“But you oppress those who do not believe in your god!”
Mehmed shook his head in anger. “We do not act as your precious Christians do, slaughtering other Christians for believing the wrong way. Yes, we ask for payment. That is the price of safety. But we allow all people under our rule to believe what they will, so long as they do not disturb the peace.”
“I am here as evidence of the peace your father instills, the freedom he grants others. My father is free to rule his people, so long as he rules them the way the sultan sees fit! And if not, his children suffer the consequences.”
“Do you know what kind of man your father is?”
Lada turned away from Mehmed, hiding the shame that colored her cheeks. “The kind of man who promises the pope to fight infidels, and then makes peace with them. The kind of man who leaves his children under a sword to return to a false throne. Yes, I know what kind of man he is. He is the kind of man your father loves to deal with. They are both of them devils.”
“We keep your country safe!”
Lada whipped around, crossing the room and hissing in Mehmed’s face, “I would sooner see my country burn than see it improved under Ottoman rule. Not everywhere needs to be remade in your image. If we were not so busy constantly defending our borders and being trespassed by other nations’ armies, we would be able to care for our own!”
Mehmed stepped back, puzzled. “Then you do not hate me on your father’s behalf?”
Lada’s shoulders dropped, weariness tugging them low. “My father is weak. Wallachia deserves better.”
“Perhaps you deserve better than Wallachia.”
“No.” Lada felt the fire rekindling in her chest, burning away her fear and exhaustion. She had been away from her land too long. Sometimes she wondered if she remembered it rightly. But here, now, she knew she could never truly leave it behind. It pulsed in her veins, beating through her. “I love Wallachia. It belongs to me, and I belong to it. It is my country, and it should always be mine, and I hate any king or sultan or god or prophet that proclaims anyone else has any right to it.”
“Please do not say that about the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Mehmed’s voice was soft. Not commanding—requesting. “Why do you refuse to listen to what Molla Gurani teaches us?”
Lada looked at the wall of practice swords. Though Mehmed scoffed at the amount of time she spent watching the Janissaries, she spent every spare hour observing their practice sessions and drills. After a couple of weeks, Nicolae had even let her join in, correcting her form, laughing at her mistakes, but increasingly admiring her ferocity and determination to win.
Do you know of a Bogdan of Wallachia? she had asked as soon as she dared. The words stung as they left her mouth, cutting her up with the hope they contained.
My brother’s name is Bogdan, he had answered.
So is my cousin’s! said a Bulgar.
And my father’s! answered a Serb.
Nicolae had smiled an apology, and Lada had swallowed the pain that saying Bogdan’s name had caused. And then she had fought.
Now, ignoring Mehmed, she selected a blunted sword, curved like the one that hung over her father’s throne. Even the sight of it fed the fire in her chest. She hefted it, tested the balance. She liked being angry before fighting with Nicolae. Anger carved away everything else inside—doubt, fear, embarrassment—leaving room for nothing else. She never felt more powerful than when she was angry with a sword in her hands.
“Stop,” Mehmed said, joining her at the wall. “You have not answered my question.”
“You may worship your prophet, but he is not mine and never will be. Belief is weakness.” She would not cave to Islam as Radu had. But neither did she cherish the Orthodoxy she had grown up with. Religion was a means to an end. She had seen it wielded as a weapon. If she needed to use it, she would, but she would never allow herself to be used by it.
Mehmed grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. “You are wrong, Lada. Belief is not weakness. Faith is the greatest strength we can have.”
“Can faith take me back to Wallachia?”
“Faith can show you there are more important things.”
Lada scoffed. “If you want someone to listen to your inane ramblings, go find Radu. I have other things to do.”
She pulled the door open, but Mehmed ran forward and shoved it closed. “We are not done speaking!”
Lada’s blood turned to ice. “Would you command me to stay? And if I refuse? Will you have me beaten? Whipped? All that and more I have faced in your father’s courts. I did not bow before your god or your sultan then, and I will not now. Why did you bring me here, Mehmed? I will not be ruled.”
Mehmed’s face fell. He lowered his hand, and the line of his back—so straight—curved. “I have never wanted to be your master. I have servants. And teachers, and guards, and a father who despises me. I want you…to be my friend.”
This was not the answer Lada had expected. She grasped for a response. “Why would you want that?”
“Because.” Mehmed looked at the ground. “Because you do not tell me what you think I want to hear.”
“I would more likely go out of my way to tell you something you do not want to hear.”
Mehmed’s dark eyes flashed up to meet hers, something deep and hungry in them. He grinned. It was an off-center smile, pulling back his full lips and reshaping his face from arrogance to mischief. “Which is precisely why I like you.”
Lada huffed, exasperated. “Very well. What exactly does a friend do?”
“I have never had one. I was hoping you would know.”
“Then you are even stupider than you look. Radu is the one who makes friends. I am the one who makes people want to whip me.”
“I recall you giving me advice that helped me avoid being whipped. That seems a good foundation for friendship.” He held out a hand.
Lada considered it. What threads would be woven from this arrangement? She had given her heart to a friend once before, and losing Bogdan had nearly broken her. But Mehmed was no nursemaid’s son. “Your father would object to our friendship. He showed us no kindness in Edirne.”
“I do not care what my father thinks. If you have not noticed, no one cares what I do here. Amasya is ignored. As am I. I am free to do as I wish.”
“You are fortunate.”
“But am I fortunate enough to call you friend?”
“Oh, very well.” Some of the tightness left Lada as she at last realized that the punishment she had been waiting for all this time was not coming. They were not free of Murad, but they were far from his eye. For now, that was enough.
“Good. In the spirit of friendship, I must tell you that I am bitterly jealous of the time you spend in the Janissaries’ company. I want you to stop training with them.”
“And, in the spirit of friendship, I must tell you that I do not care in the slightest about your petty jealousies. I am late for my training.” She hooked her foot behind Mehmed’s ankle, then slammed her shoulder into his, tripping him and throwing him to the ground.
He sputtered in outrage. “I am the son of the sultan!”
She pulled the door open, slicing her sword through the air in front of his throat. “No, Mehmed, you are my friend. And I am a terrible friend.”
His laughter made her steps—always purposeful and aggressive—seem almost light.
AUTUMN REFUSED TO COOL down. The stone walls of the fortress trapped the sun’s brutal rays, holding the heat. Radu imagined the shimmering air was an oven; soon he would be cooked alive. Molla Gurani, who always seemed more than human, now neared godlike status: He did not even so much as sweat as he walked back and forth in front of them, reading aloud from a book about the life of the Prophet, peace be upon him.
But it was blasphemous to think of anything as being like god except God himself. Radu closed his eyes and expunged the thought, trying to bring his mind back in line with his tutor, with God, with what he loved learning.
&n
bsp; When it was not so damnably hot.
Mehmed fell off his stool, collapsing to the floor. Radu rushed to his side, along with Molla Gurani. “Are you unwell?” their tutor asked, hands against Mehmed’s cheek and forehead.
Mehmed’s eyes fluttered open. “We must continue my studies.”
“No.” Molla Gurani straightened, helping Mehmed to his feet. “You are overcome with the heat. We should guard against further illness. I insist you go to your bed and remain there the rest of the day.”
Mehmed nodded weakly. “Very well.”
“I will call for a guard to help you.”
“No, no. Radu can take me.” Mehmed held out an arm; Radu draped it over his shoulders and put an arm around Mehmed’s waist.
Molla Gurani watched them go, concern pinching the skin around his glasses. When they were in the hallway, Radu turned in the direction of Mehmed’s chambers, two doors down. He walked as slowly as he could, shouldering most of Mehmed’s weight as the other boy leaned against him. When they were nearly to the door, Mehmed looked behind them. And then pulled away from Radu so quickly that Radu stumbled from the absence of his weight.
Mehmed’s eyes turned up in delight. “Run,” he said, sprinting down the hall.
Radu ran after him, finally catching up as Mehmed burst through a side door leading to a balcony that overlooked the wilting garden. “What are you doing?” he demanded, frantically searching Mehmed’s face for signs of madness. “You need to rest!”
Mehmed laughed, shaking his head. “No, I need to get out of this horrible, hot prison.”
Radu gasped. “You lied to Molla Gurani!”
Shame colored Mehmed’s face. “I did. But if I had asked to be excused, he would have been so disappointed in me. I will study all night to make up for it. You can study with me. But right now it is too hot, and my brain is melting, and we have to get out of here.”
He climbed onto the stone railing, then in a breathless leap, threw himself onto a nearby tree. Grinning at Radu, he clambered down.
Radu looked over his shoulder at his responsibilities. He did not want to misbehave, or draw attention, or do anything that would bring punishment down on his head.
But it was simply too hot for worry.
He copied Mehmed’s movements, surprising himself with the ease of his own descent. Lada always made him feel weak and clumsy, but Mehmed expected him to keep up, which made it easy to do so.
They ran, hunched over and low to the ground, stifling laughter as they went. Not far from them was a spot where a tree had grown over the wall. Radu knelt, boosting Mehmed up to grab a branch. Mehmed scrambled on top of the wall and reached back down to help Radu climb. They both jumped to the ground on the other side, where it was noticeably cooler, the heavy stone of the mountain and the crowding trees doing their part to defeat the sun.
They had escaped only a short distance when they heard a soft thunk, followed by a string of cursing.
In Wallachian.
“Lada,” Radu whispered.
Mehmed put a finger to his lips, and they crept forward with exaggerated stealth. Lada stood in the middle of a small clearing, her back to them, a quiver of arrows next to her. She had marked out targets on a tree some distance away, ambitious even for a practiced bowman. She pulled back the bowstring, then released it. The arrow flew wide of the tree, landing two arm lengths away.
She stomped her foot, berating herself in meaner, more foul terms than any Radu had ever heard. Mehmed could not understand what she was saying, could not hear the hatred and recrimination Lada spat out on her own head. Radu could, though, and he wondered when his sister had decided that nothing less than perfection was acceptable. He stood, wanting to go to her, to hug her, to tell her that it was okay. She still had time to learn, and she was good at so many other things. He wanted her to stop saying those horrible things, to stop thinking them.
Mehmed had other ideas. He crept forward, then grabbed the quiver and, whooping loudly, ran.
Lada spun, murder in her eyes.
Radu ran, too.
He passed Mehmed, motivated by knowledge of what awaited them if Lada caught them. The two boys sprinted headlong through the trees, dodging low branches and leaping over logs, Lada close on their heels.
Radu burst out of the trees and skidded to a halt. He threw out an arm to stop Mehmed. They were on the edge of a drop, a deep green pool a body’s length beneath them flanked by sheer rock on one side and tumbled boulders on the other. A slender creek sang down the boulders, feeding the pool. Everything was still and quiet, the only sound their labored breathing.
Lada caught up to them, fists raised, momentum set to carry her straight into them.
“Stop!” Radu said. “There’s a drop into a pool!”
With a shout of triumph, she shoved both boys over the side and into the water.
Radu spluttered to the surface, immediately looking for Mehmed. The pool was not deep—his feet had touched the bottom—and he was terrified that Mehmed might have hit his head or broken his neck, or suffered some other grievous injury.
Instead, Mehmed floated on his back, arms behind his head as he laughed. “Why, thank you, Lada. This is quite the miracle on a day like today.”
With a growl, she jumped, landing between them with a great splash. After she had satisfied herself by shoving their heads underwater again and again despite their fighting to get away, she swam to a submerged boulder and sat on it. She looked content, her head tipped back to feel the sun on her water-cooled face. The self-hating, cursing demon of the trees seemed forgotten entirely. Radu had done that. A flush of pride warmed him against the icy water.
“I did not know this was here,” Mehmed said. “I think no one does. Though there is a story…”
“Tell us!” Radu splashed water at him.
Mehmed slipped into a deeper voice, speaking slowly, relishing the tale. “Once, long, long ago, there lived a great king who had a single daughter. Her name was Shirin, and her beauty was legend.”
Lada made a sound like a horse. Radu glared at her.
“Shirin lived on the other side of this mountain. One day, she traveled with her maids to this side, for the apples were said to be sweeter, fed by a clear, cold stream of unparalleled purity. A young man, Ferhat, from a humble family saw her and immediately knew he would never love another. He presented Shirin with the bushel of apples he had been collecting for himself, and as their hands touched he knew she felt the same.”
Lada yawned dramatically.
“But she was a princess, and he was no one. Still, he traveled to the other side of the mountain to ask for her hand in marriage. Her father, aghast, but seeing his daughter’s preference, presented Ferhat with an impossible task: if Ferhat brought the stream of pure water to the king’s side of the mountain, he could marry Shirin. Ferhat tried many things. He carved irrigation channels, but the water turned sluggish and muddy as soon as it left its source. He carried the water in giant vessels, but it spilled or dried up before he could complete the journey. Finally, desperate to be nearer Shirin, he began to dig. He cut deeper and deeper into the mountain, guiding the stream along with him, traveling through the darkness, knowing her light shone on the other side.
“But this did not sit well with the king. He heard of Ferhat’s progress and knew that if Ferhat succeeded, he would have to live with the shame of giving up his prized daughter. Since he could not go back on his word, the king sent a servant to spread the tale that Shirin had died. Ferhat, stumbling from the mountain after countless hours in the dark, was met with the news that the light he dug toward had been extinguished forever.
“Overcome with despair, he fled back into his tunnel and beat his head against the end of it until he died. Shirin, heartbroken and betrayed by her father, disappeared. They say she wandered into the mountain in search of Ferhat and was never seen again. Together, they form the heart of the mountain, still beating, pouring forth a spring as pure as their love forever.”
/> “That is beautiful,” Radu said, swishing his hands reverently through the water, as though it carried the legacy of the lovers, buoying them up.
“That is absurd,” Lada said. “They both died for nothing.”
Mehmed frowned. “They died for love!”
“They wasted their lives.”
“It was not a waste.” Radu smiled, tentative and shy. “I would tunnel through the mountain for both of you.”
Lada laughed. “Then you are a fool, too, because you cannot marry either of us.”
Her words stung after his sincere offering, and Radu was reminded why he no longer trusted her. “I did not mean that!”
Mehmed put a hand on his shoulder, his smile healing the hurt of Lada’s mocking. “I know what you meant. This pool is as old and as pure as that story, I think.”
“It will be ours, then.” Radu beamed.
“Our secret,” Mehmed agreed.
Radu ducked under the water, his whole body smiling and infused with the warmth of a prayer of gratitude for the grace of a beautiful, safe secret and someone he loved to share it with.
LADA AWOKE WITH A hand over her mouth.
She punched twice in rapid succession, aiming for the kidneys. Her assailant rolled away. “Lada! Stop!”
She sat up in bed, squinting in the dark. “Mehmed?”
He groaned in pained assent.
“What are you doing in my room?”
“We are sneaking out.”
She detected another figure in the darkness. Radu. Exasperated, Lada flopped back, rolling onto her stomach. But it was no use. The spike of alarm that had awoken her robbed the remains of sleep, and she knew it would be hours chasing them before she found her way back. Besides, she was…curious.
“Fine.” She threw aside the blankets and grabbed a tunic to yank over her nightclothes. She pulled a cloak on over everything, then gestured impatiently for Mehmed and Radu to lead on.
Instead of leaving through the door, though, they climbed on top of her bed and squeezed out the narrow window. The fortress at Amasya was old, squatting low and heavy on the ground. A wall ran the length of it, oftentimes nearly swallowed by trees and rocks. Some nicer flourishes had been added: a few balconies, a mismatched tower, and the wing where Lada and Radu lived. The fortress had also recently been repainted white with stripes of blue, and the tower painted in swirling lines.