Another group of scouts came riding from the direction of the road leading to Bucharest. “Take these two away,” Radu said, waving. He did not want to order their deaths—they had not killed any of his men that he knew of—but he did not know what to do with them. He would worry about it later.
Radu recognized a short, stocky Janissary named Simion whom he had sent out as soon as they crossed the Danube. “What is it?” Radu asked, seeing the scouts’ white faces and furrowed brows. “Is someone coming? You had more men when you left. Did you encounter resistance?”
“No,” Simion said, dismounting and bowing. “Just traps. We lost three. No one is coming to fight us because they do not need to. Everything as far as we rode looks like this. The wells are poisoned. There are no animals or crops or even people. If we send men to Bucharest, we had better take the city, or we will starve.”
Radu thanked Simion, then rode slowly back toward Mehmed, with Aron at his side.
“What has happened in our country?” Aron asked, horrified. Radu realized that aside from Constantinople, where Aron had only been outside the walls, the Danesti had never seen combat.
“Lada knows what it takes to lay siege. She wants it to cost Mehmed as much as possible. Losses of men and gold and morale.”
“No, not that. I mean, yes, that is awful. But the way that man and woman spoke to us. I have never been thus addressed in my entire life. He wears a beard! She speaks as though she is our equal—or our better!”
Mara had not bothered getting reports out of Wallachia itself. They had focused on who Lada’s outside allies would be. But it was obvious now they should have focused more on whom she would have on her side within the country. Lada had always believed Wallachia was the greatest place in the world. Apparently her pride in her homeland had extended to her people. They had not factored this much sheer devotion into their plans.
Radu watched as the two Wallachians were hauled toward the camp. How many more like them were lying in wait? Radu needed to find support inside the country. “We will send out riders to search in secret for boyars. I cannot imagine many of them support her, not after the Danesti deaths.”
Radu stopped his horse at a distance, a momentary thrill of pleasure coursing through him as he saw Mehmed shift with impatience on his own horse. Watching him. Waiting for him.
But still in pursuit of his sister. Radu smiled at himself, knowing how much this campaign would have bothered him even a year ago. Instead, he missed Nazira.
He missed Cyprian.
That one hurt more, because it was a missing with no purpose. As many times as he told himself he would think no more on Cyprian now that he knew the other man was alive and safe, those gray eyes and that soul-searing smile were never far from Radu’s thoughts.
“Everything has changed,” Aron said.
“Nothing ever changes,” Radu answered, finally urging his horse toward his friend so they could worry about his sister together.
Outside Bucharest
LADA SAT, THE TEPID spring sun still too hot for her taste. It had been an arduous climb, getting all her soldiers and their remaining cannons up the steep, rocky hillsides. She stared down into the canyon beneath them. It was the only logical path for an army to take to reach Bucharest.
She had already tested this particular canyon strategy once before. Hunyadi continued to help her from beyond the grave. She had, the year before, rescued him during an ill-fated fight in a canyon by unexpectedly attacking from above and blocking the exits. It would be on a larger scale here, but she was confident. She had to be creative in avoiding direct combat with Mehmed’s massively superior numbers; this was perfect.
And, as she kept reminding herself after their loss at the Danube, they did not need to win. Not outright. They simply needed to make this attempt cost more than Mehmed was willing to spend in every way possible. Men. Gold. Time. Pride.
She liked chipping away at that last one, especially.
“Are we certain they will come for Bucharest?” Bogdan asked, clearing the top of a rock for Lada to sit on. After giving instructions, she had left the rest of the soldiers to set up at their various positions. They were all loyal and good at what they did, but increasingly they aggravated her. She could only see who they were not.
She clutched the locket she wore around her neck, as much a part of her now as her daggers. If lost, she knew she would constantly reach for them, and every time be surprised that they were gone. Just like mentally she kept reaching for Petru and Nicolae, only to remember they were forever out of her grasp.
How many more would she lose? How many could she afford to?
She dropped the locket beneath her tunic. “They have to come for Bucharest. It is too important to leave behind their lines. And it is the first major city past the Arges, with no more river crossings to bar their way to Tirgoviste. They will need to use it as a staging point.”
“And if they take the city?”
Lada shrugged. “Then they take it. But we make them pay dearly. It will take time and supplies and give them nothing in return. We will not come back for it, so the men they leave here will be idle and wasted, fewer that we have to fight elsewhere.”
Bogdan nodded, satisfied. He was playing with something, too. Lada peered closer. Prayer beads. She bit back her instinct to belittle him. She would take all the help she could get, and if Bogdan’s god was interested in aiding them, he was welcome to help.
There was nothing to do now except wait for the Ottomans to arrive.
It was boring. Lada hated it.
Far too late, as usual, Lada noticed Stefan approaching them. She would be dead if he had been there to kill her. But he brought only information, not death.
He sat, folding his long legs beneath him. He was so dusty and dim he blended in with the rocks. “The Turks will be here within two hours. He sent ten thousand.”
That was unfortunate. Lada had hoped Mehmed would detour his whole force here. He was making certain Bucharest did not threaten him with attacks from the rear without committing too many men. But that only altered things slightly. She could move through the country much faster than Mehmed’s huge camp and supply trains could. He would stay with his main force, but Lada could—and would—be everywhere.
“Good,” she said. “We will bog them down in this pass so they can go neither forward nor backward. We do not even have to kill them all for Mehmed to have lost a sixth of his forces.”
“And after?” Stefan asked.
“I go to Tirgoviste to make certain everything there is prepared. Daciana should have overseen the evacuations into the mountains by now.” Lada frowned. “I could have used her elsewhere, though.”
Stefan frowned. It was incredibly demonstrative of him. He must have been truly upset. “She is with child, Lada. And she would not trust our children to someone else.”
“She is with child? Another one?” This was a terrible time to be having children. And selfish, too. Lada did not want her followers’ attentions divided any further than they already were. “Well, at least this one will be yours.”
Stefan straightened, his face so carefully and deliberately blank that Lada got a chill. “They are all mine.”
Something in his posture made Lada want to draw her knives defensively. Instead, she looked away in a show of confidence. She did not need to watch him for attack. He belonged to her, and he would do well to remember it. “I want you to go to Hungary. Make certain they are mobilizing their forces as promised.”
“And if they are not?”
“Kill Matthias.”
“That will not be easy. And how will it help you?”
“If Matthias cannot keep his word, I want him dead. That is how it will help me.”
Stefan stood, brushing off his hands. “I will check on Daciana on my way, make certain they have everything they need. Where are they?”
>
Lada looked down into the canyon, tracing an imaginary trajectory with her eyes. Men would die here very soon. It was odd, looking at the peaceful and quiet and clean place, knowing what it would hold before the day’s end. “Only I know their location. It is safer that way. If caught, no one can betray them.” Lada turned to Stefan to gauge his reaction. She had put special weight on the word betray.
His face was as unknowable and unremarkable as ever. If he understood that Lada was threatening him, he did not acknowledge or respond to it. He inclined his head, then walked silently away.
“Lada.” Bogdan’s tentative tone was utterly incongruous with how physically intimidating he was. He was a bull of a man, made kitten around her. “I wanted to speak with you, but we have not had any time alone.”
“I will not marry.” Lada did not try to soften her tone or her words, but neither did she wish to wound him. Not with the loss of Nicolae still so fresh. His death had given her, perhaps, a new perspective on the men she did have. She had lost Bogdan when they were children. He had been taken by the Ottomans. She had found him and reclaimed him, and she would not relinquish that claim.
Bogdan nodded, his eyes on the rocky ground beneath them. “My mother said as much. And if you did marry, it would not make sense to marry me. I would bring you no advantage.”
Lada tugged rather viciously on one of his stupid jug-handle ears. Those ears had listened to her all her life without question. She had taken those ears between her teeth, too. He served many purposes. “I never want you apart from me,” she said. It was the truth. It did not mean as much as he wanted it to, but it was all she could offer him.
His face bloomed with joy like a field of new spring flowers, all tender and brilliant. “I will never leave you.”
Lada nodded. Her work here was done. She owed him nothing else emotionally, which was good because even this much had exhausted her. She wanted to fight someone, to have that clarity of action and goal aligned. How considerate of Mehmed to provide her an entire army to do just that.
Bogdan twisted his foot through the pebbles beneath it with an aggravating scraping noise. “But if you were to decide to marry someone, and it did not matter whether or not they brought you any political advantage, would—”
“If you ever bring it up again, I will throw you off this canyon wall. Then I will find your body, drag it back up here, and do it a second time just to be certain that any spirit of you hanging about gets the message.”
Bogdan ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck, where a blush had formed. “Right. Well, we have an hour still. Do you want to…?” He gestured inelegantly at her trousers.
It had been a long time, with all her avoidance of him. She was not gentle. He did not complain. All was back in place between them as it had ever been.
* * *
“Keep them pinned down!” Lada pointed at a group of Janissaries attempting to skirt the edge of the line and climb up the canyon wall. It was not as good a scenario as the canyon with the Bulgars had been. There were too many boulders here, too many defensible areas for the troops to hide and return fire. But her men could keep them pinned for a long time. Days, perhaps. That was all the victory they needed.
Satisfied, Lada turned to the mean-spirited, brutal man she was leaving in charge. She had found Grigore in prison, where he was awaiting execution for beating the son of a boyar. He was perfectly suited to her needs.
“Make them pay for every step of progress with ten bodies. Once you finish off the gunpowder, no more is coming. Destroy the cannons so they do not take them. Then run to Bucharest and man the walls.”
Grigore smiled, breathing deeply of the scent of burning flesh and blood. “It will be my pleasure.”
Bogdan was waiting with their horses. While an army could not get through the land without tremendous planning and difficulty, two people on horseback could cover the distance with ease. Lada knew Mehmed’s main force had not advanced far toward Tirgoviste yet. They would easily beat him to their target.
“I will go on to Tirgoviste alone,” Lada said. “I need to make sure Oana is out safely, and that there is nothing for them to take. Also, I need to check the final logistics for their welcome. I want you to go to the hill camps and organize the soldiers. Some of them are being led by boyars”—Lada grimaced at the thought—“and I expect they will need a lot of help.” It aggravated her that she had to use any of the boyars, but some had remained loyal to her and she simply did not have enough men trained to lead. After this was over, she would change that. Never again would she depend on anyone else. They all inevitably disappointed her, or left. Or chose someone over her.
Bogdan leaned close as if he would try to kiss her. She kicked her horse’s flanks, quickly outpacing him.
She rode alone. It felt right.
Wallachian Countryside
RADU FINISHED PRAYING AND remained on his rug. The loss of Kumal weighed heavily on him at all times, but he felt it most strongly during prayer. Kumal was the man who had invited him in, who had given him Islam as a refuge for his soul when all else was in turmoil.
All else was in turmoil once again, and Radu had cost Kumal his life.
Radu could not help but wonder what his relationship to his God was. It had been sorely tested and tried during his time in Constantinople. But it had not broken. Sometimes Radu had feared it would, but he still found the same peace and solace in prayer he always had.
Radu wished he had been open with Kumal about what was in his own heart. He had worried that Kumal might say something that would separate them, or, worse, separate Radu from God. Molla Gurani, the scholar who had taught Mehmed and Radu and had witnessed his conversion, doubtless could have told Radu everything written about whether the love in his heart for other men condemned him. Radu had done some study on the subject, but it brought him no peace.
Perhaps Kumal could have talked about the heart of faith, and whether Radu could have a heart filled with God and still love as he needed to.
But Kumal was gone. Molla Gurani, too. All Radu had was himself and his God, the movement of prayer and the ritual of worship connecting them. He would not sever that connection. He felt Nazira was right: where God and love were concerned, he was happy to leave it unreconciled.
Wishing he could linger, Radu rolled up his rug and packed his tent. He made his way to Mehmed’s tent. By the look of things, packing the sultan for the day’s travel had not yet begun. Radu did not relish the idea of standing about idly. The progress of the camp was plodding, and Radu did not think he could handle the boredom today. It left too much room for thought. He saw a group of his scouts and mounted to join them.
The day had dawned bright and clear, the air warm and humid. “Do you know the land well?” one of the scouts asked. He was a quiet, thoughtful man, a Janissary named Kiril. Radu had ridden with him before and liked him.
“I remember it,” Radu said, “though I have not been through here since I was a boy. We followed a road along the river, from Tirgoviste to Edirne.”
“What brought you to the empire?”
Radu smiled wryly, remembering. “Politics. I was a hostage, actually.”
“I did not know, Radu Bey.”
Radu laughed to ease the other man’s discomfort. Kiril was older than him by only a year or two. Radu liked the younger Janissaries. It was easier to be in their company. He felt he had less to prove to them than he did to the older ones. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“As being sent to train as a Janissary was for me. This must be an odd sort of homecoming for you, then.”
“It is not my home. It never was, really.”
A scout appeared from a bend between two tree-dense hills farther up the road. He rode to them, frowning, his freckled features twisted with confusion. “Is there another road? I think we have taken a wrong turn.”
“No,�
�� Radu answered. According to both his memory and his maps, they were exactly where they were supposed to be. “This is the only road wide enough for the wagons to get through. There are no other major roads. It is all farmland until outside Tirgoviste.”
“There is no farmland up there.”
Radu shared an alarmed look with Kiril. He had not been here since he was a child, but things could not have changed that much. With a growing pit of dread in his stomach, Radu spurred his horse forward. He stopped abruptly as they crested a low hill. Instead of rolling acres of budding green fields lining the river, there were…marshes.
Leagues and leagues of marshes. The river, now low and sluggish, had soaked the land all around it. Radu knew that on occasion the river flooded and caused this type of damage, but they had had no such rainy season lately.
This was man-made.
No. This was Lada-made.
“See, there,” Kiril said, pointing. “Trenches. Diverting the river into the fields. It must have taken forever to dig them.”
“Find a way through, then return and report how far the marsh continues,” Radu said to the freckled scout. He could not hide his own despair as he looked at yet more land for feeding both the Wallachians and the Ottoman troops completely destroyed. He turned to Kiril. “Go around and see how far we have to go to skirt it. It may be better to clear our own roads than to drag cannon-laden wagons through this mire.” Radu stared at the ruin of the land. Lada had hurt them, yes. But she had also hurt her own people in the long run. How could she not see what she was doing? How could she justify this cost?
“Your sister did all this?” Kiril asked, surveying the damage as a group gathered to scout with him.
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