They were invited forward. The gift, sent to honor Mehmed’s ascension to the throne, was a jewel-encrusted book, colorfully illuminated with gold leaf accents. After admiring it, Mehmed passed the book to Radu.
As always, Radu felt a thrill opening a book. There had not been many in the castle at Tirgoviste, but the Ottoman Empire was so wealthy there were many books. This one, written in Latin, told the story of Saint George slaying the dragon.
Radu knew the story from his childhood. A holy knight, wandering through a heathen land, discovered a kingdom terrorized by a venomous dragon. The king’s daughter had been chosen by lottery to be that day’s sacrifice. Vowing to save her, Saint George fought and tamed the dragon. He led the princess and the dragon back to the city, holding the entire kingdom hostage under threat of death until all inhabitants agreed to convert to Christianity. His holy mission accomplished, Saint George finally slew the dragon.
The book was an illuminated, ancient story of a threat. Radu looked up at the envoy to find one member, a young man with clear gray eyes, watching him intently. The man blushed and looked away.
“An interesting choice of books,” Mehmed said, amusement dancing on his face.
Next, a letter from Constantine was read aloud, words as elaborate and ornate as the swirling borders of the book. Radu tried to pay attention, but there was so much circular praise he soon lost interest and let the sentences wash over him, lulling him half to sleep. It sounded like the church of his youth—in love with its own voice, cold and inaccessible.
Again he caught the gray-eyed young man staring at him. Radu did not know what it meant. Perhaps the young man was struggling to pay attention to the reading of the letter, too.
Then the name Orhan was spoken, jarring him out of the strange game of trading stares he had been playing.
Constantine had not waited long before reminding Mehmed of the threat of his pretender to the throne. Worse, he had the audacity to ask Mehmed to increase payments to Constantinople for the keeping of Orhan.
Mehmed steepled his fingers thoughtfully beneath his chin, waiting until the lead envoy member had finished reading. “My,” he said, as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather, “it would appear Orhan is an expensive guest.”
No one laughed. The tension in the room hung heavy, as though everyone had sucked in a breath and refused to relinquish the air. The envoys were pale. The youngest no longer looked anywhere but a fixed point on the wall. Though their faces were brave, sweat beaded beneath their hats, betraying their nerves at coming to the new sultan with such a demand.
Mehmed turned to Halil. “You have more experience with Byzantium than I do. Does this seem fair?”
Halil raised a trembling hand to dab at his brow. “Yes.” He nodded to himself, as though encouraging his voice to be firmer. “Yes, I think the terms are quite reasonable. If I were to advise your grace, I would say we should agree to the demands. It is better to keep Orhan where he is, and to give Constantinople a show of good faith.”
Mehmed turned back to the envoy. “Very well. Halil, my esteemed vizier, will see that you are taken care of tonight. Tomorrow we send you home with news for our ally, Constantine, and a renewed era of goodwill between our great empires.”
The envoy’s bows were less formal this time, their movements fast and deep with relief. The gray-eyed young man caught Radu’s gaze one last time. A quick smile like a secret fluttered over his lips. Radu felt a matching flutter somewhere inside. Then Halil escorted them out, followed by his main advisors.
Radu shook his head to clear it. He was still out of sorts from spending time in the country. And this was a big, interesting development.
Mehmed dismissed most of the other men. He kept Radu, Kumal, Ilyas, the leader of the Edirne spahis, and Kazanci Dogan behind. Under Radu’s advice, Mehmed had decided to spare Kazanci Dogan for the time being. They knew he could be bought, and they needed every ally they could secure.
Leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms overhead, Mehmed yawned. “My friends,” he said, “I would like to discuss our navy.”
“What navy?” Radu asked.
“Precisely.” Mehmed’s smile was a predatory fish slicing through the water. “Bring me reports on the ships we have, and, more important, the ships we do not have. And do it in secret.”
The men were wise enough to keep their curiosity modestly clothed with their expressions.
Mehmed dismissed them, gesturing for Lada’s soldier to wait outside the door. As soon as they were alone, the portent of bad news Radu had seen when he entered the room reappeared on Mehmed’s face.
“What is it?” Radu fought growing dread. “Are you upset with me? I am sorry I did not give you more warning of my marriage. I scarcely know how it all came about so quickly. But Nazira is—”
“No, no. It is nothing to do with that. I am happy for you.” Mehmed paced, distracted, his words lacking any weight. “She is lovely and a good match. And you will still be here.” He stopped and looked up. A hint of fear mingled with the trouble behind his eyes. “You will still be here.”
“Of course.”
“I depend on you. I trust you as I trust no one else.”
Radu smiled, lifting a hand to his heart. “And I you.”
“Do you remember a man from your childhood? Lada’s friend? Bogdan?”
Radu wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Yes. They were always teasing me. He was an oaf.”
Mehmed scowled. “He is here.”
“What? Here?”
“Nicolae found him.”
Panic clawed through Radu’s chest, and he was suddenly eight again, too timid, too quick to cry, too easy a target. Bogdan had forced him to put on his nurse’s shawl, taunting that if Radu loved her so much, he may as well be her. Worse had been the fear that, no matter what, his nurse would always love Bogdan more. No matter how hard Radu wished, Bogdan was her child, Radu her charge.
Bogdan being taken away had been one of the highlights of his childhood, because it left him unlimited access to his nurse’s heart.
And Lada’s.
But now Lada was not his, had not been for a long time. And she had Mehmed. And she had Bogdan back, too. A spot behind Radu’s eyes pulsed with a stab of white-hot pain.
“I hate him.” Radu cringed, knowing he should have censored his words better. But there was something triumphant in Mehmed’s face, as though Radu had proved a point.
Then Mehmed shifted again, abruptly, turning away from Radu. “I have had news from Wallachia. It was late coming, and I wondered at the lack of a gift or emissary upon my crowning.” He stopped pacing. “Your father is dead.”
Radu understood the words, but they had no meaning. He shook his head, trying to clear it. His father. A high laugh echoed through the room, and only when he put his fingers to his mouth did Radu realize it was coming from him. “Do you know, I cannot even recall what he looked like? Only how he made me feel.”
Mehmed took Radu’s hand. “How did he make you feel?”
“Like I was nothing.” Radu could not look away from Mehmed’s hand on his. “And now he is nothing.”
Mehmed was quiet for a few moments. Radu knew he ought to be sad, or ask questions, but he was more relieved than anything else. Vlad no longer existed in the world, and Radu could not consider that a bad thing.
“Would you like to know how it happened?”
Radu grunted his assent.
“It was Hunyadi, on behalf of the boyars. They killed Mircea as well.”
“Poor Mircea. I am certain that must have upset him.”
Mehmed’s face drew closer to Radu’s, interrupting his view of the ceiling. His brows were pinched in concern. “Are you well?”
Radu put a hand to his forehead, pushing down against the lightness overwhelming him. “I think I am.”
“I tell you this because…because you are the heir to the throne. You are the next in line. And, as sultan, with Wallachia as a vassal state, if that w
as what you wanted…”
Radu felt the weight of the world crash back down on him. Wallachia, with endless dark trees and fists in the forests, with fountains that brought gasping, choking mouthfuls of water instead of beauty, with winters as cold as a father’s dismissal. Wallachia, with Lada back with Bogdan, not needing him, not seeing him, not caring. Wallachia, with no mosques, no call to prayer, no god that knew or cared for him.
Wallachia, with no Mehmed.
He grasped Mehmed’s shoulders. “I know it would help you, to have someone you could trust on that throne. And I want to serve you, to do whatever I can to help you gain Constantinople and be the sultan your empire has waited for. I will do whatever I can. But please, I beg you, do not ask this of me. I want nothing from Wallachia, as it never wanted anything from me. My home is here, with you. Please do not send me away.”
Mehmed’s face smoothed with relief, and he folded Radu into an embrace. Radu drew a trembling breath, breathing in Mehmed, steadying himself.
“Say nothing to Lada,” Mehmed said. Radu nodded against his shoulder, and this one time held on for longer than was safe because he could not bear to let go.
LADA’S SKIN WAS TOO tight.
There was not enough to contain everything she needed it to. It stretched and itched, phantom sensations crawling across her neck, muscles twitching in desperation.
Bogdan walked on one side of her, Nicolae the other, buffers against the chill of the evening. It was her first free night in over a week. Mehmed had demanded her presence every waking hour, constantly making some excuse for why he needed her, specifically, on guard duty. Or why he needed her advice. Or why he simply needed her.
Those particular needing sessions burned deep and low, and she shuddered.
“Are you well?” Nicolae asked.
She walked faster.
It felt right to have Bogdan next to her, like a return to how things had been. He fell into step without hesitation, her shadow, her right hand. Hers, as he had always been, even across the years.
But she was not the same person. She had grown, distorted, become something new. And the Lada she had been with Bogdan—the Lada she wanted to be around him—was not the same Lada she was with Mehmed.
Nicolae and Bogdan both stared at her, as though waiting. Waiting for what? She wanted to snap at them, to hit them, to make them leave with their constant unasked question: Why?
Why was she still here?
The question did not seem to exist when she was alone with Mehmed, but as soon as he was gone it covered her like boils, an itching plague upon her soul. Why was she still here? What had become of the girl who was the daughter of a dragon? Was this it, then? Had she reached the pinnacle of her potential? A command of fifty men in service of a man she loved, who ruled an empire she loathed?
“What more is there?” she snarled.
Bogdan and Nicolae both stopped, staring at her with confusion. “What more is there to what?” Nicolae asked.
She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Stop talking to me. Stop looking at me. Stop expecting me to solve this.”
Nicolae’s lips parted in a tentative, baffled smile. “If I understood anything you were saying, I absolutely would endeavor to obey. As it is, I think I will steer us toward a merchant who has a stock of juice that has been kept far too long and turned sour in the best possible way.”
An orange haze lighting the night gave them all pause.
Fire.
Four years ago, Lada had walked these streets, imagining raining fire down on them. Her heart leaped with joy, needing to be closer, to find the fire and feed it.
“Is that smoke?” Nicolae asked.
Lada ran forward, ducking around vendors packing up their stalls for the night, Bogdan and Nicolae on her heels. It became harder to advance as they got closer to the fire. People fled past, faces white with panic. Finally, they burst into the main market.
In the center of the square, a massive bonfire greedily reached toward the sky, sparks dancing up through the smoke. Lada wondered if she had missed some sort of festival.
And then she saw what was feeding the fire. And who.
Janissaries ran wild, ripping apart vendor stalls with their bare hands, tossing everything into the flames. They were grouped around the side streets, blocking them. Lada climbed the side of the building next to her, Bogdan steadying her. She could see several other fires starting, all along streets leading toward the city outskirts.
“They are moving away from the palace.” She jumped down. “How did this happen?”
Bogdan shrugged. “Revolt. There have been rumbles about it since Murad died.”
“But Mehmed is going to raise the pay! He and Kazanci Dogan made an agreement before he became sultan.”
“I heard nothing of a raise. If they negotiated one, no one told any of the men here.”
Lada wondered now who Bogdan had become in the time they were apart. He betrayed no emotion, though. She slammed her fist into the wall. “Kazanci Dogan betrayed us. He could not keep Mehmed from the throne, but he played both sides.”
“So they burn some buildings, maybe scuffle in the streets with spahis.” Nicolae’s eyes glowed as they stared at the fire. “Mehmed will raise their pay, and it will all be settled.”
“It makes no sense.” Lada watched as the fires spread, still moving away from the palace. What did Kazanci Dogan stand to gain by letting his men revolt? He already knew Mehmed would raise the pay. Maybe he was trying to get it even higher, but…
“The fires,” she said, her heart racing. “They are drawing soldiers to fight them.”
“Yes.” Nicolae drew the word out as though speaking to a child. “Fires do need to be put out, lest the whole city burn.”
“Play ‘Kill the Sultan’ with me, Nicolae. Think. The fires are moving away from the palace. The soldiers are moving away from the palace. All eyes are moving away from the palace.”
Understanding tugged the scar between Nicolae’s eyebrows flat. “They are going to kill Mehmed.”
“Petru and Matei are there tonight. I do not know the other men well. They could be part of it. We have to get to Mehmed.”
“Streets are blocked,” Bogdan said. If he had an opinion on which side they should be supporting, he did not show it. But he was right. Each street leading back to the palace was filled in by rebel Janissaries.
“I only have knives.” Lada looked hopefully at Nicolae, but he shrugged, holding out his empty hands. “You have nothing?”
“Not all of us sleep armed, Lada.”
“How are we going to get through the men?”
Bogdan walked over to a stall that had been partially dismantled. A couple of rebel Janissaries were there, but they saw his cap and nodded, whooping loudly. Bogdan reached through the stall to the heavy wooden door of the building it abutted. He opened the door, grabbed the top, and wrenched the entire thing from its hinges.
“I think he is a very different type of Wallachian than I am,” Nicolae noted.
Bogdan turned the door sideways, holding the latch like a handle. Lada laughed in understanding, getting behind the door next to Bogdan. Nicolae joined them.
With a roar louder than the fire, Bogdan ran forward. Lada pushed against the door, matching his pace. Wishing she could see the soldiers’ faces, she still felt the impact as they slammed into the men who failed to dive out of the way fast enough. Nicolae tripped, rolling and coming back up with a sword in his hand. Bogdan never slowed. He cleared their way with the crack of wood meeting bones with crushing force.
Lada looked over her shoulder to see two men pursuing them. She threw one of her knives and it was met with a wet thud and a scream. Stopping abruptly, she somersaulted beneath the second man’s sword and grabbed the first man’s from his slack fingers.
The clang of metal on metal jarred her to her core. She bared her teeth in a smile as she screamed, throwing herself at her attacker. He went for her head, and she dropped to her knees. A hot
spray of blood confirmed her slash against his hamstrings.
No time to finish him. She sprinted to catch up to Bogdan and Nicolae. They had become mired in a mix of terrified civilians and a mass of Janissaries. The Janissaries were shouting, obviously confused about what was going on and not aware of the revolt.
Bogdan threw the door aside, shoving through to get Lada clear.
“Revolt that way!” Lada shouted, pointing. “Glory and honor if you protect the sultan by my side this way!”
Finally clear of the melee, she sprinted. She did not bother to look if her rallying cry had gathered any men to her side. But the footfalls around her were far more than just Bogdan’s and Nicolae’s.
The gates of the palace gaped, open and unmanned. “Trust no one!” Lada shouted. “Janissaries or otherwise! Disarm everyone, secure all the doors.” The dozen men with her entered the main door, swords at the ready.
She ran for a side entrance used by kitchen servants. Kicking the door open, she braced for a fight, but found none. She wound past the kitchen and up a flight of stairs hidden behind a dusty, worthless tapestry. Nicolae and Bogdan stayed close on her heels.
“How do you know about this?” Nicolae asked.
“It leads directly to the sultan’s chambers.”
Lada did not have time to be embarrassed about the revelation of her intimate knowledge of secret passageways to Mehmed’s bed. This one was used by the kitchen staff so there was no chance of someone accessing his food between when it was sampled for poison and when it was delivered. Lada had used it to sneak down and steal food when they had stayed up late into the night talking…and not talking.
The hall was eerily silent behind the thick stone walls that sealed them off from whatever was happening elsewhere in the palace. Lada could scarcely breathe, images of what would await her at the end flashing before her eyes.
Mehmed dying.
Mehmed dead.
Mehmed’s purple robes soaked in darkest red.
Mehmed’s black eyes gone permanently dark.
Lada knew no one would ever look at her the way he had. If she lost that…