Not here, she thought. Anywhere but here. “Skanderberg?” she asked, changing the direction of their interaction. Iskander Bey had been one of Murad’s favorite Janissaries, and now he was one of Lada’s favorites. He had been a thorn in the empire’s side for years, using what he had learned from them to keep them at bay.
Lada had studied every account of his fights with the same devotion Mehmed gave to Islam.
Mehmed’s expression closed off. “Yes, my father has declared a new campaign. I will ride with him and command a flank in the siege.”
Lada’s chest welled with excitement. She could prove herself, her men, and…she could go, finally see somewhere else, even if it was not home. “When do we leave?”
Mehmed did not meet her eyes. He leaned down and picked up several of the flowers, carefully avoiding the sharp edges of the broken vase. “I leave this afternoon.”
Lada hurried to the door. “We can be ready within the hour, I—”
Mehmed grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “You are not coming.”
“I— What? We are ready. My men are ready. My force is small in number, but we can scout, and I will—”
“You are staying here!”
Lada peeled off his hand and took a step back. “Why?”
He was suddenly fascinated by the bruised flowers in his hand. “I need to leave someone I trust in charge of the city.”
“Anyone can do that! Nothing of value will be left here!”
Mehmed’s gaze was heavy when it finally found her. “Nothing of value?”
Understanding hit Lada. She ripped the flowers from his hand and threw them to the ground. “I will not stay behind to watch your brat! I am no nursemaid!”
Mehmed blinked rapidly, then shook his head. “Lada, I was not talking about my son. Do you think he is the only thing here I value?”
“Then what?”
“You! I will not take you into battle! You have no idea what the conditions are like, no idea how many ways there are to die.”
“I can handle myself.”
“But what about me? What would I do if something happened to you? I have to keep you safe!”
She pushed his chest, sending him stumbling, vase shards crunching beneath his boots. “I am not something to be kept! Next you will tell me you want to keep me behind walls, keep me in padded, perfumed rooms, keep me here. I am not your concubine, Mehmed!”
“That is not what I am asking!” He threw his hands up, pacing in a circle. “You are precious to me. What is so wrong with wanting to take care of you?”
“If I needed or wanted to be taken care of, I would be no better than the women in here! I am nothing like them.”
“No, you are not! I love you, Lada.” He closed his eyes and lowered his voice, trying to regain control. “Please allow me to love you. You are the most important person in my life. You and your brother are the only people who truly know me.”
Lada flinched, and Mehmed’s eyebrows raised as he noticed her reaction. He did not understand why, though. Lada had not told him about her last fight with Radu, nor that she had heard nothing from him since they parted. Mehmed remained blind to the true depths of Radu’s love—and to how much Lada missed her brother.
“Please,” Mehmed said. “I have already lost Radu to my father. He rarely writes, and when he does it is as though he addresses a stranger. I cannot afford to lose you, too.”
“You cannot lose something you do not own. Take me with you.”
With a frustrated growl, he tore the veil from her hair and threw it to the ground. “You look ridiculous. Armor suits you far more than silk.”
Lada put a hand to his cheek. His skin was soft and hot, always hot, as though he burned brighter than a normal person. Her voice came out a low purr, so like Huma’s she startled herself. “Take me with you, and I will wear armor the whole time.” She pulled his face down, kissing him, letting the fire he burned with ignite something inside her.
He grabbed her waist, pressing against her, matching her fierceness. She pushed her hip against his groin, where she could feel a hardness already formed. It terrified her, and also thrilled her that she had the power to make that happen. He groaned into her mouth, the kiss becoming deeper and more frantic.
“Lada,” he said, kissing her throat, her ear, her hair. “Lada, Lada.”
“Take me with you,” she whispered in his ear.
He buried his face in her hair, arms holding her so tightly she knew she had won. Then he shook his head. “No.”
With a scream, she pushed him away. He fell, his shoes soaked from the vase’s water. She pulled out a dagger, leaned down, and cut off his sash. Crumpling the silk in her fist, she stared down at him. “You need me safe? Who will keep you safe? I have killed you again under your guard’s very noses.”
He had the audacity to lie back on the floor and laugh. “Lada, no one in the world would ever be as devoted or ingenious in the pursuit of killing me as you are time and again.” He held out his arms, black eyes imploring. “Come, spend these few hours with me. I miss you.”
She leaned forward, just out of his reach. “You should become accustomed to that sensation.”
The way out was easier than the way in, the opposite of how a harem usually functioned for the women who crossed the threshold. As she left, she passed a startled Ilyas. She threw Mehmed’s sash at his feet. “We killed him again. You lose. Try to bring him back alive from Albania.”
Her own cruel words to Mehmed stung her as she nodded to a waiting Stefan, indicating their latest game had been a success. If Mehmed died, they would have parted with him declaring his love and her answering with cruelty. He would never know how she felt—that he tormented her, that he was a bright star in the black nighttime of her life.
It would be exactly what he deserved, to die without knowing, because he left her behind.
And she would never forgive herself.
1451: Kruje, Albania
RADU SUPPOSED THAT, with his new armor and weaponry, plus a personal servant, a tent, supplies, and a gorgeous horse, he was wealthier than he had ever been after years of owning nothing. He simply would have preferred this newfound prosperity to be the result of something other than marching to war at Murad’s side.
He knew, too, that somewhere among the tens of thousands of men around him, Mehmed moved toward the same goal.
Remaining in Edirne would have been lonely with the pashas, pashazadas, Janissaries, and various friends he had made all gone for the siege of Skanderberg’s Albanian holdings. He would have had far too much time to think when denied his daily scheming, spying, and socializing. He would have thought of nothing but Mehmed.
This was not a preferable scenario. He found himself scanning the endless sea of faces constantly—wondering, yearning, hoping for simply a glimpse of his friend.
But Murad’s and Mehmed’s forces were on different ends of the procession, separating Radu and Mehmed by a full day’s march. The sheer logistics of moving this many men and this much equipment was staggering. Supply wagons and trains of animals trailed the soldiers, as did several hundred women who traveled with the men and offered various…services.
Murad had looked pleased when Radu blanched at an offer to take advantage of the women. “You are truly a devout son of God.”
Radu had not known whether to laugh or cry over this praise.
Three days from their target city, Kruje, Radu had ridden ahead with Lazar and the scouts under his command. The rolling, soft green landscape had begun to show signs of civilization. Radu pulled his horse to a stop, patting her long, black neck while he waited for Lazar to catch up.
“What happened here? Is this where they fought before?” Radu looked out across vast, undulating farmland charred beyond use.
Lazar shook his head. “God’s wounds. Skanderberg’s welcoming gift. We will find no supplies from here to the city.”
“He burned his own land?” Radu could scarcely take in the enormity of the destro
yed crops. It was prime growing season, meaning Skanderberg would have had to destroy an entire season’s worth of crops, leaving his people with nothing come harvesttime.
“Probably poisoned the wells and ponds for good measure.”
“But what about his people? What will they do when the siege is over?”
Lazar shrugged. “Not our concern.” He rode back toward the main body of the soldiers to report on their findings. Radu guided his horse forward at a slow walk, taking in the ravaged countryside. It would certainly make their work more difficult. They had accounted for taking livestock and supplies to supplement their stores. This would make things tighter and more difficult, splintering their men to guard the now-crucial supply trains. It also raised the cost of the siege to even more astronomical heights.
But it was the image of a stone foundation, charred wood walls drawing the crude blackened outlines of what had once been a home, that stayed with Radu for the remainder of his travels. Their forces would not have burned civilians’ homes down. And, after they took the city, they would have allowed everyone in Skanderberg’s domain to continue to live as they had before, to worship as they had before, giving them security and prosperity.
Radu wondered how much Skanderberg was willing to sacrifice and destroy in the name of protecting his people.
By the time they reached the walls of Kruje, Radu was already saddle- and soul-weary. Setting up and organizing camp took nearly a week. They were within sight of the city but out of cannon’s reach. Radu’s men pitched tent on the outer circle of Murad’s vast pavilion, which was tucked into the center of the camp, buffered by tens of thousands of people around it. The Ottomans now had a larger population than any city within several days’ march, including Kruje.
Radu commanded a frontier force. Their role was to harass and harry lines, not set up for siege. He helped direct where he could, stayed out of the way where he could not, and watched with a mixture of pride and dread as their superior force settled in to besiege the traitor Skanderberg.
And, five times a day, Radu set out his mat and prayed, sending extra hope toward God that the siege would be over quickly.
Radu walked the perimeters of the camp. It had been three weeks since they arrived, with little to show for it. They had sent scouting parties to find the city’s water source and cut it off, to no avail. They had tried to bribe the commander of the city and been rebuffed. The walls loomed, constant and mocking.
“It is a siege,” Lazar would say, shrugging his shoulders. “The game is waiting.”
Radu did not care for the game. His men had been used lightly so far, only escorting one supply train and doing guard duty two nights every seven. He had been frightened to be part of a siege, but now he was bored. All the waiting was liable to make a man mad.
He sighed, walking far enough from the camp that the fires did not impede his ability to see in the dark. He could have stayed in his tent, but if his men were out here, he would be, too. It was only fair.
Nearby, Yazid, a young Janissary, whispered as he walked. “What hangs at a man’s thigh and wants to poke the hole that it has often poked before?”
Someone groaned in annoyance. Lazar hissed for Yazid to shut up. Radu blushed, grateful for being unseen. He already had a reputation for being too delicate about these matters, and wondered what the men said behind his back.
An odd clicking noise drew his attention. He squinted through the darkness.
“Get down!” Lazar slammed into him, bearing him to the ground. Something passed over them, more the rumor of a sound than anything.
Radu crawled out from under Lazar, dazed and in shock. If it had not been for Lazar, he would be dead. His impulse, strongest and first, was to run. He was not made for this. If Lada were here, she would have…
No. He was in charge. He would lead his men.
“To me!” he shouted. “Crossbows! Shields up, form a line!”
He held his shield in front of him, tense and cringing as he waited for a bolt to claim him. Lazar stood next to him, his shield pressed to Radu’s. With a speed that made him proud, Radu’s men joined them. As one, they moved forward, steady and sure, toward where their unseen assailants still fired at them.
They met no one.
Skanderberg’s men had already disappeared into the darkness, whatever purpose they had been after thwarted. Radu’s forces warily broke their line, ears and eyes on high alert.
“A key,” Yazid muttered as he broke a crossbow bolt off from where it had lodged in his shield. “The answer was a key. Though I suppose a bolt would have been a good line, too.”
Lazar stayed next to Radu, but he drew no comfort. Everyone else seemed so calm, resigned to the familiar reality of battle. Radu was cold from the sweat that had instantly drenched him, his racing heart still frantic. He had always known they would be attacked, but it had been theoretical. He had not known it as he did now.
He walked, newly aware of every part of his body as though he were naked. He felt himself once again too small, too weak, like the boy terrified of Mircea’s unpredictable bursts of violence. Only now he had no castle to hide in, no curtains to stand behind.
And he was responsible for so many more lives than his own.
THREE MONTHS AFTER THE rest of the Janissaries left, Lada’s men finally had something to look forward to. They were expecting a shipment of gunpowder. Normally they would have had nothing to do with it. But with all the other Janissaries on the siege at Kruje, it was up to them to decide how to use it. The responsible decision would be to put it in storage and wait for the return of Ilyas. He would, no doubt, have specific people in mind to train on gunpowder uses and strategies.
But Ilyas was not here.
And with Radu far away excelling at politics and not a single letter from Mehmed, Lada wanted to burn things.
She was waiting at the gate to the keep when the wagon rolled to a stop in front of her. A woman climbed down, brows hunched low and matching her posture. “Where is the commander?”
“I am the commander.”
Though her back would never straighten again, the woman’s eyebrows did. “You.” Her gaze took in Lada’s uniform, but it lingered like a question on Lada’s chest.
Lada resisted the urge to fold her arms over her breasts. “Yes.”
“You are not what I expected.”
With a shrug, Lada said, “I could say the same.”
The woman smiled, revealing several missing teeth. “We are at war. Again. My husband and sons are always called up by our spahi leader to serve. We have unique skills.”
“We?”
“I know as much about gunpowder as any man.”
“And yet you are left behind.” Lada scowled, moving forward to look at the barrels in the wagon. “Does that make you angry?”
“Of course it makes me angry. It leaves me to do the work of my husband and our three sons all by myself.”
“No, I mean you have as much place fighting as they do. They should not leave you behind like you are worthless.”
“Bah. We shoulder a burden for the empire, just as the men do. Who else could keep everything running while soldiers tromp about having pissing contests?”
Lada laughed in spite of herself. “You would not say that in front of me if I were a man.”
“I transport gunpowder and teach fools how to avoid killing themselves with it. I say whatever I want in front of whomever I want.”
Nicolae tripped up to them, nearly dancing in his excitement. “What should we blow up first?” His eyes were bright enough to light gunpowder without a flame.
The woman sighed. “My name is Tohin. Might as well begin introductions, because it looks like I will be spending more time than normal keeping your fools from killing themselves.”
“Tohin, I am glad to have you.” Lada was surprised to feel how sincerely she meant it.
Tohin reminded Lada of her nurse, if Lada’s nurse had had fingertips burned to thick calluses and had been e
xpert in the use of gunpowder for combat. There was a quality there, a directness bordering on blunt hostility, that brought to mind the way her nurse would mutter to herself when she thought no one could hear. There was also a gleam of approval in Tohin’s eyes as she watched Lada command her men that made Lada think of sitting by the fireplace, having her hair brushed.
If only this woman came with a Bogdan, too.
Or a Radu.
After several days training with tiny amounts of gunpowder—how to pack it, how to set a fuse so that there was time to get away before it blew, how to care for it—Lada’s men were ready for a real lesson. They hiked up the side of the mountain and down into a narrow canyon, away from any homesteads. Each man carried a portion of gunpowder, and they took turns lugging a tremendously heavy small cannon. It was work slicked with sweat and punctuated with cursing.
Lada imagined she was climbing to Mehmed’s side to fight next to him. And then she imagined she would be aiming the cannon at his heart instead.
She did not know which scenario made her feel better.
Finally at their destination, they set down the cannon. “I like crossbows more,” Petru said, sulking as he massaged his hands.
Tohin slapped the back of his head. “Think bigger, little idiot.”
The scenario was simple. An army would be coming at them through the canyon. They had to fire as many rounds of cannon shot as they could to disrupt the imaginary soldiers.
Lada knew the impact of the cannon would be more psychological than anything. Artillery light enough to be easily transported would not do much more damage than Petru’s beloved crossbow, but the noise and newness of the cannon could be used as an intimidation tactic to break lines and trigger a retreat.
Still, it was an awful lot of work for relatively little reward. She stood back as Matei and Stefan adjusted the angle of the cannon with Tohin’s guidance. The walls of the canyon were narrow and steep, with minimal cover. If an army was coming down it, there would be nowhere for them to go but forward—into them—or back, only to try again.
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