“She would not kill me.” Radu paused. In fact, Lada had promised to do just that one day. “Regardless, I was her target. Kumal took my place. It is my fault he is dead.”
“It is Lada’s fault.”
“Well, then it is our fault. We are the ones who put her in that position.”
Mehmed stood. There was a cold pride in his expression that Radu had never felt directed at himself when they were alone. It was a sultan look, not a Mehmed look.
“She made her own decisions. I did not ask her to attack Bulgaria. I have done everything I could to help her.”
Radu lifted an eyebrow, too exhausted with grief and guilt to defer to Mehmed’s needs. “Have you? Really?”
A flicker of guilt shifted behind Mehmed’s eyes. Then he turned away, clasping his hands as he paced. “We cannot let this stand. She murdered my ambassadors, attacked one of my vassals, and murdered a pasha on a diplomatic mission.”
“A kidnapping mission.”
Mehmed stopped, startled by the correction. “Radu,” he said, his voice a reprimand.
Radu shrugged. “Why must we pretend when it is only the two of us?”
Mehmed’s eyebrows drew close, his mouth tightening into a line somewhere between a challenge and a smile. “Oh, are you done pretending? Is it time for honesty?”
Radu looked at the floor. His face burned brighter than the room’s coal brazier.
Mehmed crouched before him, forcing Radu to meet his eyes. “I am sorry, my friend. But I cannot let this stand. It threatens everything I have built—everything we have built. It is too dangerous a precedent. I have to go after her.”
“I understand. And I am not against it.” Radu hated that the death of one man felt worse than the death of thousands in Bulgaria. But this was personal. Lada had made certain of that. He suspected she wanted them to attack, though he could not fathom why.
“Will you help me?”
“You know I always will.”
Mehmed caressed Radu’s cheek with the back of his fingers. They lingered there for a few breathless seconds, then Mehmed smiled. It was the smile that had been Radu’s protection and torment for so many years.
Radu was cold with sadness at everything his desire for that smile had cost him and would continue to cost him. “We cannot underestimate her,” he said.
“We will not. Not this time.”
* * *
Mara Brankovic sat straight-backed in her tightly structured dress. Radu could not sympathize with her reluctance to embrace the far more comfortable—and beautiful—flowing robes and layers of the Ottomans. Even Urbana, seated next to Mara at the table, had finally converted to entaris and slippers. Joining them were Aron and Andrei Danesti, who were still living in Constantinople as guests of Mehmed; Ishak Pasha and Mahmoud Pasha, older pashas who had distinguished themselves at the walls of Constantinople; and the Janissary leader Ali Bey. They all regarded Mara’s and Urbana’s presences with curious disapproval.
“It is Wallachia,” Ali Bey said. Though a Janissary, he was also a bey, and had a carefully trimmed and styled beard appropriate to his status. He was younger than the pashas, in his mid-thirties. Sometimes Radu forgot he himself was not yet nineteen, Mehmed only twenty-one. Had they really lived so many lives in so few years?
Ali Bey crossed his arms and continued. “I hardly think we need worry.”
“It is not Wallachia we are worried about,” Radu said. “It is my sister. She trained with Ilyas Bey, and then with Hunyadi.”
“Ilyas?” Ali Bey scoffed. “The traitor?”
“She killed him.” Radu pushed away the memory of that night, when Ilyas Bey—their friend—had tried to assassinate Mehmed. Lada had killed Ilyas, but Radu had killed the coconspirator, Lazar. His own friend. It had felt unavoidable at the time, but how many unavoidable choices of his had resulted in unforgivable consequences?
Ali Bey appeared slightly cowed. “Very well. The Janissaries will lead the assault, taking the Danube and securing the river passage. After that, we will scout and clear the roads. We should take Bucharest easily, as well as Snagov. That is less strategic and more to send a point. My scouts tell me she has paid patronage to the monastery on the island. We should make certain to take everything that matters.”
Ishak Pasha leaned forward, tapping his notes. Radu mistrusted most of the pashas who had served under Murad, but Ishak Pasha had always been devout and committed to Mehmed’s plans. Kumal had trusted him, too. Radu listened with a sharp stab of mourning, wishing Kumal were here instead.
“My spahis will be in charge of finding supplies,” Ishak Pasha said. “It is still early, but there is a good amount of farmland between the Danube and Tirgoviste, so the logistics of the campaign should not be too taxing on our resources. I would prefer late summer or early fall, but we can manage. We will plan for a short siege.”
Mehmed nodded. He was seated in an elevated chair at the head of the room, separated from their table. “Radu Bey will be in charge of four thousand mounted troops. He knows his sister and the land.”
Radu supposed he should be grateful for such a show of confidence. He did his best at faking it with a somber bow. This conflict felt so personal—like it was really between Mehmed, Lada, and Radu. It felt wrong to be planning it out on fields with tens of thousands of men. How had this happened?
“Get me a detailed schematic of Tirgoviste.” Urbana ran her fingers idly along the smooth, shiny scar that covered half her face, a token of her time at the greatest siege in history. “I can have the walls down in a day.”
Aron Danesti turned to Urbana. “We do not have a schematic, but we can draw one and fill you in on any details.” Andrei pulled over a piece of parchment and started drawing, with Aron watching over his shoulder and whispering guidance.
Mara Brankovic was writing a list in an elegant hand. “Obviously we can count on the support of the Bulgars. Lada is known as the Lady Impaler there, and they are agitating for vengeance. Serbia will contribute men. I will write my Italian contacts with advice that they stay out of it, but I doubt even that will be necessary.”
“The Saxons?” Mehmed asked.
“Oh, they loathe Lada. Have you seen any of their woodcuts? Just horrible.” Mara bit back an amused smile. “She will have no help from them. But neither will we. The only person they hate more than the Lady Impaler is Your Grace.”
“What about Hungary?” Ali Bey asked. “If she trained with Hunyadi, surely they are allied.”
Mara pursed her lips, tapping her quill against the sheet and leaving a series of dots. “Perhaps. But Matthias Corvinus is nothing like his father. He is a statesman, not a warrior. I am certain there are cracks that could be widened with the right amount of applied pressure.” She paused in thought and drew a circle. “He recently received a large sum from the Catholic Church for crusading.”
“I thought we were finished with the damn crusades,” Mahmoud Pasha grumbled. He was the oldest in the room, black hair gone almost all gray. He, too, bore scars from the siege and decades of sieges before. “We already have their precious Christian capital. What will they crusade for now?”
“Lada has the support of the Catholics, then?” Ali Bey interrupted. “Should we worry about the Italians?”
Mara shook her head. “Her conversion is viewed with an appropriate amount of skepticism. The Catholic connection goes through Matthias. If we can get to him in any way, we should. But we cannot count him out of the fight yet. I will think of something.”
“What about Moldavia?” Mehmed asked.
Mara consulted her list. Radu wondered if there was a single country in Europe she did not have connections to. “Their young king, Stephen, is a force to be reckoned with. And allegedly very charming and attractive, or so my sister receiving proposal offers is told.” Mara paused, smiling benignly at Mehmed. “She will, of course, reject him
as recommended by her most trusted older sister.”
Radu stifled a laugh. Even sitting in a war council, Mara found ways to remind Mehmed how valuable she was and how important it was to keep her happy and close. The more Radu knew the women around him, the more he wondered if any of them were not secretly terrifying.
Mara continued. “I would recommend against trying to stage any attacks from Moldavia. We should aim to leave them out entirely.”
Ali Bey pointed to the large map in the center of the table. “King Stephen will secure the borders. But if we send forces close, along here, it will keep him contained and under pressure to protect his own country rather than coming to Wallachia’s aid.”
“So she will have no help besides Hungary, and even that is in question.” Mehmed sounded pleased.
“Ten thousand men should be more than enough,” Mahmoud Pasha said.
Mehmed raised an eyebrow. “We go in with sixty thousand.”
Ishak Pasha coughed, sputtering. He opened his mouth in outrage to argue, then remembered his place. He lowered his eyes to the table. “Whatever Your Grace thinks is best. It will be done.”
The two pashas did not look pleased. Because they kept their own armies, they were not funded by the sultan like the Janissaries were. Going to war was an expensive endeavor. In contrast, Ali Bey smiled as though anticipating an afternoon of sport. He was in charge of the best-trained fighting units in the world. Doubtless he saw this as a good time to remind Mehmed of their value.
The empire was settled on a course of action. But there were still three Wallachians present. And Radu wanted to make his intentions clear when it came to their throne. “When we take Tirgoviste, Aron will be crowned prince.”
Aron inclined his head, and Andrei nodded. Radu knew, as they did, that his claim to the throne was as strong as theirs. The Draculesti and Danesti lines had violently traded the throne between them for decades, and neither family had more right to it than the other. In fact, Radu’s claim was stronger, since he had the favor of the sultan. But he wanted their support and confidence. That would happen only if they did not view him as a threat. Perhaps that was why they had been cruel to him as a child. He had not yet understood the nature of their rivalry, but they had grasped it early on. The fights in the forest were a reflection of reality, played out on a child-sized scale.
Radu had not won those fights, but neither had Aron and Andrei. Lada had.
Still, the Danesti brothers had grown into intelligent adults. He had no qualms about giving them the country. He certainly did not want it.
“You should know,” Mara said, her voice soft, “my reports indicate that Lada has killed nearly every Danesti left in Wallachia. Those still alive have fled to surrounding countries.”
“We know.” Aron did not sound angry or vengeful, just tired and sad and a little frightened. Radu met his eyes and they shared a moment of understanding. They were not men driven by rage. Aron wore his family name as a mantle of responsibility, not a cloak of entitlement.
Mehmed stood. “We go in hard and we move fast. We give her no opportunities. We take the capital, secure the country, and show the rest of Europe we tolerate no offense or aggression toward—or from—our vassal states.”
“And what about the girl prince?” Ali Bey asked.
“I want her alive,” Mehmed said without explanation. “At all costs.”
* * *
Radu told Nazira and Fatima the plans with a heavy heart. He was relieved that Lada would not be killed—even now—but he did not expect Nazira to feel the same. Regardless, he did not think he would be able to see his sister or speak with her again. He would leave that to Mehmed.
Radu glossed over the specifics of the campaign, focusing on the timeline. “I do not want to leave you again so soon, but this is my responsibility.”
“We will come with you,” Fatima said, already standing to pack their belongings.
Radu smiled affectionately. “You do realize I am going to war.”
Nazira stood, too. She looked dazed, unable to focus. Fatima guided her gently back to sitting. “Then we will meet you there,” Fatima said.
“Mehmed has asked me to stay for a while after we have set Aron up on the throne.”
“Why Aron?” Nazira snapped. “I know another heir much more deserving.”
Radu reached for the bundle of clothing that Nazira held. Nazira was staring at it as though she could not account for its being in her hands. She passed it to him. Rather than putting it in her trunk, he put it back down on the bed. “You know I do not want that. But it means I will stay in Tirgoviste for some time after the conflict is over. You two should go back to Edirne or to the countryside to wait for me. Unless you would rather stay here.”
“I cannot wait to get out of this accursed city.” Nazira’s words were clouded with the memories they shared. And now this city had brought her news of the death of her brother.
Fatima took the clothes Radu had set down on the bed and moved them to the trunk. “We will meet you in Tirgoviste when the fighting is over. It will be nice to see where you came from.” She said it so convincingly Radu almost believed she did not mind that much travel. He raised an eyebrow and she looked away, blushing at her lie.
“You do not have to,” Radu said.
Nazira stood to join Fatima but then hovered next to the bed, swaying and directionless. Radu knew how hard she was trying to be brave. How hard she was trying to function through the overwhelming grief. It would be good for her to get out of this city. Radu would try to persuade them to go home, instead. Regardless, Nazira needed to be taken from Constantinople.
Fatima spoke for them both. “But we want to join you in Wallachia.”
“You would not want to if you had ever been before.”
“We will come and discover how much we would rather not have come, then. Will your sister…will she stay there, in Tirgoviste, when you are done?” Fatima asked. Nazira went stiff at the mention of Lada. Radu hated that his place in Nazira’s life had also introduced Lada into it, and all the accompanying loss and bloodshed. He loved his sister, but…
But did he? Knowing that she had finally become the worst of what she had always had the potential to be?
“No,” Radu said. “They will bring her back here. She will never be free again.” It was the cruelest fate for Lada. He knew she would rather die fighting. But she would not be allowed to. Radu felt something sharp and mean inside hardening as he anticipated how it would destroy his sister to be powerless and captive once more.
Good. Let it.
The Danube, Ottoman Territory
LADA LAY ON HER stomach, peering over the cover of rocks at the wide expanse of the Danube. She could make out a flurry of activity on the other side, though she was too far to see specifics. But she was close enough. Close enough to know they were there. Close enough to know he was there.
Mehmed.
And probably Radu as well.
Lada scooted back, standing when she reached the trees that hid Stefan, Bogdan, and the men she had handpicked to lead her soldiers. “They are out in the open. Which means they do not expect trouble until they are within the borders of Wallachia. If they cannot cross the Danube, all the men in the world will not be enough for them to invade.”
“Eventually they will make it across.” Doru scratched the side of his nose with one blunt, dirty finger. He was smart and brutal and good at leading men, but every time Lada looked at him, she saw who was not there: Nicolae. She tried not to hate Doru for it. She did not always succeed.
“Not if it costs them too much. Mehmed values stability over all else. He will not risk upsetting that just to punish us. If we hit them hard enough here, he will retreat.”
Doru squinted doubtfully. “How do you know—”
“Do not question her.” Bogdan’s tone was flat. His eyes, however, were dan
gerous. Doru bowed his head contritely.
“We will set up a line along this bank.” Lada had four hundred men here. The rest of her forces were deeper in the country, forming line after line of defense. But four hundred men well used on a river crossing could hold back thirty thousand men on the other side.
“Alert the archers to be ready to pick them off as they try to float across. And keep hidden at all costs. We would not want to ruin the surprise.” Lada smiled in the direction of the Danube. It was the first of any number of surprises she had planned, but, if it worked, it would be the only one she needed.
* * *
That night, even though Lada was well hidden among the reeds on the bank, a man slipped in and got down next to her.
“How did you find me?” she asked.
Stefan shrugged.
“Well?” She waited for his report. He had crossed the river several leagues down to scout the enemy camp. Lada had not expected him back this soon.
“Sixty thousand.”
Lada choked on her breath, muffling her cough with the dark-green hooded cloak she wore to blend in with the shadows. “Sixty thousand? How many fighting men?” Mehmed normally traveled with one person in support of every man actually fighting. So that meant thirty thousand. She had expected fewer than that, but—
“Sixty thousand fighting men.”
“God’s wounds,” she exhaled, letting the number wash over her like the waves lapping at the shore in front of her. “Sixty thousand? Are you certain?”
“Another twenty thousand in support, but judging from the supply trains, they do not expect this to be a long campaign.”
“Sixty thousand.” Lada lowered her head. And then she started laughing. It was snorts and exhalations, her shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping silent.
“Are you…well?”
Lada shook her head. Sixty thousand! No one could have guessed Mehmed would bring that many. Not even she had guessed. She knew it was wrong, but something warm and pleasant licked to life deep inside her. It really was a tremendous show of respect on his part.