Now I Rise

by Kiersten White

  The girl leaned forward, burning with intensity. “Are you going to do that in more places? Take men for fighting the prince?”

  “Yes,” Lada said.

  “Good.” The girl’s hands fisted over her stomach. “I want the Danesti dead.”

  It was a dangerous sentiment to voice aloud. Lada wondered at her daring. “Does your husband want to join? He should have come himself.”

  The girl let out a harsh laugh, a burst of bitterness more than humor. “I have no husband. Tell her what you saw, Stefan.”

  To Lada’s surprise, he followed the girl’s order without question. “Lots of girls. In the fields. Most—” He paused, then nodded toward the girl’s stomach. “Most like her.”

  “And between us not a single husband. A few years ago we had a nasty bout of plague. Killed most of the boys. There weren’t enough men to work the fields. None to marry daughters to. So our loving Danesti boyar decided he would take care of us himself.” The girl paused, as though waiting for something. When Lada did not respond, she spoke again. “No husbands.” The girl glared at Lada for her stupidity. “No husbands, but all our babies are bastard cousins.”

  Clarity finally caught Lada in its horrible grasp. “Oh.”

  “So you will not find many men here to swell your ranks. Our boyar worm Silviu will agree with whatever you want because he is a coward, but he will betray you to the prince at the first opportunity. And he has nothing to offer. You should kill him. If not, then leave. These lands are a waste of your time.”

  Lada felt anger rising within. “Why?”

  “I told you, we have no men.”

  “No. Why did you let this happen? Why did all of you let this happen?”

  The girl’s face purpled with rage. “Let it happen? What choice did we have? We give ourselves or our families starve. What choice is there in that?”

  “Does Silviu work the land?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Does he tend the animals?”

  “No.”

  “Does he do a single thing that directly feeds you or your families?”

  The girl looked as though she very much wanted to hit Lada. “He owns it. He owns it all.”

  Lada paused, weighing her options. Then she shrugged. She would negotiate her own way. “Not anymore.”

  They marched straight through the fields, past more than a dozen girls in the same condition as Daciana. The girls stood watching as the men passed. No one said anything.

  Daciana walked next to Stefan’s horse. Lada could tell the girl made him nervous, which she found perversely delightful. She had once seen Stefan slit a man’s throat without blinking. That this pregnant slip of a girl could unnerve him when that had not was odd. Daciana talked softly to him. No one noticed Stefan until it was too late. But this girl had seen him, and would not stop seeing him.

  Lada liked her.

  An older woman ran from the middle of a field and caught up to them. She grabbed Daciana’s hand and halted her. Daciana leaned close, whispering. Apparently satisfied with Daciana’s explanation, the woman fell into step.

  Silviu’s manor was tucked into the side of a hill overlooking the farmland. Ten guards stood in front. Their helmets were slightly askew, swords and spears clutched so tightly they shook. Lada stopped her horse directly in front of them, well within striking distance. She remembered Hunyadi riding into an enemy city, broad-shouldered and armed with unassailable confidence. She wrapped the same around herself.

  “I am here to see Silviu.”

  The guards looked at each other, at a loss.

  Lada had seventy men at her back. The guards knew as well as she did that what she wanted, she would get. “Tell him I will receive him here. And then you are welcome to join my men, or to flee. Any other course of action will not end well for you.”

  The shortest man, broad-chested and of middle years, gave her an ugly sneer. “I do not take orders from women.”

  “My men do not have a similar problem.” Lada lifted a hand. The man fell, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest.

  A harelipped guard jumped away as though death were contagious. Which, in this case, it was. “I will go fetch him, Miss! Um, Madam. My lady. I— Right now!” Two of the guards turned and ran. The rest began edging toward Lada’s men, hands far from their weapons.

  “Hello, Miron,” Daciana said. She stepped forward, blocking the path of one of the guards. There was something verminous about his face and his beady eyes that darted around. “You remember when we used to play together as children?”

  He did not look at her. She held her hand out to the older woman next to her. “You remember when my mother gave you some of our milk because you were starving?”

  His lip curled in a snarl, but still he did not respond.

  “You remember when I screamed and screamed, and you stood outside the door and did nothing? You remember when he offered you—what did he call them, ‘seconds’? You remember what you did?”

  The man had the gall to finally meet her gaze. He shrugged, face set in cruel indifference. He shoved his shoulder into her, to push her out of the way.

  “I remember that, too,” her mother said as she brought her hand between them. Lada’s view was blocked by the soldier’s body. He made an odd noise, twitching. Then he stumbled backward, blood-soaked hands tugging ineffectually at the rough wooden handle of a knife protruding from his stomach. He sank down against the stone wall of the house. His ratlike eyes looked up in shock and pain at the girl and her mother.

  “And now we will never remember you again.” Daciana turned her back on him.

  Stefan pulled a handkerchief from his vest and offered it to her. She passed it to her mother, who wiped the blood from her hands.

  “What is the meaning of this?” A portly man, face veined and splotchy with age and alcohol, stumbled out of the manor. He wore a velvet vest with a gold necklace, and a black cap on his large head.

  “Silviu?” Lada asked. “I am here to negotiate your support.” Lada drew her crossbow and shot him in the chest. One of Toma’s men shouted in surprise.

  Lada turned her horse. “That went well. We have the full support of this estate now. It is yours.” She pointed to Daciana.

  Daciana nodded, a dazed expression on her face. Her mother finished cleaning her hands and gave the handkerchief back to Daciana. “I will tell the men.”

  “No,” Lada snapped. “I did not say the land was theirs. Or any of the fathers of this land. They forfeited their rights when they sold their daughters for food. Why did you let them live?”

  Daciana’s mother met Lada’s gaze without shame. “I have three other daughters. I could not sacrifice myself without sacrificing them. Until today.”

  Lada wanted to argue, to chastise. Then she realized that this woman had come directly from working in the fields, where she had no need of a knife. How long had she carried it? How long had she treasured it in secret, waiting for the right moment? This woman was smart. She saw an opening and she took it.

  Though why more people had not done this sooner, she did not understand. If the Wallachians could see past titles and velvet, they would see that the true strength of the land—the true power—was theirs. All they needed was a knife and an opportunity.

  Lada would be both for them.

  “You are in charge,” she said to the old woman.

  “You cannot do that,” Toma’s man said. “We need a boyar.”

  “Are you a boyar?” Lada snapped.

  The man opened his mouth to argue further.

  “I am the only royal blood here.” She stared at him until he bowed his head and looked away. Then she pointed at the body of the murdered soldier and addressed Daciana’s mother. “I trust you. Treat your daughters and granddaughters better than their fathers have treated them.”

  Daciana’s mother nodded slowly, a determination settling around her eyes and replacing the shock. “What do we do when the prince finds out our boyar is dead?
”

  “Do what you have always done. Work the land. Let me worry about the prince.”

  The woman nodded, then dipped her head in a bow. “We owe you everything.”

  Lada smiled. “Do not forget it. I promise I will not.”

  “THERE YOU ARE!” CYPRIAN said brightly, in defiance of the weariness painted on his face in dust and soot and traces of blood.

  Radu paused on the doorstep, trying his best to meet Cyprian’s smile. He had just returned from a long night on the wall. A night of black punctuated by burning orange and darkest red. It was a relief to see Cyprian again. It was always a relief, because with the wall, reunions were never guaranteed.

  Cyprian leaned past him to open the door, gesturing excitedly. “I found fruit preserves. I will not tell you what I had to do to get them, but—”

  “Turks! Turks in the horn!” a boy screamed, running through the street.

  Cyprian and Radu shared a look of confusion and concern. Radu was too tired to know whether this feeling was excitement or dread. He sprinted after the boy, caught his sleeve, and dragged him to a stop. “The chain has broken?”

  The boy shook his head, eyes wide with excitement and fear. “They sailed their ships over land!” The boy wriggled free and darted away, shouting his news with no further explanation.

  Cyprian raised his eyebrows, concern overpowered by curiosity. He started walking in the direction of the seawall. Radu followed.

  “Do you have any idea what he is talking about?” Cyprian asked.

  “Maybe they were able to sneak in the same way our boats slipped out past them?”

  “That worked because of the chaos. But there is no chaos on our side of the chain. No one sleeps. Watch is kept at all hours. There must be something else going on.”

  Radu trudged after Cyprian. He could not find the energy in himself to run anymore. He had spent half the night cutting down hooks that the Ottomans threw up to try to dislodge the barrels of earth that protected the defenders. It was wearying work. Even arrows singing past his ears barely registered after a few hours on barrel duty. But at least all he had done was remove hooks. He had not had to kill any of his brothers last night, which made it better than most.

  His mind was on endless barrels of earth as they climbed to the top of the seawall and looked over.

  “God’s wounds,” Radu whispered. Nothing had prepared him for this. The Ottomans were, in fact, inside the horn. And just as the boy had said, they were sailing their ships over land.

  Three medium-sized galleys floated in the water, their crews laughing and waving their oars. Coming down a road of greased logs on the hill behind the horn, another galley slowly made its way toward the sea. The men aboard rowed their oars through the air, perfectly in sync. Oxen pulled from the front, and hundreds of men held ropes to control the descent. Cresting the hill behind the galley was yet another boat.

  A striped tent had been set up overlooking the boats’ progress. Radu could not see clearly from this distance, but he suspected it shaded Mehmed himself. Surrounding the tent, a Janissary band played music more suited to a party than to war. The bright brass notes drifted across the horn to Radu and Cyprian.

  As the lower galley slid off the bank and into the sea, a cheer went up among the Ottomans.

  “Why do our ships do nothing?” Cyprian asked. Radu pointed to a row of cannons set up along the shore, aimed at the chain where Constantine’s fleet floated, useless. A few ships were edging closer, apparently debating whether or not to risk the cannon fire.

  Without warning, a huge stone flew over the top of the city of Galata and came splashing into the water between the Byzantine fleet and the Ottoman galleys. It was so close to the nearest merchant ships that they bobbed in the waves from the impact.

  Mehmed had also solved the problem of how to fire from Galata. He could not, under treaty, place cannons in the city. And so he had engaged the trebuchets from bygone years. They sat behind the city and flung rocks over into the water.

  A crash and a plume of dust from the middle of Galata proved that the trebuchet aim was not perfect. Or perhaps it was deliberate, a warning to the people not to interfere. Radu was astonished at Mehmed’s brilliance.

  In the meantime, yet another galley had slipped into the water, with two more on the way.

  Cyprian did not look at Radu. “This plan had to be in the works for months. With all the supplies they would need, the logistics of it all…Did you know?”

  Radu’s chest was heavy with the weight of failure. Not only had he failed Mehmed with the navy, Mehmed had anticipated the failure. He had made plans without Radu, plans to circumvent everything. How could Radu hope to offer such a man anything?

  “I had no idea.” Radu shook his head, the music from across the horn mocking him. “I fear there may be even more plans I was not privy to.”

  Cyprian put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If Mehmed suspected a hair of his beard knew his secrets, he would pluck it out and burn it.”

  Radu refused the comfort. “I cannot help anymore.”

  He could not help anyone.

  Nazira picked out worms from the little grain they had left. “Do you suppose we could eat these?”

  Radu grimaced. “If it came to it, we could. But if the siege lasts that long, Mehmed will have already lost. It is taking too long as it is.”

  “I wish your escapade with ruining the food stores had been less successful.” Nazira gave him a wry smile.

  “There is still food enough in Galata, though no one has the money to buy it. My sabotage has not ended the siege, only made it more miserable.” Radu leaned forward, resting his head on the table. He was due back at the wall in the evening. His last few shifts had been uneventful. Lonely, too. And Cyprian was gone more often than not by the time Radu returned home.

  Evidently, Nazira was thinking of their host as well. “We could try to get more information from Cyprian.”

  Radu did not lift his head. He would not go there. Not yet. “Too dangerous.”

  Nazira sounded relieved. “I am glad you agree. Also, it feels…wrong. To use Cyprian any more than we already are.”

  “He is a good person, and I— Sometimes I cannot bear to even look at him, knowing what we are doing here. I cannot bear to look at any of them. Constantine is a good man, too. Giustiniani. All of them. The longer we are here, the harder it is to remember why it was so important that we take the city. I have fought alongside them, I have bled with them, I have stood shoulder to shoulder as we killed my Muslim brothers. How—” Radu’s voice cracked, breaking on the last question. “How do we go on?” he whispered.

  Nazira put a hand on his cheek. “You should ask to join Orhan and his men. They are kept away from the walls. You would not have to kill anyone. You should never have been put in that position. Your heart is too big for this work, Radu.” She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “I cannot imagine what you have been forced to see and do. No one could have clear eyes in the midst of that.”

  “What does it matter? I have done no good.”

  “You have. And we may yet do more. The kindest thing we can do for both sides is hasten the end of this siege. The longer it carries on, the worse it will be for everyone.” Nazira stood, pulling on her cloak. Though the days were warming up, the evenings were still cold. “I am going to meet with Helen. She complains that the last three days Coco has been even more on edge than usual, snapping at her and pacing incessantly.”

  Radu’s interest was piqued. “He is their most important captain.”

  “Precisely. Something is in motion for the sea. I do not know what, though.”

  Radu stood, too, glad for something to do. “I will send Amal to Galata. I can signal him from the roof of the Hagia Sophia if something might be coming, and he can signal the galleys. I will watch Coco’s house through the night.”

  “It may be nothing.”

  Radu smiled grimly. “Then it will fit in perfectly well with all my other contributi
ons so far.”

  Radu settled into the shadows of a stoop three houses down from Coco’s. Amal had sprinted away to make the crossing to Galata before the gates closed for the evening. He knew of a tower with guards under Mehmed’s pay where he could watch for a signal.

  It would probably amount to nothing, but it was better than being on the walls. Anything was better than being on the walls.

  Radu let his mind drift, his thoughts punctuated by the distant beat of the bombardment. It never ceased, but in the heart of the city it was merely background noise. The scent of smoke and burning, too, drifted as afterthoughts. And there was no scent of blood. Merely the constant memory of it.

  Because Radu did not want to think—not about Mehmed, not about boats, not about Cyprian—he recited sections of the Koran, lost himself to the beauty and rhythm of them. There was still some peace to be found there.

  He was interrupted two hours before dawn. The door to Coco’s house opened, and several cloaked figures stepped out, hurrying through the streets. Toward the horn.

  Radu ran in the opposite direction. The lock to the Hagia Sophia was as easy to pick now as though he had a key. He raced to the roof, where he pulled out a lantern. Three sides were polished metal, while the fourth was a pane of clear glass. He lit the wick inside, then pointed it toward Galata. He released a prayer of gratitude like a breath. The night was clear enough for the warning to be seen.

  Just as Radu began to fear that Amal had not made it, a light answered him. It flashed three times in quick succession, then went dark. Radu blew his own light out. He did not know what, if anything, he had accomplished.

  Then a shooting star, burning brightly, moved slowly across the sky. It left a trail of light in its wake, like a signal to him from the heavens themselves. Radu lifted a hand toward it, remembering that night so long ago when he had watched stars fall with Mehmed and Lada. He closed his eyes, gratitude and warmth filling him. Perhaps the superstitious city was finally getting to him, but he could not help but see this as a sign. He had done a good thing. He had helped Mehmed.