And I Darken

by Kiersten White

  Lada choked, and every head whipped around to face her.

  “Oh, Lada! I am sorry,” Nazira exclaimed. “We should remember Radu is your brother.”

  Spluttering something that resembled an excuse, Lada fled to her mat, her skin not even dry before she tugged her clothing on and gripped the pouch safely back around her neck. She would find out nothing she wanted to in the bath.

  But as she ran to her rooms, trousers clinging to her legs, she kept hearing the phrase that was more of a revelation than any political plotting: A woman can be pleased as well as a man.

  “He married her? Already?” Mehmed stood, then sat back down, then stood again. “But we spoke of it only three days ago! And he did not even want to marry her! He asked for a modest estate, but when I agreed I did not think…Married?”

  “Things change, apparently.” Lada had tried to corner Radu to talk to him before the wedding, but he had barricaded himself behind his big eyes and empty smile, simply saying over and over that Nazira would make a wonderful wife. She had been forced to watch as they were married in Turkish. Radu gave his life away in another tongue sealed by another god.

  Nazira had blushed her way through the ceremony, a maid standing by her shoulder. And when it was over, the couple had barely touched, all the passion of two innocent children playing at marriage between them. Lada had been invited to a feast at Kumal’s city house afterward, but she feared she would not be able to be civil. Not to that man. Not ever.

  Radu had just nodded and wished her well when she told him she was leaving. And now he was married.

  “It makes no sense,” Mehmed said. “What does Kumal Pasha have to gain by an alliance with Radu?”

  Lada scoffed. “Is it not obvious? Kumal is a pasha now. Radu has your favor. Kumal wants to be closer to you. We will have to watch him.”

  Mehmed shook his head. “Kumal has no ties to Halil Pasha. In fact, I have already gone over all the taxes and accounts from Kumal’s vilayet. He is beyond reproach. He and his men acquitted themselves with honor during the siege of Skanderberg. He already knows I value and trust him, and he is respectful without ever courting favor. This does not benefit him. But Nazira is his youngest sister. Perhaps he spoils her, and let her pick her own match.”

  Lada did not want that to be true. She wanted there to be a darker purpose, a reason to hate them, a reason to punish them. But Radu was smart. If he were in trouble, he would have gone to Mehmed, if not Lada.

  “Maybe…maybe she really does love him.” Lada knew Radu did not love Nazira. But if it made him happy to focus on a person other than Mehmed, it could be a good thing for him as well.

  Mehmed shook his head. “Of course she would love him. Half the city is in love with him. Still, his acceptance makes no sense. He does not love her.”

  Lada watched him to see if there was more meaning, more understanding behind his words, but she could not tell.

  He stared at the wall, deep in thought. “And she cannot make him happy.”

  A bathhouse conversation tugged at Lada. “What about Nazira?”

  “Hmm?” Mehmed finally focused on her, still distracted. “What about her?”

  “Why is it her duty to make him happy? What will Radu do to make her happy?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Be her husband. Provide for her. Give her…children.” He puckered his lips as though the word was distasteful. As though he had not already done the same.

  “And children are her reward for enduring him.”

  “Enduring him? She is fortunate!”

  “Tell me,” Lada said, her thoughts of snakes and gardens and seeds and duties now muddied with steam-swirled, improbable ideas of pleasure beyond kissing. “What do you do to make your women happy?”

  Mehmed’s mouth drew taut, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. “My women? What are you speaking of?”

  “Your harem. They exist to serve you. They give you sons.” She spat the word out. “What do you do for them?”

  “I do not wish to speak of that with you. You know I have to—”

  “This is not about what you have to do! Do you like them? Do you love them? Which of them do you love best?”

  “I do not know! They are— It is different. It is like the man who carries my stool. I neither like nor dislike him. He is there to serve a purpose. Why do you want to talk about this?”

  “Because I want to know if you have ever, even once, thought of what might bring them pleasure! Or is it entirely a transaction, part of the business of being sultan? Are they as stools to you?”

  His brows drew close together, his expression pained. “Which answer do you want, Lada? Which would make it better?”

  She backed up. “I do not know.”

  He took a step forward, closing the distance between them, eyes on the floor and voice uncharacteristically tentative. “If you wanted to…I would do whatever you wanted, whatever you needed for us to be together. Anything.”

  With a sharp rap preceding him, Nicolae opened the door. Lada jumped guiltily away from Mehmed. Nicolae grinned, oblivious to the atmosphere in the room.

  “We are not due for a changing of the guard for another hour, when you will accompany me to the royal treasury,” Mehmed snapped, sitting down.

  Nicolae bowed deeply. “My anticipation is so strong it is physically painful to wait even that long. But I am not here for you, my father. Lada, I have a surprise for you. Come out.”

  “Bring it in here.” Mehmed slouched on his chair, scowling.

  Nicolae shrugged, but his scarred face was unable to conceal his glee as he stepped aside.

  A man walked into the room, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, thick in his movements. He wore a Janissary uniform. Lada was about to shout at Nicolae that a new recruit was hardly worth the interruption, until she saw what the man’s cap failed to cover.

  Two ears that stuck out like the handles on a jug.

  His grin felt like all of Wallachia reaching out to draw her home. “Lada,” Bogdan said.

  She ran forward and threw herself at him. He did not hesitate, wrapping his arms around her and spinning her in a circle. She buried her face in his neck, unable to believe it was real. Bogdan, her Bogdan, lost to her so long ago.

  Alive. Here. Hers.

  “Who are you?” Mehmed demanded.

  Without putting Lada down, Bogdan answered in a voice deeper than the one she had known, but so very him that it made her feel like a child again. “I am her husband.”

  Lada laughed, smacking the back of his head. He lowered her, but she kept a hand on his shoulder. She had to make certain he was real and he was not leaving.

  “I hardly think our marriage was binding.” She took his hands in hers, his fingers short and callused. His face had broadened, his features fitting better now that he had grown into them. He was sturdy, strong, exactly how she would have imagined him had she had the heart to let herself.

  “Will you please explain?” Mehmed asked. His face was as coldly and precisely arranged as a floor of tiles.

  “This is Bogdan. My oldest friend. His mother was my nurse, and we grew up tormenting her and Radu. He was lost to me, so long ago. I thought him lost forever! Oh, Bogdan.” She put a hand on his cheek, the stubble there shocking her and reminding her of all their missed time.

  “You have no idea how many Bogdans I had to try before finding the right one,” Nicolae said.

  Lada could not restrain her smile. “Thank you.”

  “He seems like he will make a good addition to our corps. Big enough to sit on Petru when he gets too annoying.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Mehmed raised an eyebrow.

  Lada’s smile vanished. What was wrong with him? Why could he not see how happy she was to be reunited with Bogdan? She caught his eyes flicking to where her hand still rested on Bogdan’s shoulder.

  She lifted her chin, not letting go. “Bogdan, this is Mehmed, the sultan.”

  Bogdan bowed as was appropriate, but there w
as something in his movements that made the bow look as though it were an afterthought. Something he was going to do anyway, and Mehmed simply happened to be standing in front of it.

  Lada pulled his hand. “Come, let me show you—”

  “I want you to accompany me to the treasury,” Mehmed said.

  “What?”

  “There are some accounts I wish to have your thoughts on.”

  “But Nicolae was—”

  “Nicolae can show—Bogdan, was it?—where the barracks are. Go now.”

  “No! They will stay.”

  Bogdan stood, impassive, his face betraying nothing. Nicolae’s eyes widened in warning. “Lada,” he mouthed.

  She realized she was asking them to directly defy a command from Mehmed. Her Mehmed, yes, but their sultan, their “father.” If they obeyed her, they could be killed for treason. She knew Mehmed would do no such thing, but at the same time, she could not ask Nicolae and Bogdan to defy him for her sake.

  “Go,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will meet you later.”

  She watched them leave, then walked five steps in front of Mehmed the whole way to the treasury. She was seething.

  “Lada,” he said.

  She did not turn back or answer.

  When they arrived at the treasury, Mehmed was detained by mounds of parchment: tallies and ledgers and contracts. She stood by the door, supposedly scanning for threats but instead spending all her energy glaring at Mehmed’s back.

  Finally, the clerks left.

  “What is this about?” Lada asked.

  “What do you mean?” Mehmed did not look up.

  “You dragged me here when you knew I did not want to come. I have not seen Bogdan in years—I thought him dead—and you decided my input on matters of the treasury mattered more?”

  “Forgive me if I was taken aback to be introduced to your husband.”

  Lada spluttered. “He is not— It was a game between children.” She looked down her nose at him. “Besides, you are certainly in no position to complain about that. How is Sitti Hatun these days?”

  Mehmed burst from his chair, hands around her shoulders before she could move. She braced herself, but his face softened and his grip loosened, one hand coming up to cup her face. “I am sorry. I have not seen you that happy in…It surprised me, is all. I did not know how to react. I am glad you found your friend.”

  Lada nodded, still wary.

  “You should go, speak with him, catch up. Come to my rooms for supper tonight, afterward, and tell me about it.” He smiled, and she did not have time to see whether it was a genuine smile or a smile of the sultan before he leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers. The soft insistence of his mouth trapped her, and she answered back with her own.

  They had not had time alone like this in all the days since they came to Edirne. Her hands and mouth informed her she was ravenous for him. He stepped back to the chair, pulling her with him as he sat down. Sitting on his lap, she wrapped her legs around him. She felt his neck’s racing pulse as he drew her closer and closer. His hands danced along her body, moving to a new place as soon as she registered where they had just touched. They left a trail of fire in their wake, writing him onto her skin.

  Lada heard the knock at the door as if through water, and it took several more knocks before she understood what it meant.

  She drew back, gasping.

  Mehmed smiled wickedly, straightening her tunic for her. “You should go.”

  “I should go,” she echoed.

  “I will see you tonight.”

  She floated on a red haze of lust, pondering what pleasure could be had if one’s partner was willing. It lasted a single corridor before she remembered Bogdan. With a dark suspicion that Mehmed had been trying to make certain she thought of only him, she ran for the wing of the palace that housed her men.

  She raced from room to room. Their ranks had swelled thanks to Nicolae’s diligence, and she was greeted with barely familiar faces until finally she found the room she wanted.

  Nicolae stood, talking easily as Bogdan put his things into a plain set of drawers.

  Lada froze in the doorway. After the first shock of their meeting, she did not know how to greet him. They were no longer children with the ease of a lifetime spent together. What had the last years done to him?

  What had they done to her?

  She was struck with a sudden horror of what the Lada who had first come here would think of the one who existed now.

  Bogdan regarded her without expression. “So, this is the life you have built for yourself.” Though his tone lacked judgment, Lada felt herself bristle. She did not have to apologize. Not to Bogdan, and not to her old self.

  “Yes. I lead the finest troops in the whole empire.”

  “So I see. And you answer to the sultan.”

  She folded her arms. “I answer to myself.”

  “Then why are you still here? Why not take what you can and leave?” He searched her face as though looking for something no longer there.

  “I— It is not that simple.”

  Nicolae’s scar twisted around his wry smile. “We were going to, once. And then she changed her mind.”

  “I did not change my mind! There were other considerations. And besides, if we had left, you would be here and I would be gone. How would we have found one another again?”

  Bogdan nodded, accepting the truth of that as easily as a dog thrown a bone. “So we go now.”

  “Where?”

  “To Wallachia.”

  “I cannot go back there. My father sold me, Bogdan. He brought me here and he used my life to buy his throne. There is nothing for us there. I will never go back to my father.” No matter how much she learned—how strong she was, how clever or brutal or loved—her father still dictated her life. “Better a sultan than my father,” she whispered.

  “Fathers do not live forever,” Bodgan said, shrugging. But he used the Turkish word for father. The word Janissaries used to refer to the sultan.

  BACK IN THE CITY after his brief postnuptial leave, Radu passed the dough-faced youngest member of Lada’s band of soldiers. Something about him nagged at Radu. His face was so soft looking, his body so hulking. He did not match.

  Radu did not care for most of Lada’s men, but he could not deny they were the best at protecting Mehmed. They each had a portion of that feral, ruthless determination that made up his sister’s core. Sometimes Nicolae or one of the friendlier ones would greet him in Wallachian. He always responded in Turkish.

  Mehmed sat listening to Ishak Pasha speak on the status of finances in the Amasya and Anatolia regions, where he would soon be sent as the beylerbey, a local governor. Radu had told Mehmed they needed to separate Ishak Pasha and Halil Pasha, and Mehmed trusted his judgment. Radu wondered what had been decided in the few days he had been gone. He had been so anxious to return that Nazira and Fatima had teased him for constantly looking over his shoulder at the road to Edirne.

  Mehmed caught Radu’s eye. Some trouble betrayed itself in the sudden tightening of his eyes. But it was gone as soon as it appeared, and he went back to nodding.

  On Mehmed’s right was Halil Pasha. Grand Vizier Halil, Radu reminded himself.

  As soon as Ishak Pasha finished speaking, Mehmed stood. “Radu! Back so soon? How could you bear to leave your lovely bride?”

  It was not difficult to flush with embarrassment. The sheepish, knowing smile was more of a stretch, but Radu had had much practice. “Thank you, Sultan, for the beautiful estate. She is overjoyed with the process of making it home. I am afraid I was quite in the way, and have already been banished until she has everything precisely the way she wants it.”

  The men laughed knowingly. Kumal’s smile was soft. Not for the first time, Radu wondered if he knew the true nature of his marriage to Nazira. But he did not have the courage to ask. If Kumal did not know, what would he think of Radu if he found out?

  Mehmed gestured toward a chair near his. Radu s
at, wishing he could sink down and close his eyes.

  The home was lovely. A secluded estate, large enough to support a woman and her maid, a village within easy distance to purchase what their gardens and livestock did not supply. Nazira could not stop crying as she went from room to room, holding hands with Fatima. Radu had the spare bedroom, a warm and bright space. He did not anticipate visiting much. He held Nazira dear, but hers was a happiness so complete that it threatened to canker his soul. He did not want jealousy to cast any shade on her life with Fatima. And it had been agony for him to be that far from Mehmed.

  Just as it was now agony to be this close.

  A page came to the door, interrupting the conversation, which had shifted to crop plans. The boy bowed, trembling, and announced the arrival of an envoy from Constantinople.

  Mehmed’s eyebrows rose, though it was his only discernable reaction. Other men in the room gasped or whispered in hushed tones. Though many countries had sent envoys with gifts and elaborate proclamations of congratulations, they had not expected one from Constantinople.

  Mehmed gave Radu an imperceptible glance. Radu nodded toward Halil.

  His face open and at ease, Mehmed turned to Halil. “How do you advise me? Should I see them immediately or make them wait?”

  Halil’s chest puffed like a tiny bird chirping its importance to the world. “I think it would be wise to see them right now, Sultan.”

  “Very well. Send them in.”

  Three men entered. They were dressed in vibrant yellows, blues, and greens, and wore red boots. Each layer of elaborately stitched and brocaded clothing was styled to reveal the layer beneath, a gaudy display of wealth. Clothing was expensive, a symbol of status. The Byzantines apparently made every effort to show as much of their clothing at one time as possible. Large hats like the sails of ships covered their heads, and each man held something in his hands.

  Halil stood. “I present the sultan, the Shadow of God on Earth, the Glory of the Ottoman Empire, Mehmed the Second.”

  The three men bowed respectfully, though they did not remove their hats. “We come on behalf of Constantine the Eleventh Dragaš Palaiologos, emperor of Byzantium, Caesar of Rome, bearing gifts and petitions.”