Heir in Exile (8 page)

As other guards and military arrived, Aksel held up a staying hand. “Retreat until I call for you,” he said.

The security members, wary and alert, receded into the hallway.

Sander never glanced back. He continued to regard the King with a confrontational air. “Well?”

“I have had the papers drawn up for your official exile,” the King said. “More details than that I am not prepared to give you. As my man said...I am under the weather and will go through everything with you in the morning.”

“The hell you will,” Sander snarled. “You'll do it
now--”

“Do not take that tone with me!” Aksel shouted. “Who do you think you are, ordering your King to do
anything,
boy?”

Sander laughed. A derisive sound lacking respect for authority. He glared into his father's eyes. “The man who will snitch that throne right out from under you, my liege.”

Aksel strode around the divan and came toe to toe with Sander. “Those are a traitor's words, punishable by death. You're very lucky you are of my blood. It will see you into exile instead.”

Sander, with a few inch height advantage, closed the distance by half. Close enough to see the striations in Aksel's eyes. “So I've heard. But I've seen the blood on your hands, I
know
some of the secrets you keep. What a pity if those nasty things ever came to light.”

Aksel's face paled. His lips pinched into a furious frown. “
How dare you speak to me of--”

“Murder?” Sander interrupted, whispering. He glanced with ill disguised discretion toward the open doorway, then back. “Should I say it a little louder, father? Or do you have no care for your reputation? Perhaps you've gloated about the little maid whose life you took, hm?”

Aksel struck Sander hard across the face with the back of his hand. The heavy, ornate ring adorning his finger left a small gash on Sander's jaw.

Head snapping to the side, Sander accepted the blow and cut a knowing look at the King. “I was what? Thirteen? A young age to come across my father on the back end of a tryst with a butcher knife in one hand and a dead maid in the other. But I've kept your secret—that one at least—under wraps all these years. So don't stand on ceremony with
me,
acting as if you're a paragon of virtue.”

Breathing hard, Aksel narrowed his eyes. “No one would ever believe you.”

“No? But I know where you buried her. We'll just dig up her bones.”

Aksel threw his head back and laughed. Full of apparent mirth, he turned away from Sander. One finger lifted to tick-tock in an
I got you
fashion. “Oh, but no. No, you won't. Because I moved her.
Scattered
her.”

Sander's nostrils flared. The place where his morals lived protested violently at the grisly image Aksel's descriptive word sent through his mind. “I should have known.”

“Yes, maybe you should have.” Aksel paused to pour himself a drink from a side bar. His hands shook. A splash of hard liquor landed on the counter before it hit the glass.

“I still remember her name. I remember too many details to discount. Either way, you're guilty and we both know it. That's just one of several sins, should I go on?” Sander only paused for a moment, then he continued. “The point is—you are not sending me anywhere. Not off the throne, and not into exile. I won't allow it.”

“You remember her name?” Aksel said, ignoring the rest.

“Yes. Siona. She was one of the nicer women in the employ of the Royals at that time.”

Aksel lifted the glass and took a stiff drink. And another. After, he chuckled. It turned into a laugh. The kind of laugh that tilted his head back and made his stomach quiver with the force of his mirth.

“What could possibly be funny?” Sander asked, frowning. Not for the first time, he wondered just how unhinged his father really was. He had no doubt of his father's steady decline, though he suspected Aksel hid the truth of it from everyone. Even his wife.

“How lucky you are that we won't be burying you beside her. She must be resting in twelve different spots, at least.” Aksel laughed again.

Sander stared hard at the King. Aksel's sanity, at this point, was in serious question. Perhaps the idea of ripping the King off his throne before his time had more merit than Sander realized. “And why would you do that? Because I am the only witness?”

“Because,
you fool.
She was your mother.”

. . .

Sander stared at the King with a blatant look of suspicious disbelief. The implications, if true, could be potentially devastating. “You're lying.”

“No,
son,
I'm not. Siona was your mother. It wasn't a tryst we were having when you found us in the dungeon, it was an argument. She wanted you to know who she was, promised to keep it a secret if she could just have a mother and son relationship with you. Of course, that would never work. Secrets like that get out when they're in the wrong hands, and it wasn't a secret we could take any chances with.” Aksel finished off the entire glass and set the tumbler down with a sharp crack against the table. He used the side of his wrist on his mouth, smearing away stray droplets.

“I don't believe you. The Queen--”

“Helina had no choice. She went along, faking the pregnancy and birth. Only a very select few knew of the ruse. Everyone else in the castle believed it to be true. When Siona went into labor with you, Helina went into fake labor and shut herself away for the better part of a day until the baby could be smuggled in through the hidden passageways to her room.” Aksel straightened his shoulders and faced Sander, chin lifted as if in defense of his actions. As if, somehow, he believed he had done Sander a great honor by not proclaiming him a bastard.

“I've seen my birth certificate,” Sander said with a snarl. “It was signed by witnesses that I am the rightful heir. The firstborn.”

Aksel laughed. Another of those unnatural laughs born of a man forced to keep secrets that weighed down his soul. “Bought off. The 'official' witness, the head nurse who supposedly birthed you. She and a second nurse knew, and both readily agreed to keep their mouths shut.”

“I want proof. I want a meeting with each one--”

“They're dead,” Aksel said, using a tone that chided Sander for not knowing better.

“Dead?” Sander, hands clenched into fists at his sides, stared at Aksel with renewed disgust. “You again.”

“No, they were made to look as accidents—have you not been paying
any
attention, or were the snow jobs just that good?” He chuckled, a mocking sound of bemusement.

“A boy—for I must have been that when you decided to take their lives—would hardly suspect such games,” Sander growled. He thrust a hand through his hair and paced through the room. Agitated. He didn't know whether to believe Aksel or not. There was a certain dark truth to his father's confession, blithely cavalier, that made his gut instinct sit up and take notice. On the other hand, Aksel was an accomplished liar, both by habit and necessity.

“Helina will tell you. Or will you not believe her, either?” Aksel paused, then rocked back and forth on his shoes. “What will be interesting now, is whether you keep this information to yourself or whether, in the
best interest of the country,
you go into exile and allow the proper heir to take over.”

Sander shot a look of utter loathing across the room. Thirty-three years he had been groomed for this role. To become King. Having his whole existence and the reason for it brought into question after all this time made him sick. Would he believe Helina? He didn't know.

Aksel faced down the stare, finding a calmer facade to present at this stage of the conversation. “That is what you threatened me with, yes? To yank the throne out from under me for the good of Latvala? Hm? So now what, Sander? To continue on makes you look like a hypocrite for dumping Valentina because in taking the throne yourself, you are doing exactly what you accused her of. Putting a bastard in to rule.”

“I am still
your
son,” Sander shouted. “The Ahtissari name belongs to me.”

“It just makes you half a bastard.” Aksel gestured toward the side table. “Drink? You're looking a little peaked.”

Sander spat an ugly curse that wrought a laugh out of Aksel.

“It sucks to have the tables turned, does it not?” Aksel asked.

Sander paced, hands flexing through a series of clenches. He argued with himself, pitting what his heart told him to do against the reality that Aksel might be telling the truth. How convenient the timing was, though. That Aksel could yank his bloodline right out from underneath him when it suited him most. Finally, he prowled to a stop near the fireplace and faced the King. “I'll need more than your word. More than Helina's. At this point, to prevent yourself from being ousted off the throne, I wouldn't put anything past you.”

“There is no one left! Don't you see? We have covered our—and your—tracks well!” Aksel turned to pour himself another drink. His hand shook less than last time.

“Convenient,” Sander said. “Too convenient. I will not be going into exile--”

“Yes, you will,” Aksel said. His voice lowered, grew soft. Sure. He took a drink.

“You would have to announce this to all of Latvala to strip me of the title of Heir, and I know you won't do that,” Sander said. A vein stood out in his forehead.

“I won't have to. Come back tomorrow. I believe Helina may have something that will prove to you once and for all that you are Siona's son. If her confession is not enough, which it should be, then I think there is one other way.” Aksel stared toward the windows, mouth quirked into a pensive curve.

“What way is that?” Sander asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“
Now.
”

Aksel just smiled and lifted the tumbler for another sip. He hissed on the exhale.

“You have tried to stall this meeting since I got here. Now you want me to come back tomorrow. Why?” Sander said with a sudden frown.

“As I said. I am feeling ill today.” Aksel didn't meet Sander's eyes. Didn't glance away from the window.

“Lies.” Sander turned on a heel and stalked out the door.

He didn't look back.

Chapter Seven

Chey waited until the gloom inside the cabin grew too dark to see before she risked turning a light on. The remains of a bowl of soup sat on the counter along with an empty bottle of water, proof she had at least attempted to eat something for dinner. Washing the bowl, the small pot and the spoon, she set the dishes to drain, dried her hands, and fished out another bottle of water from the fridge.

She wondered where Mattias and Sander were. She knew both men would be back here at some point this evening, and that they planned to take every precaution to throw any followers off their tail. Chey trusted them both not to lead anyone back here.

Just as she approached a bookcase along one wall, she heard the door knob rattle. Crossing back to the kitchen, she slid the gun off the table and thumbed off the safety. Facing the door, she watched it swing open, mentally preparing herself to shoot-to-maim should someone enter who was not Mattias or Sander.

Mattias came first, followed by Sander. “It's us,” Mattias said when he saw her standing ready.

“I was beginning to think you wouldn't show tonight,” Chey admitted. She put the safety on and set the gun on the table. Right away she knew something was wrong. Sander's expression was a hard mask, lips pressed tight, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

Mattias closed the door behind his brother and followed Sander into the living area. “We took special care to make sure no one followed us here. One of my meetings ran over as well.”

“What's wrong?” Chey said after Mattias finished explaining.

Mattias perched on the arm of a sofa while Sander paced, hands on his hips, glaring at the floor.

“I got here just as he did,” Mattias said. “What happened, brother?”

“You were right. He's got something else up his sleeve. If he's telling the truth, then he has put me in a position I cannot wrap my mind around.” Sander spat a curse and thrust a hand through his hair.

“Is it as bad as all that?” Mattias asked, frowning.

Chey stood near Mattias, arms crossed over her chest. She regarded Sander with growing concern. She'd never seen him so agitated. A vein pulsed in his forehead, and every so often, he exhaled a sharp breath as if he was struggling to calm himself.

“It's worse,” Sander said. He scratched the short edge of his nails along a subtle layer of whiskers starting to fill in along his jaw. “He is attempting to get me to exile myself on the grounds that I am not rightful heir to the throne. Helina, if he is to be believed, is not my mother.”

“
What?”
Mattias shoved up out of his casual lean.