And I Darken (The Conquerors Saga #1)(110)

It was definitely Nicolae yelling, accompanied by Petru. They were shouting for Lada, screaming to be let in. They would never do that if enemy forces were outside.

“You pulled me out of the room,” Radu said, his stomach sinking as the truth settled like lead. “You do not expect help to come. You are counting on it not to.”

“Let me explain.”

Radu twisted his wrist free, darting for the door where Lada’s men were trying to get in. It was blocked by a bar easily lifted from the inside.

Lazar tackled him from behind, Radu’s head meeting the tile in a blinding flash of lights. “Please,” he said, knee digging into Radu’s back. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

Radu spat blood from where his lip had been cut open. “Keep me safe?”

“You were not supposed to be here tonight. You were supposed to be with your bride. When Ilyas told me you were back, I begged him to let me come along, to keep you out of it.”

Radu squeezed his eyes against the pain and despair, arms trembling as he tried and failed to push himself up. “Why is Ilyas betraying us?”

“He is protecting us. You are not a Janissary. You cannot understand. All we have is each other. No one else cares about us, no one else values us as anything other than bodies to be thrown at enemies in the name of the sultan.”

The muted sound of blades from Mehmed’s room drew a sob from Radu.

Lazar leaned his head down, resting it against Radu’s back. “I am sorry. I know you care about him; I know. But he would spill our blood against the walls of Constantinople. Ilyas will not let that happen to us. He is our father, not Mehmed. It has to be like this.”

“No!”

“Tell me. Tell me that Mehmed will not kill us.” Lazar waited, but Radu could not. He knew Mehmed’s heart was set on Constantinople. “He wants it as a dragon wants a jewel—merely to possess, merely to feed his hunger. He will never be satisfied. You saw what the siege of Kruje was. It will look like a holiday compared with Constantinople. We will all die, and no one will mourn us. These are my brothers, Radu.” Lazar’s voice cracked, and his warm tears found their way through Radu’s tunic. “They are the only family we have. If you think about it, you will understand. You will forgive me. I love you, Radu. Please. Please forgive me for this. I would sacrifice anything for my family. You would, too.”

Radu stopped fighting and released himself to the floor. Lazar’s weight was heavy against his back, the same as that patrol night in Kruje when Lazar had tackled him to save his life.

Lada would die defending Mehmed. Mehmed would die. But Lazar was right. If Mehmed lived, so many of the Janissaries—his friends and companions—would die. All to take a city that threatened nothing. Only because it was their dream, because the Prophet, peace be upon him, had declared it so long ago.

Radu turned his head, trying to look back at Lazar. Still keeping Radu pinned, Lazar shifted his weight, so their eyes could meet.

“I am so sorry,” Radu said. Lazar had saved him so many times—saved him with kindness as a child, saved him on the battlefield, saved him tonight. “I love you, too, my friend.”

Lazar’s face lifted with hope.

Radu answered that hope with a stab, his hand freed just enough to shove his knife into Lazar’s stomach.

Lazar rolled to the side, hands clutching his wound. Bright blood spilled between his fingers. Radu knelt over him. He threw Lazar’s sword across the room, then pressed his forehead to his friend’s. “I am so, so sorry.”

Lazar gave a lazy, lopsided smile. It broke Radu’s heart. “You always choose him.”

“I always will,” Radu whispered.

Then he ran, leaving Lazar to die alone. The door to the palace hall was barely splintered despite Lada’s men’s continuous attempts. Radu called for them to stop, then put his shoulder under the bar. They had warped the door, and Radu let out a cry of rage as he pushed up with all his might. Finally, the bar slid free.

Radu ran straight for Mehmed’s bedroom. “Mehmed is in there!” he shouted, pointing to the locked sitting room.

He scanned the bedroom, hands bloody and mind utterly focused. Long curtains were draped from the wall, held by a rod. Radu backed up, then ran and leaped, grabbing the rod and swinging his body until it tore free with a metal scream.

He carried the rod onto the balcony, too far from the room where Lada and Mehmed were. They were not dead yet. They were not allowed to be.

Radu could not leap from one balcony to the other. The distance was too great. He threw the rod across the gap, barely catching the curtain before it all followed. The rod clattered to the stone floor of the other balcony, curtain pulled taut. Radu yanked it, praying.

The rod caught, snagged on the stone railing.

Wrapping the curtain around one hand, Radu climbed onto the edge of the railing and jumped. The impact of the fall jarred his arm, nearly pulling it from its socket. He cried out in pain, then pulled himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, until his free hand found the edge of the balcony. With one last burst of strength, he climbed up.

He was in the darkness, looking in at the brightly lit room. The scene inside was a nightmare. Mehmed crouched, weaponless, in a corner. One good hit would be all it took to murder him. It was a testament to the wonder of Lada that that had not happened yet. She was all over the room, ducking and twirling and screaming. Her blade clashed with Ilyas’s, denying him at every turn.