And I Darken

by Kiersten White

  This was Wallachia.

  This was hers.

  After the sun had nearly crossed the canyon and was preparing to disappear behind the mountain, Lada made her way back down. It was harder than the climb up, her feet less sure, her purpose less driving.

  When she walked back into the village, footsore and starving, it was to a severe scolding from her frantic nurse. Radu pouted that their whole day had been ruined, and even Bogdan scowled because she had not taken him with her.

  She did not care about any of them—she wanted to tell her father how she had felt up on the mountain, how her mother Wallachia had embraced her and filled her with light and warmth. She was filled to bursting with it, and she knew her father would understand. Knew he would be proud.

  But he had not even noticed her absence; and at dinner he was cross, complaining of a headache. Lada tucked the flower she had held on to all day beneath the table. Later that night, she pressed it into the small book of saints her nurse had packed for her, next to the sprig from the evergreen tree.

  The next day her father left to attend to business elsewhere.

  Still, that summer was the best of Lada’s life. With her father gone, so, too, was her driving desperation to please him. She splashed in the river with Bogdan and Radu, climbed rocks and trees, tormented the village children and was tormented back. She and Bogdan created a secret language, a bastard version of their native tongue, with Latin, Hungarian, and Saxon mixed in. When Radu asked to play with them, they answered him in their garbled, intricate language. Oftentimes he cried in frustration, which only served to prove they were right to leave such a whining baby out of their games.

  One day, high on the side of the mountain, Bogdan declared his intention to marry Lada. “Why would we marry?” Lada asked.

  “Because no other girls are fun. I hate girls. Except for you.”

  Already Lada understood, in a vague and fearful way, that her own future revolved around marriage. With her mother having long since returned to Moldavia—or fled there, depending on which gossip Lada was unable to avoid overhearing—there was no one she could ask about such things. Even the nurse simply clucked her tongue and told her sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof, from which Lada could only understand that marriage was evil.

  Sometimes she imagined a shadowy figure standing at a stone altar. She would hold up her hand, and he would take everything she had for himself. She burned with hatred at the very idea of that man, waiting, waiting to make her crawl.

  But this was Bogdan. She supposed if she had to marry anyone, it would be him. “Fine. But only if we agree that I am always in charge.”

  Bogdan laughed. “How is that any different from now?”

  After delivering a sharp punch to Bogdan’s shoulder, Lada was seized with a sudden and urgent need to eliminate the nightmare of the shadowy man. Here, on this mountain, everything was perfect. “We should marry right now.”

  “How?”

  “Give me your hand.”

  He obeyed, hissing with pain as she drew her knife across his palm. She did the same to her own hand, then grasped his in hers, the warm wetness mingling between their small, dirty hands. “On this mountain, with my mother Wallachia as witness, I marry Bogdan forever and no other.”

  He grinned, his big ears glowing red, backlit by the setting sun. “On this mountain, with Lada’s mother who is made of rocks and trees watching, I marry Lada forever and no other.”

  She squeezed his hand harder. “And I am in charge.”

  “And you are in charge.” They released each other and, with a puzzled and disappointed frown, Bogdan sat on the ground. “What now?”

  “How should I know? I have never married anyone before.”

  “We should kiss.”

  Shrugging with indifference, Lada put her lips against Bogdan’s. His were soft and dry, warm against her own, and this close his features blurred, making it look as though he had three eyes. She laughed, and he did, too. They spent the rest of the afternoon with their noses smashed together, telling each other how monstrous they looked with one eye, or three, or whatever other tricks their vision played.

  They never spoke of their marriage again, but it took weeks for their palms to heal.

  When, after an infinite passage of golden and green days, they finally returned to Tirgoviste, it felt like the opposite of a homecoming. Lada ached for what they had left behind. Someday she would go back to the Arges and rebuild the fortress on that mountain, to live there with her father and Bogdan. Maybe even Radu.

  It would be better than Tirgoviste. Anything would be better than Tirgoviste.

  1447: Tirgoviste, Wallachia

  RADU, ELEVEN YEARS OLD and still small for his age, kicked at the hard-crusted snow. He was cold and bored and angry. Lada and Bogdan screamed joyfully as they flew past him, the old metal shield barely holding the two of them. They tumbled off at the bottom of the hill, careering to a stop on the banks of the river. It had taken them ages to hike out here, with the heavy, stolen shield dragged behind them. Even though Radu had helped bring it, they would not give him a turn.

  As Lada and Bogdan carried the shield back up the hill for another round, they jabbered in their secret language. The one they still thought Radu could not understand.

  “Look at him.” Bogdan laughed, his doltish ears violently red in the cold. “I think he will cry.”

  “He always cries,” Lada answered, not even bothering to look at Radu.

  This, of course, made Radu’s eyes sting with tears. He hated Bogdan. If that stupid oaf were not here, it would be Radu going down the hill with Lada, Radu who shared her secrets.

  He stomped off through the snow, the reflected sun dazzlingly bright. If they caught him with tears in his eyes, he would claim it was the light. They would know the truth, though. On the banks of the river, the water was frozen for as far as he could see. Several children played nearby, some around his age. He edged closer to them, trying to appear as though he were merely going in that direction anyway.

  He wanted them to ask him to join.

  He wanted it so badly it hurt more than his frozen fingers.

  “I have a honey cake for whoever dares go to the middle of the river,” the oldest boy declared. His shoeless feet were wrapped in cloth, but he held himself as straight as any boyar child.

  “Liar,” answered a little girl with long braids trailing from the shawl clutched around her head. “You never have any food, Costin.”

  The boy lifted his chin, pride and anger visible in the set of his mouth. “I can go farther out than any of you. I dare you. Who is brave enough?”

  “I am,” Radu said. He immediately regretted it. Cautious by nature, ever fearful of being hurt, Radu shied away from risk. It was part of what Bogdan and Lada mocked him most for. Going out onto a frozen river was not something he would ever choose to do.

  He nearly backed away when he heard Bodgan’s loud whoop of joy behind him. He stepped forward instead.

  The group looked over, only now noticing him. Costin’s eyes narrowed as he took in Radu’s fine clothes, lingering on his leather boots. Radu wanted to be his friend. More than that, in a way Radu did not even understand, he wanted to be Costin. He wanted to look others full in the face, unafraid, unashamed, even with nothing to his name.

  Costin’s upper lip pulled back, and Radu was seized with a sudden fear, worse than that of facing the frozen river. He was afraid Costin would ignore him, or tell him to leave. He was afraid these children would look at him and know he was not worth their time.

  “If you go farther than I do, you can have my boots,” Radu said, his words tumbling out in desperation.

  Costin’s eyebrows rose, and his expression grew sly. “Do you swear?”

  “On all the saints.”

  The children looked equal parts aghast and impressed with Radu’s brash and inappropriate declaration. It was a very big swear, as there were more saints than Radu could ever remember. And he knew
he was not supposed to invoke them for something like this. Radu stood straighter, mimicking Costin’s aggressive stance.

  “And what if you go farther than me?” Costin’s tone indicated he thought it impossible.

  Radu smiled, going along with Costin’s obvious lie. “The honey cake.”

  Costin nodded, and they stepped from the bank to the river. This close to shore, the ice was an opaque white and littered with small pebbles. Radu shifted his feet hesitantly, trying to get a feel for how his boots might slip.

  Laughing, Costin glided forward, sliding his cloth-wrapped feet along as though he had done this a hundred times before. He probably had.

  Studying Costin, Radu continued to slide forward. He began making better progress, though he still lagged far behind. That was fine. Radu did not actually want to beat the boy, since he was certain Costin had no honey cake to offer. When people could not meet expectations, they got either ashamed or angry, Radu had found. He suspected Costin would be the type to get angry, and he wanted to be his friend, not his enemy.

  He had another pair of boots at home, anyway. Nurse would scold him, but she would not tell his father. And she was always kind and gentle to him after a good scolding.

  They had gotten several body lengths from the riverbank when a loud crack echoed around them. Radu froze.

  Costin looked back, dark eyes flashing, chin lifted. “The middle is this way, coward.” He took another few steps and, with a shattering sound, fell through the ice.

  “Costin!” Radu shouted, edging toward the break. The boy bobbed back up, scrambling for a grip on the ice. Radu dropped to his belly and scooted forward. He could nearly reach Costin’s hands, but he heard the ice beneath him weakening.

  Someone grabbed his ankle, yanking him back.

  “Wait!” he screamed, holding out his hands to Costin, who had leveraged himself onto his belly but could not get the rest of his body out of the water. He reached for Radu, but it was too late. Costin’s eyes widened in terror, his face as white as the ice, as Radu was pulled away.

  “Wait, wait, we have to help him!” Radu tried to scramble to his feet, but another hand took hold of his other ankle and slammed him down. His chin bounced against the ice, teeth biting into his tongue and drawing blood. Then he was thrown onto the bank of the river, with Lada slapping his face.

  “What were you thinking?” she screamed.

  “We have to help him!”

  “No!”

  “He will drown! Let me go!”

  She picked him up by his collar, shaking him. “You could have died!”

  “He will die!”

  “He is nothing! Your life is worth a hundred of his, you understand? Never, ever risk it again for someone else.”

  She was still shaking him, jarring his head, so he could not see the river, could not see whether or not Costin had made it. He could hear the other children shouting, but they sounded far away and indistinct over the pounding of his pulse. Radu finally looked at Lada, expecting to see fury, but instead she looked…unfamiliar. Her eyes were brimming with tears she would have mocked him for.

  “Never do that again.” She stood and pulled him up beside her. Bogdan took his other arm, and they dragged him away. Radu tried to look back, but Lada grabbed his neck and forced him to keep his gaze forward. He expected her to walk ahead of him on the long, cold trek home, or to yell at him. Instead, she stayed at his side, silent.

  “He was fine,” she finally said, after several minutes of listening to Radu sniffle. “He climbed out.”

  “He did?” Radu shivered with hope, trembling all over.

  Lada pointed to the shield. “Sit.” She made Bogdan pull Radu on it. She called Bogdan so many terms for an ass that Radu forgot Costin’s face and fell over laughing. That night, she sat close to him while they ate supper in front of the fire, picking at him, fussing over him in her way.

  When she thought he was sleeping, she crept into his room. Radu did not sleep much, always awake and worrying over something. But he lay as still as possible, keeping his breathing even, curious as to what she would do.

  She sat beside his bed for a long while. Finally, she put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “You are mine.”

  Radu had been thinking about the way Lada sounded when she told him that Costin had escaped the river. The tone of her voice, the lack of an edge. He was almost certain she had lied. He fell asleep, wrapped in the secure warmth of her next to him and nagged by guilt over how happy the day had made him.

  Still made him.

  THE SPRING AFTER SHE had nearly lost Radu to the icy river, Lada lay on her back, staring at the leafy branches overhead, boughs laced together so tightly everything was filtered through vibrant green. Their tutor droned on—Latin, today—and Radu dutifully repeated everything. He was almost twelve years old, and she nearing thirteen. Something about the passage of time and the addition of years to her name filled her with dread. She was not enough. Not yet. All this time and still she had so far to go.

  But after seven years of study—seven years in this city, in the castle—she could read, write, and speak Latin as well as anyone. It was the language of contracts and letters and God, formal and stiff in her mouth. Wallachian was considered a low language. It was a spoken language, rarely written.

  But oh, how lovely it tasted on the tongue.

  “Ladislav,” the tutor prompted. He was a young man, clean-shaven because he did not own land and thus was not allowed to grow facial hair. Lada found him insufferable, but her father insisted she be educated alongside Radu. In fact, her father’s exact words had been It is a waste to educate the mewling worm, but at least we can include Lada, who has a brain worth shaping. Pity she’s a girl.

  Smarter, stronger, bigger. She had never forgotten the reasons her father listed that she could not have hoped to beat him all those years ago. Her goal since then had been to earn his love, to show him that she could be all those things. It was a challenge she chased relentlessly. Because on the other side of that challenge—when she had achieved smarter, stronger, bigger—she was certain her father would look at her with more pride and love than he ever directed at her older brother, Mircea. He was twenty now, a grown man, and her father’s heir. Mircea campaigned when battles called for it, soothed tension between boyar families, ate with her father, planned with her father, rode with her father. He was the right hand of Wallachia; it was his hand that was always pulling hair, pinching skin, finding little ways to hurt someone that no one else could see.

  And someday he would be prince.

  If he lived that long.

  But before then, before it was too late, Lada would take Mircea’s place in their father’s heart. That day he had returned the knife to her and pronounced her the daughter of Wallachia had been the first time he had ever truly looked at her, and the memory of that was both a pleasure and an agony she had been nurturing ever since.

  She repeated the last sentence her tutor had said in Latin, then said it in Hungarian and Turkish for good measure.

  “Very good.” The tutor shifted uncomfortably on the wooden stool he carried with him. “Though we would all be better served learning indoors.”

  Her last tutor had slapped her for demanding to go outside. She broke his nose. This tutor never did more than make gentle suggestions, which were summarily ignored.

  “This is my country.” Lada stood, stretching her arms over her head, stiff sleeves straining against her movements. She did not like staying in the castle to study. Every day she made them ride out from the walled inner city, past the smaller homes and then the hovels and then the filthy, seedy outskirts of life clinging to the capital, into the fresh, green countryside. The horses were left in fields brilliant with purple flowers, while she and Radu studied in the shade of dense, pale-barked trees.

  “The country is not yours.” Radu scraped a stick against the ground to write out his Latin verbs.

  “Is this not Wallachia?”

  Radu nodd
ed. He had a smudge of dirt on his nose. It made her brother look small and ridiculous. It irritated Lada. He was always with her, an appendage to her life, and she never could decide how to feel about him. Sometimes, when a smile broke across his face like sun reflecting off a stream, or she saw him relax into sleep, she was filled with an unaccountable sort of ache. It terrified her.

  “Sit up straight.” She tugged on his chin and wiped his nose with her shirt so viciously that he cried out and tried to get away. She gripped his chin tighter. “This is Wallachia, and I am the daughter of Wallachia. Our father is the prince of Wallachia. This is my country.”

  Radu finally stopped struggling, glaring at her instead. Tears pooled in his big eyes. He was so pretty, this brother of hers. His was a face that made women stop in the lanes to coo at him. When he flashed his dimpled smile, the cook gave him extra servings of whatever he loved best. And when Lada saw him hurt, she wanted to protect him, which made her angry. He was weak, and protecting him felt like a weakness. Mircea certainly suffered no such weakness on her behalf.

  She let go of Radu’s chin and rubbed the back of her head. Last month Mircea had yanked her hair so hard he had left a bald spot, which only now was starting to fill in. Girls should know their place, he had hissed.

  Lada lifted her face to a ray of sunshine fighting its way through the leaves. This. This is my place. Her father had given it to her, and Wallachia would always be theirs.

  Radu kicked at his scribblings in the dirt. “Not everyone wants the country to be ours.”

  “Can we return to—” the tutor started, but Lada held up a hand, silencing him.

  Dropping to a crouch, she picked up a round stone, one perfectly fitted to her palm. Balanced. Heavy. Spinning, she launched the stone through the air. A thud was followed by a sharp cry of anger, and then laughter. Bogdan stood from where he had been creeping along the ground, trying to sneak up on them.

  “Try harder, Bogdan.” Lada’s sneer shifted into a smile. “Come sit. Radu is mangling Latin.”