Now I Rise

by Kiersten White

“You have found love.”

  “Yes. With someone who could return it. But you refuse to let go of this festering love for a man who is incapable of loving you.”

  Radu blinked back tears. “Do I not deserve love?”

  She put her hand on Radu’s cheek. “Sweet Radu, you deserve the greatest love the world has ever seen. I simply do not think Mehmed is capable of loving anyone the way you love him.”

  “He loves Lada.”

  “I have met your sister, and I have met Mehmed. They love themselves and their ambition above all else. They love what feeds their ambition, and when it stops feeding that, the love will turn to hate with more passion than either could ever love with. You love with all your heart, Radu, and deserve someone who can answer that with all of theirs.”

  Radu’s buoyant happiness was now a leaden weight, dragging his soul lower than it had ever been. “But Mehmed is all I have ever wanted. He is the greatest man in the world.”

  “I agree. He will be the greatest leader our people have ever seen. And he will do great things. He is more than a man—which also makes him less. He has nothing to offer you.”

  Radu stood, pushing past Nazira. He felt hemmed in on every side, claustrophobic and desperate for air. “It does not matter anyway! I cannot have the love I want under any religion. It is wrong.”

  Nazira grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face her. She was livid. “Do you think my love of Fatima is wrong?”

  He held up his hands. “No! No.”

  “God encompasses more than any of us realize. The peace I feel in prayer is the same I feel when I am alone with Fatima. The clarity of fasting is the same I have when we work side by side. When I am with Fatima, what I feel is pure and good. I cannot imagine a god who hates anything that is love, any way we find to take tender care of each other. I want you to find that same love, and I never want you to hate yourself for any love that is in you.” She pulled him close and he let her, wondering if it was possible for him to ever have the clarity and purity of love that she had.

  Knowing that with Mehmed, it was not possible.

  But how could he let go of the man written onto his very soul?

  THEY SPREAD THROUGH THE manor like fire. Servants awoke to the sounds of crashing furniture and breaking glass. Some tried to fight. Lada had instructed her men to kill no one. It was not difficult to subdue half-asleep, unarmed people.

  By the time they reached Ulrich’s bedchambers, he had dressed and was waiting for them. His back was straight, his shoulders broad, his face impassive. There was no one else in the bedchamber. Lada was grateful his wife was not there to weep and beg, to bear witness. It was cleaner this way.

  Ulrich had a sword sheathed at his side. He made no effort to draw the weapon.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice calm and assured.

  Lada knew his fate already. She did not wish to engage with him. With no witnesses, she did not have to playact and accuse him of things they both knew he had not done. Watching him greet his end with such stoic resolve filled her with a measure of shame. He was a strong man. Possibly even a great one, according to Stefan’s information.

  So she said nothing. She walked past him, drawing the letter from Mehmed out of her vest. The seal was still intact, his elaborate signature unmistakable. She took tongs and pulled a coal from the fire. With a small thrill of vindictive pleasure, she burned away her own name and the poetry Mehmed had written with his false fingers. When she was finished, the only things that could be seen were Mehmed’s signature and his promise to meet in Transylvania with a gift of men.

  She held out the letter to Nicolae. “We found him trying to burn this.”

  Nicolae took it, an uneasy look shadowing his face. She had not told her men everything, merely that they were raiding the house on behalf of Matthias and Hunyadi. This alliance had been Nicolae’s idea, after all. He had no right to question where the road he had set them on would lead.

  Lada turned back to Ulrich. Now, at last, emotion shaped his warm brown eyes. But he did not look angry or afraid as she had expected. He looked sad. “He could be an excellent king, you know.”

  Lada wondered why Ulrich was talking about Matthias. But then Ulrich continued. “He is a good child. Smart. With a genuine kindness to his soul that is uncommon in anyone, much less royalty. If he is allowed to grow long enough to reach manhood, he will be a fair and just king. The type of king Hungary needs and deserves.”

  “I am sorry.” And, to her surprise, Lada was sorry. She had been so focused on getting Matthias’s bidding done, she had not stopped to think how it would feel. Securing the throne of Hungary for someone else was not so simple as she had imagined.

  She shook her head. “But I cannot put the needs of Hungary over the needs of Wallachia.”

  The tears that pooled in Ulrich’s eyes caught the light of the fire. He lowered his head, whispering a prayer. Then he held out his arms to either side. “Remember that he is a child. Give him a gentle death.”

  Lada’s knife paused. She looked down at it as it trembled in her hand. This was the first time she would kill a man outside of battle. It was not a reaction to save her own life. It was a choice. She could let Ulrich—a good man—live. He would take this attack as proof of Matthias’s treachery and use it to drive him out of the castle. The young king could grow into a man shaped by the strength of his genuine protector.

  Lada looked up into Bogdan’s face—the face of her childhood. It held no judgment. He simply watched her, waiting. The locket around her neck pressed heavy against her heart.

  Wallachia.

  She took a deep breath. When she plunged the knife into Ulrich’s heart, her hand was steady.

  The “evidence” was enough to justify Ulrich’s death with only moderate outcry. And since Elizabeth had chosen him as the king’s protector, her decisions were suspect as well. She was removed to a far distant castle, to be kept there in seclusion. Matthias was named regent—and heir, should the king die without issue.

  Lada did not doubt that would be the case, and sooner rather than later. When she watched Matthias put a hand on the trembling child’s shoulder, Lada remembered Ulrich’s request.

  “Kill him gently,” she said when Matthias met her in a quiet hall of the castle that would be his. Lada hated Hunedoara, hated this castle, hated her ally. She needed to be free of Hungary.

  Matthias laughed. “Are you giving me commands now?”

  “It was Ulrich’s last request.”

  “I will do as I see fit.” He handed her a letter, sealed with his coat of arms, in which a raven figured prominently. That morning, Lada had seen a raven pull a pigeon from its own nest in the castle eaves, tearing it apart methodically and efficiently.

  “This is an introduction to Toma Basarab. He will instruct and help you on your way to the throne. No one knows the Wallachian boyars better than Toma.”

  “And men?”

  Matthias shook his head. “I have no men better than the ones you already possess, and besides, I cannot part with any. If my men were to accompany you and you failed, it would destroy relations between Hungary and Wallachia.”

  Lada smiled tightly. “So regardless of whether I win or if I die, you still have an ally on the throne.” Matthias was born to this. The young king might have a core of kindness, but Matthias knew what it took to gain and keep power.

  “You understand perfectly,” he said. “I do hope you succeed, Lada Dracul. I am very curious to see what you can do. I look forward to a long and fruitful relationship.”

  Lada wanted no such thing from him. But he had given her another knife, and she would use it to cut her way to the throne.

  She inclined her head, unwilling to bow or curtsy. “I will pay my respects to your father before I leave.”

  Matthias’s expression turned briefly wistful before resuming its usual sharpness. “He is dead. His final act was rooting out the traitor Ulrich. I do not expect you to stay for the funeral.”<
br />
  Lada flinched. She had betrayed Hunyadi to his downfall, and then she had falsely betrayed a good man in his name. This was the thanks she gave Hunyadi for his love, for his trust, for his support.

  She clutched the locket around her neck so tightly her knuckles went white, drained of blood.

  “You are a strange girl,” Matthias said fondly.

  “I am a dragon,” she answered. Then she turned and left the toxic castle for what she hoped was the last time.

  AS RADU AND NAZIRA prayed in their room in the predawn light, the end of the world began.

  They felt the rumblings beneath their knees, cutting off their prayer. The church bells began pealing with all the urgency of angels ushering in the end of times. Radu heard screaming in the streets.

  “The cannons.” He turned to Nazira. “The cannons are here.”

  “Go,” she said.

  Radu yanked on his boots, nearly falling over in his haste. Before he had finished fastening his cloak, there was pounding on the bedroom door. Radu opened it to find Cyprian, as pale and worn as the limestone walls. “The cannons,” he said, shaking his head. “We are finished.”

  “We must go to the walls.” Radu grabbed Cyprian’s arm and turned him around. “Have you been yet? What has fallen? Are the Ottomans in the city?”

  “I do not know what has happened since I left. I was with my uncle and Giustiniani. They have requested you. I think they finally believe your account of the Turks’ guns.”

  Radu almost laughed as they raced out of Cyprian’s home and through the streets. They had to push past several mobs that had gathered outside churches, everyone trying to press in at the same time. Concussive blasts shook the whole city, bursts that punctuated the still-clanging bells and the desperate wailing.

  “You!” Cyprian grabbed a monk by the collar. The man looked at Cyprian as though he were the devil himself. “Where are you going?”

  “To the church!”

  “You will do no one good there!”

  The monk’s conviction that Cyprian was the devil solidified. He glared, aghast. “That is the only place we can do any good!”

  “Gather citizens, have them haul stones and material to the walls. We will need everyone’s help if we are to survive the night. You can pray while you work.”

  The monk hesitated but nodded at last. “I will spread the word.”

  “That was good,” Radu said as they continued their sprint toward the walls.

  “It will not be enough. Promise me that if they get through, you will run.”

  “I must get Nazira first.”

  Cyprian nodded. “Go to Galata, if you can. You may be able to slip out undetected.”

  “What about you?”

  “I will stay with my uncle.”

  Radu stopped. The walls were in sight. They could see plumes of smoke, and the dust of shattered stone hanging in the air like a vision of the future. “You do not owe this city your life. It is not even your city.”

  Cyprian stopped, too, and they stood side by side, chests heaving from their run. “My uncle has shown me every kindness.”

  “And you should be and are grateful. But if it comes to staying and dying, or running and living, choose the latter. He would want that for you.”

  “Would he?”

  “If he does not, he should. The city will stand or fall depending on the whims of fate. It would be a tragedy if you fell with it.” Radu realized as he said it how true it was. He could not bear the thought of Cyprian dying with the city.

  Cyprian’s gray eyes shifted from troubled to thoughtful. Then his smile, the one that nearly shut his eyes with its exuberance, the one Radu had not seen in some time, erased everything else. Cyprian shook his head as though trying to physically shift the smile into a more appropriate expression, but it lingered. “Thank you,” he said. Radu had never really noticed Cyprian’s mouth before, but for some reason he could not look away from it now.

  With all the clanging and shouting, Radu was disoriented. His head felt light, and his heart was beating far faster than the run here should have made it.

  The sound of a stone ball smashing against a stone wall shook him out of his stupor. Cyprian guided Radu through the chaos to where the emperor and Giustiniani waited. They stood beneath a tower, gesturing emphatically. The barrel of a very large cannon stuck out of the tower, pointed toward the Ottoman troops.

  “No!” Radu shouted, sprinting toward them.

  A cracking noise rendered him momentarily deaf. As though it were happening from a very great distance, he watched the unanchored force of the cannon shoot it backward. The heat and movement of the blast were too much for the gun. As it hit the back of the tower with shattering force, both gun and tower exploded. Radu turned and tackled Cyprian to the ground beneath them, covering his head as rubble rained down on them. Something slammed into his shoulder.

  When only a fine shower of dust was left falling around them, Radu rolled off Cyprian, clutching his shoulder.

  “Are you hurt?” Cyprian leaned over him, searching him for a wound.

  “Look for the emperor! He was closer.”

  Cyprian stood, dodging around the remains of the tower. “Uncle? Uncle!”

  With a pained groan, Radu pushed himself up to a seated position. The tower was gone. Only its stone base was left. Several broken bodies were half buried in the rubble.

  “Over here!” Cyprian shouted. Radu grimaced as he tried to stand. Cyprian must have found the emperor. Or his body. Radu knew he should feel relief or even joy that the emperor had been killed this soon—and by his own men’s folly, no less. But it made him sad.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking up in wonder as Constantine held out a hand to help him stand. “I thought— You were so close to the tower!”

  “Giustiniani heard your shout and we jumped free. How did you know it would come down?” Constantine looked toward the remains with murder written on his face. “Is my weapons master a traitor? Did he sabotage us?”

  Radu grabbed his shoulder as though that could ease the pain pounding through him. “Not a traitor. Simply a fool. You cannot fire a cannon that large without padding all around it. The force of the blast pushes it backward. He packed too much gunpowder, too. I told you I knew of the sultan’s guns. Urbana, the engineer who made them, was from Transylvania. She was my friend. We spoke often.”

  “Let me see,” Cyprian said. He turned Radu around and gently peeled Radu’s shirt free from his injured shoulder. His fingers were as light as a promise where they traced Radu’s skin. Radu shivered. “You are not bleeding. There will be a lot of bruising. But if you can still move your shoulder, it is probably not broken.” Cyprian’s fingers lingered for a few infinite seconds longer; then he replaced Radu’s shirt. That sense of breathlessness was back.

  Giustiniani cleared his throat, spitting. He had so much stone dust in his hair he looked as though he had aged thirty years. He considered Radu thoughtfully. “Are you an expert in cannons, then?”

  “Not an expert. But none of these towers are equipped for cannons. They are not strong enough, and there is not enough room to support the guns. You will have to figure out another way to use them.”

  “We thought if we could fire back at the sultan’s cannons, we could—”

  “Too small a target. By the time you used enough shots to get the range right, they would move their guns. You have seen their camp. If you managed to destroy even one cannon, they have the means to repair and cast new cannons. I am certain Urbana will be with them. No one is better than she. And I am guessing they have dug in and are firing from behind a bulwark.”

  Constantine nodded grimly. “That first shot at the Saint Romanus Gate—even I thought the world was ending. But it has not been repeated. Maybe the cannon broke?”

  Radu tested his shoulder. He could move it, but the pain was excruciating. “The Basilica.” He almost smiled, thinking how delighted Urbana would be. “It has to cool between firing, so it’s l
imited to several shots a day. It was more to prove they could than for any practical use. It is the number of guns you should fear, not the size of one. Are the walls holding?”

  Giustiniani shook some of the grit from his hair. “So far there are no holes big enough to threaten us. They fire wrong. They should fire in sets of three, one on each side and then one in the middle, to bring a whole section down. Instead, they fire at the same spot over and over again. They are doing damage, but not enough.”

  Giustiniani leaned out, watching without flinching as a massive ball shattered against the wall some ways down from them. The sound was louder than any Radu had ever heard, like thunder smashing against thunder.

  “We cannot absorb these blows. The fragments from the wall are as likely to kill our men as the cannon shot itself.” Giustiniani was silent for a while, deep in thought. “We cannot answer their cannons, nor can we trust the strength of the walls.” He smiled grimly. “It is time to become more flexible.”

  Because of Radu’s shoulder injury, he helped Cyprian with organizing rather than going to fix the walls. All day they ran, directing men to dump mortar paste down the walls to strengthen them. They attached rope to bales of wool and lowered them to absorb impacts. The palace was raided of all tapestries, the elegant stitching and bright depictions of the past now draped over the walls in a desperate attempt to secure a future.

  By nightfall, everyone in the city was wide-eyed and trembling from the ceaseless bombardment. But they were ready. As soon as it was dark, Giustiniani sent the supplies up. At each significant breach in the wall, they put down stakes with stretches of leather hide nailed tightly between them. Into the space between the hides and the remains of the wall they dumped stones, timber, bushes, brushwood, and bucket after bucket of dirt.

  A few stakes to save a city.

  “Will they burn?” Radu asked Cyprian as they oversaw a patch along the Blachernae Palace wall.

  “The hides will not light easily. But we will need to station guards with crossbows to keep men away, regardless.” Cyprian paused to shout directions to men rolling large barrels packed with dirt toward them. “Along the top so we have something to hide behind!”