“Perhaps we should.” Lately the tutor had been taking Lada and Radu on frequent tours of the prisons and torture chambers in addition to viewings of public executions. It seemed that they spent more time in the damp, airless corridors of the prisons than they did in their own rooms.
Radu was constantly ill. His eyes were dark and sunken. He could barely eat, and he was plagued by nightmares.
Lada suffered no such effects. Occasionally she informed her tutors when a torture method appeared to be less effective than others. They ground their teeth and whispered that she had no soul.
She had a soul. At least, she was fairly certain she did. But she had learned that first day with the head gardener to see people as the sultan did. They were objects. They could be pushed and pulled and fed and starved and bled and killed in any variety of ways, depending on the type of power you wanted to exert or obtain. Sometimes an image—eyes in a dirty, ravaged face meeting hers with startling clarity, or a pair of feet, too small to belong to an adult, sticking out of a shadowed corner—struck her. Nagged at her. Pulled at the curtains she had drawn tightly over that part of her mind.
But she could dismiss those images. She had to dismiss them. Because if she did not care what they showed her, or how they hurt her, then these men, these ridiculous tutors, this obscene court, had only one way to control her: by killing her.
They were not able to do that just yet, or this tutor would have had his hands around her throat long ago.
“It is time to move on in our studies. Repeat the five pillars of Islam,” the tutor demanded.
Lada yawned.
Radu spoke for her, giving a precise and perfect answer. Their Orthodox upbringing had consisted of attending services at the castle chapel every week. Lada had found the process of regular worship insufferable, but there was a time last spring that she found herself remembering it with longing.
Her father regularly donated to churches, trying to buy favor with God the same way he bought favor with boyars and sultans. As a result, they had been invited to spend a week at an island monastery located in the middle of Lake Snagov. When the boat pulled away from the mainland shore, Lada had felt a strange sense of release. Of peace. On the island there were only silent monks, far less intimidating than the patriarch and priests, who were elaborately robed in pomp and tradition. She had wandered alone, walking the entire coast of the island, feeling the water as a barrier between herself and the pressure of Tirgoviste. Her tiny room in the belly of the monastery was decorated with images of saints and Christ, watching impassively from gilt frames. She did not care about them, and they did not care about her, and she slept as deeply as she ever had.
Here, there was no peace, no separation from the world. Lada longed for it. Instead, she was forced to learn a religion as though it were equal to languages or history. It was agonizingly irritating. At least with Christianity they had been actively discouraged from reading the Bible on their own, study being the realm of the clergy. Her only responsibility had been to appear to be listening.
She refused to even give that impression here. The tutor nodded wearily at Radu’s response before sitting up straight. A spark had returned to his eyes.
Lada pretended not to notice, but every nerve was on alert for whatever solution to her insolence he had stumbled upon.
“Ladislav gave the wrong answer.” The tutor lifted his arm, fingers heavy with thick rings, and backhanded Radu sharply across his face. Radu’s head snapped to the side and he fell out of his chair with a cry of shock and pain.
Lada would kill him. She would cut this man’s hand from his body for striking her brother; she would—
She composed herself before the tutor looked at her, his chest heaving and his eyes bright. Waiting for her reaction. If she killed him, they would kill her, and no one would be here to protect stupid, fragile Radu. Her stupid, fragile Radu. And if she got angry, the tutor would know—they would all know—how to control her. The same way they had known to control her father. The same way the Janissaries had known to hurt her by taking Bogdan away.
She raised her eyebrows impassively.
“What are the five pillars of Islam?” he asked as Radu got back into his chair, tears in his eyes and a shocked expression on his face.
Lada smiled and shook her head.
The tutor hit Radu again.
Radu stayed on the ground, gasping out the answer, his words garbled by a split and swiftly swelling lip, but Lada did not look away from the tutor’s face. She kept a pleasant smile on her own, kept her hands loosely folded in her lap, kept control. Control was power. No one would make her lose it. And eventually the tutor would realize that she would let him hit Radu over, and over, and over.
And only then would Radu be safe.
RADU CURLED IN ON himself as he leaned against Lada’s door. He cradled his hand, welts swelling along his palm. His lip was starting to heal, but only because the tutor had been focusing on his hands lately.
How could she do this?
How could she let him be beaten on her behalf?
She had always been his protector. Even when she was cruel, she never let anyone else hurt him. In spite of everything they had seen since coming to Edirne, Radu had never been truly scared or desolate because he knew—he knew—that Lada would keep him from any real harm.
He cried, because no one was here to see. The salt in his tears stung his split lip.
Did she know? Could she tell that he was interested in Islam, had become fascinated with it, had even started praying in secret? That had to be why. She did not let him be beaten for any other reason, but when the tutor asked about Islam she refused to answer, even though she knew it meant Radu would get hurt.
He wanted to tell her, needed to tell her, that he was sorry. That he would stop studying Islam. But…maybe he could explain how it made him feel, how the basics of the religion made so much more sense to him than the endless array of saints and icons they had in Tirgoviste. He had never really understood what he heard in church, the Latin so formal it created a barrier between himself and God. Everywhere in religion there had been barriers between Radu and God—Christ stood between them, the fall of man stood between them, his very soul stood between them.
God had always seemed like his own father—distant, unknowable, disapproving. Radu feared that, as always, nothing he did would ever be good enough to earn the love of an omnipotent and unknowable God.
Islam made sense to him, appealed to him with its generous simplicity. But if Lada wanted him to hate Islam, he would. If it meant getting his protector back, he would do anything.
He wiped away the remains of his tears, hiding his weakness. Then he pushed open her door.
Wearing only a long shirt, Lada was crouched by the hearth. Instead of stone, like the hearths in Tirgoviste, this one was framed by white tile with a repeating pattern of an eight-sided star. Although it was warm, Lada had stoked a bright fire. She was shoving her nightclothes into it. Next to her on the floor were blankets torn from her bed. They were stained red.
“Lada?” Radu stepped into the room, looking for her assailant, looking for her wound. “What happened?”
She turned to him, eyes wild and filled with tears. “Get out!” she screamed.
“But—”
“Get out!”
Reeling as though struck, Radu ran from the room, then out of their joint chamber. He did not stop running until he was free of the palace’s sprawling labyrinth and weaving through the crowds of people on the streets.
He was lost.
He kept walking, turning in aimless circles, numb. The familiar call to prayer sounded, this time closer than Radu had ever heard it. He stopped in his tracks, finally looking up to see the towers and spires of a mosque. But his heart felt leaden, lower than the ground. He could not follow it up to the sky.
A soft hand came down on his shoulder, and he jumped, cringing.
A man—head wrapped in a simple white turban, robes of fine ma
terial but plainly made—crouched down so he was eye-level with Radu. His eyes widened for a moment as he took in Radu’s beaten face, then they crinkled with a gentle smile. He could not be much older than Mircea, but kindness was written on his face in a way that made him seem wise. “Do you need help?”
Radu shook his head, then nodded, then shook his head again.
“Would you like to join me for prayer?”
Radu had never prayed before, not like this. He had seen his tutor do it, but it felt strange and intrusive to watch, so Radu usually looked away. But he had wanted to enter a mosque since they had arrived in Edirne.
“I do not know how,” Radu said, face burning, eyes on the ground.
“We will put our rugs in the back. You can watch me.” He guided Radu up the stairs. There was a fountain with clear water. The man stopped, washing his hands with particular movements. He smiled and nodded toward Radu’s own hands. Self-conscious, Radu carefully imitated the man’s actions.
When they were done, the man unstrapped a rug from his back. Radu panicked because he did not have one, but the man handed his own rug to Radu and took a worn rug from a stack in the back for himself. Eyes still on the floor, Radu followed him into a massive room where men were setting up in lines with practiced, calm efficiency.
The man led Radu to a corner, where he pointed for Radu to put down the rug. Radu copied the man’s posture and knelt, nervous and regretting his decision to come. There was a wide variety of men in the room, old and young, wearing the finest clothes to patched and worn ones. But everyone belonged, everyone had a place. They would know he did not have a right to be here. Maybe they, too, would beat him.
And then the prayer started.
Radu watched in wonder as the men closed their eyes, following the same movements, praying together, their bodies and voices in perfect unison.
He had never seen anything so beautiful.
For once in his life, he did not want to observe. He wanted to be a part of it. Keeping one eye open to follow his friend’s motions, Radu joined in. Before long he was lost to the rhythm of it, the peace of becoming one small part of a whole, the words he could only partly understand nonetheless making him feel, tugging his worn and bruised soul upward.
When the prayer was over, he looked up, up, up. The ceiling soared above him, interlocking, many-pointed stars drawing the eye inward until finally releasing the gaze into the open minaret. Toward heaven.
“Are you well?”
Radu looked at his friend, startled, then wiped his eyes. He smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”
The man held out a hand, helping Radu to his feet. They returned the borrowed mat and then walked back out into the day.
“What is your name?” the man asked.
“Radu Dragwlya.”
“I am Kumal Vali. Come, take a meal with me. You look as though you need someone to talk to.”
Kumal led Radu through the streets to a section of tall, narrow stone homes. They were close enough to the palace to be important, but not so close to be part of the palace compound. Radu realized Vali was not the man’s name but rather his title. Clearly he was someone valued, maybe even a friend of the sultan’s.
A servant met them at the door, bowing and taking Kumal’s rug. “My friend Radu will be joining us,” Kumal said. They followed the servant to a room at the back of the house. Glass panes lined the walls, opening up to a modest but well-tended garden. There was a low table with cushions surrounding it. Kumal sat, gesturing for Radu to do the same.
Sitting across the table from Kumal, a stranger, Radu suddenly wondered if this had been a terrible idea. No one knew where he was. Worse, he did not know if he was even allowed to leave the palace. And Kumal was an official. Would Radu be punished? Killed?
Kumal ripped off a piece of warm flatbread and passed it to Radu. He did not look up as he started talking. “I would like to know who has hurt you, and whether there is anything I can do to help.”
Radu shook his head, standing. “I should go.”
“Please stay. If you cannot speak of what has happened, then let us speak of other things. How did you like the prayer?”
Radu slowly sat back down, closing his eyes, trying to recapture how he had felt. “It was…wonderful.”
“Yes, I think so, too. I always look forward to being in the city and joining so many of my brothers in prayer.”
“You do not live here?”
“No, I have an estate in the countryside. I am not often in Edirne, as my responsibilities at home keep me quite busy. I leave tonight, in fact.”
Radu wilted. He had no right to expect more from Kumal, but the brief moments of hope he had had in his presence seemed like a cruel tease now.
“You are not Ottoman.”
Radu shook his head. “I am from Wallachia.”
Kumal frowned thoughtfully. “Yet you are not a Janissary.”
“My father is Vlad Dracul, vaivode of Wallachia. He left my sister and me here for…our education.”
Understanding settled into Kumal’s face, but where Radu feared seeing anger or derision, there was only sympathy. “Ah, I see. It would appear your education has been less than kind.”
Radu lifted a hand to his face, self-conscious.
Kumal took the hand, squeezing it, then putting it down so Radu would look at him. “Please do not judge my country by the cruelty of a few. Though there is one God and one Prophet, peace be upon him, not everyone interacts with him in the same way. There are varying levels of faith and practice, just as in everything in life. But you have a choice.”
“I do not feel like I have any choices left to me.”
Kumal nodded. “It may seem that way. But you always have a choice. You can choose to find comfort and solace in God. You can choose to be brave and compassionate. And you can choose to find beauty and happiness wherever they present themselves.” He smiled. “I think you already know this, though. I hope you can hold on to that through the coming years, because you have much to offer the world, Radu.”
A girl slipped onto a cushion across from Radu, her eyes bright and her mouth a perfect full-lipped circle. Her clothes were as pretty as she was, and a cheerful yellow scarf covered her hair. She smiled shyly at him, then took a piece of bread. “Is my brother lecturing you?”
Radu shook his head, looking down at his plate. “No.”
“Good. He does so love to lecture. I am Nazira.”
Kumal put a hand on her shoulder. “Nazira is my youngest sister.”
“And his favorite.”
“And my favorite.” Kumal laughed; and then the servant returned, setting out a spread of roasted fowl, vegetables, and a cooling sauce. Kumal promised to take Radu back to the palace after the meal. Then he and Nazira traded stories, enveloping Radu in their laughter and shared history as though he were a natural part of it.
The warmth between them should have made Radu feel cold in comparison, but he stole a portion of it, tucking it away for the coming days when he knew he would need it.
LADA DID NOT KNOW how much longer she could get away with stealing bedsheets. Radu had complained that his bed was stripped of everything but a single blanket. She had to sit with her back against the door to guard against discovery as she ripped his sheet into manageable pieces to staunch the flow.
Her room was stifling. The smell of burning cloth had lingered through the month, and now the blood was back.
When her nurse had told her she would not have to worry about marriage until her monthly courses started, it had been a comfort. Until the morning Lada awoke covered in blood, in her enemy’s house. She lived in terror of the day she was discovered. Servants were turned away from her chamber door with screaming fits or, when that failed, with her fists. No one could know.
But it was only a matter of time. The door to her and Radu’s tiny joint rooms had no lock.
Still, Lada never cried.
Radu thought his crying was a secret, but every night she heard him throug
h the thin wall that separated them. Sometimes she hated him for crying, and sometimes she hated him because she could not join him.
He looked happy only when he sneaked off to pray, an act that enraged Lada. She picked at him mercilessly for it, but he never acknowledged her anger. Finally, she resigned herself to sullen silence. If she ignored it, maybe he would stop.
The days passed in a desolate blur of lessons and lessons. Today, they were watching a highway robber being hung by a large metal hook inserted between his ribs. Did you know, her history tutor intoned in her mind, that there is very little crime in the Ottoman state? Our highways are safer, our homes more secure than those in insignificant and tiny countries such as your own. Our people love their sultan.
Lada should have conceded that there had been a great deal of crime in Tirgoviste and the surrounding towns. Instead, she remarked that perhaps the Ottomans’ devotion was a result of their turbans being wrapped too tightly and strangling their brains.
When the robber had finished the long, agonizing process of dying, his body was taken down to be displayed on the highway with a sign proclaiming his crimes. Lada’s feet hurt. She was tired of these lessons. There was nothing else to learn. The sultan controlled everything. If you crossed the sultan, you died. People obeyed not out of love but rather because punishment was swift, severe, and extremely public. It was effective justice. Admirable, even. The sultan cowered to no one, did not have to play games and bow to the whims of people beneath him, as her father so often had.
Radu looked as though he was going to lose his stomach again, so when they were excused Lada dragged him through the corridors and out into the streets. She had already explored as much of the palace grounds as they were allowed to. They passed the mosque, swirling minarets reaching up to pierce heaven itself. She wished they would—wished they would poke a hole through the sky and shower God’s wrath on this whole city. Then they would see whose god was real.
But perhaps not. She was not in Wallachia. Even the god she had been raised with was absent here. Perhaps the sky would consume her in the wrath of the Ottoman god.
And I Darken Page 7
