Lada was impressed. Though she should not have been particularly surprised. Of course the women would not be lounging about, idling away their hours. Wallachian women worked from birth until death. Even here, hiding in the mountains, they were finding ways to improve their children’s lives.
“Walk with me.” Lada turned and Daciana followed. She was beginning to show, starting to look more like when Lada had first met her, fierce and defiant, on the lands of the boyar who had impregnated her.
Lada looked up at the branches laced together. Though spring came later in the mountains, the trees were all budding. The spring green was almost gold. Little tufts of treasure on each of Lada’s trees. Had any spring ever been this lovely anywhere else? Breathing deeply and feeling herself grow stronger for it, Lada spoke. “Tell me how things are here.”
“Everything is going as well as can be expected. We have rationed the stores and should be able to stay for several more months if needed. We supplement everything with game we catch, though we are ranging farther to set traps. But the women in charge are careful and have not come across anyone else. How are things in the country?”
“We had a chance to win. But the Basarabs betrayed me.”
Daciana spit. “Boyars.”
“Yes. But the Ottomans left anyway.”
Daciana’s answering smile was as pointed and brutal as one of Lada’s stakes. She had been one of the biggest supporters of Lada’s Tirgoviste plans. A few of the men had balked at the idea of doing that to the bodies. But Daciana knew what it took to survive. And she had agreed with Lada. They were already dead—why not use them for a loftier purpose? “Mehmed did not like his welcome, then.”
“Not at all.” Lada stopped, turning to face Daciana. “Did you know Stefan is leaving me?”
Daciana had the grace not to pretend. She nodded, no fear or apology in her face. “It was not my idea.”
“But you will go with him.”
“I would follow that man to the ends of the earth.”
Lada felt a stab of pain. Nicolae had once said something similar to her. And now he was in the earth, and she was losing her friends one by one. That missing feeling clutched her as hard and suddenly as she clutched her locket.
Daciana reached out for Lada’s hand. Lada did not offer it. Daciana grasped her shoulder, instead. “I will miss being the lady’s maid to the oddest lady I have ever known.”
Lada turned to walk back to the camp. “I do not need one. I will be fine.” She hurried so Daciana would not be walking beside her. She had braced herself for a fight, or for anger if Daciana had tried to lie to her. She had not prepared herself to be so…sad.
She found her horse and rode away without bidding Daciana goodbye. Oana, slower to get her horse up the difficult path, had only just arrived at the camp. She grumbled about turning her horse around.
Lada still had her. She did not need Daciana.
But it was not quite the same. Daciana was a young woman, nearly Lada’s own age. A companion of her own sex was something Lada had never had before Daciana. She had never realized she needed it—enjoyed it, even—until faced with its absence.
The ache inside her was aggravating. She had found strength in her friends, but the cost of losing them was increasingly high. How had she not learned this lesson yet? Between Radu and Mehmed, even starting as far back as her father, surely her heart should have known better than to allow anyone a place.
She would close her heart.
She did not realize she was again clutching her silver locket so tightly that the edges bit into her skin. She owed it to Wallachia to be whole and complete. Dedicated and clear-eyed. No one could break her heart if all it contained was her country.
* * *
Unlike Lada’s last visit to Hunedoara, where she had been invisible when she was not being ridiculed, this time she was treated with respect. One of Matthias’s top advisors rode out to greet her at the outskirts of the city. He bowed to her as he would any male prince. There would be no dresses for her this time, no pretending to be something she was not. She entered the city as an equal.
“Your men can stay in the barracks,” the advisor said as they were escorted to the castle. Last time, her men had had to sleep outside. Lada rode proud and tall across the bridge and through the gates that had felt suffocating just last year. Now, the castle rose around her like a promise.
“You,” Lada said, selecting twenty of her men, “help see to the horses and the beds.” The other ten she motioned to remain with her. Oana, too, stayed at her side. Oana’s lessons about appearances had not failed entirely. Lada needed to make an impression. Fortunately, radiating power and authority came far more naturally to her than navigating crowded rooms in a bulky dress.
Lifting her chin proudly, Lada reentered the castle not as a nationless girl, but as a prince. A conquering prince, no less.
Matthias, as handsome and shrewd as she remembered, stood when she approached him in the throne room. He did not embrace her—it would have been inappropriate, and frankly Lada would not have welcomed it—but he did smile and incline his head respectfully. She did the same, as befitted their positions.
“You have surprised me,” he said, studying her.
“That is because you never knew me. If you had, nothing I have done would surprise you.”
Matthias laughed, gesturing to a servant. Wine was brought in on a tray. Lada took her goblet, raising it when Matthias raised his. He watched her over the rim, eyebrows drawn together thoughtfully. “I understand now why my father spent so much time on you. You know, I was a bit jealous. I did not see why you merited his attention when I could scarcely attract it all.”
“Your father did what he thought was best by you. And it worked.” Lada gestured to the room around them. “You are king.” Lada lifted her goblet to his crown. Her hand froze mid-gesture. His crown. The crown he had not been able to afford. She lowered her wine, wariness settling over her like a cold draft. He wore a fur-trimmed vest with a high white collar that covered his neck. His dark hair was short and curling, his beard neatly trimmed. He looked exactly as he had the last time she had seen him; the crown had changed nothing. And everything.
Matthias sat back on the throne, tilting his head to one side. “You really are a remarkable creature. I still cannot believe what you managed to accomplish.”
Lada held out her goblet for the servant to take. She tried to shake off the premonition of doom. It was just a crown. He had probably convinced Poland to give it to him. She could not risk losing his aid. She needed to leverage his newfound esteem into action. She cleared her throat. “Now imagine what we will accomplish together. For Europe. For Christianity. For our peoples.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I have not forgotten the services you provided the last time. Please know how grateful I am for the service you provide me now. And accept my apologies, in advance.”
Matthias gestured. Dozens of men swarmed into the throne room, quickly overwhelming and killing Lada’s. Lada drew her sword with a scream of rage, but already there were too many men between her and Matthias. She killed two, three, four before they had her on the floor, her face smashed against the tile as her hands were bound behind her back. She could hear Oana screaming curses in Wallachian, but none of her men cried out. None were alive to do so.
Matthias’s voice rang through the room, bouncing off the floor she was smashed against and the ceiling she could not see. “You helped me to my throne, and now you will help me keep it. Such a little thing, to trade your freedom for my security. I know you may not think it, but I truly am grateful.” Her last glimpse of him as she was dragged away was a warm smile and a goblet lifted in a toast.
Tirgoviste
RADU ONCE AGAIN FOUND himself hiding in the castle.
It had been his main childhood occupation. Back then, he had hidden from his brother, Mircea, and, for
a period of time, from the same men he avoided now. Though they had been boys back then, looking to hurt him.
Today they wanted money. At every opportunity, they pressed him for more. Radu struggled to remain civil and pleasant. He had stayed behind to help them. It was growing increasingly difficult.
He did his best to be impossible to find. He did not sleep in the castle, moving from manor house to manor house under the guise of making certain they were well maintained for when the boyars returned. He frequently patrolled with Kiril and Simion, and spent as much time on the outer walls as possible.
Today an argument between his Janissaries and Aron’s men had forced him to return. Aron’s men were insisting any horse stabled there necessarily belonged to the prince. The Janissaries were not as inclined to politeness as Radu was.
After firmly informing Aron’s men that the sultan would not take kindly to his horses being stolen—and then arranging for Simion to transfer the horses to stables away from the castle, where they were apparently too great a temptation—Radu retreated to the castle wall to catch his breath. He leaned out, looking over the still-empty city.
A mounted procession making its way toward the castle caught his eye. Radu could not imagine who would be arriving this soon. Surely the boyars would wait until they knew things were safe, even after receiving Radu’s invitations. Then he realized the guards all wore Ottoman-style clothing. One, riding in back, struck Radu as deeply familiar, though from this distance he could not identify why.
In the center rode two women. One dressed simply in dark blue robes, the other dressed like a flower in springtime.
Like the ghost of his father, a Wallachian curse came unbidden to his lips. “God’s wounds,” he whispered. Nazira must not have received his warning not to come!
Her route here would have taken them directly through the freshly covered graves. Radu cringed, thinking of the thousands of stakes that were piled on the sides of the road while they debated whether to burn them or use them to build another layer of defense around the city. The first was more respectful to the dead, the second more practical. Radu hated that these types of decisions fell on him.
He was grateful, at the very least, that Nazira had been delayed enough to miss the burials. He could not imagine what the original state of the city would have done to her. Or to sweet, delicate Fatima. They should not be here.
He raced down the wall, nearly bumping into Aron.
“I was looking for you. I would like to—”
Radu held up his hands. “So sorry, I cannot. My wife has just arrived.”
Aron did little to hide his annoyance, though his words belied his tone. “Oh, by all means! Go and see to her comfort first. I can wait. But I would like a detailed update of all the efforts to fortify the city and find your sister.”
Radu had neither the time nor the desire to pretend to involve Aron in the military business going on all around him. But if the country were to be Aron’s, he would have to take over at some point.
“Yes, of course.” Radu inclined his head respectfully, then ran.
He made it out of the gate just as the horses arrived. Radu was nearly knocked over by the flurry of yellow silk that threw itself at him.
“Radu!” Nazira hugged him tightly around the neck. “I am so glad you are well. We did not hear good reports of the fighting. We had to wait an extra two weeks at the Danube before they thought it was safe enough for us to continue. We even passed the whole army going the other way! Hamza Pasha said you remained to help.”
Radu squeezed her back, holding her close, then pulled away so he could look her in the eyes. He wondered what else Hamza Pasha had told Nazira, and prayed that he had had the decency not to mention Kumal. “Why did you keep coming? You should have gone back with them!”
Nazira pursed her lips in a scold. “I told you, husband mine. We are not being separated again. We are a family.”
Fatima dismounted daintily, smiling at Radu with her head ducked. “It was not such a bad trip.” She was a terrible liar, and her efforts to make him feel better made him want to send her right back home. She deserved comfort and peace.
“Besides,” Nazira continued, “I have always wanted to see where you came from.” She smiled, an expression both generous and obviously false. “It is lovely!”
Radu laughed. “It is wretched. Lada left nothing unharmed. But someday I will take you into the countryside. Snagov is lovely, a little island monastery in the middle of a great green lake. And the mountains at the Arges will take your breath away.” He eyed the castle warily. “Are you certain you do not want to go back to Edirne and wait until my work here is finished?”
“I am certain.”
“We are certain,” Fatima added.
Radu sighed. “Very well. Would you like to do my work for me, then, and allow me to return to Edirne right now?”
Nazira laughed, though it seemed a little quieter and more forced than normal. Then her face turned somber. “My brother? Did you find his body?”
Radu dropped his eyes to the ground. “He has been buried with all the love and respect he deserved. I washed and dressed his body myself, and saw to his burial. I can take you to his grave later.”
“Thank you.”
“I am so, so sorry that—”
Nazira put one hand on his face, forcing him to look at her. “I will receive no more apologies from you on the matter. All I ask is that you mourn the brother we both loved. And do so without guilt. I cannot have your guilt on top of my sadness.”
Radu nodded, feeling selfish. It really did place a burden on Nazira. If she did not blame him, he had no right to force her to forgive him.
“Good.” She brushed her hands as though wiping away the remnants of Radu’s guilt. Then, her voice going oddly loud given the topic, she said, “I am going to settle into my rooms with Fatima. Please meet me on the north tower alone in an hour’s time.”
Radu frowned, puzzled. “I have not been staying in the castle.”
“Well, that must change. You will need our help, as will the Danesti brothers. We will all stay here now.”
Radu could not discuss the truth of the situation with her in public. Though, having her around would be an excellent buffer between himself and the Danesti demands. Nazira would probably have ideas on how to handle it, too. “Whatever you wish. I can show you to your—”
“Fatima and I are quite capable of settling ourselves in. Doubtless you have important work to see to. Just meet me in that tower”—she pointed to the tower where, as children, Lada and Radu had watched Hunyadi enter the city—“in an hour.”
Radu bowed. “Whatever you wish.”
Nazira went onto her tiptoes and patted his turbaned head. Her eyes shone with emotion; she smiled, though she looked on the verge of tears. “You deserve every happiness,” she whispered, then turned and went into the castle with Fatima.
Radu really did not understand women.
* * *
He used the time Nazira had given him to find Aron and apprise him of the current plans, including the scouting groups he had sent into the mountains.
“I am sorry I do not have longer to speak,” Radu said, though he was the opposite of sorry. “I am supposed to meet my wife. She had a very long journey here.”
“Yes, of course. Will you be joining us for dinner? It would be nice to have someone to talk to besides Andrei. And Nazira is far more pleasant to look at than he is.”
“At the risk of offending your brother, I quite agree. We should begin talking marital alliances for you. I will write to Mara Brankovic and see if she has any suggestions for how we can best use that to strengthen your power.”
“Yes, I suppose that is the next step. It will be nice to have more company, too. I had forgotten how lonely this castle can be,” Aron said, his eyes sad above the dark circles that never quite wen
t away.
Some of Radu’s resentment drifted away in a surge of sympathy. “I think our childhoods had more in common than we realized at the time,” Radu answered.
Aron nodded, then smoothed the front of his new velvet waistcoat. “Perhaps there is a close relative of your cousin, Stephen of Moldavia.”
It was a good idea. Stephen had been aggressive on the borders, and a marital alliance might smooth things over. “I will look into it immediately.” The sooner things were settled here, the sooner Radu could leave.
He bid Aron farewell and made his way through the castle and up the steps to the tower. He was a bit early. One of Nazira’s guards was leaning out, looking over the landscape with his back to Radu. Radu did not know whether Nazira had a reason to request they meet alone. He would wait until she arrived to ask the man to leave, though. He closed the door behind himself loudly so the man would not be surprised.
“I am afraid the view is rather bleak right now,” Radu said, with as much cheer as he could muster. The man was facing the direction of the graves. Thousands of dark patches of newly turned soil made a pattern like farmland with a tragic crop. “Did they give you food in the—”
Radu’s words died on his lips as the man turned around to reveal eyes as gray as the water in the Great Horn of Constantinople.
“Cyprian,” he whispered.
Cyprian held his hands out at either side in a stiff gesture. He smiled wryly; it was not the smile that had opened Radu’s heart back when he’d thought it was closed to anyone but Mehmed. “I have no weapons.”
“I—” Radu shook his head. He had not even considered that Cyprian might be here to harm him. Though the man had every right to hate him, to want him dead.
Cyprian’s eyes flitted over Radu’s face, and Radu did not know what to do with any part of himself. Every facial expression or posture that had ever come naturally abandoned him. He froze beneath Cyprian’s gaze.
Bright We Burn Page 20
