Throne Shaker (The Clash and the Heat Book 3)

by Val Saintcrowe

  “I had the living flame within me,” said Ophelie. “The blaze chose me. I must have been doing its will.”

  Bisset’s hand shot out, a flick of his wrist.

  Ophelie screamed.

  He brought the dagger back just as quickly. Something was skewered on the tip of it. “If your right eye tempt you, gouge it out,” intoned Bisset.

  Ophelie was still screaming.

  “If your left eye, tempt you…” said Bisset. His dagger flashed out again.

  Ophelie shrieked.

  “Gouge it out,” said Bisset, his voice hard. “Better to be blind and serve the blaze than to go against its will.” He lifted the dagger, stuck through two gory bits of flesh.

  My stomach lurched.

  Bisset turned to me. “She lives. Locked away and blind and helpless.” He stalked out of the room, taking the dagger and its macabre trophies with him.

  GUILLAME

  Guillame glared at Carale Lombardi. “You have sworn yourself to the king, and you know that he is the head of the blaze now, not the patriarch. You serve him utterly.”

  “I am not saying that I do not serve the king,” said Lombardi. “But I am asking for the funds—”

  “No,” said Guillame. “How many times do I have to say it?”

  “I think if I could communicate directly with the king himself, I might make myself understood,” said Lombardi. “But you have intercepted my letters and stopped my messengers, and I don’t understand why you feel you must control everything.”

  “Listen, it is the king’s wish that he be left to concentrate on nothing but conquest at this time,” said Guillame. “He does not wish to hear from you, and he wishes to be the final word on such matters. The king cares for nothing but his military endeavors. Nothing. There are no funds for you, anyway. There is only money for the war.”

  Lombardi sighed. “Fine, then, I shall leave you. But when the king comes home to see his new son, then I shall find a way to speak to him then.”

  “What makes you think the king is coming home?” said Guillame.

  “The baby was born only hours ago,” said Lombardi. “We all saw you send word. He’ll return, surely, to see his heir.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” said Guillame. “But think what you will. To be truthful, all I wish now is that you would take your leave of me.” It was late now, and the queen and the baby were not burdened with all the visitors of the court. It was time for him to be there, now, and if he had to spend one more instant speaking to Lombardi, he might strangle the carale.

  “Is the king a man or a monster?” muttered Lombardi, shaking his head.

  “What a thing to say,” said Guillame.

  “What if it were the old queen he’d gotten with child?” said Lombardi. “I imagine he wouldn’t have left her side.”

  “Can we stop with the speculation? Go. I have nothing for you.”

  “In the eyes of the blaze, this child will never be legitimate,” said Lombardi, narrowing his eyes.

  “The king knows the will of the blaze,” said Guillame. “It flows through his veins, does it not?”

  “The king cannot set aside generations of tradition just because he wishes,” said Lombardi. “The true patriarch would never have granted the king a divorce, and this new marriage is not sanctioned by the blaze. Thus, the king’s issue is illegitimate.”

  Guillame’s nostrils flared. “That’s the doffine you’re speaking of, Lombardi. Have a care.”

  Lombardi shifted on his feet, having the decency to look a bit nervous.

  Guillame sighed. “Listen, you stay in my office if you like. I, however, am leaving.”

  “Oh, I’ll go,” said Lombardi. “But I will find a way to speak to the king, just you wait.” He stalked out of the room, his crimson robes flaring out behind him.

  At last.

  Guillame sucked in a breath, looking around the office. He was nervous.

  He’d been cautious for these past months, as cautious as he could bear to be. He and Coralie barely interacted, and never conspicuously. He did not even want someone to overhear him innocuously inquiring about her health. It was much better if he stayed clear. No one could suspect the truth.

  There were no whispers, however, since he’d put it out that Remy had slept with Coralie in the wake of Fleur’s escape, which fit the timeline. He lived in fear, however, that people would remember the duel, remember that he had been accused of violating Coralie.

  But from what he could tell, the people were only pleased that the king had an heir. They felt powerful and strong. Remy had conquered Rzymn and was in the process of bringing Allemande to its knees. The people of Dumonte were conquerers, and they would rule the world. They were not looking for reasons to tear the king down.

  They were a proud people, and their pride had been fanned, like flames.

  That was Guillame’s doing as well.

  He extinguished the lamps in his office and left. He went through the hallways, going outside, and then heading around the castle to the queen’s window. He wouldn’t be seen entering her chambers. He couldn’t be seen doing such a thing.

  No, instead, he climbed through the window.

  Coralie was asleep in her bed, but she stirred when she heard his feet land on the floor and he dropped down from the window. She sat up, startled. “Hello?” Her voice wavered.

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “Guillame,” she said. “Of course. He’s in the nursery.” The nursery was connected to Coralie’s rooms.

  “The nurse?” he asked.

  “Probably asleep as well,” she said. “But she’ll likely wake if you go in there. But you spent so much time deliberating over which woman to use. Don’t you feel she can be trusted?”

  He hesitated.

  “Guillame?”

  He didn’t answer. He eyed her in the scant light. She looked tired, and there was none of that fabled new-mother glow about her. He had been in touch with her throughout the pregnancy, usually through late night trips to her window, where he wouldn’t even climb in, but they would simply talk through the glass.

  So, he knew that there had been nothing particularly romantic about the pregnancy. She’d been uncomfortable in numerous ways for months now. She’d been in labor for two nights, and he’d been in knots during all of it. He couldn’t imagine it.

  He felt grateful to her for what she’d gone through. The gratefulness created something like a bond, he supposed. Not only had he forgiven Coralie for all her transgressions, but he cared about her in a way too. Nothing romantic, but there was… well…

  Anyway, it wouldn’t do for anyone to discover that he was the baby’s father. It would only hurt Coralie and the baby, and he wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  “You want me to call for him, don’t you?” said Coralie.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve been through so much. You want to rest, and here I am, asking more of you. I’ll come back. Maybe tomorrow night or—”

  “It’s fine,” said Coralie. “I’ll call for him.” She got out of the bed, giving him a small smile. “I want you to see him.”

  His heart squeezed, and he felt nervous.

  “Hide, then,” said Coralie.

  He gave her a nod and then closed himself up in the wardrobe.

  He listened as Coralie spoke to the nurse.

  Then there was a wail, thin and high and small, and the melody of Coralie’s voice talking in some soothing tone of unintelligible words until the wail quieted.

  His heart thumped. He tried to look out of the wardrobe, but he couldn’t see anything from this angle except Coralie’s empty bed.

  “Go back to sleep,” Coralie was saying to the nurse. “I’ll put him down later, I promise.”

  Silence for a few moments and then Coralie said his name.

  He swallowed, and he pushed open the door to the wardrobe.

  Coralie was swaying slightly, bouncing a little with a small bundle in her arms.

&nbs
p; He stumbled toward her. He felt awkward and clumsy and unworthy, and he was frightened.

  “Here,” she whispered, just handing the baby over to him with no fanfare.

  He was panicked. “No, I—”

  “Take him,” she said.

  And then the weight of the baby in his arms, and the sweet smell of him, and his big eyes blinking at Guillame.

  The baby was so small—too small—were all babies this small? And he looked confused and irritated, as if he was not happy to have been dislodged from his mother’s arms. He started to wail again.

  “Rock him,” said Coralie. “Just a little movement. And hold him tight. It makes him think he’s still in my belly and I’m walking about.” She smiled. “Isn’t he perfect?”

  Guillame nodded. “He is.” He began to rock as she said, and—like magic—the baby quieted.

  “I knew you’d think so.”

  Guillame gaped at the small thing in his grasp. He’d done all this for this little one, and he had to hope it had been worth it. He wasn’t quite sure, now. Primarily, what he was feeling now was an ache.

  Because all he wanted was to hold the baby. He never wanted to let his little son go.

  And he had put himself in a position where he would have to keep his distance.

  Coralie stroked the baby’s head, smoothing down the fine bit of hair there. “I think he looks like you.”

  Guillame looked at her in a panic. “Please don’t say that.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else will notice. But look. At his little chin.” She tickled the baby there.

  The baby gurgled.

  “Does he have a name?” said Guillame.

  “If I named him Cedric, do you think Remy would hang me?” Coralie arched an eyebrow.

  “You’re not going to name him that,” said Guillame.

  She just laughed. “What do you think? I can’t believe we didn’t speak of it before.”

  Guillame’s heart was expanding. Every second he held this little boy, he loved more than he’d ever loved before, and his heart didn’t know how to hold all the feeling. It hurt. He wanted to cry, and he couldn’t.

  “Do you have a name for him?”

  “I don’t,” said Guillame. “But he’s… he’s the most wonderful…”

  Coralie beamed.

  “Thank you,” said Guillame.

  “What?” She laughed.

  “For doing this,” he said. “You were going to drown yourself.”

  “I’m glad you found me when you did,” she said. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Beau,” said Coralie. “What do you think? A good name for him?”

  Guillame tried it out. “Beau.” He nodded. “I like it.”

  “For what it’s worth, Guillame, I’m sorry, you know.”

  He turned to her.

  “I mean, I’m not sorry about the baby. I’m happy to have him. He’s perfect, but… I’m sorry about the way he was made.”

  Guillame shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Only one thing matters now. We have to keep him safe. Give him everything we can.”

  “Everything,” agreed Coralie. “He’s the only thing that matters.”

  Guillame lowered his lips softly to Beau’s little forehead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I went into labor slowly, so slowly that I was in denial that it was labor at all, and insisted that nothing be done about it. It didn’t help that I was at least two weeks early, and everyone had told me that first time mothers always deliver late, so I was sure this was the false labor that everyone had told me about, and that it would soon stop.

  But it didn’t stop.

  It just got gradually worse, and I was trying to sleep.

  Everyone else was asleep, because I was insistent that I was not in labor and told them all to go to bed, and I rolled around in my bed, thinking that this couldn’t be labor, because it didn’t even really hurt, but that it was incredibly annoying.

  I had heard word that Remy’s child had been born months ago. A boy. Just what he would have wanted, of course, an heir to the Dumonte throne. Not that Remy had allowed anything to get in the way of his conquest of the known world. He was waging war against Allemande, and they were certain to surrender sometime soon, from what everyone was saying. It was only taking as long as it was because the Allemandian armies had tried a strategy of digging deep into the ground, where the flames were not touching them. They were stubbornly not surrendering, even though Remy was still decimating them.

  I had moved into my new castle earlier that month, and I liked to think that I was better prepared now for another attack from Remy, not that I thought he would come back. Why should he? He had everything he’d wanted. He was conquering the world and he had Coralie and he had an heir.

  And here I was, doubled over in bed around the twinges that were coming every few minutes because his child was trying to come out of me.

  Remy had supposedly not attended the birth of his son, nor had he even come home from his war campaign to see his child. He wouldn’t see this one born either.

  For some strange reason, I missed him. Maybe being pregnant had made me sentimental. I was weaker than I’d ever been in some ways, I supposed. I was incredibly vulnerable. Perhaps that made me think wistfully on his broad shoulders and powerful hands. If so, I was being stupid, and deep down, I knew it.

  It wasn’t until dawn that I got out of bed and admitted that I was in labor.

  It didn’t matter that I had waited, because I didn’t give birth until sometime in the middle of the second night, sometime after midnight.

  By then, I was tired and angry and in so much pain I wanted to rip myself in half and tug the baby out of my body.

  But when I managed to push my daughter out, straining through that pain, I knew that I wasn’t weak at all. I was the strongest that I’d ever been.

  They cleaned her and severed the umbilical cord and put her in my arms, and she screamed bloody murder, clearly not pleased with the new venue.

  I cuddled her close, telling her she was going to have to get used to it, because it wasn’t going to get any easier from here.

  And when she was tight in my arms, she sullenly stopped crying and turned her dark eyes on me. She was so very dark.

  Blazes, she looked like him.

  But she looked like me too. Besides her rather overt Dumontian coloring, she seemed to have my features, and I stroked her cheek tenderly as she pouted up at me, still looking very, very annoyed.

  “We will have to take her to her nurse, my queen,” someone said to me. There had been three women with me, and I knew their names, but in the haze of pain and effort of the birth, they had faded out and I only truly registered the face of my little daughter.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “All right, we can wait a bit, but the babe will be hungry, and she will be comforted by—”

  “I want to nurse her,” I said, cocking my head at her screwed-up little face. “I’m quite capable of doing that, aren’t I?”

  “Queens don’t nurse their own babes. You’ll be far too busy—”

  “Well, maybe not every time,” I said. “Maybe sometimes, I’ll need the nurse. But right now, you will find it impossible to pry her from my arms.” My voice had gotten steely there at the end.

  “A-all right.”

  Decided, I set about moving my dress out of the way to give my baby a breast.

  She immediately latched on to a bit of skin that was not my nipple and sucked enthusiastically.

  Ouch.

  I winced.

  “Here,” said the woman, her finger hooking into the babe’s mouth and breaking the suction. “Try again.”

  I managed it eventually, and it wasn’t less painful when my daughter finally managed to get her mouth in the right place. I supposed I could have been daunted by the pain, but I had already been through so much pain that I didn’t care.

  And within weeks, she and I had both gotten the han
g of it, and it was no longer painful at all.

  I named my daughter Marguerite.

  It simply seemed right. I knew that some wouldn’t consider it appropriate, naming a princess for a maid, but I didn’t care. I instinctively knew that was her name.

  Little Margo came everywhere with me. I used one of the slings that I sometimes saw village women wearing about, and I took her to the throne room, and I took her walking within the walls of the castle, and I took her when I went to put out the fires from explosions, though I did leave her with a nurse when I went into the flames, for obvious reasons.

  In the end, she spent very little time with her nurse, because it only seemed natural that she remain attached to me. I had been carrying her around in my belly for the past nine months, and now neither of us much wanted to let go of the other.

  When she was ready, she began rolling around on the floor, and then she crawled, and then eventually, she got up and walked. And almost all of this occurred by my side, some of it even in the throne room. She would be on a blanket while I was meeting with Solene and Bisset and the others, a few feet away as we talked affairs of state.

  Everyone told me that I couldn’t do it, and that a baby would be in the way, but the truth was, she wasn’t in the way at all. It was easier for her to be close to me, and she wasn’t much bother at all.

  Once she was mobile and a bit of a toddler, she did require someone to watch her besides me, but I still spent much of my day with her, even if she was no longer my constant companion.

  For the first time in… well, maybe ever, I woke up each day with a sense of peace and purpose in my heart. I was a queen, and I was a mother, and they were the two most important things I had ever done. I knew that I was charged with protection of my daughter and my people, and that everything I did needed to be for them. Strangely, focusing on the needs of others made me feel more fulfilled than when I’d chased my own desires.

  I was happy.

  Happier than I thought I’d ever been.

  And the years passed, one after the other, and I hardly noticed, because I was so preoccupied with my joy.