And I Darken

by Kiersten White

  “You died!” She pushed him away, staring at his face. He was changed, but it was him. Alive. Healthy.

  “Did I? That is disappointing. I was very much looking forward to being alive for our reunion. Though I feared you would kill me.”

  She pulled him close, letting him hold her, shaking in disbelief over her miracle. “I had a letter. It said…I thought you were dead.” She dug the letter free and held it out. Frowning, Mehmed took it. The line between his brows deepened.

  She loved that line. She had thought it lost forever. Relief and joy warred with anger. Because when he was gone, she had been left with nothing. She could no longer pretend that she had a life of her own here. But now he was back. And it left her…confused.

  “This is not Radu’s writing, but the signature is his. Whoever wrote this, it was not him. Someone wanted you to leave.” Mehmed frowned at the letter as though it would reveal its secrets. “Who would wish this?”

  For a few dark moments—the darkest of her life, even worse than thinking Mehmed dead—Lada wondered if Radu had been behind it, after all. She had what he wanted. It would have been a perfect way to get rid of her without killing her.

  But no. She could not think that of him. Whatever else was between them, Radu would not harm her this deeply. Because she would never do it to him, and Radu was not capable of being crueler than she was.

  Mehmed continued. “It would have to be someone in his inner circle. Someone with access to his signature.” He looked up at her expectantly.

  “You would know better than I.” Her tongue was dipped in the venom left from months of waiting and a week of grief. “I have been here, right where you left me. While Radu was at your side.”

  Mehmed shook his head. “He is with my father. I saw him but once. He commands a small group directly under the sultan.”

  “Then it could be anyone. I am no favorite of your father’s, or of Halil Pasha’s, or any number of men. My absence would not be mourned.”

  “I would mourn it. Every moment of every day.”

  “Did you?”

  Mehmed’s eyes were heavy with longing. “I did.”

  She turned away. “I was going to leave.”

  He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. “I forbid it.”

  “You can forbid me nothing.” But it sounded hollow and forced when she said it. She had spent the last week knowing exactly her value without him. It was a stolen horse, a single loyal friend, and a bleak and difficult future.

  He moved from her hair to her ear, trailing his lips along it. Her body responded despite her resolve to be angry, to punish him.

  He still wanted her. And she knew now what a fleeting and precious thing it was for a woman to be wanted in any way that made her important. She had been ready to run when she had lost this, but now…

  She would never admit it to Nicolae, could barely admit it to herself, but she would stay for Mehmed. She would stay for the way she felt when his mouth or eyes were on her. And she would stay for the power it gave her.

  His lips found hers, and she kissed him back with a determined ferocity. She touched him everywhere, his face, his hair, his shoulders, his hands, because he was here, and he was alive, and it was the first time that a man she loved had come back for her. She did not have to lose the life she had built here, the threads of safety and power she had. She had not lost him.

  “Say you are mine.” He trailed his lips down her neck. She arched into him, digging her fingers into his back.

  “I am yours,” she whispered. The words cut like knives, barely out of her mouth before he stole them, sealing them with his own lips.

  THE CARAVAN TRAVELED SLOWER than the rest of the army, left behind to follow the trail of a hundred thousand failures beaten into the dirt ahead of them.

  Radu was in no hurry to catch up.

  He had received begrudging permission from Murad to attend to Kumal’s contingent as they tried to keep him alive long enough to get home. Though Radu knew it would accomplish nothing toward his larger goals of aiding Mehmed’s ascension, he could not simply leave Kumal behind. Not like this. Kumal had begun to improve, but he was still fragile enough that Radu feared he would not survive the journey.

  Kumal had helped Radu understand his own soul, and he would not throw Kumal’s away without care.

  He pulled his horse to a halt, raising a fist for the men behind him to stop. He led his Janissaries, down four poor souls, and Kumal’s spahis. He did not know how many Kumal’s men had lost, but dreaded the unacceptable loss they faced should they be delayed.

  Up ahead, a group of men roughly equal in size to their own sat on horses, blocking the road. Hand on the pommel of his sword, Radu rode forward. Lazar moved to follow him, but he shook his head. A man broke off from the other group and rode to meet Radu. From a distance, Radu thought him very young; then he got closer and Radu realized his face was simply clean-shaven. Deep lines around the eyes betrayed his age, and Radu wondered who he was and why he would go against custom by not growing a mustache or a beard, depending on what he was entitled to.

  The man smiled bleakly, raising a hand in greeting. Though he was dressed in clothes more closely matched to this region, he spoke perfect Turkish. “Hello, sultan’s dog. Have you lost your master?”

  Radu narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar in the man’s face. And then he realized—he had seen this man’s portrait, altered now by the brushstrokes of age.

  Skanderberg.

  Radu looked over his shoulder. The wagon that carried Kumal sat like a fat beetle, unwieldy and vulnerable. Though their forces were evenly matched, Radu had seen too many caravans attacked to doubt for a second that the advantage was always with the attacker. He had something to protect—they had nothing to lose.

  With a heavy sigh, he turned back to Skanderberg. “My friend is ill.”

  Skanderberg looked into the distance, eyes soft and out of focus. “My whole country is ill.” His gaze fixed itself on Radu, taking in his clothes, his cap, his horse. “What is your name?”

  “Radu.”

  “Simply Radu? No family?”

  Radu smiled darkly. “My father sold me as collateral against the throne of Wallachia. You will understand why I do not claim him.”

  Skanderberg nodded. “I do. We must claim ourselves, sometimes. You should pick a new name.” Skanderberg’s name was a perversion of the name he had been given by the Ottomans—Iskander—and the bey title he had been given and then defied.

  Skanderberg’s mouth twisted playfully. “Perhaps Radu the Handsome.”

  “I was considering Radu the Overwhelmingly Weary.”

  “Hmm. Yes.” Skanderberg rubbed his cheeks, examining the men behind Radu. “Who are you escorting?”

  “His name is Kumal. He is vali of a provincial area half a day’s travel from Edirne. He owns very little, is no particular favorite of the sultan’s, and has no living relatives other than a younger sister who has nothing if he dies. And he will probably be dead before a ransom can be demanded.”

  Skanderberg laughed. “I see. So why are you risking your life escorting a corpse of no value?”

  “He showed me kindness when there was no advantage to him for doing so.”

  With a grunt, Skanderberg pulled a beaten metal flask from his saddlebag, took a drink, and then wiped his mouth. There was no tension in his body, no sense of imminent attack. Looking at Skanderberg’s men, Radu saw that their shoulders were turned inward, away from the potential fight. They looked, instead, over the ravaged and burned countryside. Radu wondered if they were the ones who had set the fires.

  “You do not seem to be taking much joy in your victory,” Radu said.

  “Ah, yes, my victory.” Skanderberg bared his teeth, holding his arms wide. “I remain lord of a broken and burned land, my coffers empty, my people sick, my fields destroyed. And yet my pride remains intact! My damnable pride and my people’s freedom will not fill their bellies this long coming winte
r. Some victories are merely defeat wearing the wrong clothing.” He spat on the ground. “How many men would you estimate we will lose if my pride demands one last gesture of defiance against our sultan?”

  “I will certainly lose the wagon. Even if you do not take Kumal, delay and hardship will mean his death. My men are tired but angry at their humiliation. Yours are bitter at the forces that cost them so much. I suspect you will ride away, as you always manage to, but with nothing gained other than Janissary blood mingling with your own men’s to water your dead fields. I do not think I will survive, which will be disappointing.”

  Skanderberg nodded thoughtfully. “He is a kind man, you say?”

  “The kindest I have ever known.”

  “Well then. We are late for our afternoon meal. Give Murad my regards, Radu the Handsome.”

  Radu tried his best to keep the relief flooding through his body from showing on his face. He merely inclined his head in respect, then urged his horse forward as Skanderberg moved to the side, signaling his men to do the same.

  For the next mile, Radu tensed, waiting for an arrow to find the center of his back, but none came. He said a silent prayer of gratitude for the kindness of Kumal, which had once again saved his life.

  Murad had not ceased drinking. Everyone was so constantly consumed by avoiding remarking on it that they may as well have spoken of nothing else.

  Radu walked through the streets of Edirne late one night. The winter chill had settled deep into the stones of the city, radiating outward and stealing the warmth from his bones. People imitated the buildings, huddling into themselves, peering out through shuttered eyelids, suspicious and bitter with cold.

  He stopped in at every gathering place he could—the mosques, the inns, the markets. Everywhere the tone was the same. The Janissary barracks, normally boisterous at mealtime, were as silent as the frost-covered trees. Radu slipped in wearing a Janissary cap and sat at the end of a table, head bent over his food.

  “…gets to keep his land and income? After all the ways the spahis failed during the siege? And our pay remains the same. He should have his wages garnished to give us a portion of what…”

  “…ill, my girl says he will not last much longer. Where are we then? If we could not take Skanderberg’s city, imagine what a siege on Constantinople would do to our ranks. I will walk away before I will serve under the little zealot….”

  He was learning nothing new. With a sigh, Radu pushed away his food and walked back into the night, staring up at the sky. Low-hanging clouds pressed down on Edirne, looming and cutting the city off from the stars. Perhaps it was just as well. Radu did not think any portents found in the stars tonight could be good ones.

  When he arrived at the palace, the air tasted as sour and close as a tomb. He stepped lightly as he stole past doors where his presence would be desired, and found his goal: his own room.

  His boots fell heavily to the floor in front of the hearth. The fire was low, but strong enough to warm the room.

  He was so tired.

  Murad requested his presence at all hours of the day and night, oftentimes demanding they stay awake until dawn. Radu had performed his poem so many times he often awoke, head aching and mouth dry, reciting it in his sleep as he had once joked he could do.

  If there was any mercy in the world, tonight Murad would forget him.

  A stack of letters had been left on his bedside table. He sifted through them, discarding the invitations from various acquaintances that were still pretending his return was a cause for celebration. After Kruje, he no longer had the spark for pretending to enjoy himself at gatherings. He had seen men die.

  He had killed men.

  And now he was right back where he had started, no closer to helping Mehmed. And Mehmed was as far away as he had ever been.

  Radu paused on a letter in a shaky script, then tore it open.

  It was from Kumal. Radu sat back, grinning with relief. Kumal was on the mend, slowly recovering his strength. But a sentence at the bottom of the letter left Radu both shocked and dismayed.

  I expect that, by spring, I will be well enough to attend your wedding to Nazira, a joyous event we bask in the warmth of anticipating. Until then, my dear brother, take care of yourself.

  Radu laughed in disbelief. Apparently Kumal did not view his survival as voiding a contract made on his deathbed. He would have to wait to tell Kumal it was impossible. He did not want any disappointment interrupting his friend’s convalescence.

  Radu had no idea if he was even allowed to marry. Janissaries were not, but he was not strictly a Janissary, despite his command. He supposed it came down to the whim of the sultan. Nazira held no political value, with Kumal’s position dependent on the favor of the capital and no significant money to their family. He knew she could marry higher than him, though, a pashazada or another vali. Why would Kumal want such a thing for her?

  A pang of bittersweet understanding rippled through him. Kumal wanted the best for his sister, which meant he wanted for her what he thought would make her happiest. All her kind attentions, her blushing smiles, her joyful radiance when he had visited—Radu was not Kumal’s choice. He was Nazira’s.

  But how could he give Nazira his heart when it was so twisted and tangled up in Mehmed’s? Hers glowed pure and open. He would have to persuade Kumal that Nazira deserved more than he could give her.

  A light knock on the door startled him. A servant boy, wide-eyed and wary-looking, bowed. “The sultan requests your presence.”

  Radu sighed. “Of course he does.” He gave the servant a beleaguered smile, and the boy’s face lit up with the shared understanding between them. “Do you get any sleep these days?”

  The boy shook his head. “None of us do. He wants every candle burning, constant singing, food and wine at all hours.” He darted a look over his shoulder, torn between excitement over the deviousness of speaking of the sultan in this tone and fear of being caught at it.

  Radu smiled to show the boy he was not worried. “I think he fears the dark. Who attends him when I am not there to keep him company?”

  The boy made a face. “Halil Pasha, often. He hit me last week for spilling a drop of soup on his shoe.”

  “Oh, I hate him. He is a terrible man.” Radu pulled out a coin from a purse beside his bed and handed it to the boy. “What is your name?”

  The boy bowed, voice squeaking. “Amal.”

  “Amal, I am sorry you must work so hard for so little. Whenever Halil Pasha is here, find me and I will give you an extra coin to make up for the pain of enduring his presence.”

  Radu feared Amal’s big head would fall right off his thin neck, he bobbed it so eagerly.

  If Halil Pasha was perched like a carrion crow, waiting to seize on the moment of Murad’s impending death, Radu needed to beat him to it.

  LADA LAY SPRAWLED ACROSS Mehmed’s bed, her head hanging over the side. “No, no, no.” She pushed his hand away from where it pointed at a map of Constantinople and the surrounding areas. “Your father could see only the wall, and that is where he failed.”

  “But if we cannot take the wall, we cannot take the city!”

  “Ignore the wall. The wall is your last step. If you want the city, what do you need first?”

  Mehmed scowled at the map, fingers unconsciously tracing the wall surrounding the city. But then his gaze shifted, his expression turning thoughtful. He moved his finger from the outline of the wall to the Bosporus Strait. It was the point through which all ships carrying supplies, soldiers, and aid from Europe had to pass. “We need to cut the throat,” he said. He threw himself off the bed, grabbing an inkwell and pen. On one side of the narrow stretch was a tower built by his great-grandfather Beyazid, the last point of Ottoman holdings before Byzantium land. He drew a matching tower on the other side, the side that was Byzantium territory. And then he slashed his pen across the water between them.

  Lada clapped her hands together, the sharp crack echoing through the room. “Deny
them aid. Meet them on the sea and the land. Make them fight you on all fronts—stretch them as thin as they go—and somewhere they will snap. Knock on every door; you need only one of them to open.”

  Mehmed’s smile dropped away, his hands hovering reverently above the map. He touched Lada that way, sometimes, and it stirred a strange jealousy in her breast to see him look at a city with the same worshipful hunger.

  “If I fail,” he said, “it will be the end of me.”

  Lada laughed. “Then do not try, little sheep. Tend to your flock. Patrol your borders. No one ever said you had to take Constantinople. It is only a dream.”

  Mehmed’s eyes burned when he looked up at her. “It is not simply my dream.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know all about your precious prophet’s dream.”

  “That is not what I am speaking of. My whole country was founded on a dream. Less than two hundred years ago we were nothing but a tribe, running from the Mongols, with no home of our own. But our leader—my ancestor—Osman Gazi dreamed we could be more. He saw a moon rise from the breast of a great sheikh and descend into his own. From his navel grew a tree, and its branches spread to cover the world. He knew then that his posterity, his wandering, homeless people, would rule the world. Is how far we have come not a testament to the truth of his vision? I have inherited that, Lada. It is a calling and a dream I cannot deny. The tree is mine to spread, and I must.”

  Lada wanted to mock him, wanted to argue, but her soul would not allow it. She understood that idea of something bigger than you, all encompassing, impossible to ever truly leave behind. She knew Mehmed would never be whole without the city that demanded his conquest, just as she knew she would never be whole without her country.

  Mehmed leaned closer to her. “I can do this. We can do this. Together.”

  “We cannot always have what we want, no matter how much we want it,” she whispered.

  Misreading her mood, Mehmed leaped onto the bed, nuzzling his face against her breasts and trying to sneak his hand lower along her stomach. As always, she caught his fingers, twisting them until he cried out in pain and gave up his attempt.