Page 3 of The Impossible Princess
2
Dragonslayer
MAX
My uniform is like a second skin. As I move through the ship’s company, I hardly notice the tight collar, white gloves, or peaked cap, which settles precisely on my head like I’m one of the plastic figurines my niece uses to stage her dioramas.
I move quickly to break up a knot of roughhousing, unsurprised that the sailors are in high spirits. Of course they are. Most of them are a few hours away from having the run of Handsel for Queen’s Day celebrations–a time of year during which a non-negligible number of Sondish women feel it’s their patriotic duty to fling themselves at anything in a uniform.
I shake my head and squint against the bright sunshine as a line of cars enters the courtyard. Assorted royals disembark and I look for Her Royal Highness, Princess Clara, Duchess of Reike and Felsland. I see a flash of purple that might be her. I’m jostled from behind and turn, reminding myself that I’m here to do a job.
Though Queen Helena was born in January, the entire nation of Sondmark spills into the streets on June 15th to kick off a week of drinking, parades, and concerts to celebrate her official birthday. It begins with a quiet ceremony on the parade grounds of the Summer Palace. There, as tradition dictates, the youngest princess of The House of Wolffe hands out bunches of violets for each sailor in the Handsel Company of Her Majesty’s Navy to tuck into the band of their uniform hat.
The tradition goes back to the days of King Harald Dragonslayer and is a far cry from my usual duties as the executive officer aboard theHMS Thetis, one of Her Majesty’s frigates.
I glance again at the royal party from the corner of my eye and catch my commanding officer, Captain Dusstock, making the rounds, the gold stripes on his cuff signaling to even the most ignorant midshipman that this is someone they can’t afford to cross. He growls, tugging an ensign’s uniform into orderliness, moving through the crowd like a feral tiger.
“The only kind of words your subordinates will recognize are loud and clear,” he likes to bark, holding two fingers in front of my nose. I could add “profanity-laced.” Those are the kind of words the captain likes, too.
The final call to assemble rings out and I hear him inhale, ready to bellow. My crew looks to me.
I nod, my voice hardly raised. “Attention.”
They snap into position. Captain Dusstock sends me a dark glance, and I set my jaw. Here is the man who holds my rank advancement in his hands. My future—of being in command of my own vessel—is subject to his whims.
We march in formation through the heart of the old city, a crisp contrast to the crowds lining the route, already drinking and waving the flag of Sondmark. Three royal carriages precede us up the tree-lined avenue and through the turns. I can see glimpses of Queen Helena and Prince Consort Matteo, behind them Crown Prince Noah escorting his sisters Princesses Alma and Ella, and, last of all, a carriage carrying Princess Freja and the youngest, Princess Clara.
After all these years, the marching is automatic, and my focus keeps shifting to Princess Clara. I catch glimpses of reddish-blonde hair and bright green eyes.
By the time we march onto the parade grounds under the steady gaze of Queen Helena, I’m thankful the Navy band is playing our national anthem, flags snapping in the light wind.
Sons of Sondmark
slide your blades
beneath the fleshy chin
of Vorburg.
Spill his cowardly blood,
Upon his breast.
None will bridle the dragon of Sondmark.
It’s the best anthem in northern Europe and stirs the usual feelings—national pride and the wish to lead a raiding party against our nearest neighbor, slaughtering as we go.
But then a bugle sounds, and Princess Clara separates herself from her family, descending from the podium and crossing the expanse of paving stones. Though I remain at attention, my mental discipline deserts me. Hot damn. The woman has legs for days, and she hasn’t entirely covered her knees. Seeing her knees is like seeing rain on Saint Wyten’s Day, an omen of a good year to come.
She greets our commanding officer and the company mascot, a wolfhound named Ollie, bending over to tuck a posy into Ollie’s collar with a ruffle of his fur. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he stares up in canine adoration. I release a derisive snort. Get it together, Ollie.
But I’m hardly better than the wolfhound and only the familiar routine of this event is keeping me grounded. When I was a kid, my mother used to herd us in front of the television to watch the ceremony, sticking tiny flags in our hands. When I began to take part as a young ensign, she started saving newspaper clippings even though I was hardly a blurry dot in the back row of the group picture invariably printed on the front page ofThe Holy Pelicanwith one of their dull headlines. “Princess Clara Commemorates Queen’s Day Celebrations”.
Despite her deluge of press—the tabloid headlines that hint at wildness and youthful excess—I’ve been watching long enough to know how good the princess is at her job. She has a way of accepting the flowers from a courtier, presenting them to a waiting officer, and bantering for ten seconds with the addled man before sending him back in line. It must be the executive officer in me that likes the way she keeps things moving without appearing to hustle anyone along.
As the most junior lieutenant commander, I am the last officer to receive her tribute, and I know my role, stepping
forward to give a short bow. I take off my hat and the wind ruffles my hair. I reach for the posy in her outstretched hands, careful not to brush her fingers. Once accomplished, I congratulate myself on managing these simple mechanics, even as my heart charges in my chest.
