Maybe disaster hadn't been averted after all.
Chapter Three
On the flight to the Ahtissari family seat, Sander contemplated what urgent matter had arisen this time. It had been years since anything of a serious nature—such as the coup that almost de-throned him—occurred within the borders of Latvala. He wouldn't have described the prior years as peaceful, exactly, but there had been no more overthrow attempts, no political catastrophes, no uprisings in the back country where his brother had sown the most seeds of discontent among the citizens. The economy was prosperous and every day, more and more people showed solidarity to the king. It took time to recover from the despair that had gripped his country in the aftermath of Paavo's attacks.
Perhaps it was nothing more 'urgent' than the lobbyists once again demanding attention. Or the advisors wanting approval to propose documents to the council about additional import and export deals.
Everyone wanted something from the king.
Disembarking with Chey and Leander at his side, Sander strode to the waiting limousine and handed his wife into the car before sliding in himself. Leander came last after surveying the flat land around the helipad.
The short ride to the castle passed in silence. Sander's mind was on business and he wasn't wont to conjecture about what might await him in the conference room.
He eyed the immense castle, surrounded by high walls, with mixed emotions. The main family seat was not his favorite place to be. Whenever possible, he held all his meetings at Kallaster castle on Pallan Island, the castle he had inherited upon ascending the throne. He preferred its more medieval flare and the inherent privacy the island afforded him. Kallaster had its share of advisors, lawyers and diplomats, but nothing compared to the family seat.
He didn't notice any extra security at the looming iron gate that rumbled up at their arrival, a good sign in his estimation. If a threat had come in, there would have been another layer of men outside the castle walls and more in the turrets standing at each corner. Sander exchanged a knowing glance with Leander; the man was smart enough to be taking notice of the same things and filing away the information for later.
Inside the walls, the limousine followed a concrete drive toward the broad front steps. Guards in military dress stood at attention as he disembarked. Sander turned back to Chey and said, “How about I meet up with you upstairs when we're done?” He needed a quick shower and a change of clothing before he could show his face in the conference room.
Chey had been right. He did smell like fish.
“I'll be in the informal parlor,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his mouth.
Sander resisted the temptation to hook an arm around her waist and haul her to him. He could offer to take her to the king's suite, but he knew she would prove too much of a distraction. “Excellent. I'll text you now that I have my phone back.” Chey had returned it on the ride back from Vogeva.
“Hurry up.”
“I'll text you when I'm good and ready, wench,” he retorted, using an old term of endearment. Corralling Chey in the crook of his arm, he escorted her up the stairs with Leander at his other side.
Passing through the open doors, Sander parted from Chey, then paused to address Leander in a low voice that wouldn't carry. “Wait around until I know what's going on, in case I need you?”
Leander inclined his head. “I planned on it. I'll nose around the staff and see if anyone is talking.”
“I'll be in touch as soon as I can.” He clapped Leander on the shoulder, then turned to cross the foyer for the steps. As opposed to the stone and wood theme of Kallaster, the Ahtissari stronghold was a collection of marble floors, painted walls and gilt trimmings. It still had excellent defense mechanisms such as the surrounding ramparts, the iron gate and turrets with guards who kept an eye out for enemies. The interior, with extensive crown molding and baroque architecture, was a world more refined than Kallaster. This stronghold was the prime destination for visiting dignitaries and foreign guests. There were entire wings dedicated to harboring ambassadors or sovereign rulers and all their staff.
Rising to the 'family' floor, the level that housed royalty and the king and queen, Sander bypassed more guards and entered the king's suite after navigating numerous hallways. This current King's suite wasn't the same one his father had occupied during his reign. Sander had attempted to live there once or twice, though an entire redesign and remodel hadn't been able to remove the odd pall that hung over the chamber, as if Aksel were watching from some otherworldly domain. Sander ordered another room in the hall remade into something he and Chey could live in for the short durations they were at the family seat. This chamber wasn't quite as large or luxurious, but it was spacious enough for a living area, his and hers bathrooms, two large closets, two offices and a bedroom with a double king sized bed.
After a shower, he spared a moment to shave the scruff off his jaw. Scraping his fingers back through his damp, shoulder length hair, he let it dry on its own while he sought a clean pair of black slacks, a grayish-silver button down, matching black suit jacket and contrasting tie. By the time he was done, polished shoes and cologne in place, he looked ready to tackle the advisors and councilmen.
Departing the suite, he strode with purpose along the hallways to the stairs. Descending at a quick clip, he met Urmas, who had come over from Pallan Island, in the foyer.
“Which room?” he asked his liaison.
“The King's conference room, your Majesty.” Urmas fell into step at Sander's side. “An important matter has been presented by King Konstantine of Imatra.”
Sander snapped a look sideways at his assistant. “What important matter is that?”
“The advisors are being close-mouthed until your arrival. There is quite an uproar, however.”
Sander refrained from more questions. Urmas wasn't in the know, unusual in its own right, and it was pointless to hammer him for answers he didn't have. Taking a separate hallway, Sander made his way to the King's conference room, a chamber set apart from the other meeting and conference rooms. He couldn't imagine what Konstantine wanted. The neighboring king of Imatra—a country separated from Latvala only by another, smaller country—was a man of intensity and ambition. Konstantine had come into reign the year prior after the sudden death of his father and had thrown Imatra into turmoil when he'd fired more than half his father's staff to bring in his own men. Whispers surfaced through the lower ranking employees that in the latter few months, Konstantine had suffered the threat of his country falling under the control of Russia, who had advanced armies—so it was said—all the way to Imatra's border. Sander had sent several spies to the back country of Latvala to make sure the same wasn't happening in his own proverbial backyard. Not only had there been no sign of the Russians, more information had come through other sources that insisted Konstantine had fabricated the story to gain sympathy from world powers who had then sent him money and weaponry in case he found himself fighting for his throne. Konstantine had built a questionable reputation during his reign thus far, forcing other world leaders to warily watch from the sidelines.
Men rose to their feet when Sander entered the chamber. He inclined his head in greeting and acknowledgement before taking a seat at a head table facing the rows of chairs occupied by advisors and councilmen.
“Your Majesty, we will get right to the point,” Hektor, the speaker said. “Konstantine sent word directly that a skirmish has taken place on the border between Imatra and Russia. Eight Imatra soldiers were killed when Russians advanced on a small village in Imatra's territory. Konstantine's ambassador assured us during his visit that the situation is dire. Communication was intercepted that leads Imatra's Generals to believe the Russians are planning another, larger strike.”
Crossing the chamber, Hektor set several photographs on the king's desk. Color pictures of death and destruction.
Sander slid one photo aside to view the next. He recognized a charred Russian flag amongst the bloody bodies s
prawled across the ground. What struck him immediately was the coincidence of a Russian flag being anywhere near what surely had been an unannounced advance across the border. Why would Russia blatantly carry a full sized flag into a skirmish?
“And what does Konstantine want from Latvala?” Sander asked, perusing a few more pictures. One or two were quite gruesome. Slain men in unnatural poses, eyes staring into whatever heaven or hell awaited.
“Your Majesty...” Hektor paused, licked his lips.
Sander glanced up. It was the sudden, subtle change in Hektor's voice and demeanor that snagged his attention. Not only urgency, but an electric excitement that Hektor seemed barely able to contain. Sander waited Hektor out.
“...Konstantine has proposed a most interesting solution. He wants Imatra and Latvala to join forces.”
Sander would never understand why some men all but salivated at the idea of war. Battle was not exciting or frivolous or something to be looked forward to. It was bloody and dangerous and frightening. It was true that Sander enjoyed the smaller missions he sometimes accompanied a few of his acquaintances on, but he and his brethren were always trying to save people, not kill them.
“I'm not sending troops to Imatra. As far as I know, the Russians are not knocking on our back door, and I will not send our men and women in to fight a skirmish that Imatra is able to handle.” Sander scooted the photos into a pile and scanned the rows of council and advisors in the opposite chairs, sussing out the general feel of the crowd. Some men seemed appalled at the idea, and others looked in support of the proposition.
“Your Majesty--”
“The answer is no. Konstantine's army is more than capable of chasing back a few Russians.”
“But--”
“Do you have any proof that the Russians are advancing on Latvala?” Sander asked the crowd at large.
Men shifted in their chairs and looked generally uncomfortable.
“That's what I thought,” Sander said, standing from his seat. “My answer is no.”
From the back row, a council member stood as well. He said, “You are quick to send more Imatra men to their deaths--”
“Would you rather it be your sons or daughters?” Sander said, holding tightly to his temper. “Hm? Paulus? Aigar? How about your six sons between you? Should we send them to fight the Russians?” He met each man's eyes as he strolled from his desk to the rows of ascending chairs. Sander wanted to drive his point home, all the way home. “How easy it is for you men in your expensive suits and pampered lives to throw soldiers into battle at your whim. A battle we're not positive exists. One infraction does not a war make.”
Paulus and Aigar cleared their throats and looked down at the papers in their hands. Several other advisors refused to meet Sander's eyes.
“I agree with you, your Majesty. We should not get involved,” someone in the back row, a supporter of Sander's policy, said.
“What, and allow the Russians to invade our neighbor to the north? If the Russians take Imatra, there is only Somero standing between us and the Russians. I don't need to tell you that the country of Somero is half the size of Latvala and would be easy to invade,” someone else retorted. “Konstantine believes Imatra is only the first. Somero and Latvala could be next.”
“Where is your proof? A few pictures does not make a truth. Yes, there are dead men in those pictures and yes, there is a Russian flag suspiciously placed under an Imatra soldier. When was the last time a country invaded on foot, supposedly wishing an element of surprise, toting a very large flag to announce their presence? The medieval age? I challenge the stupidity of that action. The Russians are not that dumb, gentlemen.” Sander stalked back and forth before the rows of chairs, meeting the gaze of whoever was brave enough to look his way. Some men did in obvious agreement of his deduction, and others either studied papers in their hands or eyed him as if they wished someone with more bloodlust was king.
“We have Konstantine's word,” one man dared to say. “Why would he lie? What does he stand to gain?”
“If he was that concerned about an all out invasion of his country, he would have come to talk to me himself,” Sander countered. A rush of whispers swept through the members.
“He does wish an audience with you,” Hektor added.
“Then why isn't he here?”
“His ambassador said that if you were hesitant to send aid--”
“Oh, I see. I'm only good enough to meet with in person if he doesn't get his way.” Sander clenched his jaw, teeth grinding in annoyance. “I am not convinced this situation is as threatening as the king would have us believe. For now we stand down.” And that was that. Sander didn't stick around to hear more arguments. He departed the chamber while the advisors and councilmen broke into fresh discussion—if it could be called that. He left them to it.
Right then, there were only three people he wanted to talk to, and none of them had the title of councilman or advisor attached to his name.
*
On his way up the stairs, Sander pulled out his phone and shot Chey a text.
Meet me in the informal parlor when you're ready. He jogged up the final steps and cut down the first hallway on the royal floor. This level, reserved for the immediate family and a select few others, was much quieter than the rest of the castle. His brothers Mattias and Gunnar chose to live in their personal castles elsewhere in Latvala, only staying at the family seat when duty demanded it. Like Sander, his brothers had few good memories in this place. Natalia, his only sister, was off with her Balkan prince in another part of the world.
Entering the informal parlor, Sander expected to have to wait for Chey. Just as he started to send off a text to Mattias, he spotted his wife in one of the wingback chairs, staring into the distance out the windows. Although 'informal', the room still had a wealth of crown molding, a tall fireplace and a few gilt trimmed pieces of furniture interspersed with sofas and chairs that provided more comfort than the rest.
Striding quietly up behind Chey, Sander leaned around the corner of the chair and brushed a kiss against her temple. She twitched in surprise, proving she hadn't heard him coming.
“Oh, hi. I didn't know you were here.” Chey smiled when she glanced up.
Tempted to, Sander kissed her again, this time on the mouth. “Didn't you get my text?”
“I don't know.” She pulled her phone from the pocket of her jeans. “It's here. I just didn't hear the chime. How did the meeting go?”
He sat in the chair across from her, lounging back with his legs sprawled before him. “Not good.”
“What happened?” She frowned, cupping the cell phone in her hand.
Sander shot off a few more texts. Mattias, Gunnar, Leander. He needed a meeting as soon as he was done with Chey. Looking up, he said, “The king of Imatra, that's the country next to Somero which borders Latvala, wants me to send troops to fight what he's calling a skirmish with the Russians.”
Chey's frown deepened. “What's going on with the Russians?”
“I don't know. I do know that they're not pushing against the back border of Latvala. I've had men doing periodic checks ever since the whispers began that there was unrest in the other country.”
“Are you sending troops to Imatra? What does he mean by 'skirmish', exactly?” Chey asked.
He studied Chey's face, framed by layers of loose dark hair. She was still as beautiful in his eyes as the day he'd met her. The spark of curiosity in her blue eyes vied with concern for Latvala's soldiers, countrymen she had claimed as her own.
“No, I'm not. I wasn't convinced things are as bad as Konstantine wants me to believe. Never mind he didn't even bother to come talk to me himself. I told the council that if he really thought the Russians were going to invade, he would have been on my doorstep immediately. It's not wise to rush troops off at the drop of a hat. A strong show of support with Imatra—whom we do no trade with, nor are allies with—could possibly put us in Russia's crosshairs if they are lining up at Imatra's bo
rders. Until I have more proof that there's a problem, our troops stay here.”
“I take it the councilmen didn't like it?”
“Some believe as I do that we shouldn't rush to judgment. There was mention of 'joining up' with Imatra, though I'm not sure exactly what that means. Of course there are others who feel as if we're allowing a further invasion if we don't get involved. There is never one hundred percent agreement on anything.” Sander always expected there to be division among the advisors and councilmen.
“Do you think they'll drop it now? Leave it alone?”
“It's hard to say. Konstantine wants a meeting with me. Not before asking for aid, but after I'd said no.” Sander didn't want to rush to judgment on Konstantine, either, considering he didn't know the king well at all. Although 'neighbors', Latvala and Imatra had never had close ties. It still rankled that the king hadn't bothered to come himself if the situation was that serious. Sander meant to force his hand; if Konstanine and Imatra were being invaded, he figured he would see more proof from other sources. That changed the game considerably, but didn't mean he would automatically send his men into battle.
“Are you going to do it? Have a meeting?” Chey asked with a curious lilt to her voice.
“I'll probably have to, just to cover my backside. If I disregard the meeting and it comes out later that he was desperate for help and I ignored him, it wouldn't look good for Latvala. I don't want to give off the wrong impression for the country. We've had enough bad press to last a century.”
“Soon, then?”
“In the next day or two, I imagine. I'm going to have a talk shortly with Mattias, Gunnar and Leander and fill them in, but I wanted to drop by here first to let you know what's going on.” He stood up out of the chair.
“You know I always appreciate when you keep me clued in, especially with matters like this. I'll see you later this evening, all right?” Chey rose from her chair, too, and met him halfway.
A Royal Legacy Page 3
