Radu would have preferred to read privately, but he could not bear to leave this gift of time with Mehmed. But the way Mehmed’s eyes were fixed on the letter, like a starving man on a circle of bread, hurt. All this time they had spent apart, all these times he had never been waiting for Radu.
Mehmed was here only for Lada.
He was still in love with her. They never spoke of her, but it was inescapable. Perhaps, since she left before Mehmed could claim her, he would long for her forever. The same way he was fixated on Constantinople, simply because it was not his but he felt it should be.
According to Islam, though, Mehmed could not consummate his relationship with Lada. It was forbidden outside of marriage or official concubines. Lada had been inside Mehmed’s harem, though, which legally made her part of it.
There was always a way forward for Mehmed and Lada.
Radu hung his head. What did he hope his future would be? To stand forever at Mehmed’s side, beloved friend, trusted advisor? He had told Nazira it would be enough. It would never be enough.
Mehmed put a hand on Radu’s shoulder. The jolt of the touch went so much deeper than the light pressure of his fingers. “Are you well, my friend?”
Radu cleared his throat, nodding. He tore open the letter with more force than was needed. It was addressed, in typically sentimental style, to My only brother, Radu. It had been more honest than his greeting to her.
“What does she say?” Mehmed asked, perfectly still. He may as well have been bounding around the room, for all his stillness hid his anxiety.
Radu read aloud, his voice flat from the exhaustion of his emotions.
“I was surprised to receive your letter. I am sorry to report that the messenger you sent is dead. I did not kill him. I suppose, in a way, you did, for sending him here.”
Radu paused, narrowing his eyes in annoyance both at Lada’s words and at the fact that she might have a point. Had he sacrificed a life simply to send a letter to his sister?
“She teases you,” Mehmed said. “I am sure the messenger is fine. Go on.”
“In turn, I will surprise you by telling you I am with Hunyadi. He found me in Transylvania and we declined to murder each other. I wondered if I was being disloyal to our father and brother, but they are dead and so cannot complain. He invited my company to join his.
“I do not know his motives, but I accepted. I will finally have an ally worth something. If I can convince Hunyadi to support me, I can take the throne. I know it. But after that, I do not have the skill for nobility. I am a blunt weapon. I need a surgeon.
“I am tired of being the right hand to powerful men. I want you as my right hand. I have seen you move among nobility as easily as a hawk cuts through the air. Cut through the boyars for me. Come home, Radu. Help me. Wallachia belongs to us, and I will not be complete without you.”
Radu paused, shocked. “And then she signs her name.” He did not say how she signed it.
Lada, on the ice and in need of your hand this time.
With one line she had dragged him back to his helpless childhood, when he had needed rescuing after going out too far on the ice. And—he could not quite believe it—she was asking him for help.
She recognized that he was good at something she was not. Mehmed had been right. Lada needed him to secure her path to power. For a few silent, painful moments, he considered it. She was his sister. She had never asked him for anything. She had expected him to come along initially, because she thought he should, not because she wanted him to.
Now, though…
“Will you go to her?”
Radu looked up, surprised. Mehmed’s voice was as quiet as his own had been, as carefully devoid of emotion. But Radu knew his friend’s face better than anything on earth. He had studied it, worshipped it. And Mehmed could not hide his fear and anguish.
It was balm to Radu’s soul, such a tremendous relief that Radu let out a shaky laugh. Lada was not the only Dracul who mattered to Mehmed.
“No. No, of course not.”
Mehmed’s shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his face. He again put a hand on Radu’s shoulder, then took the letter from him.
And Radu was happy, standing there with his friend. Because as much as it meant to be valued by his weapon of a sister, it was not where he belonged. She wanted him to achieve her goals. But, as always, she discounted his feelings. He had worked too long and hard here to abandon it all in pursuit of her dream. It had never been his dream.
Lada would be hurt by his decision. The thought made him feel oddly powerful. He hated that about himself, but he could not avoid it. Lada wanted him, and Mehmed wanted him. He would choose Mehmed. He could not do anything else.
Mehmed tapped his finger against the page. “It is very interesting that she is in Hunyadi’s inner circle. After everything he did to your father and brother.”
Radu was surprised, too. But it made a sort of sense. “Lada only holds grudges that are useful to her. In a way, our father’s death freed her. She might even be grateful to Hunyadi. Regardless, if she can learn from him and use him to gain power, she will forgive him anything.”
“Hmm,” Mehmed said. His finger traced Hunyadi’s name.
Radu wanted the letter back. He wanted to read again how he could do things his strong, vicious sister never could. He wanted to hold the letter and remember the fear on Mehmed’s face when he thought Radu would choose to leave. That fear was enough to give Radu hope.
He might have his own dream yet.
A WEEK INTO LADA’S TRAVELS with the Hungarians, Hunyadi rode along the edge of camp where her men had set up. He shouted a command in Hungarian to pack up. No one responded. He looked to Lada.
They had not spoken much, and Lada was beginning to question her rashness in sending Bogdan to find someone to carry a letter to Radu. Maybe she had written too soon of Hunyadi as her ally. And if anything happened to Bogdan, she would never forgive herself. He was the one piece of her childhood she had managed to hold on to. She could not bear to lose him, too.
The absence of Bogdan reminded Lada of the absence of the other two men who mattered most to her. But soon Radu would receive her letter and join them. The other man she chose not to dwell on.
Hunyadi shouted the order again. “Why do your men not obey?” he asked.
Lada raised an eyebrow. “They do not speak Hungarian.”
He shouted the same command in Turkish. As one, the men looked at him. No one moved.
Lada narrowed her eyes. “And they do not answer to Turkish.”
Hunyadi frowned, tugging at his beard. “Then how do I command them?”
“You do not. I do.” In Wallachian, she commanded her men to pack up. Immediately they sprang into efficient, well-practiced action. Hunyadi watched, his expression thoughtful. Lada rode with more cheer after that. She would prove herself to him yet.
Later that day, Hunyadi found Lada riding next to Stefan and Nicolae near the back of the company. Stefan veered his horse away, giving Hunyadi space.
“Your men are very disciplined,” Hunyadi said, scratching his beard. He toyed with it constantly. Lada wondered if it was because as a young man he had not been allowed a beard. He had fought long and hard to move from being the son of peasant farmers to one of the strongest leaders on the borders of the Ottoman Empire. She supposed he had every right to be amused by and affectionate toward his beard.
Or perhaps beards were just itchy.
“We were well trained,” Lada answered in Wallachian.
Hunyadi responded in the same language. “I always prefer fighting spahis to Janissaries. Janissaries are so much fiercer.”
Nicolae smiled wryly. “That is one of the benefits of a slave force that can have neither possessions nor families. It is easy to be fearless when you have nothing to lose.”
Hunyadi grunted. Pointing to Nicolae’s prominent scar, he asked, “Where did you get that?” His Wallachian accent was so bad that it hurt Lada to hear him speak.
Nicolae’s smile broadened, stretching his scar tight and white. “At Varna. From a Hungarian. Right before we killed your king.”
Lada’s hands went to her wrists, ready to defend Nicolae. To her surprise, Hunyadi laughed. “Oh, Varna. That was a disaster.” He shifted back into Hungarian. “Set me back a few years. We still have not recovered from the loss of our king. Our new one, Ladislas Posthumous, is not exactly ideal.” His expression grew faraway and thoughtful. “He could be replaced.”
Lada pounced on his tone before she could think better of it. “You?” Hunyadi had been a prince of Transylvania. He was beloved by his people, and a fearsome military force. If he were king—and her ally—
The path to the throne of Wallachia opened before her, bathed in golden light.
Until Hunyadi laughed, puncturing her hopes and bringing darkness crashing back down. “Me, king? No. I have tried a throne. It turns out I am not fond of sitting, no matter what the seat may be.”
Lada slouched moodily in her saddle. Hunyadi would still be a strong ally. But a king was better. “Your people would be fortunate to have such a man as their king.”
Hunyadi clapped a hand on her shoulder. “I am a soldier. I am not made for politics and courts. My son Matthias, on the other hand, has been raised in them. He will go far, and do greater things than I ever could.” Hunyadi beamed. “He is my greatest triumph. And he is very handsome.”
Lada frowned, unsure what that had to do with Matthias’s merits. She had seen, though, how many doors opened for Radu because of his face. “I am sure that will be useful to him.”
“He needs a strong wife. Someone who can temper his…extravagances. Help steer him.”
“He will need a good alliance.” If Matthias wanted to continue to rise within the Hungarian courts, he would have to bring some sort of power with him. Hunyadi had no family name, no history. He had land and wealth, yes, but they were new. And newness was not something to be proud of in the world of nobility.
Hunyadi patted her shoulder again. “I am less concerned with alliances. Those come and go. But strength of character—that cannot be valued enough.”
Hunyadi rode away, with Lada staring at his back in confusion.
“Does he want me to find his son a wife?” she asked, turning to Stefan, who had been leaning over to Nicolae and whispering. Stefan pretended not to speak Hungarian, but he understood it.
Nicolae’s face was purpling from the effort of holding something back. Finally, it escaped in a strangled, airy laugh. “Lada, my darling dragon, he wants you to be his son’s wife.”
“The devil take him,” she snapped. Anger and humiliation washed through her. All this time Hunyadi had been viewing her as merely a womb. How could she make the world see her as she saw herself? “And the devil take his son, too.” She rubbed her forehead wearily. No wonder he had tried to command her men. He probably already viewed them as his own, some sort of dowry. “Where exactly are we?”
Nicolae pulled closer to her. “Near Bulgaria.”
Staring bleakly at the winter-dead trees around them, Lada did not know what to do. Kill Hunyadi and move on? Marry his son for a chance at the Hungarian throne? Would that bring her closer to Wallachia, or take her even further away? It was the same choice she had faced before, the only choice ever given to her: take what little power you can through a man.
If she had known this would be her fate, over and over, she would have stayed with Mehmed. At least with him she had that spark, that burning. If Matthias was as smart and handsome as his father said, he would have no use for a wife such as her. And she did not want to be a wife.
Never a wife.
She had left behind love and ridden off to a future devoid of power. “I have nothing,” she whispered.
Nicolae nudged his horse even closer to hers, until their legs brushed. “You still have us,” he said, his voice soft with understanding. “We will figure something out.”
Lada nodded, trying not to let her despair show. How much longer could she hope to keep Nicolae? Stefan? Petru and the rest of her men? Would they choose to stay loyal to her over someone with a reputation and power like Hunyadi’s? Not if they remained with him for much longer.
“We break from Hunyadi at the first opportunity.” She did not know how he would react, but he had more men than she did. She would not risk their lives against him. Until the right opportunity came up, she would grit her teeth and dodge all talk of marriage.
At camp two days later, Hunyadi huddled with three of his men. Though Lada had been avoiding him, the intensity of the men’s conversation hinted at something new. It might be an opportunity for her men to make an exit. Or it might mean she was in trouble.
Lada marched over and shouldered her way in. “What is happening?”
Hunyadi looked up, surprised. “There is an armed force of Bulgars coming our way. They are in a canyon. If we let them get out, they can spread and form ranks. Our best option is to ride and meet them.”
“But you do not have enough time to plan.”
“Attack is my favorite form of defense.”
Lada let the phrase turn over in her mind. It reminded her of something. Tohin—the Ottoman woman who had taught her how to use gunpowder in combat. She had spoken of the need to constantly be on the attack so that other countries did not invade Ottoman lands. Push out so no one can push in. A dealer of death, that was what Tohin had said one must become. Deal enough death elsewhere to keep it away from your own home.
“What kind of force?” Lada asked.
One of Hunyadi’s men let out a dismissive huff of air at Lada’s inclusion in the conversation, but Hunyadi answered. “Mounted, heavily armored.”
Hunyadi had some armored men who could meet such a force head-on. But Lada’s men wore light mail, unsuited to direct combat. Hunyadi must have followed her thoughts. “This is not a battle for your Janissaries. I will keep them in the rear.”
Lada bristled. She knew her men were worth twice Hunyadi’s. He would know that, too, were he not so focused on her as a marriage prospect. But she bit her tongue before she could argue. If Hunyadi was engaged in a canyon, and her men were in the rear, it was as good an opportunity as any to flee.
She sighed, feeling these new threads to the throne snap one by one. She was left, as always, with her only thread of power: herself.
They rode fast through flat, open farmland until they came to the threat. Canyon walls rose before them, a narrow gash through a leagues-long line of rocky, steep hills—the only easy passage for mounted troops.
Lada saw immediately why Hunyadi needed to stop the Bulgars before they exited the canyon. Once through, they had a straight shot to anywhere in Hungary they wanted.
Shouts drifted to Lada on the sharp breeze. Hunyadi was riding his horse back and forth in front of his men. A scout appeared, his horse heaving and frothing. Lada saw Hunyadi’s shoulders tense as he listened to the report. He said something, then pointed at her. The scout nodded.
Raising a fist, Hunyadi roared. His men roared in response and charged after him into the canyon.
Had he told the scout to make certain she did not leave? Lada smiled grimly. She would welcome that. She rode to meet the scout. He trembled atop his trembling horse.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“Hunyadi asks that you watch. If Bulgars begin to come through, ride hard for the nearest village and get the people out.” He pointed to the east, where Lada could see hearth smoke lazily marking the village’s location.
“Does he expect the Bulgars to break through?”
The man shrugged wearily. “More men than we thought. Too many.”
“Why did he go in, then?”
“If they get through, they will burn the village and take all the winter stores. The people will starve.”
Lada frowned. “But it is one village.”
The man smiled bleakly. “It is his village, though. He grew up there.”
Lada rode
her horse slowly back to her men, the information nagging at her. They could leave. No one could stop them. But Hunyadi could have left, too. Regrouped elsewhere. Let one small village fall.
“Damn his honor,” Lada grumbled, staring back into the canyon. Hunyadi’s forces had already disappeared around a bend. It would not be long before they met the enemy. Both would be trapped and constricted by the canyon. It would be a slaughter on both sides.
It was not her problem.
But her eyes went to the rim of the canyon. It would be impassable for heavily armored mounted soldiers. But that did not mean it was impassable for everyone.
She needed an ally. She needed more threads of power. And if she could prove to Hunyadi what she was capable of, then maybe she would have them. She could run—again—or seize this chance.
Lada jumped off her horse and grabbed her weapons. “Dismount! Take everything you can easily carry. Nicolae, take men up the other side in case this one is impassable.”
“What are we doing?” Petru asked, already following her lead.
“We are going to take a look.”
They ran up the hill, scrambling between trees and boulders. Everyone found a different path and fanned out. Lada led the way, running and sliding and climbing. It was not easy going, but they made good time. The sound of men and horses screaming drew them closer to their goal.
Finally, scraped and sweating, they reached the rim of the canyon immediately above the fighting. Both sides had bottlenecked, leaving only a few men in front to fight. When those men died, the next went at it. Lada looked down the Bulgar line. It stretched too far. They could push harder and longer.
Hunyadi was not far beyond the front line. Everyone there would die. He had to know that—had to have known it going in.
But he had left Lada’s men behind. If she had been in charge, she would have sacrificed someone else’s men to wear down the other side. Instead, he had kept them out of the battle with a charge to protect the village if his efforts failed.
Hunyadi had killed her father and brother. Before that, he had been the reason her father ransomed her to the Ottomans. And he had invited her to join his troops with only a marriage in mind. She had every reason to let him die, even if she was grateful he had protected her men. But Wallachia called to her, and she had to answer. How could she win this for him?
Now I Rise Page 6