by Amelia Autin
No one saw them make their escape, either, sliding into the passenger seats of a late-model sedan.
“All set?” the driver asked in Zakharan as he put the car in gear and glided away into the darkness without turning on his headlights.
The man in the front seat smiled and answered for the three of them. “All set.” He glanced at the glowing digital clock on the car’s dashboard. “Colonel Borka will be pleased. Twenty minutes from now there will be fewer refugees in Zakhar.”
* * *
Tahra was soundly sleeping when a series of loud explosions rent the night, shocking her awake. She tossed the covers to one side and leaped from the bed, rushing in her nightclothes to the French doors leading to the balcony outside her suite. She threw them open and stumbled outside, still not really awake yet.
Flames engulfed a building a few miles from the palace, but clearly visible. “Oh, my God!” she whispered, only seconds before sirens split the night air, and the lights of emergency vehicles converged on the fiery building from all directions. “Oh, my God.”
Tahra turned and hurried back inside, scrambling into the first clothes she could find. Then she made her way into the corridor outside her suite, which was already teeming with people. A man passed her wearing camouflage clothing and desert-style boots, carrying a lethal-looking rifle—the same uniform as the man who’d stopped her from leaving the palace earlier that evening—and she figured he probably knew what was going on. He certainly couldn’t know less than she did. She grabbed his arm. “Please,” she begged. “Can you tell me what’s happening? How can I help?”
* * *
The doors to the ancient chapel on the first floor in the older part of the palace were already wide-open when Tahra made her way there. The seriously injured victims of the explosions and subsequent fire had been taken by ambulance to one of Drago’s hospitals, but those who had escaped with only minor injuries or were miraculously unhurt had been transported here for first aid and temporary housing.
Almost all the victims were wearing nightclothes, and many were barefoot—they had obviously barely escaped with their lives. Tahra saw Queen Juliana, looking especially petite next to a tall blonde woman watching over her with vigilant eyes, going from one cluster of survivors to another, handing out blankets from a stack carried by one footman and socks from a box in the arms of another. A third, who hovered at her side with a notebook and a pen, appeared to be taking down names and other vital information.
Tahra turned, and her gaze was immediately drawn to a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, awkwardly holding a crying baby while a toddler and a young girl clung to his side, their eyes wide with terror.
“Let me help you,” Tahra said, taking the wailing infant from him and cuddling it in her arms. “Shh,” she soothed, jiggling the baby against her right shoulder so her left hand could do most of the work and not put a strain on her right wrist as she attempted to calm the little girl. She smiled down at the tearful face. “Shh. You’re okay, honey,” she said in English, hoping that even though her words might not be understood, her calming tone would get through. “You’re okay.”
When the crying finally ceased, Tahra wiped away the tearstains with the tips of her fingers and popped a kiss on the button nose. “There you go,” she murmured. “You’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Then she returned her attention to the boy. He was kneeling between the young girl and the toddler, who were obviously his sister and brother, and he was hugging them fiercely, whispering to them in a language Tahra didn’t understand.
He glanced up after a moment. In broken Zakharan she had only a little difficulty following, he said, “My father...” He gulped and a lone tear slid down his cheek. “He went back...for my mother. He got us all out safely, then went back inside to...to find my mother. I do not know if...” Another tear slid down, following the path of the first one as he struggled to hold emotions in check he should never have had to experience in the first place.
Tahra swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep her own tears at bay. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, thankful her Zakharan was good enough for these simple words of comfort. Her arms tightened instinctively around the baby she cradled against her shoulder...whose parents most likely weren’t ever coming back. An orphan, like her.
* * *
Marek found Tahra just before dawn, precariously dozing in one of the pews...and his heart turned over. Her head was pillowed on a folded blanket, and her body was curved protectively around an infant in a pink sleeper and a very young boy in footed pj’s, both peacefully unconscious in the shelter of her embrace. At the other end of the pew, a boy and a young girl slept with worn-out abandon beneath a blanket.
He touched her shoulder. He hated to wake her, but... “Tahra,” he whispered. “Wake up, mariskya. You must wake up.”
She came groggily awake and almost fell off the pew, but Marek caught her and helped her into a sitting position. She covered the sleeping children with the blanket she’d been using as a pillow, then scooted a little away and rubbed her eyes tiredly. “What are you doing here, Marek?” she said, her voice pitched low in an obvious attempt not to waken anyone else. She yawned and glanced around, seeming surprised to find the chapel almost empty. Then she abruptly focused on him and the two soldiers behind him, her eyes widening. “What...?”
Marek squatted so his eyes were on a level with hers. “The Red Cross has found shelter for everyone, including these children,” he told her in an undertone. “They are the last. These men...” He indicated the two soldiers with a tilt of his head. “They will take the children now.”
“Where? Where are they going?”
“A husband and wife who know the family slightly and speak the children’s native tongue have volunteered to take them in...until we can be sure what happened to their parents.”
Tahra darted a glance at the two older children, but they were still fast asleep. “Rafiq—he’s the oldest,” she said, her soft blue eyes full of shadows. “He told me his father got all four children out, then went back into the fire for their mother.” Her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears. “I think they’re orphans.”
Pain speared through him at the sight of Tahra’s tears and the desolate way she uttered those last four words. He remembered her confiding in him months ago about how she’d been orphaned herself at the tender age of ten. “Carly was wonderful,” she’d confessed in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “I don’t know what I would have done without her. But I missed my mom so much I cried myself to sleep for a month.”
It killed him that he couldn’t turn back time—not for these newest orphans and not for Tahra. But he vowed whoever had set the bombs tonight would be brought to justice...one way or another.
Tahra gently shook Rafiq’s shoulder, then his younger sister’s. They sat up, rubbing their eyes just as she’d done, and while they were doing that she picked up the baby, nuzzling her awake.
“Here, miss, I will take her,” the older of the two soldiers said, relieving Tahra of her precious burden before she could stop him. “I have one almost the same age.”
The other soldier lifted the small boy from the pew where he still slept, and cuddled him. “Go back to sleep, little one,” he murmured, gently pressing the boy’s head against his shoulder.
Tahra quickly introduced the children to the soldiers. “This is Rafiq Ibrahim, who is twelve,” she said, lightly squeezing the oldest boy’s arm. “His sister Aaliyah is seven.” She indicated the sleeping toddler in the soldier’s arms. “Tamir—he’s two and a half. And Safirah—” she brushed her fingers over the baby’s head “—just turned one.” She drew a trembling breath. “And you are...?”
“Sergeant Troian,” the older of the two soldiers said. “And this is Corporal Zelimir. We will take good care of the children—you have my word.”
She
nodded, then turned to Rafiq and Aaliyah, sitting and drawing them to her side. “Go with Sergeant Troian and Corporal Zelimir,” she managed in Zakharan. “They’ll take you to someone who knows you. Someone who will look after you until...” She glanced up at Marek, an appeal in her eyes.
“Until we know what happened to your parents,” he explained gently. “If we can locate them at the hospital, we will let them know where you are. And if they are now with God—” A whimper from Aaliyah made him pause for a moment, until Rafiq put his arm around her. So young, Marek thought with a flash of admiration, and yet his first thought is to comfort his sister. To protect her. Rafiq is not Zakharian-born, but he is assuredly Zakharian-bred. He will grow into a man Zakhar will be proud to call a citizen.
“If they are now with God,” he continued, even more gently, “the king himself will make the arrangements your parents would have wished for you. You are not to worry about that,” he assured them. “Just go with these men now.”
* * *
Tahra managed not to break down and cry until the children were out of sight. Then she sank back in the wooden pew, buried her face in her hands and wept. She was vaguely aware of Marek, solid and warm at her side. Wrapping his arms around her and holding her so close she could hear the beat of his heart when he pressed her face against his chest and let her cry the tears she’d been wanting to cry since she’d first seen Rafiq with his sisters and brother.
“It’s not right,” she sobbed. “Why do bad things happen to good people? My parents...their parents...”
“I know.” His voice rumbled beneath her ear. “It is inconceivable that any man could deliberately do something like this.”
“What?” she gasped as she raised her head to stare at him, struggling for breath as shocked comprehension dawned.
“The explosions and fire were no accident,” Marek confirmed grimly. “Of this we are sure. And it is worse than you know. Almost exactly the same thing happened in five other cities tonight across Zakhar. Reports are still coming in, but the overall death toll could exceed a thousand. We do not know who—no one has yet claimed responsibility—but I can hazard a guess.”
“The Zakharian Liberation Front?” Tahra barely breathed the name.
Marek nodded, his eyes hard and cold. “Someone targeted those six apartment buildings—many of whose residents are refugees—the same way the Zakharian Liberation Front targeted refugees last week.”
“Oh, my God.” Suddenly cognizant of where they were, she closed her eyes and her lips moved soundlessly in a silent prayer for the innocent victims who’d been in that apartment building when it had exploded. Then she whispered “Amen” at the end.
“Amen,” Marek repeated after her, but in Zakharan. Then in English he promised, “We will catch them, Tahra. I give you my word.”
Frustration rose out of nowhere. “If only I could remember.” She hit the heel of her hand against her skull three times in rapid succession, as if she could force her memory to return. When Marek caught her hand in his, she buried her face against his shoulder, and a touch of despair crept into her voice. “It makes me so angry at myself. If I could remember, we might be able to catch him—the man who left the bomb. The man the witnesses say I saw. And if we can catch him, then...”
“You did your part when you saved the children at the preschool,” he reminded her. “When you berate yourself, remember how you came to lose your memory.” His arms tightened around her. “I can never forget.”
She grasped his shirt in one tightly clenched fist. “I know. I know. It’s just...”
“It is just that your tender heart will always overrule your practical brain. Yes, mariskya, this I have known about you almost from the beginning.” He brushed a kiss against her forehead.
“And I suppose you never let your heart overrule your head,” she said without thinking.
His whole body tightened against hers. “My heart has overruled my head since the moment I met you.” And something in those simple words...the quiet way they were spoken...made Tahra’s heart ache. And she realized she didn’t just want to remember so they could catch the man who’d left the bomb near the schoolyard. She wanted to remember this man as well, wanted to remember the love they’d shared.
“We were happy,” she said, looking up into his face for confirmation. “Weren’t we?”
She almost missed the nearly imperceptible hesitation before he nodded slowly. “Yes. We were happy. We did not fall in love the way you fall into a hole and just as easily clamber out. Although I think I knew you were The One the moment we first spoke, I just did not admit it to myself. Instead of falling, we grew into love. We grew into...” There was that tiny hesitation again before he finished his sentence with “Trust. We grew into trust.”
Tahra sighed deeply. She wanted to ask Marek why he’d hesitated. Twice. But...she didn’t want another confrontation with him that in any way resembled their clash earlier tonight. Last night, actually, she acknowledged as the first rays of dawn crept into the chapel through the stained glass windows, casting jeweled light over the two of them. She didn’t regret their heated discussion last night—she’d said things that had to be said—but there was such solace sitting here in Marek’s arms, she wasn’t willing to risk saying anything that might remotely come across as confrontational.
So instead she pulled the blanket she’d used to cover the children onto her lap and refolded it, saying, “The queen was here before I arrived, handing out blankets and socks and...and words of comfort to everyone. She was so gracious. She seemed to know exactly what to say, just like Carly. I wish I could be like that.” She sighed again, then added, “The king joined her, but not until much later.” She tried not to let that sound like a criticism of the king Marek practically worshipped, but...
He answered her unspoken question as if he could read her mind. “The king called an emergency meeting of the Privy Council,” he explained. “Followed by a meeting with Colonel Marianescu and Major Stesha—the heads of internal security and the secret intelligence service—among others.”
“Is that where you were?”
He shook his head. “I was with the crown prince.” His face took on a faraway expression. “I wonder if you can understand how important Crown Prince Raoul is to all of us in Zakhar—not just to his parents.”
She thought a moment. “I think so. Because he’s the future king, right?”
“It is not just that. He represents the future of our country, and as such is doubly precious to us. The line of direct descent from father to son has never been broken.”
“Never?”
“No, never. The first Andre Alexei was succeeded by his son, Raoul, in the sixteenth century, and from that day to this, every reigning monarch has been succeeded by his son. I was not yet born when the current king was born, but my father told me the national jubilation at his birth was nearly as epic as at the crown prince’s. It is the continuation of a dynasty more than five hundred years old, you understand.”
He laughed a little under his breath, surprising her. “We are not superstitious, of course.” He smiled and his blue eyes twinkled at her. “But Zakhar has prospered wondrously in all that time, under good kings. Some were even great kings. Are those things connected? Probably not, but no Zakharian wishes to risk testing it by breaking the line of direct descent. So my duty was to ensure Crown Prince Raoul’s safety, just as Angelina’s duty—Captain Mateja-Jones, that is, your boss’s wife—her duty was to ensure the safety of the queen and the baby she carries.”
“A lovely blonde woman, quite tall, with sharply watchful eyes? That’s Angelina?”
“Yes.” His smile faded and his face took on a serious mien. “I should not have told you...about the baby. Please keep that to yourself for now—it is not public knowledge.”
“I already knew,” she confessed. “The queen told m
e herself, and I was thrilled for her. For them. But I didn’t know you knew about it.”
He let out his breath, as if he’d been worried he’d revealed something he shouldn’t have. “The king confided in me because I will have to expand the security detail when Crown Prince Raoul has a brother or sister in the not-too-distant future.” A faint smile touched his lips. “A brother would be best for Zakhar, of course, because—”
“‘An heir and a spare,’” Tahra quoted drily.
“Well...yes. Although the king would welcome a daughter.”
Tahra wasn’t so sure about that, but she wasn’t going to say so. She knew from what Queen Juliana had told her that women weren’t in the line of succession in Zakhar, and her State Department briefing had indicated Zakhar was fifty years behind the times where women were concerned. But all she said was “Let’s get back to what we were discussing.”
“Of course.” Marek thought for a moment, then said, “With the queen and the crown prince out of danger, the king could focus on other things. When the explosions occurred, there was concern the palace itself might be under attack. The king’s first thought was for the safety of his wife and his son...as it should be. His second thought was for his subjects. Not just the ones attacked tonight, and not just those who live in Drago, but all his subjects. That is why he was not with the queen from the beginning.”
“I...I didn’t mean to criticize him.”
“You did, but that is not to the point. The king was forced to make an extremely difficult decision, but he had no choice where the safety of his subjects is concerned.”
“What do you mean?”
“At the urging of the Privy Council, the king has called out the Zakharian National Forces. The country is now under martial law.”