A Royal Legacy

by Danielle Bourdon

  “No, it has not. And it will serve us well here today,” Heinlam continued with a grunt. “The council has spoken in depth on this issue. We collectively feel it is far too risky to allow the prince to live. He has attempted a coup before—now he's escalated to war. He irreparably damaged Ahtissari castle, nearly murdered the queen, and is accountable for hundreds of innocent deaths. The people of Latvala have had their resolve shaken again, and that's not what will help us going forward to heal this country. We have heard from King Aleksi, now on the throne after his brother Konstantine's death, and from King Thane. Each has requested the highest possible punishment—death, your Majesty—for the attacks on their countries. Otherwise, their ambassadors have suggested Imatra and Somero will fight to have prince Paavo tried on their own soil, and the verdict will be the same. Everyone but you, it seems, believes the penalty of death is the only answer here.”

  The chamber fell to complete silence. A thorough silence, the same kind of stillness found in tombs.

  Sander studied the speaker, then the council. He made eye contact with a dozen men while he considered the appeal. As he knew they would, the members had made a compelling case. To know that the Kings of Imatra and Somero suggested they would try Paavo on their own soil for his crimes didn't surprise him—that was standard protocol. Aleksi really had no other choice. His country, although in turmoil when Konstantine ruled, was facing the same upheaval Latvala faced after Paavo's attempted coup. Despite all that, Sander did not feel the same. He stood by his decision.

  “I hear and recognize your concerns. I have a meeting later today with Aleksi as you know, and I'll meet with Thane tomorrow. We'll work out the differences between us. As far as Paavo—my decision remains.” Sander paused when more councilmen got to their feet in protest. He waited out the initial blustering and indignation. Finally, when his silence forced the councilmen to quiet down, Sander rose from his chair. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he paced before the ascending rows of councilmen. “Execution may appear to be the only solution to suit Paavo's crimes, but I believe we are giving him exactly what he wants—other than exile—if we do that. He has repeatedly begged me to be executed or exiled. Paavo understands exile is a near impossibility, so death, in his estimation, is the only recourse. That is the depth of his discontent at being forced to live his life out in a cell. To pay me back for keeping him locked up these last years, he managed to plot the chaos that we see around us. Desperation of that caliber knows no bounds. I, for one, am not willing to give Paavo what he wants. Freedom with exile, or freedom with death. He will live out his life at Macor, knowing that every day will be like the day before, that this time, there will be no escape. No master plot toward the ruin of any country. For those who think this will happen again, I can assure you, it will not. The steps I'm taking are sufficient to disconnect Paavo from the rest of the world forever.”

  “We thought he was contained this time, too, in prison,” Heinlam said, talking over the chorus of discussion rampaging through the council.

  “Prison has all the standard safety precautions. No one has ever escaped any of our prisons, so it's not the security itself that's the problem. Weak minded men, men subjected to blackmail—that was the problem. I've corrected this at Macor, and will also be overhauling our prison personnel so that blackmail and death threats against officers will be less effective.”

  Heinlam turned to his fellow council members. Quick discourse took place, the men gesturing with their hands, some openly angry, others conflicted.

  Sander waited out the uproar. This was a part of their process, how the upper council and the king came to hard decisions. The arguments for and against the final verdict—already settled in Sander's mind—would happen here. Now. The councilmen deserved time to appeal and to express their discontent or support.

  After fifteen minutes of hard discourse, Heinlam bellowed a new vote. “Those in support of Macor?”

  Eight men raised their hands.

  “As you can see, your Majesty, we are far apart on the vote. Simply—the council strongly disagrees with your decision,” Heinlam said to Sander.

  “I have eyes,” Sander said, even though he knew Heinlam was following protocol by garnering another vote. “As before, I understand your position,” Sander said to the council at large. “In this particular case, I choose to overrule the majority and follow through with my decision.”

  “The citizens of Latvala will never forgive you if Paavo gets loose again, or orchestrates another attack on the country from his new 'prison',” Heinlam warned.

  Sander paced the same languid figure eight across the floor. “When history looks back on my reign, on my legacy, what will it say? Will it say I was a fair, just leader? Or will it say I was the king who put his brother to death? Words on paper will never capture the emotion of this moment, gentlemen. Text cannot capture the angst of our losses, the grief of those directly related to the bombings, or the intensity of deciding whether a man lives or dies. The stories of the future will boil down to the base details: Sander sent his brother, the bomber, the murderer, to death. Nowhere will it state my personal reasons for or against that verdict. People will see what's on the surface. There is no doubt whatsoever that Paavo deserves punishment. No one disputes that. But I would rather my legacy show that I acted with humanity in the face of overwhelming diversity. That is by far not the sole reason for my decision, but I recognize it will be remembered long after my bones turn to dust. In my opinion, this is the best punishment to fit the crime, even above death.” He paused to take in the measure of his council. Then, he added, “It is my final decision. See it done.”

  The council members stood and bowed their heads, acknowledging Sander's order.

  Departing the chamber, Sander stalked the halls of Kallaster, desperate to clear his mind of the council meeting before his session with the new king of Imatra. Sander braced himself for yet another person to insist he send his brother to death.

  *

  By the time Sander opened the door to the formal parlor, he had himself under better control. He'd spent the time between the council meeting and now pacing the grotto, thinking about what to say to Aleksi should the new king demand a different justice than the one Sander had already ordered for Paavo. It was a delicate situation, and Sander was honestly grieved that his own flesh and blood had assassinated the ruling king of a neighboring country. He'd also done a bit of homework the night before, sitting by Chey's bedside. Sander had learned that Aleksi, one of four surviving siblings to Konstantine, was but twenty-four years old, was a member of the Imatra military, and a man exceedingly skilled at self defense. He'd discovered by not so public means that Aleksi was versed in martial arts, swordplay, weaponry, and excelled at traversing complicated outdoor obstacle courses. Aleksi wasn't a man to sit idle in his downtime from whatever duties he executed as a former prince. Now he was king, and judging by the texts sent from Leander, Sander figured Aleksi to be a formidable ruler.

  His first sighting of the new king backed up Sander's initial suppositions. Aleksi paced near the fireplace, hands in his pockets, a thoughtful look on his face. Olive skinned, with angular features and light brown hair worn loose around his head, king Aleksi looked as honed as Sander expected him to be. The king was shorter than his own six-foot-three frame by maybe an inch, no more than two. The sharp suit of black fit him well.

  Aleksi glanced up as the door opened, then diverted his steps to meet Sander halfway. The formal parlor was dressed in luxurious furnishings, with a tall fireplace and family portraits lining the walls. It resembled other formal sitting areas and parlors throughout Kallaster castle.

  “King Ahtissari, thank you for meeting me,” Aleksi said, extending his hand.

  Sander grasped it and shook. “Thank you for coming. May I first extend my sincere apologies for what happened to Konstantine.”

  “Thank you.” Aleksi withdrew his hand. “And please, call me Aleksi.”

  “Sander.” He gestured
to the seating arrangement, which had been specifically placed for the men to face each other without being awkward. “Please, sit. Can I get you anything before we start?”

  “Your service has been excellent so far, Sander. I already have coffee.” Aleksi gestured to an end table where a steaming mug waited.

  Sitting across from Aleksi, Sander noted the drink with a satisfied nod. “All right. I would ask what brings you to Latvala, but I'm sure it's unnecessary.”

  Aleksi unbuttoned his coat and flipped an end aside before he sat down. Instead of leaning back, he sat on the edge of the cushion, torso tilted forward. Sander took that as a sign of agitation. Restlessness. As had the pacing. He knew, because he did it all the time himself.

  “It has been a shocking week, ending with the assassination of my brother and my sudden ascension to the throne. I wanted to speak with you face to face, Sander, because I wanted to apologize for the situation my brother put you in. I became aware of his 'offer', or his demands, after he had been here to see you. Should I have known before that, I would have done everything in my power to stop him,” Aleksi said.

  Surprised, Sander listened and observed as Aleksi proceeded to apologize rather than demand Paavo's head on a platter. There was still time, he reminded himself. “I will admit his...suggestion did not sit all that well with me.”

  Aleksi rubbed a thumb into the middle of his opposite palm. “I discerned as much from Konstantine's ranting after returning to Imatra. I want you to know that just because of our father's history, and Konstantine's unstable rule as king--”

  “Wait, excuse my interruption, Aleksi. What did you mean, our father's history?” Sander frowned; as far as he knew, the two kings hadn't ever agreed on any formal alliance, and thus, Aksel had shunned Konstantine's father, leaving a gap between the two countries. Sander had grown up never hearing much about Imatra other than there were better countries to align with.

  Aleksi looked surprised in turn. “You were never told about their battles? Between him and my father? Years past, they attempted several alliances, all of which failed because the men didn't get along. Aksel and Alder were at each other's throats from the beginning, so I'm told. I never did quite understand what set them off, only that father would come storming home from another meeting with Aksel, frustrated that they could not come to equal terms. It ended in a permanent separation, where the men wouldn't even talk.”

  This was news to Sander. Aksel had rarely said anything regarding Imatra to Sander, and never in harsh terms. Aksel had been dismissive and blasé about the country, writing them off as possible allies early on. “Interesting. My father never mentioned much about Imatra at all, actually. I guess that's why we have no accord, no trade agreements and no alliance. I don't recall him ever even mentioning Alder by name.”

  Aleksi's brows arched at the news. “That's interesting. Anyway, I'm here because I don't want my brother's actions to cause a rift between our countries.”

  “If you don't mind my saying—you don't seem upset at Konstantine's assassination.” Sander couldn't detect a lot of emotion from Aleksi, but he might have been the type of man to hide it well, especially in formal meetings with foreign heads of state. “I don't judge a man by someone else's actions, only his own.”

  Aleksi paused, hesitating just long enough to make Sander think the king was trying to decide how much to divulge.

  “In truth, Sander, Konstantine and I did not get along well at all. Many thought Konstantine too unstable to even take the throne, but he ascended and threw the country into turmoil, as I'm sure you heard. I'm trying to rectify some of that. I'm saddened that he's dead—he is my flesh and blood. Even as a child he was distant from the rest of us, always off learning how to become king. I suspect it wasn't his fault, exactly.”

  “Mm. I have a brother I am at odds with as well. I'm sure you've heard,” Sander said in an unamused tone. There was no use hiding the ill will between Paavo and Sander. The whole world knew that Paavo had attempted a coup, and now he'd bombed three separate countries.

  “It's no secret,” Aleksi admitted.

  “We'll have our people talk over a fair restitution for the damage and loss to Imatra--”

  Aleksi held up a hand in a stop motion. “There's no need, Sander. I didn't come here to demand money. Konstantine lied to you about those skirmishes and could have sent your country to war ahead of the problems Paavo was perpetrating. I'd say we're even. Which is why I'd like to start fresh between us, perhaps leave future trade deals open for discussion.”

  Sander inclined his head, easily accepting Aleksi's offer. “I'm definitely open to discussion. By the way—Paavo won't be put to death. He'll be transferred to a distant location, the only prisoner on the premises, and will live out the rest of his life there. I want you to know before it hits the media.”

  Aleksi studied Sander with an intent, serious expression. “My advisors insisted that I request death, but that is an acceptable punishment. You're sure he won't be able to bring up an army from there?”

  “No. His interaction with humans in general will be almost nonexistent. Trust me when I say relegating Paavo to a life in a secular prison will be the best punishment anyone can give him. Death would be preferable, as Paavo told me so many times. I refuse to give him what he really wants besides exile.” Behind closed doors, in an official yet private conversation, Sander didn't hesitate to be honest with Aleksi. These were the times when strong bonds formed between leaders of countries—or at least generated enough trust for the countries to work well together.

  “I understand.” Aleksi inclined his head. “I know you must have a great deal to do. Thank you for seeing me on short notice.”

  Sander stood from the chair and extended his hand. He thought Aleksi would make a far better king than Konstantine. “Thank you for coming. I look forward to more meetings in the near future, Aleksi.”

  “As do I.” Aleksi stepped toward the door.

  Sander followed Aleksi into the hall. While the new king of Imatra departed for his homeland, Sander began preparations for sending Paavo to Macor.

  He intended to escort his brother to the stronghold himself to say one final goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The next two days were busy days for Sander. He met with Thane, visited the slowly recovering Chey, attended his children, and ordered the necessary changes to Macor. The council members had appealed his decision in an emergency meeting that did not change Sander's mind about the outcome of Paavo's fate. He was set on a course of action and meant to see it through.

  Mattias, Leander and Gunnar all played important roles in picking up the slack regarding the destruction at Ahtissari castle and fielding interviews with the media. The citizens needed reassurance and answers, which Mattias provided in his stoic, serious demeanor.

  On the third day, Sander escorted Chey home from the hospital. He breathed easier when they arrived at Kallaster castle, which was still under heightened security after the attacks, and guided Chey with an arm around her waist toward the stairs to their suite. Most of the castle staff applauded Chey's return, many bearing flowers and little gifts, some with smiles, others with tears. Chey had earned—and deserved—the love and respect so clearly aimed her way. She had proven to be caring, compassionate, fiercely protective of Latvala's citizens and loyal to her duties as queen. Her penchant for calling people by name and taking a more laid-back approach to rule made her personable and well liked.

  “I can carry you up the stairs,” Sander said near her ear. He worried it might be too much too soon. The doctors had released Chey with the agreement that she wouldn't overdo it. Sander knew Chey, however. He knew the depths of her determination and stubbornness.

  “I can do it,” she said, using her good hand to grasp the banister. She ascended with more energy in her step than Sander could believe.

  He hovered close anyway, half tempted to carry her the rest of the way because he wanted to. Instead, he respected her will to do it fo
r herself, understanding without being told that she needed the sense of accomplishment.

  “Last one to the top is a rotten egg,” he teased, earning a laugh from Chey.

  “You'd fall over if I started jogging up these stairs,” Chey said, throwing him a teasing glance.

  “You start jogging and I really will carry you. And ground you.”

  She scoffed. At the second landing, she paused to get her breath. Chey could run these stairs several times over with no problem; that she was a little winded proved to Sander that she indeed had more recovery time ahead. Without asking, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way.

  “I don't want to hear any complaining. You want to feel accomplished, I get it, but I'm relieved you're home and am happy to carry you to our room.” If luck had been any less on their side, Sander might have been returning a widower. The thought made him shudder.

  “You have no idea how happy I am to be here, too. The people at the hospital are great, but there really is no place like home. The food is better, the company is better...and look, my bed.” Chey cooed when Sander toted her across the threshold to their suite and into the bedchamber, where the king sized bed waited. He rumbled a laugh, sending another silent thank-you into the ether for her safety.

  His life would have never been the same without her.

  As he set her gently on the bed, she curled a hand around his nape to keep him bent half over the bed, her face close to his.

  “I know you're going to take Paavo out to Macor in a little while. I just want you to know that even though I won't be there, I'm with you. Okay? I support your decision. I know how hard it will be for you to do this,” Chey whispered.

  Sander studied her eyes, then swooped in to place a gentle but possessive kiss on her mouth. Straightening after she slipped her fingers from his neck and settled into the pillows, he exhaled a quiet breath and said, “When I think of Mattias and Paavo and Gunner and Natalia, I remember them as kids. Those years when we were into all kinds of mischief, and how protective I was over each and every one. I remember the time Paavo, with his luminous eyes and devilish smile, put twenty crickets in Natalia's favorite pair of riding boots and listened to her scream the walls down. Once, we four boys had a camp out in the woods, bonding over roasted marshmallows, fake sword fights, and a scare in the middle of the night when we thought a bear was right outside the tent. Turned out to be Natalia, getting payback for the crickets. That's what I remember when I think about Paavo facing pre-meditated death. And that's what execution is, when you get down to the bottom line. Killing someone in self defense is different than planning for weeks to administer a lethal injection. Had I come face to face with him in the rubble he made at Ahtissari, I probably would have ended him where he stood. Because it's in the moment, it's life or death right now. It wouldn't have been easy, I won't pretend otherwise, but this...this is difficult. I'm still so angry sometimes that I'm surprised I didn't push for his death myself. Then the old memories surface and I find it hard to consider ending his life in any way other than a life or death struggle. Those are things I didn't admit to in the council meeting, because I wasn't sure the men would understand. And I do think death is an easy way out for a man who loathes being imprisoned as much as Paavo. Down deep, I know remanding Paavo to Macor and forcing him to be out of contact with humanity is the worst thing I could possibly do to him.” He paused, licked the edge of his teeth. “None of this has been easy. Knowing every single day I wake up that my brother, the one I used to do all those fun things with as children, is probably climbing the walls of an old ruin and slowly going madder than he already is will haunt me for the rest of my days. Losing you and the kids would have changed me as a man, as the person people know as Sander Ahtissari, though, so if this is the way it has to play out, then that's what I'll do.”