I wake up in the early hours right after the has risen, my hazy eyes blinking up at the crimson red tent. I don’t want to get up. But I have to because I made a promise.

“Your highness?” Emma calls five minutes later. I rustle under the bedsheets, my way of letting her know I’m awake without having to talk.

I can hear Emma step into the tent, but get jarred from under my covers when I hear multiple people follow in behind her. Sitting up on my bed with a frown, I see a row of 5 girls, teenagers, for the most part, lined up behind Emma.

“This is-” I say, my voice thick with sleep.

“Greetings, your highness. My name is Nina. We are all the attendants who have been assigned to take the utmost care of you. We shall attend to your daily necessities and should you find yourself in need of something, do inform us and we will complete it to the best of our abilities,” the oldest looking girl says, her hair wrapped in the court ordained bun that all maids back in the palace wore.

They are the utter picture of subservience, eyes pointed towards the ground and clean hands clasped in front of their dark maid skirts. I’d gawk at them, but I’ve seen such obedience before.

Just never for me.

.....

The corner of my mouth curls into a cynical smirk. “Emma, acquaint them with my likes and dislikes. If any of them are disobedient, just fire them. No need to report to me.”

“Yes, your highness.”

Deft hands braid my icy white locks into braids more intricate than the simple french braid I’ve been wearing every day. A bowl of warm water and a cloth is brought in, the soft fabric wiping away dirt from my face and hands with great care. The new dress that I’m laced into, while still simple, is a fern green color with a few flowers embroidered around the edge. It makes my dark, woolen dress I’ve been sweating in for weeks look like rags in comparison.

Looking into the mirror one of them has brought in for me to admire and adjust my appearance to my liking, my feelings are conflicted. I know that out here at the military front where grandeur takes a backseat to functionality, this new, royal treatment is only a fraction of what it would be like back at the imperial palace.

But I don’t feel any better. On the contrary, I feel worse.

I almost think I might be sick and pat my chest rhythmically as matching jewelry for my humble, but revamped appearance is slid into my ears. I wince inwardly as it has been so long since I’ve worn earrings that the holes were beginning to close up.

Over a hearty porridge and eggs, which have become rare due to shortages caused by the war, I can finally pinpoint what my turbulent feelings are.

Rage.

Pure, burning rage. Almost as hot as the fire that burned within me when I healed John.

“How goes your meal, your highness,” Nina asks gently, ignorant of my current feelings.

“Fine.” My appetite takes a hike despite still having half a bowl of porridge left and I stand abruptly from my chair. “I’ve had enough. Take me to the injured.”

Emma is beside me, her presence calming me from saying more unnecessary words to the new attendants. I follow my best friend, trusting her to lead me to where the nurses and injured are, as a procession follows me. My presence at camp had already drawn looks, but now it feels like everyone with a pair of eyes is staring at me. The choruses of “Your highness!” are louder than before as people greet me on my path.

I nod politely at each person as I go on my way. There’s a subtle reverence when people’s eyes land on me, word has gotten around. At the nurse’s station, a lot of the weary-looking women throw curious glances my way, although they’re professionals and don’t seem fazed for long by my presence.

A nurse approaches me, the same one who tried to heal John yesterday. Yesterday. It feels like a lifetime has passed since John’s startled eyes had made eye contact with mine.

“Greetings, your highness,” she says, curtseying politely. “Allow me to lead you to where the injured are.”

The groans and cries of agony interrupt her twice as she speaks and I can see bags under her eyes. She has worked hard and I tell her so, to her tired delight.

An abandoned apothecary has been turned into the headquarters for the nurse station, nurses rushing in and out at random to fetch supplies and herbs. Through the back doors in the back, one of which is broken. A sea of burlap tents await. This is the only section of the military camp full of women aside from the mess hall, female army volunteers who wished to help with the war effort.

“The tents with the severely injured have a red sash tied to the top of their tent. The imperial physicians work on them,” she says, pointing at one tent where crying can be heard. All the tents are low and long, with just enough room for those lying on the ground and a person kneeling on one side. A full-grown adult would have to bend in order to enter it.

I nod, in a better mood due to my attendants being requested to wait for me within the abandoned apothecary, but slightly apprehensive as I smell the blood and death around me.

“The pink is for those who are somewhat wounded but not fatally. You may leave them to us nurses, your highness.”

“And the black?” I ask, pointing at a few of the dark sashes hung ominously on top of tents.

The nurse sighs, her next words heavy on the soul. “The ones without any hope of recovery. We tie the flag so that one of the Holy Church’s battle mages or if they’re lucky, Bishop Duvernay, can say a quick Helionic prayer before they die.”

I nod, determination flowing through my veins as I look at the black tents that spot the field too often for comfort.

“Take me to one. I’ll do as many as I can,” I say as reassuringly as possible. The nurse looks a little doubtful, but her eyes fall on my small hands and it goes away.

“Follow me,” she tells Emma and I, leading us to the nearest tent with a black sash. Leaking out from within the closed tent and blasting out in full force when the nurse opens it, the scent of medicine and rot causes me to nearly wretch. The man’s leg is bandaged heavily, but the flesh that is visible is black from gangrene. He is unconscious, a small blessing for him.

The nurse sees my expression of discomfort and explains, “The Sarsavalians have started adding presents to their eruptions. Bits of glass, metal, whatever they manage to find it seems. They are difficult to take out and cause affected areas to rot.”

My chest burns, but with the same precision I mastered yesterday in the strategy tent, I go over the man’s most serious injury, leaving his cuts and bruising alone. A relieved sigh escapes the man’s lips as his foot and leg return back to normal.

“Wow... I....” the nurse gasps, rapidly peeling away the disgusting ribbons of bandages to reveal and smooth and surprisingly hairless leg.

“Oops! I forgot to grow the hair back,” I giggle, trying to lightening the mood.

But my words seem to have the opposite effect, tears misting in the nurse’s eyes.

“I-I’m sorry! That was a joke! Not a very good one, I suppose...” I blubber, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly.

“No. No, your highness,” she says, gazing up at my short form with such a fervor I have to look away. “You are the hope we needed.”

And I do my best to live up to her words.

For the next two weeks, I work hard to save as many soldiers as I can. Lost limbs, mutilated eyes, bowels spilling out like ramen noodles. I see the worst. But when I patch them back up, it’s like those injuries never existed to begin with, other than lingering in my memories.

Twice, Emma was forced to pull me away from patients as my nose begins to bleed and dark spots dance in my vision. I eat half my weight every day, although my small frame doesn’t show for it, as I compensate for the sheer amount of energy that goes into pulling lives free from the jaws of death.

But the payoff is massive, for my father and for me.

The front of our military camp is no longer in danger of being ambushed, which means that the military slaves no longer have to fear for their deaths being used as warning bells for the rest of the Erudian army. Despite still suffering blows from the explosives on the battlefield, the battle mages have begun to construct a rudimentary system that senses the presence of “eruptions” that are within 5 feet around you. It needs fine-tuning before it can combat all the buried landmines in the field, but it has minimized the number of serious injuries I encounter in the nursing station.

Side by side with the slow and steady reinvigoration of the Erudian spirit came the favorability surrounding my name. The dedicated, illegitimate princess, who was only discovered a few years ago is doing more for the people than most of the imperial family. Effigies with my likeness were erected in public spaces and amulets claiming to have a lock of my white hair sold like hotcakes. I know the significance of my presence and I use it to the fullest, scarcely leaving a minute to myself as I repair my father’s army one man at a time.

For the people, Helio walks among them once more and I’m a Jesus-like figure in their eyes. For my father’s denouncers, in an indirect way, my abilities are Helio’s approval of my father’s reign. The factions who spoke out against his coup of the throne lose ground to stand on, swaying the balance of powers within the aristocratic factions. For the most part, almost everyone in the kingdom is happy with my unofficial reveal as the promised child. Save for a few, of course.

Within Sunrise Palace, another fine porcelain teacup smashes against the imported carpet, the softness of the carpet’s fabric preserving the cup but not its contents. Every maid within the outdoor parlor was silent, even their trembling didn’t dare ruffle the fabric of their black and white dresses. As for Empress Katya, the obvious indicators of rage weren’t present on her face, which was even more frightening. In a sweet lavender day dress with the corner of her lips raised, the contrast between the empress of the Erudian Empire and the tense atmosphere was like day and night.

“Another.” Even her voice didn’t sound angry.

“Y-Your highness, I-” the maid holding a tray of exquisite teacups stammered.

“I said, another.”

“All of you, leave,” an imposing male voice ordered from behind them all. With his hands clasped behind his back in a commanding manner, Chancellor Duvernay, head of House Duvernay, and Empress Katya’s father walked into the outdoor parlor. The maids, who were all House Duvernay’s people, scurrying out without another word.

There were two chairs on the outdoor parlor overlooking a splendid garden, one of many within the imperial palace. Empress Katya gracefully settled into one and gestured for Chancellor Duvernay to take a seat. The older man did not oblige.

“You failed to give us a promised child. But not only did you fail that, you also gave our enemies the perfect weapon against us,” Chancellor Duvernay began without preamble or a greeting worthy of the empress.

“They were your assassins, Father,” Empress Katya replied flatly.

“Don’t talk back to me!” Chancellor Duvernay thundered, his figure looming over Empress Katya. “If you had worked faster to take care of the emperor’s bastard while she was still in the palace, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

Empress Katya grit her teeth at her father’s disrespect, although she had long been accustomed to it since she was a girl still living at home.

“It wasn’t easy. The emperor acts like he doesn’t care for her, but the holy priests hidden among my staff revealed that there are numerous secret safeguards around her palace and people. I could barely catch her once and then you saw what happened. Duchess Taylor sank her claws into the palace and I’m still weeding out all the people she’s left here,” Empress Katya answered.

“I didn’t send you to the palace because it was easy. I sent you because it was hard and you promised to do the hard work it took to get all the major forces within the Empire under our House. But if I knew you would be this disappointing, I would’ve sent your sister in all those years ago.”

“Is that a threat, Father?” The empress lazily countered. Her expression was just as pleasant as ever, but it was deceptive, like a viper poised to strike.

“It’s an old man’s regret. And one I could rectify if I must,” Chancellor Duvernay said in an unforgiving manner. Calling himself an old man was ironic, as he was in his mid-forties and had a figure of someone who had spent many years on the battlefield.

“Rectify?” Empress Katya repeated.

Chancellor Duvernay looked down at his oldest daughter. “Don’t make me send the emperor another woman,” he said frankly.

Empress Katya snorted, “Yes because we know how well that went last time.”

“I told you that we needed a barren woman of higher breeding, a woman of obedience. You’re the one who chose us a foreign military slave with a penchant for running away. And look at what good that has done for us all,” Chancellor Duvernay said with disgust.

“Father, I still-” Empress Katya said, sore from the chancellor’s verbal slap.

Chancellor Duvernay cut Empress Katya off with a wave. “Now I must send a letter to Edwin. See if he can do what you could not. How many times shall your Bishop brother have to clean up after your mistakes?” He walked out as suddenly as he’d appeared, commanding so much presence one would almost think he was the one who owned the palace.

For the remainder of the day, until sundown, Empress Katya sat outside by herself without a soul privy to her thoughts. When the time for supper had come, the empress sent out a quiet summons to the manor of Lady Vernice, her oldest lady-in-waiting.