And I Darken

by Kiersten White

  Lada avoided most of it, preferring to spend her time with the Janissaries or in the trees on the mountain. Mehmed rarely left. When the three of them did sneak away, it was during the day to the hidden pool, but it was too cold for swimming during the day now, much less in the middle of the night.

  They moved along the tree line, skirting the edge of the woods, running a course parallel to the river below. When they were a good distance from the fortress, the path began to climb. The terrain was rocky and covered with low, scrubby bushes, and navigating in the dark was difficult work.

  “Where are you idiots taking me?”

  “Patience, Lada,” Mehmed said.

  “I am going to start sleeping with a knife.”

  “If you had had a knife, you would have killed me!”

  “Yes, exactly. And then I could have gone back to sleep.”

  Radu snorted. “Nothing like cuddling a corpse to give you sweet dreams.”

  Mehmed pointed ahead of them, to shapes looming in the dark. Lada thought they were more massive boulders in the mountainside, but as she edged around them, she saw they were carefully shaped and carved into the mountain. Ferhat’s tunnel to Shirin! Elation overtook her, the taste of cold, clear water and the sound of beating hearts rushing over her.

  Then she realized what was really before her.

  Tombs.

  “Whose are they?” she asked, to cover her strange and embarrassing disappointment. She ran her hand along the outside of one. There was something carved, so faint she could barely feel it.

  “Pontus kings who ruled here more than a thousand years ago.”

  “What were their names?”

  “No one remembers.”

  She placed a hand flat on the cool limestone of one of the tomb covers. No one remembered the kings’ names, but they were still here, overlooking their land.

  Mehmed spread his cloak out and lay on his back, gesturing for Lada and Radu to join him. Radu immediately lay to Mehmed’s right. Lada stayed where she was. “Come on,” Mehmed said, “I did not bring you here to show you the tombs. We can look at them sometime when it is light.”

  Sighing loudly enough for him to hear, Lada dragged her feet and lay down on Mehmed’s left side, annoyed with him for asking and herself for obeying.

  And then everything else was swallowed by the enormity of the sky above her. The dark curve of the atmosphere was littered with light, stars spilling across her vision, overwhelming and beautiful. Vertigo briefly claimed Lada as she stared upward, and she felt as though she were falling into the sky, toward the stars. Then she saw a brilliant flash of light, trailed with fire. Radu gasped. Another star fell, burning brilliantly in the dark before disappearing.

  Mehmed whispered, as though afraid to break the spell, “Molla Gurani said this would happen tonight.”

  “How did he know?” Radu asked.

  “It happens on a cycle of years. He has books that note its occurrence. Tonight he is up in the tower recording our falling stars for the future to study.”

  “Why do you like him so much?” Lada asked, the wonder of the night above her stealing the sting from her question.

  Mehmed was quiet for a long time before answering. “That day you found me in the garden? Molla Gurani is the tutor who struck me.”

  “You should have had him killed,” Lada said.

  Mehmed laughed softly. “It sounds odd, but I am glad he hit me. Before him, no one, no tutor, no nurse ever stood up to me. They let me rage and rant, allowed me to be a terror. The more I pushed, the more they looked the other way. My father never saw me, my mother could not be bothered to take so much as a meal with me. No one cared who I was or what I became.”

  Lada tried to shift away from the thing poking into her heart and making her so uncomfortable, but there were no rocks beneath her.

  “And then Molla Gurani came. That first day, when he hit me, I could not believe it. I wanted to kill him. But what he said the next day changed me forever. He told me I was born for greatness, placed in this world by the hand of God, and he would never let me forget or abandon that trust.” Mehmed shrugged, his shoulder pressing against Lada’s. “Molla Gurani cared who I was and who I would become. I have tried ever since to live up to that.”

  Lada swallowed hard against the painful lump that had built in her throat. She could not blame Mehmed for latching on to a man who saw him, who demanded more of him and helped him attain it. It was a lonely, cold thing to live without expectations.

  She unwrapped her hand from where it clutched the pouch at her heart and cleared her throat. “He is still the most boring man alive.”

  Mehmed laughed, while Radu remained far away and silent.

  The streaks of light continued, sometimes coming so fast Lada could not keep track of them. Mehmed held up his hands, palms out, to either Draculesti beside him. Radu took one hand. Lada did not move, but when Mehmed lowered his hand to hers, she did not pull away.

  Radu lifted his free hand as though he would catch an especially bright star. “It is so sad they have to die.”

  Lada’s eyes watered from being held open so long, and a tear fell from the corner of her eye into her hair. Here, tonight, with Mehmed and Radu, felt like a dream she was terrified to let slip away. But the stars were real, and she would not miss the passing of a single one. “If they were not burning, we would never know they were there.”

  “I am glad we are here,” Mehmed said.

  Lada opened her mouth to agree, and then bit her tongue in horror. She was not glad. She could not be glad. Being glad would be the greatest betrayal of herself and her home she could ever commit. The sooner you stop fighting, Mara said in her head, the easier life will be.

  It was getting easier to be here. She could not live with that.

  “I want to go home,” she said, sitting up, pulling her hand away from Mehmed’s. It was cold where the air hit the skin that had been sealed against his.

  “Can we stay a while longer? Then we will walk back.”

  “No! I want to go home. To Wallachia.”

  Mehmed sat up slowly, looking at the ground. Radu stayed where he was, perfectly still. “Why do you want to go back?” Mehmed asked.

  Lada let out a strangled laugh. How had she felt so close to him just now, when he could ask her a question like that? He knew nothing about her. “Because I belong there. You said yourself no one cares what you do. So send me back.”

  He stood, turning his back on her. “I cannot.”

  “You can! Has your father ever once inquired after us? Has anyone? No one remembers we exist! That is how unimportant we are.” How unimportant Wallachia was. Even as leverage they were forgotten.

  “My father would be angry.”

  “He would not care. And if he did, what of it? He will not send you to the head gardener. He has already banished you here. What more can he do?”

  “Enough! I said I cannot do it.”

  “Cannot or will not?” Lada stood, head pounding. She did not want this, did not want to feel things or care about Mehmed. “Are you so desperate for friends you would keep us captive?”

  “I do not need you! I do not need anyone!”

  “Then prove yourself and send me home!”

  Mehmed closed the distance between them, his face so close she could see his eyes in the darkness. “I have no power! Is that what you want to hear, Lada? I could not so much as requisition a horse and supplies for you, much less get you safely to Wallachia. No one cares what I do here, because I can do nothing. If you want to get away from me so badly, do it yourself.” Mehmed turned and stalked into the night.

  “What is wrong with you?” Radu sounded on the verge of tears. “Why do you have to destroy everything good we have here?”

  “Because,” Lada said, voice flat with the sudden wave of exhaustion pulling her heavily to the ground. “We have nothing. Can you not see that?”

  “We have Mehmed!”

  Lada looked up. The stars were static,
still and cold in the night, all the fire gone from the sky. “It is not enough,” she said.

  RADU SAT BEHIND LADA, brushing her hair, tearing it into submission. Lada hissed at him.

  “Hold still,” Radu said, ignoring her slap at his hands. They sat as close to the fireplace as they could, a thick rug beneath them doing little to muffle the deep cold from the mountain beneath the keep.

  The door to their joint chambers burst open. Mehmed rushed in, face pale and eyes wide. Radu was thrilled—Mehmed had not visited them much this winter, not since Lada’s cruelty that night on the mountain. Lada studied alone now. Though Radu attended lessons with Mehmed, a formality had descended. Radu hated the distance between them and he hated Lada for putting it there.

  But Radu’s elation fell away as he realized something was wrong. He dropped the brush and rushed to Mehmed’s side. After guiding Mehmed to a cushion, Radu filled a cup with water and handed it to him. “What happened? What is it?”

  “My brothers,” Mehmed said, staring vacantly into the cup. “My older brothers are both dead. They have been for months. No one told me.”

  “Oh, Mehmed, I am sorry.” Radu put an arm around Mehmed’s shoulder and drew him close. Mehmed stiffened, then relaxed against Radu’s side. Radu could have warmed the room with the happiness burning inside him at this closeness after so many chilly weeks.

  “Did you even know your brothers?” Lada leaned back, toying with her now-smooth hair.

  Mehmed shook his head, dazed. “No, not really. Their mothers were important wives. They were raised to inherit the throne.” Mehmed’s mother was a concubine, a slave. Mehmed spoke of her infrequently, but when he did Radu listened with envy. He missed his nurse, and he missed the idea of a mother.

  Lada sat up straight, suddenly interested. “And now?”

  “Now they are dead. And my father has finally made peace with Hunyadi. He is tired, and his heart is heavy, and he wants nothing more than to retire to his estate in Anatolia and spend the rest of his days talking and dreaming and drinking with his philosophers.” Mehmed held out the sheaf of parchment he clutched in one hand. Lada stood and took it, scanning its contents. Mehmed rested his head on Radu’s shoulder. Radu stayed as still as he possibly could, even when his muscles begged for him to shift, scared that the tiniest movement would scare Mehmed away like a bird.

  Lada stumbled down onto the nearest cushion, rereading the missive. “He has abdicated. To you. He gives you the title of sultan under the banner of new peace.”

  The floor rushed out from under Radu. His ears buzzed with wind in the still room. Mehmed—his Mehmed—had been given the throne of the Ottoman state. One of the greatest powers in the world, draped over his shoulders like a rich, heavenly cloth. What would it mean for Radu and Lada? Would they be allowed to stay with Mehmed?

  Would it mean Mehmed could send them back to Wallachia?

  Because…Radu was not certain he wanted that.

  “I was third in line. I was never supposed to inherit. And I am too young. I am twelve!” Mehmed’s hand trembled, spilling water.

  Radu took the cup from him gently, setting it on a table, then took Mehmed’s hands in his. “What are you going to do?”

  “There is nothing I can do.”

  Lada stood. She dropped the parchment on the floor and stomped on it. Radu was scared, but Lada was angry. “There is something you can do. You can stop sitting here, trembling and fearful. You can stand up like a leader, put on your finest clothes, and ride into Edirne like the sultan you are.”

  Mehmed looked up at her with tears in his eyes. “You do not understand. The courts—they will never accept me. I was never supposed to be sultan. They will devour me. I have no allies, no one on my side.”

  Lada smiled viciously, put on her most mocking voice. “So now you would prove me correct. I thought you had your faith as your greatest strength.”

  Mehmed’s face hardened. “My faith is my strength.”

  “Then you have your god on your side. What is a court full of sycophants and rivals against that? Wrap yourself in the armor of your faith. Take your throne.”

  Mehmed pushed away Radu’s hands and stood, shoulders back, spine straight. He looked down his nose at Lada. Beneath the skinny body, behind the face just beginning to shift into a man’s, Radu saw a glimmer of what Mehmed could become. He shivered.

  “I will be sultan,” Mehmed growled. “When I take the throne, I will be the hand of God on Earth. I will fulfill the destiny laid out by Muhammad the Prophet, peace be upon him, and you will know that he was right.” He slumped, the fire gone out of his voice. “But I need more time. I want to do more than merely occupy the throne. I want to command it.”

  “How can they expect you to lead?” Radu asked. He hurried on, afraid of insulting Mehmed. “You will be a great leader. This is right, the hand of God in giving you the throne.” As soon as Radu said it, he knew it was true. He had seen what Mehmed was, what he could become. Mehmed was smart and true, clever and strong. When they prayed together, Radu felt it more deeply than when he prayed alone, as though Mehmed’s very soul was stronger than everyone’s around him.

  Lada tapped her chin. “I think we can help. Your father is abdicating because of the peace with Hunyadi, yes?”

  Mehmed nodded, frowning curiously. Radu flopped back. He put his hands over his face and groaned. He knew his sister too well. No help from her would be a good thing.

  “Very well, Sultan Mehmed. We go to claim your throne.” Lada’s face twisted into a smile that a wolf would envy. “And, since your father only felt safe enough to abdicate because of peace? When we get there, we start a war.”

  John Hunyadi, vaivode of Transylvania,

  I am writing on behalf of our shared interest in defeating the infidel Turks and protecting the Christian sanctity of Transylvania, Wallachia, and Constantinople itself. You will know me as the daughter of Vlad Dracul, vaivode of Wallachia. These past years I have been held in the Ottoman courts as ransom to secure my father’s loyalty.

  During my time here, I have become privy to many secrets. I desire the overthrow of the plague of Islam upon the earth, and you can help achieve it. Murad has this very day given up the sultanate, handing the throne to his young son, Mehmed. Mehmed is impetuous and untried, a zealot, fixated on taking Constantinople. He has neither the respect of his soldiers nor control of his people. Strike now. Strike hard. Secure our borders, push the infidels back, squeeze their filth from the lands of all Christendom.

  I will do what I can to foment dissension and rebellion within Mehmed’s own borders. I trust you to be an Athleta Christi beyond them. Rally the forces for a crusade such as the world has never seen.

  I look forward to the day when I am released from this den of vipers and can join you in protecting Wallachia, Transylvania, and blessed Constantinople.

  Ladislav Dragwlya, Daughter of the Dragon

  Lada slammed her knee into Nicolae’s stomach, narrowly missing his groin. His deflection threw him off-balance. She pressed her advantage, hitting him with her wooden practice sword until he dropped his own sword and stumbled back. To keep the fight challenging, she threw her sword down as well.

  She hated being back in Edirne, hated the way it made her feel caged, hated even more that she had briefly imagined she was free in Amasya. Freedom in these lands was a lie, a glittering fantasy to lull her into sleepiness, into acceptance, into forgetfulness.

  She was not free here and never would be.

  She had not seen Halima or Mara and did not know if they were even still in the capital, or if Murad had taken his wives with him. She hoped for Halima’s sake that he had, and for Mara’s sake that he had not.

  But she had no desire to see either of them, or ponder the questions they had raised.

  For now, she and Radu were stuck waiting. Mehmed had laughed, delighted, at Lada’s statements in her letter to Hunyadi. Radu had laughed as well, while giving his sister terrified looks behind Mehmed’s bac
k. He understood the truth behind each and every one of her words.

  But until they found out if Hunyadi would take the bait, if a war would threaten the empire and lure Murad back from his early retirement, Mehmed was sultan. In the two weeks since they had come to Edirne with its new sultan, Lada had not seen him once. He had been snatched away by the courts, pulled under in a too-familiar poison current of enemies and allies. More of the former than the latter. No one was happy with the young new leader.

  Lada had been certain he would wilt under the pressure, but in spite of his machinations to lure his father back, Mehmed had risen to the occasion. He bent to no man and met every challenge in the open, eager to learn.

  But all doors to him were closed now. Lada missed him sometimes, and she hated him for that. She had been right to push him away. Trusting him would only hurt her in the end.

  She swung her fist at Nicolae’s head. He raised an arm to block the blow, and she delivered a killing stab with her wooden dagger.

  Nicolae laughed, staggering dramatically to the ground. “Dead, again, at the hands of the ugliest girl in creation.” He stuck out his tongue, face contorted in a grimace.

  Lada kicked him in the stomach. “I am no girl. Who is next?”

  The other Janissaries, gathered in a loose circle around Lada and Nicolae, shuffled their feet and avoided eye contact. Nicolae pushed himself up on an elbow. “Really? Cowards!”

  “I still have bruises from the last time.”

  “I cannot sit without pain.”

  “She fights dirty.”

  Ivan did not even respond, having never forgiven Lada for besting him when they were introduced. He refused to fight her and rarely acknowledged her presence.