The only thing Lada could not take from him.
He pushed to stand up, knee jerking awkwardly beneath the desk, slamming against it. A curse stopped halfway from his lips. Something had shifted. He got down on the floor and looked up at the bottom of the desk. A false panel, jarred loose by his knee, hinted at something within.
Radu eased it free and pulled out a thick sheaf of parchments. They were written in Latin, dense script neatly marching down each page. He scanned as quickly as he could, his despair forgotten. Most of the top letter was about a man named Orhan, a claim, an allowance. It meant nothing to Radu, but he tucked the information away. He flipped through the pages, stopping with a shock at the end of a short missive. It was signed on behalf of Constantine XI.
The emperor of Constantinople.
Footsteps from down the hall set him panicking. He shoved the letters back into the hidden compartment, then slid the panel into place. It failed to line up exactly, but he was out of time. He threw himself across the room and stood in front of one of the book displays, trying to hide his guilty countenance.
The heavy door swung shut, and he did not dare turn around. If he never turned around, he would never have to see that he had been discovered.
A hand came onto his shoulder, not heavy and violent, but gentle.
“Radu,” Salih said, his voice as tentative as his touch.
Radu turned around with a shaking breath and a falsely bright smile painted on his face. Salih was standing close, too close, only one of those trembling breaths away.
Before Radu could form a question, his mouth was covered by Salih’s.
Radu tensed, shocked and confused by this attack. Salih’s hands gripped his waist, pulling him closer, mouth desperate and hungry against his own. Finally, Radu’s panic-soaked brain processed what was happening. He lifted his own hands, unsure what to do with them. He put them on Salih’s shoulders and pushed him back.
Salih met his eyes with a desperation Radu felt to his core. The desire there was raw and so obvious it hurt.
This was what Lazar had seen when Radu looked at Mehmed. A wave of humiliation and despair washed over him. Everyone had to know. If Radu was this obvious, surely Mehmed knew how he felt, knew what he was, even before Radu had.
Lada must know, too.
Rage flared up, eating away at his humiliation. He narrowed his eyes, refocusing on Salih in front of him. Sad, lonely Salih. Salih, who wanted him.
He brought his lips to Salih’s with a ferocity that bruised his mouth against Salih’s teeth. Salih opened his lips with a gasp as Radu grabbed the back of his head, sliding his fingers beneath Salih’s turban to knot them in his hair. Salih pawed at Radu’s tunic, tugging on the sash around his waist. He pulled Radu’s tunic up, and ran his hand from Radu’s stomach to his chest.
Radu did not know if this was desire or anger or disgust, or some combination of the three. He hated Salih for wanting him, hated himself for liking it, hated Mehmed and most of all Lada.
He kissed Salih harder.
The handle to the door clicked, and Salih jumped away from Radu, terror on his face. Radu turned to the shelf behind him and pulled out a book at random, opening to the middle. An illuminated page in artful Arabic script, the edges leafed with gold, blurred in front of him.
“Salih?” a deep voice lined with disapproval asked. “What are you doing in here?”
Radu glanced back to see Halil Pasha. The older man was out of breath and sweating. He glanced once toward the desk reflexively, then looked back at his son.
“We were looking for a book,” Salih said.
Halil Pasha finally noticed Radu. He took in everything, realization moving slowly across his face as his lip curled in disgust. Radu’s out-of-place tunic. Salih’s raw and red mouth. Radu felt as dirty as he ever had, the evidence of his manipulation of Salih written all over both of them.
“This is my private study,” Halil Pasha growled.
“I know! I am sorry. I thought— You were at the garden reception. Is it over so early?”
Halil Pasha waved a hand dismissively, but his tone was strained. “There was a murder. Some whore of Mehmed’s killed one of the guests.”
Radu dropped the book. Halil Pasha glared at him, but Radu could not react how he was supposed to. There could be no other woman there who would kill someone. No one but Lada.
“Wait. I know you.” Halil Pasha’s eyes narrowed as he finally looked at Radu’s face instead of merely registering his guilt. “You have grown. You were Mehmed’s friend, when he was sultan.” The realization finished clicking into place. “Your sister. I remember her now.”
Radu swallowed. “I must go. My apologies for interrupting your night.” Radu dipped his head, not looking at Salih, and fled.
He went to Lada’s room first, but it was empty. The vast hallways of the palace were empty as well, ominous with their lack of activity. Radu turned a corner, heading for Mehmed’s chambers, when he nearly ran into Lazar.
He grabbed the soldier’s arm. “Where is Lada? What happened?”
Lazar frowned. “She is in a lot of trouble. You should stay out of it.”
“Where?”
He sighed. “Come with me.”
They hurried down the hallways until they reached one of the rooms that, two days before, had been overflowing with food and drink and light.
Now, it held a trial.
Lada stood, straight and solid in defiance, in one corner. Murad, surrounded by several guards, stood at the other end of the room, nodding as an enraged man dressed in Italian finery screamed and gesticulated in Lada’s direction.
Mehmed stood in the center, watching his father with a mixture of veiled fear and simmering rage. To anyone who did not know him, it would have appeared he was merely bored. But Radu knew every expression, every change of his face.
Radu’s stomach turned, and he crossed his arms over his chest, as though he could keep his heart from eating itself with bitterness and loathing. Lazar put a hand on his shoulder. “We should go,” he whispered. “This is a dangerous time to draw attention to yourself.”
“Not yet.” Radu slid along the wall, disappearing into the milling crowds of whispering people. It looked as though most of the wedding party was here, waiting to see how the evening’s unexpected excitement would play out.
Lada was alone. The hem of her skirts was stained a rusty dark brown. One of her hands, too, bore the proof of her guilt. She made no attempt to hide it or rub the dried blood away. Instead, she stared steadily out at the room, looking as though she would like to continue the work of killing as soon as possible.
In her place, Radu knew he would have been a sobbing waste of a man. And he had seen her, the first time she had killed, how hollow and shaken she had been. He could see a hint of the same displacement in the way her eyes focused on nothing, but, as with Mehmed, no one who did not know her would realize how upset she was.
Radu knew her. He understood.
He still hated her.
“Enough.” Murad waved his hand to cut off the increasingly loud discourse of the Italian. “Mehmed, tell me what happened.”
He spoke through gritted teeth. “I do not know, Father.”
“Why were you in that part of the garden?”
“I needed to breathe. Sitti Hatun’s perfume turns my stomach.”
There was a ripple through the crowd as various people reacted to Mehmed’s cruelty toward his bride. Murad’s eyebrows descended lower. “And why was she in that part of the garden?”
Mehmed’s lips twitched tighter and he raised his eyebrows in a challenge. There was a sudden intake of breath as everyone in the room came to the same conclusion.
Murad’s face purpled with rage. He stalked across the room to stand in front of Lada. Several inches taller, he loomed over her. She did not move. “What were you doing that deep in the garden?”
Radu wondered why Murad would direct his anger toward Lada and not Mehmed, when it was his son
who was embarrassing him.
Radu bitterly wanted the truth, even as he desperately wished for something else. Lada, however, said simply, “Following Mehmed.”
“And why would you do that?”
“To protect him.”
“At his own wedding party? What harm did you think could befall him?”
She finally changed her stony expression, raising a single eyebrow in disgust. “A knife in the dark. The exact harm I prevented.”
“We found no knife on the man you killed.”
Mehmed spoke. “Several people got to the body before the Janissary guards did. Anyone could have removed the weapon.”
Murad turned toward Mehmed. “Did the man attack you?”
“He was looking for me.”
“And no one could have been looking for you at your own party with anything other than murderous intentions?”
“I am not that popular,” Mehmed answered, his voice dry.
Murad’s face turned a deeper shade. He jabbed a finger toward Lada. “Why did you kill that man?”
“I saw him stalking Mehmed. I saw a glint of metal in the darkness. I acted without hesitation to protect Mehmed, just as I have done before.”
Murad tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
Radu cringed at her error, and saw Lada blanch. The attempt on Mehmed’s life during his time as sultan was secret. She could not claim it now. She shook her head, stammered, “I—I mean, just as I have been trained to.”
“Trained to?”
“I am a Jani—” She stopped, as shocked by what she was about to say as everyone else was. All the training in the world would not make her a Janissary. And it left her without a clear reason for taking it upon herself to kill a man.
“You are not a Janissary. Who are you?”
Lada looked at Murad with cold fury, her voice trembling with pain. “You do not remember?”
Radu leaned heavily against the wall, a bitter laugh trapped in his throat. The man who had stolen them, the man they had lived in terror of all these years, the man who had destroyed their lives did not even remember them. The secret to their survival, then, revealed: not Mehmed, not the grace of God, but rather an oversight by a man who could not be bothered to keep track of them.
“I know who she is.” The crowd parted to let Halil Pasha through. He looked around, and Radu knew whom he was searching for. He shifted and Lazar casually stepped in front of him, blocking him from Halil Pasha’s view. “She is Ladislav Dragwlya, daughter of Vlad, the treacherous vaivode of Wallachia. The treaty breaker. Was it not part of the terms of his princedom that he maintain loyalties to you? In exchange for the lives of his children?”
Mehmed stepped forward. “That is not at issue here! We are talking of the attempt on my—”
Halil Pasha waved a dismissive hand and continued talking. “How many times now has Wallachia gone against our interests? Should we not take this opportunity to remind Vlad of the consequences of disloyalty?”
A cold clarity fell on Radu like the first frost of autumn. Just as it signaled the coming winter, he could see what was happening. Halil Pasha did not want further inquiries into the incident in the garden. He was distracting Murad by bringing up a larger issue, that of their father’s betrayal. And in doing so, he was eliminating the girl who had twice disrupted what Radu suspected were Halil Pasha’s own attempts at ensuring Mehmed never ruled.
Lada was going to die tonight.
Murad was examining her with narrowed eyes, the Field of Blackbirds where they had fought rising again in his memory. Now, no doubt, that memory was filled with the Wallachian soldiers who had defied him—and here was Lada, representing the whole country.
Radu took a step nearer the door. He had gifts from Mehmed and others, things that could be sold. He had a horse and traveling clothes. He could slip into the night and disappear. He looked at Mehmed, who was looking at Lada.
Only ever looking at Lada.
Bitterness so heavy he could taste it welled within Radu, and he turned to leave. But as he did, he caught a glimpse of Lada. Instead of seeing the girl Mehmed had chosen, instead of seeing the girl who had failed him time and again by never being what he needed her to be, he saw the same expression she wore that day so long ago when she crawled out on the ice to rescue him. At the time, he had thought it was anger. He saw now that it was terror, and defiance in the face of her own all-consuming fear.
He hung his head. She had ventured onto the ice for him to spite death. And he knew she would do it again without hesitation.
“How could I have forgotten about you?” Murad asked Lada. His voice balanced on a sword’s edge between venom and amusement.
Radu stepped forward, breaking free of Lazar’s grip, with a laugh as though this were all an amusing game between friends. It was just in time, as everyone looked at him and missed the snarl that deformed Lada’s face and betrayed her increasingly murderous anger.
With a flourish, Radu bowed deeply. “My Sultan, jewel of Anatolia, vessel of power, chosen and most beloved of God, it is an honor! I can assure you that we have never once forgotten about you.” He straightened, a benevolent smile lighting his face. “Indeed, if it is not impertinent, I have adopted the Janissary tradition and think of you as Father. For years I have wanted this opportunity to thank you.”
Murad’s eyebrows lifted beneath his turban. “Thank me?”
“For saving us. For educating us, bringing us out of the dark, and, most important, for bringing us to God.”
“What are you talking about?” Halil Pasha snapped.
“My sister and I converted to Islam years ago. It has been the greatest source of light and joy in my life, and I would have been left in the darkness without the generosity of our father, the sultan. I speak for both of us, of course.”
Lada’s face turned a deep, angry red. Radu smiled at her, twitching his eyes narrower for a split second. If she messed this up, they would both die.
Murad turned to Lada, and for a breathlessly terrifying second she did nothing. Then, every muscle strained, she bowed her head in acknowledgment.
“But what of their father?” Halil Pasha’s voice sounded like that of a child stamping its feet in rage.
Radu grinned. “You have not communicated with him since his betrayal three years ago?”
Murad shook his head, expression still wary.
This time, Radu let his laugh ring through the room, showering his delight on everyone listening. “Then he will have assumed us dead this whole time! What a just punishment for the slithering infidel. I hope every day has been agony and every night a torment! Will you tell him now that we are alive, happy and settled in our home? Imagine how his heart will swell. And then you could inform him of our conversion, cutting his joyful heart right out.” Radu clapped his hands together gleefully. “I am sorry. I overstep. Of course it is up to Your Magnificence to decide how to deal with that man. I am simply so grateful to finally have an opportunity to thank you myself for all you have given us. Your grace and benevolence have shaped my entire life.” He bowed again, even deeper, then looked up reverently.
Murad was smiling. And Mehmed looked relieved and grateful as he met Radu’s eye. Radu dared not look at Lada and draw anyone’s attention back to her. He needed them to focus on him, on his grand performance.
But it was an easy one to act. Because, while he hated Murad, he did consider this home. And he had converted, with Molla Gurani as his witness. Islam had given him a home, given him a place to belong, given him peace when nothing else had.
Well, almost nothing else. He looked away from Mehmed. He still had God.
Murad’s smile was thoughtful, not cruel. “I will not forget you again.”
“It is the deepest honor imaginable to be remembered by you.” Radu bowed yet again as Murad walked past him. Murad placed a hand on top of his head, then exited the room. Radu straightened, meeting Halil Pasha’s calculating gaze.
“It would appear,” Halil
Pasha said, so quietly only Radu could hear, “that the sultan has entirely forgotten the matter of your sister murdering a guest at the party.”
Radu smiled knowingly, as though he and Halil Pasha shared the same concerns. He knew only a few things about Halil Pasha, and he would bring them all into play. “Perhaps it is for the best that no one looks closely into what happened.”
The other man’s voice grew wary. “What do you mean?”
“Simply that it is a wedding. A celebration. We should move past this unfortunate incident, pray for the poor man’s soul, and anticipate the day when Mehmed once again returns to the countryside, far away and forgotten.”
With a grunt of what could have been assent, Halil Pasha swept from the room, followed by the remaining attendees, who were now certain that nothing of interest would happen. If any of them were concerned over the lack of resolution regarding the matter of the murdered man, no one mentioned it.
Lada called Radu’s name, brows furrowed, hands reaching out toward him. Mehmed looked toward Radu, waiting for him to join them and discuss what had happened.
Radu turned and left.
LADA PUT ON HER boots with a sigh of relief. Their tenure here had been interminable. After last week’s debacle, she had kept a low profile. Mehmed was constantly surrounded by guards. Perhaps Murad had not entirely forgotten that someone had tried to kill Mehmed.
If that was, in fact, what had happened.
Lada had been certain she had seen the flash of a weapon, but no one could identify the man, and the guest list had been conveniently misplaced. It was part of the reason the matter had been dropped. No one would claim the murdered man, which pointed to the fact that he should not have been there, whatever his purpose.
But it remained that she had killed him before being sure that he was, in fact, after Mehmed.
She frowned, tying a sash around her tunic. If the man was innocent, she was sorry, but she knew she would make the same choice again. What did that say about her?
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