A Royal Legacy

by Danielle Bourdon

  “Get on the ground and call me back with an update.” Sander ended the call and got up from his seat. He approached the cockpit and opened the door. To the pilot and co-pilot, he said, “Fly over Ahtissari castle before you land.”

  “Yes, your Majesty.”

  He closed the door and paced through the luxurious interior of the jet. As gilded as his family seat, in white with gold trim, the aircraft looked more like a well appointed apartment than a plane. Several upscale sofas lined two walls, positioned across from each other for ease of conversation. Another section had several regular seats of soft leather. There was a kitchenette and a back bedroom that also served as his office when he wanted to make private phone calls or hold video conferences with diplomats from other countries. Sander focused only on the floor while he walked, compartmentalizing his fear and panic and grief so he could perform his duties as king. He told himself that Chey was tough, as were his children. Maybe she'd been well away from the blast and had survived. Mattias had not said the entire castle was gone, although clearly, an extreme loss of life had occurred. They employed hundreds of staff members and military personnel at the family seat.

  “Sander, we're fielding calls from other ambassadors. What do you want us to say? Word is starting to spread about the explosions,” one guard said.

  “Tell everyone what we know. That right now, there has been an attack. No one has claimed responsibility. Do not mention the Russians whatsoever. We have no proof of anything yet.”

  “Yes your Majesty.”

  “It appears three structures were taken out in Somero, Sander. Heavy loss of life,” another guard said, voicing the updates aloud.

  Sander only nodded once to acknowledge. Not good news. His cell phone rang ten minutes later. He knew it was Mattias, on land, approaching the castle. “Yes.”

  “It's bad. I estimate a quarter to one third of the castle is nothing but rubble. Dead and wounded everywhere. Fire is burning on three floors. We're looking for a way in,” Mattias said. He sounded out of breath. In the background, Sander could hear screams, shouts and other chaos.

  “Be careful. We should be landing in an hour and a half or so.”

  “I'll call you when...when I find anything,” Mattias said, voice grim.

  “All right.” Sander ended the call. He walked to the back bedroom and closed the door. With methodical precision, he peeled out of his jacket. Throwing it on the bed, he toed out of his shoes and stripped off the slacks. The tie and shirt came next. Catching a glint of metal, he glanced down at his wedding ring. Flashes of his life with Chey went through his mind, such sweet, poignant memories. Some were hot with passion, others of her fiery nature, still more of her with their babies. The sacrifices she'd made for him were great.

  Grinding his teeth, he bit back a flood of emotion and went to the small closet. He kept several changes of clothes there for the occasions when he had to fly from one country to another, one meeting to the next, and needed new attire for each. The gear he chose to wear on missions—dark pants with many pockets, a long sleeved black shirt and a vest with more pockets—was also present, and what he pulled off the hangers. He dressed quickly, dragging combat boots from a low shelf. Sliding into a shoulder holster and a weapons belt, he stepped to the other side of the closet and moved aside several hanging shirts. From a hidden safe in the wall, he liberated two handguns and four extra magazines. Loading the holsters and storing the ammunition, he exited the bedroom, ready for anything. They might have been attacked unaware, but he wouldn't arrive on the scene the same way. This was an act of war, as far as he was concerned, and he didn't intend on going into battle unarmed.

  *

  “Coming up on the target,” the pilot announced over the speakers.

  Sander veered to the window, bracing his hands against the thick sill. As the jet banked, the ruin of his family seat came into view. No matter how he'd prepared himself, how he'd tried to calm his frantic mind, seeing the devastation in person cut him to the core. It looked like the bomb had gone off in the front quadrant of the castle, blowing the entire facade to pieces. Cars, SUVs and several military vehicles that had been in the bailey sat outside the now decimated walls, some on their hoods, others on their sides. The pilot flew at a low enough altitude that Sander could make out the shapes of running bodies and more vehicles—his military—arriving on the long road between the castle and the shoreline.

  Part of the castle, the latter half and parts of the east and west wings, were still intact. Intact, but suffering damage. He could see black soot marks on the stone. Sinking into a seat as the jet righted and headed for the private strip, Sander schooled his breathing and told himself that Mattias hadn't called back because he'd not found anything yet. No news was good news, wasn't that the way of it?

  A little voice inside insisted that if Mattias had found Chey or the children, he would have called by now. Mattias, who knew him almost better than anyone, would call the very moment he had Chey and the kids safe in his presence.

  “She's there. She has to be. The kids...the kids are fine,” he whispered to himself for the hundredth time.

  The jet landed smoothly on the tarmac. Disembarking the second the door was open and the stairs were down, Sander jogged to the waiting Hummer and sat in the front seat rather than the back. His guards needed no prompting to get in. Two more Hummers flanked the one Sander sat in, ready to provide escort to the castle.

  “Let's go,” Sander told the driver, a man dressed in fatigues who was also armed to the teeth.

  The Hummer sped along the road, bypassing other military vehicles that pulled over to give the procession room. Word was out: Sander was en route.

  From the back seat, one of the guards brought his phone away from his ear and said, “Sander, Imatra has been attacked. Half a city block is gone.”

  Sander cursed under his breath. Maybe Konstantine had been right all along. Maybe they were under attack by the Russians. What happened to the thirty days notice? Where was Somero's 'warning'? Or Sander's, for that matter? He'd received no 'note' from any Russian commander stating demands.

  His attention diverted away from possible invasion to the sight of his family seat. The road leading to the once majestic castle now led to a catastrophic scene straight out of a war movie. The Hummer had to divert around huge blocks of stone, parts of the wall and facade of the castle, just to reach a stopping point that would allow the men inside room to maneuver once on foot. There was so much damage that Sander didn't at first see any way in. Mattias and Leander were here somewhere, though, and he didn't waste a second to get his boots on the ground. Yanking on gloves, he navigated bodies—oh god, bodies—and shattered bits of glass, furniture and other innards of the castle.

  “Your Majesty!”

  Sander paused and turned to Urmas, who, for once, had changed out of his favored suits into clothing more suited to aid with recovery: dark pants, boots, a long sleeved thermal.

  “Any news on my wife and my children?” Sander said first.

  “We've found four survivors--”

  “Only four?”

  “...yes. So far, her Highness and the children have not been located. These are the areas inside that are being searched.” Urmas handed Sander a hastily hand-drawn 'map'. It was a sketch of the major hallways, wings and rooms. “I drew an X through the rooms that have been thoroughly searched and cleared of victims.”

  “There are only two marks on here.”

  “Yes. It's a lot of damage, your Majesty.”

  “Did you call in extra medical--”

  “Some are here and more from the north are on their way,” Urmas said, anticipating the question. “Citizens are pouring in from everywhere to help.”

  “Be sure Kallaster is heavily guarded. Everyone knows that's where I've taken up residence.” Sander picked up speed, jogging forward to a point of rubble that he thought he could crest, giving him access to the interior. Many other men, guards and military and those who had been further
back in the castle out of blast range crawled over the debris both inside and out, searching for bodies.

  Hitting the first pile of rocks at a run, Sander hopped to a higher peak, then another, the map clutched in his gloved hand. He wove his way along the unstable hill of stone, catching glimpses of what used to be his family home. Many walls were gone, some cut in half, others burnt and crumbling. Most items of furniture had been taken apart and flung in several directions, leaving him to straddle the leg of a chair, a piece of couch, or a length of shattered crown molding just to go forward. Some of the debris blocked hallways that were still standing. Men pulled and tugged at the blockades, attempting to gain entrance.

  He was reminded of third world countries where bombings were a daily way of life. That was the level of devastation he faced.

  “Chey!” he shouted, climbing over a final obstacle to get his feet on somewhat solid ground. “Elias!” To think Chey and his children were somewhere in this madness terrified him.

  What should have been an easy search and rescue mission turned out to be anything but. The second he thought he had a way in, rubble shifted or the route proved to be impassable. Many sections had been so shredded that they were not familiar at all, and Sander had to backtrack a few steps to get a bigger view to situate himself. Workers shouted back and forth, using their hands and crowbars to move objects from their path.

  It was slow going. Too slow.

  Sander penetrated the interior, shouting himself hoarse, and squeezed past a cracked column to enter what used to be a conference room. He used fallen stones to clamber upward, knocking his knee and banging an elbow. Struggling, he got onto an upper floor and had to crawl beneath a blown out door, a tilted table and a sharp piece of glass until he could stand upright. The floor here, this close to the blast radius, felt unstable under his feet. Recognizing a swath of burnt wallpaper, he knew he was on the 'royal' floor, where his room and those of the king and queen once stood. Stepping around a buckled wall, he shouted for Chey, listening in between steps for voices.

  Stuffing the map into a pocket, he muscled part of a side table that had wedged into a wall out of the way—and saw a tiny foot beneath a smaller pile of debris a few feet ahead. Soot covered five miniature pink toes.

  His chest constricted and he couldn't breathe.

  “I need help up here!” he shouted over his shoulder once the initial spasm of shock passed. Sander picked away a piece of drywall, part of a mirror frame, pieces of a headboard and rocks the size of bowling balls. A little leg appeared, the hem of a frilly dress. He uncovered a delicate arm, breath coming harsh and fast, a litany of prayers falling from his lips.

  Please, please let her be alive.

  Sander moved a wad of mattress and crouched between more debris when he uncovered the child's upper torso. A girl—a redheaded sweetheart he recognized as the daughter of one of the staff. Sander had encouraged his staff to bring their children to an onsite daycare, which had worked out well for everyone, and for which the employees were grateful. Not everyone utilized the service, but many did. Reaching down, Sander felt for a pulse, heart in his throat.

  The steady blip-blip under his fingertips assured him the girl was still alive.

  “I need help up here!” he bellowed again. Sander knew she shouldn't be moved. Not until medical professionals could make sure she was stable.

  Scrabbling on the rock pile behind him and puffing breaths preceded the arrival of three men who took over in Sander's wake. He pressed on, confident his men would give the girl the best care.

  It took him fifteen minutes just to clear another ten feet of hallway. He shouted for Chey, for his kids, relentless in his search to find them. Sander came upon Gunnar's old bedroom, most of the furniture shoved against a far wall. Natalia's bedroom was in a little better shape, with only one car sized chunk ripped out near the door.

  He didn't stop until he'd reached the king's suite, sweat dripping down his forehead.

  “Chey!” The suite wasn't as damaged as the other rooms, though mirrors had fallen, the sofas had overturned and one of the chandeliers had lost quite a few crystals that now lay scattered over the floor. Sander ran from room to room in the suite, shouting each of his children's names.

  Nothing. No answer. There was not so much damage here that he would have missed their presence.

  Leaving the room, he checked the queen's room, and every other suite in the hall. No Chey. No children.

  He pushed on, finding another entrance between walls back where there was more damage, intent on searching the middle rooms—or what was left of them—beyond what used to be the foyer.

  Sander refused to give up until he found them, or until someone told him they were dead.

  Chapter Ten

  A tickle of smoke ushered Chey into awareness. The scent permeated her senses, bringing forth a fragile cough. When she opened her eyes, she couldn't penetrate the veil of darkness no matter how many times she blinked. Confused and disoriented, she tried to remember what happened. How she'd come to be flat on her back, dazed and dizzy, with something heavy pinning her body to the floor.

  “Sander?” she wheezed, struggling against the seemingly immovable object—the arm of a couch, perhaps, if the brocade against her fingertips was any indication—that she attempted to push off her hips.

  A pathetic whimper sounded from somewhere to her right.

  “Hello?” She coughed again, pushing harder, the whimper triggering her motherly instincts. Another whimper sent spikes of fear down her spine. Suddenly desperate to free herself, sure that her children were in danger or hurt, she used a foot to brace against the inverted sofa.

  “Baby? Erick?” Memory returned between one heartbeat and the next. They'd been playing a board game in one of the informal living rooms on the second floor when—something had happened. All she remembered was a force striking her from behind and then nothingness.

  “Elias! Emily!” She shouted, the sound contained within the smothering confines of the sofa. Chey recognized pain in her side, in her wrist and on her head, but that didn't stop her from shoving against the heavy couch. It must have been braced on another piece of debris, relieving most—but not all—of the crushing weight.

  “Erick!” she shouted again. Another whimper. Chey scooted her hand under the edge of the tilted sofa, feeling around for something. Anything. She made contact with a little arm.

  “Erick!” With a surge of adrenaline, she dragged her legs up, almost a tuck-and-roll position, pain screaming along her insides. She scraped skin off her shin and didn't care. Gathering her feet, she started to kick out at the sofa, then realized that if she succeeded in bouncing it off her body, she might inadvertently crush one of her children. Using her feet and her hands, she caught the edge of the sofa and maneuvered it up enough to scoot out from beneath. She bumped into several other objects she couldn't identify. It was difficult to see, as well, the once bright room now doused in gloom.

  Half under a piece of coffee table, she spied her baby, Erick, flat on his back, face covered in soot. He whimpered again.

  Chey shoved at a cushion, cut her hand on a sliver of glass, and pulled herself across the floor to her youngest child. “Erick, baby. Open your eyes and look at mommy.” She glanced at the debris field around them, then shouted into the mess of furniture and blown out walls. “Emily! Elias!”

  Dear God. Her children were in here somewhere. There must have been an explosion. Gas line—something. She didn't know what. If it would have been an earthquake, she would remember more before the sudden blast. Then she remembered the situation with Imatra and the supposed attacking Russians. Could this have been the work of someone making a point? Sander had thought Konstantine's words treaded too close to a promise of action against Latvala.

  “Erick?” Chey pushed another piece of cushion off Erick's shoulder and breathed a small sigh of relief when he let out a yowl and rolled toward her, blinking soot out of his eyes. She gathered him close, looking for other inj
uries. He seemed to be moving all his limbs without any trouble. He cried into her chest and held on with both arms.

  “Emily! Elias!” Chey coughed and struggled to free herself and Erick from the rest of the debris. That she couldn't hear anything from her other two children sent cold spikes of fear down her spine. Please, please let them be all right.

  Fearing another, bigger blast, she kicked at a ruined end table and moved against the field of wrecked paintings, bits of shattered wall and the tangle of a lamp cord, desperate for a glimpse of Emily and Elias. Disoriented, she called out again, clutching Erick against her body. Thin swirls of smoke made it difficult to see, though she didn't think anything in the room was on fire.

  Erick whimpered, then let out another squall.

  In that moment, when she realized how traumatized her child was, and that her other two were not accounted for, fury seized her and made it hard to think. The anger blazed hot for that single moment before terror took hold again.

  “Emily! Elias! Can you hear me? Make some noise for me.” She crawled two feet on her knees and it felt like two miles. It was like trying to wade into the ocean while enormous waves were crashing against her legs. There was just so much wreckage.

  Beyond an overturned chair, she glimpsed a shred of pink beneath a mound of rubble. Emily had been wearing a pink tee shirt before the explosion. She pushed a shattered piece of wood aside, calling out to her daughter, agonized at the thought of Emily beneath the pile. Reaching the scrap of pink, she settled Erick on her hip to better have use of her other hand. She angled several boards out of the way, the drape of a tapestry and several sections of molding. The furniture they had been sitting on when the blast ripped through the room had provided a little protection, forcing some of the debris into a tee-pee type position over Emily, who came into view when Chey cleared out another damaged painting.

  “Emily!” The little girl who so resembled her mother groaned and fluttered her lashes, then coughed. Chey moved closer, looking for wounds or broken bones, and felt a rush of panic when she spied blood on Emily's forehead. Emily pealed out a terrified noise that reduced to a cough.