Chey inhaled a deep breath and counted to ten. No . . . twenty. Backtracking, she met up with Urmas and followed him into the dimly lit conference room. The advisors stood in a circle, heads bent together in quiet yet urgent conversation. When they became aware of her presence, they fell silent and opened the circle to face her.

She knew before anyone said a word how this would go. The advisors had borne witness to the troubles among the citizens of the castle and now they would demand she take action.

“Your Highness.” A collective greeting swept through the group.

Chey brushed back a wisp of hair and stood before the congregation. Her working relationship with certain councilmen was tenuous at best. Several of the advisors still harbored ill will about a foreigner sitting on the throne of Latvala, and grew truculent dealing with her in Sander’s absence. “Gentlemen. I suppose I’m here so you can tell me that something needs to be done about Burl.”

“He needs to be remanded to the dungeon and held there until this is over,” one advisor said, speaking up from the back.

“Burl will enjoy the rest of his visit here in a holding cell.” Chey had already decided so before this impromptu meeting. It meant wasting extra firewood to warm a separate room, but she thought it pertinent to separate Burl from the others.

Several advisors straightened their shoulders and lifted their chins. One in particular, Falk, separated himself from the others. Six feet four, with rugged features and vivid green eyes, he was no easy man to ignore. “Some of us think another answer is in order,” he said. “We know you will find this harsh, but the time has come to make very hard decisions about who lives and who dies. Some of us feel that the only way to secure the royal family line is to send three-quarters of the refugees here back across the water to the mainland.”

Shocked to her core, Chey met Falk’s eyes. He did not wither under her glare. Scanning a quick look over the remaining councilmen, she said, “Wait, am I understanding this right? You want to force half the citizens out into the cold, send them off to an unknown fate? I don’t see what the point is. They have a better chance of survival here, at least until the food runs out.”

“The point, Your Highness, is that when all but thirty-three or so depart the castle, it extends the food supply here for many more weeks,” Falk said, returning her blunt stare as if expecting her to make the right connections.

She did, much to her growing horror. In an incredulous voice, Chey said, “You mean to send them off without any supplies. Without food.”

“It’s the only way. We are out of options. Death is at our doorstep, Your Highness, and every mouthful of food that’s consumed by the refugees is another mouthful needed to preserve the royal lineage. This is the end of the line. The time, as I said, to make very hard decisions.”

“I cannot believe what I am hearing. You can’t be serious.” Images of more dead bodies half buried in snow ran through Chey’s mind. It was unthinkable. She pointed at several advisors. “You three. I saw you shaking your heads while Falk was speaking and I see the look in your eyes. You don’t want this any more than I do.”

“I agree, Your Highness. It’s madness to send the people back,” one of the men admitted.

“I, too, agree. It cannot be allowed. What level will we stoop to next? Cannibalizing our own when the food runs out? Preposterous. What you’re suggesting we do is give up on humans. They have a right to live,” the second advisor said to Falk, stabbing a finger his direction as if that made his opinion more important.

The third advisor nodded, indicating he was on Chey’s side as well.

An argument broke out. Chey watched as the majority—the advisors who wanted to force the refugees to leave—turned on the councilmen against their plan. Clearly, this debate had gone on for longer than a few hours. The advisors had been discussing possibilities probably since before the last refugees had arrived.

“As far as I’m concerned,” Chey said, interrupting the discussion, “there isn’t anything to argue about. I’m not sending anyone back to the docks.”

The advisors halted their heated debate and faced her once more. Chey stared them down, determined to have her way with this.

“It will go to a vote. Majority wins,” Falk said, a warning in his tone.

Chey took a step forward. It was obvious who the majority was, and what they would vote for. “Ultimately, the reigning sovereign can overrule any vote. And I say no.”

“Ah, but, Your Highness, that rule only applies to the blood-born sovereign. In this case, Sander. Even if His Majesty had married a princess from another land, the princess would not have the authority to overrule the council.” Falk stepped up onto a small pedestal used for this very purpose. He faced the council members. “So now to a vote. Those in favor of sending the refugees back to the mainland, say aye.”

A loud chorus of ayes rang through the room.

Furious at the turn of events, Chey watched in dismay as the majority of the councilmen voted to send the citizens to the mainland. “And just how many of you will be staying on at Kallaster Castle, I wonder? Who determines which of you will join the others on the trip to the mainland?”

Staring down from his lofty perch atop the pedestal, Falk said, “All the council members will remain, of course.”

Bristling, Chey lost her inner battle for control and rounded on the entire group. “Please, enlighten me as to why I need fifteen council members here when you plan to reduce the staff to a skeleton crew? It wouldn’t have anything to do with saving your own hide first, would it?”

“We are always on hand to guide the king—in this case, the queen. This tradition is as old as time, Your Highness, and is nonnegotiable. Obviously, we were needed here and now, in light of your inability to make the right decision. You, your children, your personal maid, a regular maid, two cooks, the doctor, four members of your personal guard, and the former queen Helina will remain. Eight castle guards along with Helina’s security will also stay. Everyone else, including Wynn and her son, must go,” Falk said with an air of authority.

“I was about to make a humane decision. People died trying to reach this castle just days ago, and you’re going to send hundreds into the same environment with no food, no supplies to see them through? It’s insanity. Sander would not agree. He flat out wouldn’t let you do it.” Fury turned her cheeks red. Chey could feel the heat emanating from her skin. She cautioned herself to calm her erratic heart rate, to get control of her breathing.

“The former queen Helina, an elderly lady not in her prime, survived the trip from the mainland, as did two of her bodyguards. It is possible, Your Highness, that our group would make better time to the docks, assuring their safety. How many made the trip here under extreme circumstances in the first place? Waves of refugees arrived at Kallaster’s doorstep, and they can leave the same way. I believe the people themselves will go without complaint when they realize they are helping ensure Latvala’s line of kings. The future leader of our nation, Elias Ahtissari, must be given every chance to ascend the throne. I would think you’d appreciate the effort to save your own children’s lives.” Falk drew himself up importantly after delivering his stinging speech.

Chey ceased her restless pacing to level a defiant stare at Falk. “Tread carefully. You’re dangerously close to implying that you care more about my son’s welfare than I do.”

“I care more about preserving the lineage into the future, clearly, or you would be agreeing with us.” Falk stepped off the pedestal. “Ready the people. They leave tomorrow, storm or no storm.”

“I won’t allow it,” Chey said. Her fists clenched at her sides.

“Unfortunately, Your Highness, there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

Sander had half the bag unpacked when a child’s cry drifted into the lower living area from the second floor. He paused and glanced at Valder as the daughter darted past and disappeared upstairs.

Valder scrubbed his hand along his jawline. “The thing is, Your Majesty, it’s not just the five of us.”

“Obviously. A child, then?” Sander asked, mentally changing the math he was starting to do in his head.

“Three children. Three girls. Ten, six, and two.” Valder glanced at his family, then back to Sander.

“All right. And that’s it, yes?” Sander didn’t want to discover an aunt or cousin or something living on the property who depended on Valder for food. He needed a total head count to get an accurate estimate on how long the food would last.

“That’s all of us.” Valder paused, as if considering his next words carefully. “My daughter’s husband fought in the war you had with your brother, Paavo. He died in a skirmish in the hinterlands.”

Silence descended on the farmhouse.

The war had nearly torn the country apart. Many men and women had perished in the struggle for the throne, and Sander had felt each loss personally. Chey had, at one time, quietly asserted that she thought the reason he was so driven to save lives was because he felt guilty about the dead. That he needed to atone for the extensive losses. Although she’d been concerned for his safety, she hadn’t tried to stop him from leaving.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sander said. He meant it.

“Which side was he fighting for?” Leander asked.

Sander hadn’t thought to question. He’d assumed that because Valder appeared loyal, his daughter and therefore her husband would have been as well.

Valder rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. “Not your side.”

Leander shot Sander a concerned glance.

“And your daughter?” Sander asked.

Valder looked down at his boots before meeting Sander’s gaze. Very quietly, he said, “We raised her loyal, Your Majesty. But her husband had quite an influence on her.”

Alda’s refusal to make eye contact earlier made better sense. Sander cut Valder a curt nod of understanding. He met Turo and Tiemus’s eyes respectively, asking a silent question whether or not they’d fought against him in the war.

Maybe those missed shots hadn’t been quite as innocent as Valder had made them out to be.

“We’re with you, Your Majesty,” Turo said, gesturing between him and his brother.

Sander wasn’t immediately mollified, but he nodded and switched his attention back to Valder. “Let’s get on with it. Retrieve whatever food you have left and we’ll run an estimate.”

Turo and Tiemus retreated to a pantry adjacent to the kitchen. They returned with a drooping muslin bag, two airtight containers, and a jar of peanut butter.

In the interim, Sander turned away from the family to face Leander and Mattias. Speaking low so he wouldn’t be heard, he said, “One of you take the satellite phone out to the porch and try to connect a call. See if you can raise someone—anyone. If you happen to make contact, give them our location. As close as you can get. Let’s keep the phone out of sight for now.”

“I’ll do it.” Mattias turned away, picked up Leander’s pack, and exited onto the porch.

Sander gestured for Gaius and Joska to empty the food from their bags onto the main dining table. With Leander and Gunnar’s help, Sander began dividing it into piles. One thing was certain: Valder hadn’t been lying. The family had a few cups of oatmeal, a small pouch of almonds, enough beans for two regular servings, and a handful of dried apricots. He didn’t know how the family had gotten by so far, especially with three children in the house. It explained their thinness, the gaunt look to their cheeks.

“All right. We’ll combine what we’ve got and see where we’re at.” Sander helped Leander count up the totals. Gaius and Joska had been able to carry quite a bit extra in their packs. Despite the somewhat uncomfortable situation with the alliance of Alda and her deceased husband, Sander was glad he could help the family out. The children wouldn’t perish from starvation any time in the near future.

“We can make it six weeks,” Leander said after doing a few sums on a scrap piece of paper. “That’s with moderate rationing.”

Valder and Berith made quiet noises of relief. Berith clasped her hands together in a show of appreciation and anticipation.

“Why don’t we make up something to eat? I’m sure everyone’s hungry.” Sander didn’t want to keep the family waiting longer than he had to. Subsisting on oatmeal and beans for weeks had to be rough.

“Can I speak to you a moment?” Leander asked, using his thumb to gesture to the front door.

“We’ll be right back.” Sander figured the others could handle the cooking while he stepped aside. Putting his coat back on, he followed Leander to the door and onto the porch. Darkness encroached along the tree line. Within minutes, whatever light remained from the day would be gone. Snow was falling harder, promising to add another foot or more to the already substantial accumulation. Mattias was at the other end of the porch, phone to his ear.

Sander met Leander’s eyes as the other man zipped up the front of his coat.

“I don’t like it.” Leander flipped the hood up as well and, after a wary glance at the door, looked back to Sander’s face. “We’ve got the upper hand while we’re awake, but when we sleep, we could be at a serious disadvantage. One of us will have to be on guard at all times, which means cycling through shifts. If the brothers really aren’t on your side, and if Joska or Gaius is also against you, they might join forces and overwhelm us. They don’t stand a chance while we’re expecting it, but they might wait until one of us is asleep or has our back turned or is in the bathroom. All it takes is a gun to your head to get the upper hand over the rest. Or to simply start blowing people away. We’ve got three members of the royal family here. If they happen to get you and your brothers, then that puts your children at extreme risk of assassination for a takeover once news of your death reaches the right ears.”

Any time the subject of his children’s welfare came up, Sander had the same reaction: his shoulders tensed, his back went stiff and straight, and his heart rate accelerated. It was, and always would be, a topic that had the capacity to throw him off his game. He drew in a slow, measured breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “I hear what you’re saying. I don’t totally trust the brothers either. What can we do about it other than keep a close watch?”

“Leave. Wait until this damned storm clears,” Leander said with an impatient gesture toward the newly falling snow, “take a few days’ worth of food with us and go. I think it’s too dangerous here, Dare.”

“We barely made it here. Where do you suggest we go next?” Sander asked. Three days’ worth of food wasn’t a great cushion against catastrophe. Whenever Leander felt like the situation was too dangerous, however, Sander listened. Outside perspectives mattered. Sander had already decided to keep an eye on the brothers, but Leander had a point: if the brothers chatted up Gaius and Joska and realized they had an ally—or allies—it could cause problems. Perhaps Valder was putting on an act himself. Sander couldn’t be one hundred percent certain of the farmer’s loyalty.

“Back to the truck. We load up with as many supplies as we can carry and return to the last farm we visited. There wasn’t a question that they were loyal to you. We can stay there until the weather clears or until we make contact with the military to come get us,” Leander said. “The longer we’re here, the more danger I feel you, Mattias, and Gunnar will be in.”

Sander considered the suggestion. Taking three days’ worth of food would be enough to make it back to the truck, where more supplies waited. And Leander was right when he said that the occupants of the last farmhouse were loyal to him. They’d been overjoyed to have him, and sad to see him leave. “If you feel that strongly, then we’ll follow your plan. Let’s—” Sander paused when Mattias suddenly strode down the length of the porch.

Holding up the satellite phone, Mattias said, “I’ve got a signal.”