Chapter 29
I have never seen a more untrustworthy lot of cur in my life. Two days ago, Archon Rehn sent men to murder me. I was just coming upon the stables when an arrow passed literally an inch from my nose. It hit the side of the stable, giving me only a second to prepare myself for battle.
Almost immediately, someone attacked from behind. The stormy weather played a part in my not hearing the bastard sneak up on me. I barely ducked in time to avoid losing my head. I divested the man of his weapon shortly after, and ended him. The second assassin switched to knives and managed to wound me in the thigh, but it did not prevent me from besting him in hand-to-hand combat. My guards arrived. I forced them back.
I wanted the assassin for my own.
I did not kill him, not then. I forced confessions from him over the course of two hard, long days, until he finally released the name of his benefactor.
I should not be surprised that Archon, a man who ever goes back on his word, sent his assassins after me.
However, I am.
I would not have guessed that he would test my anger and resolve in this manner, not after the horrific crimes Imatra has committed against Latvala. My father refused to attack Imatra during the Black Scourge, as my father called it, when Imatra raided our border villages relentlessly. They stole our women and children and killed the men where they stood.
I discovered something surprising during my interrogation. The assassin, unless he was lying, said that Archon arranged for my demise in retaliation for the recent attack on an Imatran village, supposedly perpetrated by warriors of Latvala.
It simply did not happen. I never sent a cadre to annihilate innocent villagers, which makes me believe that there is more to the story than I know. The only conclusion I can come to is that someone is trying to compromise us.
Someone who wants war between Imatra and Latvala.
Archon’s brothers? Cousins? It could be anyone. Someone who wants the throne or someone Archon has wronged.
Had the assassin not told me about the village raid, I might have sent my own assassins to take out Archon.
I will not. I will bide my time and see what, if anything, Archon does next. His missing assassins should be a big enough clue not to send more.
Darrion
Elias reread the entry. It was the first page he’d found among a stack of single papers that harked back to the time of Archon. Elias had a clearer picture now, at least to some degree, of the back and forth issues between Imatra and Latvala.
Someone had been sabotaging both sides, if Elias guessed right, in an attempt to take them to war.
At his elbow sat several other random entries to journals or historical documentation, most of it far removed from Archon and Darrion’s time. He had high hopes that the remaining pages would give him more insight.
“Elias!”
He snapped a look over when Inari gasped his name. Immediately, he rose from his chair, circled the desk, and came to stand right behind her chair. He bent low, examining the weathered piece of paper she held in her hand.
“Look. Look!” Her finger glided down the paper—which seemed to Elias to be more of a handworked skin—to a faint drawing positioned below a scrawling signature.
There, staring him in the face, was the same crest he’d found on the dagger, the same as the one in the coffin.
“The language is Latvalan for sure, but I’m having a difficult time making out the marks,” Inari said.
Elias was already reading, too impatient to think about the ramifications of the crest. He was familiar enough with the old dialects and alphabets to read without difficulty. His heart thumped in his chest, as if he somehow knew he was about to discover a clue.
We are faced with a brutal winter. Food stores are low and my men are hungry. Gariston said we should ask Imatra for aid.
I almost cut off his head.
I will not ask anything of Imatra or its king. They are the reason we are hungry, I should remind Gariston, for it was Imatra’s army who infiltrated our food stores and stole it away.
Who does Gariston think sent the invaders?
Imatra’s king, of course.
Arix Ahtissari used my trust against me.
Elias had to stop reading. He frowned, staring at the name on the page, certain he had misunderstood. Why had his direct ancestor named an Imatran king as an Ahtissari? It made no sense. Rehn was the reigning dynasty. Had been since Imatra’s inception.
Yet there, in faded ink, was indisputable proof of an Ahtissari mixed in somehow with the Rehn empire.
“Why are you frowning?” Inari asked, glancing from his face to the paper.
Elias said, “Something is not right here. Let me finish reading.”
I should not use the given name. I do not care. They will always be Ahtissaris to me. I believe in blood ties, and there is no escaping that we are as intermingled as the stars. Our own brethren stole from us. Stole from us so they could live.
The Rehns.
I refuse to recognize Rehn as their surname, at least in private. Among my men and my family, I have no choice.
The ruse must live on, our separation and their distinction a necessary method of survival.
Otherwise, we would be constantly at war.
It has taken too many generations to hide what we are, to bury the blood ties.
We may see war yet, if Arix and his army continue to raid our lands.
Blood or no blood, I will kill him should his warriors show their faces here again.
Aksel Sandersson Ahtissari, 8th king of Latvala.
Elias straightened, jaw tight, disbelief warring with shock in his mind. According to the entry, the Rehn Dynasty had, at one time, been Ahtissaris. There were blood ties.
He recalled specific bits of information in rapid order: the initial dagger with its unusual crest, the constant war and strife between Imatra and Latvala, the mention in Archon’s letter that Latvala belonged to them anyway. He thought about the dead man in the cavern, the dagger with the name Ariss Rehn Ahtissari.
Ariss Rehn.
Archon Rehn.
Amschel Rehn.
And Elias thought back to his own lineage, the very first king of Latvala.
Aksel Ahtissari.
All beginning with the letter A, a common trait among families. Even to this day. His own brother and sisters’ names all began with the letter E.
Could the beginnings of Latvala and Imatra have started with a separation in the family ranks? Had cousins or distant cousins split off, unable to agree on how to rule a country, and started up their own? Had there been a murder? An assassination as far back as that?
It explained the bad blood, the centuries of kings passing down their dislike and mistrust of their adversary.
It explained, perhaps, why one crest had suddenly changed into another.
The crest with the A between facing lions, which had switched to lions facing away. It suggested discord, separation, a turning of their backs on one another.
Archon Rehn
Amschel Rehn.
Ariss Rehn Ahtissari.
He cursed beneath his breath and set a hand on Inari’s shoulder. When he met her gaze, he recognized surprise and curiosity, though he had no time to explain the connections he’d just made.
“Will you please excuse me, Inari? I have to summon my father for an emergency meeting,” he said.
“Of course. I’ll see you later.” Inari rose to her feet.
Elias gently snared her by the chin and kissed her mouth. He appreciated her understanding and ability to handle the situation like an adult. Many women, he knew, would not accept being sent away without an explanation so gracefully.
He reached for his phone the second she’d departed the office.
The urgent news he had to share with his father could not wait.