Throne Shaker (The Clash and the Heat Book 3)

by Val Saintcrowe

  Atlas sat back in his chair. “What? You convinced the king that your son was his?”

  “No, just to make my son the heir,” said Guillame. “I basically told him he was never going have his own kid, anyway, so why not? Of course, all along, I knew he did have a kid. So, he’s kind of really angry with me.”

  Atlas picked up his mug and took a long, long drink. “You’re in deep.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” said Guillame.

  Atlas set his drink down. “Well, let me think on it some more.”

  “You know, your idea for me to declare myself king isn’t bad,” said Guillame. “If we do it, and we have people keeping their eyes on all directions of the castle, we’ll know where he comes from. I assume he’ll come back without his daughter, but we’ll at least have a direction. We might be able to track his path if it’s fresh. It could work. The only thing is that I’d need men to do that, and I don’t think I can count on the musqueteers. Like I said, they’re terrified of him.”

  “Well, I might be able to call in some favors with my old men,” said Atlas. “I did just retire from being pirate king.”

  “You’d do that?” said Guillame.

  “Sure,” said Atlas. “Sounds like an adventure.”

  “I thought you were retired.”

  Atlas shrugged. “You turning me down again, Guillame?”

  “No, not at all,” said Guillame. “Not at all. I would be very grateful for your help. And I think, when Remy comes back, he’ll want to throw me in the dungeons, so if you could help me get free when he’s on his way back as well, that would be pretty great.”

  “Done,” said Atlas. He stretched his hand across the table.

  Guillame reached over and grasped the other man’s hand.

  They shook.

  Guillame tightened his hands around the other man’s, and his voice lowered. “Atlas… I feel all I’ve ever been is awful to you. Why would you do this? Why would you even look me up?”

  Atlas chuckled. “Well, you have this lock of dark hair that falls down over your forehead. I think about it more than I’d like.”

  “Be serious,” murmured Guillame, extricating his hand.

  “I don’t know,” said Atlas, shrugging. “Look, I’m not saying all is forgiven, or that I’m even trying to unlace those trousers of yours. Like I said, things between us always felt unfinished. I think I’m just looking for an ending. It doesn’t have to be a happy one. I’m tying up loose ends, that’s all.”

  Guillame nodded. “All right. Well, I’m grateful. Thank you for this.”

  Atlas winked at him. “Where do we start?”

  REMY

  Remy Toussaint eyed the innkeeper, an older man who was stumbling over his words and fumbling with the things on the check-in counter. He was nervous because Remy had just threatened his life and the life of everyone who worked in the inn. Remy hoped he wasn’t going to have to kill anyone to make his point. He didn’t think so. This man seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.

  Remy slammed a bag of gold coins onto the counter. “For your trouble,” he said in a quiet voice.

  The man’s fingers shook as he opened the bag. And then his eyes widened as he looked inside. It was enough gold to buy the inn.

  The innkeeper nodded, looking up at him with frightened eyes. “Th-thank you, Your Majesty. You needn’t worry. No one will know that you are staying here.”

  “For your sake, I hope not,” said Remy.

  “I will go out now and put up signs that the inn is closed,” squeaked the man.

  “Very good,” said Remy. He waited while the man scurried out from behind the counter. When the innkeeper had gone out the front door, Remy started up the stairs.

  He’d sent six musqueteers off with his daughter hours ago. He’d instructed them to come to this inn. It was the inn he and Fleur had stayed in on the way to Rzymn. He wasn’t sure why he’d picked it. Surely, it was a stupid move. She might remember it. There was a connection to both of them. She could arrive with all her army and burn it to the ground.

  But she wouldn’t hurt their daughter.

  He had picked it without thinking. It had been the first thing that came to mind. He’d done of all this on impulse, quickly. It had been driven by a smoldering fury that had built in his gut and threatened to erupt. He had felt his fire magic pounding at the back of his skull, at his wrists, inside his chest. He wasn’t even sure how he’d kept it inside.

  And now…

  He climbed the steps slowly, and he didn’t feel angry at all. It had all faded into a sort of anxiety.

  No, anticipation.

  No.

  Anxiety.

  What had he done?

  He didn’t know anything about children, especially not small girls. He had seen her for scant moments that morning, and now she was upstairs in the largest room in the inn, the same room where he’d slept in a bed with her mother, and she was probably very, very frightened. He had done that to her, and there was no way this small girl child was going to look upon him favorably.

  She would hate him, much as her mother did. Likely, Fleur had filled the girl full of poison about him. The little Princess Margo undoubtedly already thought of him as a monster.

  This had been a horrible idea.

  He paused on the steps, thinking that perhaps he should simply undo it. He could tell the musqueteers to take the little girl back to her mother and that would be the end of it. Fleur would be angry, of course, but when wasn’t she angry with him? He didn’t care if she was angry.

  But if he did that, Fleur would never let him see Margo again, not after this. She wouldn’t trust that he wouldn’t take the little princess from her.

  And he had done all this so that he could know his daughter.

  He started up the steps again.

  It was better to know her and be hated than never to know her at all.

  There were two musqueteers on the door to the room when he arrived. He paused there, wanting to ask about the little girl. Was she sobbing? Was she yelling? Would he find a small, frightened child with bloodshot eyes?

  But he couldn’t find the words, so he simply pushed past them and opened the door.

  Two more musqueteers were in the room and the final two were outside the inn, keeping watch. The musqueteers were both sitting by the fire at the round table that was positioned there.

  Margo was sitting in between them. She had a hunk of bread that she was tearing into. “I like to rip out all the inner parts of the bread and roll it into shapes,” she was saying in a high-pitched, self-important voice. “You see? This one is a little bird. Then I eat its head off.”

  The musqueteers were both grinning at her, obviously charmed by the small girl. But when they saw Remy, they both got to their feet, at attention.

  Remy paid them no mind. He could only look at his daughter, who didn’t seem to be frightened or angry, but instead might have been holding court.

  Margo raised her gaze to him. “You. You’re the man who was with my mama.”

  Remy swallowed.

  “Are you the king, then?” said Margo. She set down the bread and climbed up on the chair where she had been sitting, furrowing her brow at him and taking advantage of her high vantage point to look imperious. “They told me that I was taken from my nurse on your orders.”

  Remy cleared his throat. He turned to the musqueteers. “You can both go. Rest for a few hours before relieving the men on the door.”

  The musqueteers bowed and uttered phrases of acknowledgement before they left the room.

  Remy took a deep breath and went to the table. He pulled out a chair.

  “Are you the king?” demanded Margo.

  “I am,” he said. He found he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was perfect, almost a miniature Fleur, except she had long, black hair and her skin was tawny like his. She had Fleur’s features, Fleur’s chin. She was beautiful.

  “Then why did you take me away from my
nurse?” Margo folded her arms over her chest.

  “Let’s sit down,” said Remy, which was a strange thing to say to a child, perhaps, but she didn’t seem quite like a child. She seemed like a tiny adult, and she seemed rather self-possessed. He found he respected her. He was rather in awe of her. She was perfect, he thought.

  “No, answer me,” said Margo.

  “I’m…” He looked down at the table, and then he sat down, even though she hadn’t. He placed both of his hands on the table. “Does your mother ever talk about your father?”

  “Princesses don’t have fathers,” said Margo with an air of finality.

  “All people have fathers,” said Remy. “I am yours.” He raised his gaze to hers, trepidation within him.

  She had deepened the furrow in her brow and was glaring at him. She looked very serious and very young, and the effect would have been funny in another circumstance, but Remy couldn’t find any of this funny, not right now. Too much was at stake.

  “Please,” he said gently. “Sit down. Continue to make bread birds. I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  She sniffed. “They brought soup, too, but it was dreadful. It was very lumpy, and I don’t like lumps. I told them I would only eat bread.” She lifted her chin.

  This time, he could not help but smile.

  She drew in a deep breath and then let it out with a pronounced sigh. “Well, I am hungry, I suppose.” She sat back down and began to pull bread out again, leaving behind the crust like a snake leaves behind its old skin.

  “Do you eat the crust last?” Remy found himself asking.

  “I do not eat the crust at all,” she said with disdain. She nodded at it. “You may have it if you wish.”

  His smile widened. He picked up the crust and tore off a bit of it. He put it in his mouth and chewed. He was remembering being a small boy, the joys of eating plain bread with nothing on it. At one point in his life, he was fairly sure he had been unwilling to eat butter. It had destroyed the texture of the bread in a way he couldn’t quite explain. It was strange, the peculiarities of childhood.

  Margo concentrated on molding her bread into a shape, sticking out her tongue between her lips. Finally, she was finished and held it up. “This is a dog, you see?”

  “Mmm,” said Remy, nodding. He was chewing on another piece of crust.

  “I like to eat the head first,” said Margo, and bit off its head. “My nurse says that I shouldn’t, but Mama says I am ruthless and it’s a good trait for a future queen.”

  Remy chuckled a bit. “I think your mother is right.”

  Margo popped the rest of the bread into her mouth and chewed. She was not quite finished chewing before she said, around her mouthful, “How do you know you’re my father?”

  “Well, um…” He coughed, feeling embarrassed. “It’s not something I should explain to a child, I don’t think.”

  She swallowed her bread. “I suppose it would explain why I’m darker than my mother. She has orange hair, and my hair is black.” Margo pulled a strand of it in front of her face to examine it.

  Orange, hmm? Remy could not seem to stop smiling.

  “But you have not answered my question,” said Margo, who was searching through a basket on the table for more bread. There was an assortment of small loaves and rolls. She tossed aside the two brown rolls with seeds on top and selected another white loaf like the one she’d been eating. She pointed at him with the bread. “Why did you take me from my nurse?”

  He licked his lips. “I… It was a sort of impulse, I suppose. I never knew you existed until just now, and I… I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Certainly you could have talked to me without capturing me,” said Margo, ripping into her bread.

  “Possibly,” said Remy. “It may not have been the most, er, well-thought-out idea. But it’s done now. I can’t take it back.”

  “Can’t you?” said Margo. “It’s very late now, and it’s past my bedtime. I’ve never gone to sleep without either my mama or my nurse before. Do you know any stories?”

  His lips parted. He had not thought of any of these sorts of things, had he?

  She was waiting, anxious. “I have to have a story before I go to sleep. And that bed there, it looks very big. I don’t know if I can fall asleep in such a big bed. But I find I am getting tired, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “I know stories,” he said, nodding sagely.

  “You do?”

  “Good ones,” he said. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t once had a nurse, after all. “I know one about a dragon.”

  “Is it scary?” she said, furrowing her brow again.

  “Not a bit,” he said.

  “Well, that’s all right then,” she said.

  “As for the bed,” he said, “this couch over here can be made into a small bed for you.” He pointed. “You can have pillows and quilts and be quite snug.”

  She thought about this for a minute and then nodded. “Well, I suppose it will have to do.”

  He smiled again. She was so serious, like Fleur. And brave too. She was amazing. His smile, though, it hurt somehow. His eyes stung. He couldn’t be sure why. Maybe because of guilt or maybe because of whatever emotion it was that was stealing through him in the presence of the little princess.

  Whatever the emotion was, he didn’t think he’d ever felt it before, not like this.

  “I still wish my mama was here,” she said, and her voice was quieter than it had been before. “Or at least my nurse.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” said Remy. “I’m sure there are better ways to have gone about all of this.”

  “Much better ways,” said Margo, nodding at him. “Do you always follow these impulses of yours? Because perhaps you shouldn’t.”

  He laughed. It bubbled out of him, and he felt lighter than he had in… years and years.

  Margo furrowed her brow again. “I don’t know why you’re laughing.”

  He stopped, making his face serious. “My apologies, Princess. I should not have laughed.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” she said. “But I shall forgive you. It is what princesses are meant to do, I’m told.”

  “Well, thank you,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

  She set down what remained of the bread she’d eaten. “I have thought of something else. I don’t have any nightclothes to sleep in.” She looked down at her dress. “I can’t sleep in this.”

  “If I find you something to sleep in can you change into it yourself?” he said.

  “Of course,” she said, looking at him as though he was daft. “I’m not a baby.”

  “No, you are not,” he said, and then his eyes stung again, with the thought that she had been a baby, a small wriggling bundle, and he’d never known the weight of her in his arms. He stood up, squaring his shoulders, putting his back to her. He was angry again. He strode across the room, telling her in a strangled voice that he would return.

  He left the room and went downstairs to find the innkeeper, who went to his wife, and came back with something for Margo to sleep in that looked a bit too big, but would have to do.

  When he got back, Margo was in the process of dragging a pillow over to the couch. She was mid-yawn, rubbing at her eyes.

  “I shall do that,” he told her, setting the nightdress on a chair by the table and taking the pillow from her. He took blankets from the bed and spread them out on the couch, one beneath her and two for over top of her.

  When he turned back to her, she was pulling her dress over her head.

  He turned his back on her again, stiffening. He had forgotten the way children were casual about nudity.

  “This is too big,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said without looking at her. “I’m sorry about that. It was the best they could do.”

  “Honestly, you really didn’t think of anything, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” he said quietly.

  There was movement out of the corner o
f his eye. He turned to see her bounding across the room and launching herself onto the couch. She lay there, squinting at the quilts that were turned down. “Can you tuck me in?”

  “Of course.” He went to her and pulled the blankets up to her chin.

  She snuggled in, beaming up at him. “Now, turn the lights down, but not all the way off, and then tell me the story about the dragon.”

  He looked down at her. She seemed small and fragile now, but she was a resilient little thing. He loved her, he realized. He adored her. He had never in his life been so utterly enamored with anyone, not like this. Not even Fleur.

  Whatever it was with Fleur…

  He kept trying to love Fleur, and she kept refusing to let him.

  But this was different.

  He got up and turned down the lamp, bathing the room in shadows. Then he sat down on a chair nearby her bed and began to speak.

  “Once upon a time, there was a dragon,” he murmured. “He lived in a cave beyond the castle, and he was very lonely, because everyone was afraid of him.”

  * * *

  Days passed before Margo cried, and when she did, it was the third night in the inn, when Remy could not remember any other stories to tell her before bed, and she broke down in a frenzy of sobs that seemed to tear her body apart, during which she sobbed over and over that her nurse knew stories, and that she wished she was with her nurse.

  Guilt wrenched Remy to see this. He was frozen and he didn’t know what to do.

  When she climbed out of the bed and rushed at him, he thought she was going to start hitting him, which he was resolved to allow her to do, because he deserved it.

  He was stunned when she threw herself into his lap and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder.

  Slowly, he hugged her back, and he felt his guilt deepen. What sort of world was it for this girl that she had to take comfort in the man who had perpetrated all this on her?

  He decided that he was going to take her home in the morning. It was wrong, depriving her of her mother in this way. He was only a poor substitute for everything she had been ripped away from, and he wouldn’t continue to let her suffer.