Shock did not play well with the anger within Renard, simply feeding the frenzy and dissolving into the inflamed inner workings of his physical body. So, when Renard lowered his chin to his chest and asked the next, most logical question, he simply sounded furious rather than surprised. “And who killed my brother?”
He’d expected the answer to be “Amarande” but instead received the first of many more successive surprises.
“Luca—who is now the leader of the newly reclaimed Kingdom of Torrence. It appears he was the long-lost son of the last Otxoa king, sent to hide at the Itspi all these years. He dismantled the Warlord’scamp and won the desert, though it turns out the true Warlord was Geneva, the mother of Princess Amarande.”
“She is queen now,” Collette corrected quietly.
Renard’s head snapped up. “Amarande is queen?” Then, Renard added, because given the context it was the only way this made sense, “Has she married Luca?”
They shook their heads and explained the truth of the Runaway Queen’s plans as they’d been delineated—Amarande’s bastard brother on the throne, his abdication, and her acceptance of the crown upon expected updates to the Sand and Sky compact with new rulers in place.
In answer, there was only one thing for Renard to say.
“Well then, I shall take my cue from the girl I most hate in the entire world and crown myself king. I am your king now.”
There was a short, stunned silence.
Menon straightened and Renard’s fury coiled, his fingers itching to strike should the man be stupid enough to challenge his new king.
“Your Highness,” Menon started, before swallowing heavily, coughing, and resetting. “A coronation… there should be a coronation. A celebration.” Plans were clearly forming steadily within the councilor’s mind—a way to imbue normalcy into a situation that was decidedly not. “Collette, gather the historical materials for His Highness so that he might see the traditional options as well as the most recent crowning of King Louis-David—”
“That will not be necessary.”
Renard’s tone was an avalanche—a definite end. Menon’s words died on the vine; the others smartly raised their eyes to their new leader. He lifted a brow back, posture stern, solid.
“All my life I’ve wanted to be king. Now I am. It’s as simple as that.”
It wasn’t that simple, no, but with Renard’s every breath the sutures across his skin pulled as a reminder of those lost days of first death. In the days since he’d woken, the skin there had gone black, a mark of the endless dark that awaited him at the conclusion of his second chance at life. His appetite was gone, too. Both problems were as worrisome as they were telling.
The councilors didn’t argue the point. They’d been present at theend and were wise to the fact that they should fear his ability to stand before them, whole. If fear made these knowledgeable old mules compliant, so be it.
“Yes, my king,” Menon answered. Collette and Laurent followed, silver heads bowing. All three of them continued to quiver and tried to hide it. Poorly.
“Now, unless there is more I missed—and it is difficult to believemorecould have happened in nary a fortnight—I recommend we immediately form plans to hold Queen Amarande accountable for her gross attempt at regicide.”
Laurent raised his gruff old head, long white hair puffing upward like a cloud. “My king, with as much respect as you are due, the next act is that we must attend a conclave of the Sand and Sky. The intent is to revisit the continental compact, recognize the new rulers of every single kingdom, and determine what we must do to further repair the foundations of our union that have been so shattered by the overt actions of our membership since the solstice.”
Since Sendoa’s death,Renard silently amended. Because that was the move that started it all. “What are the details of this conclave?”
“At the Hand. In four days’ time for the opening feast. The conclave meeting will follow the next day,” Menon answered.
“And Queen Amarande will be there?”
“Yes, of course, my king.”
“And the stableboy?”
“He is hosting, yes, my king,” the councilor answered. “We should immediately begin packing—it has been quite some time since the royal traveling tent has been put to use, and then there is the matter of your introduction to the remaining kingdoms, and—”
Renard thrust a hand in the air, and the councilor’s voice immediately ceased, as if stamped out by a stallion. “I trust, as longtime councilors of the Kingdom of Pyrenee, the three of you can arrange everything we need ahead of this meeting without wasting my time with the details, yes?”
They nodded, Menon again acting as mouthpiece. “We shall begin at once.”
“Before you scurry away, I must ask you one more question.” Menon audibly swallowed, Laurent chewed his gums, Collette’s eyes were pinned to the table. “Who sewed up my injury?”
He didn’t need to specify further.
“Why, the Medikua Aritza, my king,” Menon answered.
