Lada nodded curtly. “How long?”
“Three months. We want to wait until the baby is a bit older before we travel.”
“Well then, ride faster. I have a lot of work for you to do before you go.” But she did not pick up her own pace. She seemed content, for once, to take her time.
“I will send Oana with you,” she said, burrowing deeper into her fur-lined coat.
“Does she want to go?” Radu asked, knowing that only Lada’s wishes were what would count.
“It does not matter what she wants. I do not wish her to stay. She can help with the baby.”
Radu suspected Lada did, in fact, want Oana to stay. It was obvious in the deliberate and determined way Lada had been rejecting their nurse’s help since Theodora was born. If Lada did not care so much, she would never have been so mean.
“She will stay in Tirgoviste if you ask her.”
“I cannot have another death on my hands,” Lada said. The words came out so quickly, Radu wondered if she had meant to say them aloud. “Do you want the baby?” she asked in a swift change of subject.
Radu frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“I know Nazira wants the baby. She would have crawled up into my womb to get it if necessary. But do you want it?”
“I did not think I ever wanted a child,” Radu said, searching his feelings. He had scarcely had an opportunity to see the baby, and held her only a few times. Fatima had turned out to be incredibly possessive. “If you recall, our own childhoods were less than pleasant.”
“You mean you have not already thought of all the ways you could leverage the infant for your own personal gain?”
Radu flinched. “I would never.”
Lada looked over at him, suddenly solemn. “I know. That is why I gave her to you. Mehmed would use her.” She paused. “I would, too, eventually. Or get her killed. I want better for her than we had. I trust Nazira and Fatima with that. And I trust you.”
Radu nodded, his chest swelling with emotions he had tried his hardest not to let surface. “I will raise her in love.”
“And strength.”
“And strength. Though I am certain we could not keep her from being strong if we tried.”
Lada reached up and undid her necklace. She held it in her hand, looking down at it. Then she took one of her knives and wrapped the necklace around the handle. She held both out to Radu. “Her inheritance. I do not expect you to ever tell her the truth of where she came from. But I want her to have these.”
Radu took them reverently, feeling the weight of Lada’s soul in his hand. “I may wait a few years to give her the knife.”
Lada waved dismissively. “I had one when I was three.”
“And look how you turned out.”
She cackled, looking at him with a smile that meant destruction, fire, or both. “First one back to Tirgoviste gets to decide whether we kill Matthias.”
Lada spurred her horse, quickly outpacing him. Radu watched as she rode forward into her destiny, knowing that she would always outpace him, would beat him to every destination. He was finished trying to catch up. It was a resignation both melancholy and peaceful.
Tirgoviste
LADA WATCHED LONG AFTER Radu and his party had disappeared down the road. Spring was reclaiming the land, everything soft and green with new growth. It was a time of renewal, rebuilding. And they were leaving.
It was good that he was gone. She would no longer have to pretend, have to fake happiness or calm when she felt neither. And it would be nice to no longer have him peering over her shoulder, telling her whom she could and could not kill.
He had done a good job, though. Better than she could have done. She had treaties in place with every border that mattered. The boyars Radu worked with seemed dependable, though she would watch them closely. Her country was running the way she wanted it to. With order. With strength. With justice and fairness. If it was slower change than she wanted, she hoped Radu’s promise that it would be like a tree with deep roots, growing for decades, was true.
Lada drifted to the throne room. She sat, looking out where her father had looked out before her. Where the Danesti princes had as well.
The throne was a death sentence. She was not foolish. It would claim her eventually, as it had claimed all who came before her. All except Radu cel Frumos, the prince who had walked away. Who had chosen life and love over country.
Lada would not walk away.
Once, she had sat here with the eyes of her friends on her. Now, and forevermore, she sat here alone.
She had dug through the mountain to reach her heart’s desire, and found the mountain had a heart after all: the beating pulse required of all those who would not stop, would not accept what the world offered, would not bow.
She drummed her fingers on the arms of the throne, looking out at the empty room. She was not stupid enough to think men would stop trying to take it from her. They would always be there, waiting for weakness, waiting for her to fall. They wanted what she had because she had it. And one day, eventually, someone would defeat her. But until that day she would fight with tooth and nail, with all the fire and blood that had formed her into who she was.
She was a dragon.
She was a prince.
She was a woman.
It was the last that scared them most of all. She smiled, tapping her fingers on the throne in a beat like her heart.
“Mine,” she said.
Hers. And hers alone.
Three Years Later, Outside Amasya
RADU FINISHED PRAYING, THEN sat back on his heels, enjoying the particular quiet peace of the space. A thump and a laugh roused him. He stretched, glancing over the letters awaiting him on his desk. Most were regional issues—minor disputes, tax claims, all the little matters of keeping his bey running smoothly.
One was from Mara Brankovic, though. He carried it with him out to the dizzyingly colorful garden, where Oana was setting up an afternoon picnic while Fatima sewed in the shade. Nazira sat on the swing that had hung from the old tree on Kumal’s country estate. They had brought it with them. Brought him with them, in spirit, in every way they could.
“It is from Mara,” Radu said, handing Nazira the letter.
Nazira read it, smiling and shaking her head. “Mara says Urbana sends her love.”
“She has to know we know she is lying.”
“I suspect she does it to amuse herself. She thanks us for sending our respects when her mother died. Mehmed’s eastern borders are giving him trouble, so he has not been in the capital much lately. Oh, and yes, here is the real reason for the letter, and it took her only three pages to get to it: she wants to know if you would be willing to remind Lada of her tax obligations. ‘Such things are always so much more pleasant coming from a family member.’ ” Nazira laughed. “She is trying to delegate.”
Radu lowered himself to the ground, sitting next to Fatima and peering over her shoulder at the tunic she was sewing. “That is beautiful.”
She smiled, pleased. “It is for Theodora.”
“So it will remain beautiful for three whole minutes after she puts it on.”
Fatima’s smile grew both softer and prouder. She stroked the cloth. “Yes.”
With a roar, Cyprian ran into the garden, Theodora riding on his shoulders. He did several circles around the tree before collapsing onto the grass. Theodora jumped on his stomach, laughing, but Cyprian pretended to be dead.
Scowling, Theodora wandered back to the house, her long black hair already undone from the careful braids Fatima had put in just that morning.
Radu stretched out, resting his head on Cyprian’s torso. The day was warm, lovely and soft, the best season. This evening, he would answer Mara and write his report on the status of his bey for Mehmed. But this afternoon?
This afternoon was for happiness.<
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Oana finished laying out the food, grumbling about not being able to find the right ingredients here. She had done well adjusting to a new life, though she refused to learn Turkish. It was good for Theodora, though, to understand Wallachian. It felt right. “Theodora!” Oana shouted. “It is time to eat!”
Radu sat up, passing the food and listening to Nazira make plans for a holiday to Bursa to see the sea. Someday they would make the pilgrimage to Mecca, but that could wait until Theodora was older. They would also visit Cyprus to see where Cyprian’s mother had come from. But Bursa was far enough for now.
“As long as I do not have to ride on any boats,” Radu said.
“Oddly enough, Cyprian and I have had a lifetime’s worth of experience on boats as well,” Nazira replied.
“And deserted islands,” Cyprian said with a laugh, lacing his fingers through Radu’s.
It had never stopped feeling like a miracle.
“I had to fight a mountain,” Theodora said, plopping down in the middle of the blanket and knocking over several bowls of food. “It was mad. I screamed at it, and it had fire eyes. But then I got it with my knife.” She held up a knife clutched in her still-dimpled hand.
Radu reached out and plucked it away.
“Where is she always finding knives?” Nazira said, frowning as she pulled Theodora into her lap and fussed over her hair. Theodora nuzzled against Nazira, reaching up and patting her cheek.
Radu knew he should be cross, but he could not help laughing.
* * *
Later that evening, as Radu tucked Theodora into bed, he reached beneath her pillow and retrieved a knife she had hidden there.
Her lips stuck out in a pout. He kissed her forehead.
“I will save it for when you are older. And if you have to fight a mountain, come get me. I will fight it with you.”
Her three-year-old body could hold neither rage nor consciousness for long. Radu stayed, hours after she fell asleep, gazing at her face. Lada and Mehmed had combined in a softening of both their features. Mehmed’s full lips with Lada’s large eyes, Mehmed’s dark lashes with Lada’s hooked nose.
He had loved them both so very much, and it had not been enough to keep them. But he could make certain this little creature they made had all the love the world held.
“Be strong,” he whispered. “Be kind. Be hopeful.” He bent down and kissed her forehead.
“And be fierce.”
Snagov Island Monastery, Seventeen Years Later
RADU WATCHED THE APPROACHING boat grow larger. He was grateful he had arrived first so that he did not get out on the shore heaving for their first greeting in ten years.
Theodora fidgeted impatiently beside him. She wore clothes suited to travel, but with Fatima’s excellent sewing and Nazira’s love of color. And she always wore knives, too, her favorite being the one she had inherited.
Theodora was not elegant, but she was strong and undeniably lovely. She had adopted Nazira’s clever optimism, Fatima’s kindness, and, unfortunately, Cyprian’s sense of humor. At twenty, she was still the brilliant center of their lives. Radu was grateful that she had demanded to accompany him. Making this trip alone would have left him with too many ghosts. Theodora was so brash and delightful, there was no room for melancholy.
She was also impatient. They had been waiting nearly an hour. As Mehmed disembarked, helped by a retinue, Theodora carefully reworked her face into something acceptable. Not demure, by any means, but at least respectful.
Mehmed did not appear to suffer any ill effects from the voyage. Radu smiled, but did not rush to greet his old friend as once he might have. Age had been hard on Mehmed. He was heavier and walked with a pronounced limp. A full beard obscured the lines on his face, but his eyes were as sharp and intelligent as they had ever been.
Mehmed waved away his attending guards.
“No stool carrier?” Radu said with a smile, unable to help himself.
Mehmed let out an exhalation that might have been a laugh. “He participated in an assassination plot. I had to have him killed.”
“Really?” Radu said, his eyebrows rising in horror.
Mehmed’s face split in a mischievous grin, taking him from forty to fifteen in a single expression. “No.”
Radu laughed, shaking his head. “You remember my daughter, Theodora.”
Mehmed smiled warmly at her. “Rumors of your beauty reach us even in Constantinople. I am glad to see you again. Last time you were far shorter than me.”
Radu felt a spike of anxiety. Radu could not look at her without seeing Lada and Mehmed. But if Mehmed suspected it, he said nothing. He patted Theodora’s hand, slipping her a pouch that sounded suspiciously heavy with coins.
“For all the birthdays I have missed, little one,” he said.
Theodora’s eyes twitched. “Thank you.”
“I wish we were reuniting under happier circumstances,” Mehmed said. “Though Lada did not excel at creating happy circumstances.”
Theodora looked at Radu. “I wish I had known her. Instead of only through stories.” She grinned then, something a bit wicked there. “Though the stories are quite good. Lada Tepes, the Lady Impaler. No one else has such a remarkable aunt.”
Mehmed and Radu laughed, but it was uncomfortable. Theodora had never been told the worst stories. Including how that aunt had killed her uncle.
“I will give you two a few moments alone before I pay my respects.” She bowed her head. The silver locket she always wore around her neck fell forward. Mehmed stared at it as though seeing a ghost. He turned to Radu, but Radu did not show any emotion.
“Thank you,” Radu said. “We will not be long.”
“Of course.” She spun with her arms wide, breathing in deeply. “Take as long as you want. There is something special here. I like the way Wallachia feels—warm and welcoming. Like a mother, is it not?” She walked away down the path, her steps assured and confident. She did not stomp and prowl as Lada had, but moved as though she owned whatever land she was on.
Radu felt his purpose here with a keener pain than he had before. They walked slowly toward the church.
Mehmed was still frowning. “Theodora is not Nazira’s, is she?”
Radu’s only answer was a sigh.
“I suspected. For years. But just now, the way her eyes narrowed in annoyance at my patronizing gift! I could scarcely breathe. It was like looking at the past. I see why you have avoided the capital all these years. Kept her away.”
Radu paused with his hand on the door. “She is my daughter.”
Mehmed’s smile was both kind and sad. “I am glad. Would that we all had had fathers such as you.” Mehmed’s adult life had been tumultuous, filled with tragedy and violence, even in his own family. He turned and looked at the gardens, apparently unwilling to go inside just yet. Radu did not begrudge him the delay. “How is Nazira?”
“She is well. She is having more difficulty with her vision, but she manages it with grace.” They were homebound now, but Fatima did not mind. The only place they had ever wanted to be was with each other, after all.
“And Cyprian?”
Radu’s heart ached. He hated being away from him, even now. “We finally made it to Cyprus two years ago. It was lovely. But I think our traveling days are over. His ankle bothers him now from his old injury.”
“You know, I thought of having him arrested.”
“What?”
Mehmed leaned against the doorway, putting his hand on the stones as though admiring the work. Radu realized he was tracing the name carved there. Lada Dracul, the patron of this particular church.
Mehmed grinned, Radu’s childhood friend once again peering through the beard and wrinkles. “Oh, it was years ago. And I was only going to hold Cyprian as a political prisoner. Just to make him stay in the capital so you would come back.”
“You and my sister always had such odd ways of expressing affection. She used to hit me and let others beat me. You considered kidnapping my loved ones to spend more quality time together.”
Mehmed smiled, but it was strained. “It was not the same once you left. There has never been anyone quite like you.”
“Or her.”
Mehmed’s expression was pained. “Or her. Which is probably for the best.” His gaze grew far away and misty. “I would have made her empress. You would think for a woman with her ambition…”
“She got exactly what she wanted.”
Mehmed pulled at his thick beard. “She did.”
And, in the end, she had gotten exactly what Radu predicted.
“Whose head was it?” Radu asked. “That you had brought to the capital and displayed on the wall? I have been wondering.”
“I have no idea. It did not much matter. A severed head is a severed head.” Mehmed had been fighting battles since he was twelve; Radu felt a little differently about severed heads, but they had lived very separate lives in the past twenty years.
Finally, with nothing else between them to delay the reason for their visit, they entered the main room of the chapel. Statues of saints stood sentry, and elaborate paintings told stories from the Bible. Radu noted the paintings were all especially violent ones, which was fitting, as this was the chapel Lada had paid for.
A monk stood, inclining his head. He led them to a portion of the floor with newer flagstones. A small marker at the top said simply PRINCE.
“No name?” Mehmed asked.
“I was afraid someone would desecrate it,” Radu said. Even in death, Lada had many enemies. They stared down in silence at where his sister slept, forever entombed.
“Was it your men?” Radu asked. There was no accusation in his tone, merely curiosity. Lada had been killed as she stood on a field ready to meet Mehmed and his men in battle, their first direct conflict since those horrible days outside Tirgoviste.
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