And I Darken (The Conquerors Saga #1)(30)

“Please do not say that about the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Mehmed’s voice was soft. Not commanding—requesting. “Why do you refuse to listen to what Molla Gurani teaches us?”

Lada looked at the wall of practice swords. Though Mehmed scoffed at the amount of time she spent watching the Janissaries, she spent every spare hour observing their practice sessions and drills. After a couple of weeks, Nicolae had even let her join in, correcting her form, laughing at her mistakes, but increasingly admiring her ferocity and determination to win.

Do you know of a Bogdan of Wallachia? she had asked as soon as she dared. The words stung as they left her mouth, cutting her up with the hope they contained.

My brother’s name is Bogdan, he had answered.

So is my cousin’s! said a Bulgar.

And my father’s! answered a Serb.

Nicolae had smiled an apology, and Lada had swallowed the pain that saying Bogdan’s name had caused. And then she had fought.

Now, ignoring Mehmed, she selected a blunted sword, curved like the one that hung over her father’s throne. Even the sight of it fed the fire in her chest. She hefted it, tested the balance. She liked being angry before fighting with Nicolae. Anger carved away everything else inside—doubt, fear, embarrassment—leaving room for nothing else. She never felt more powerful than when she was angry with a sword in her hands.

“Stop,” Mehmed said, joining her at the wall. “You have not answered my question.”

“You may worship your prophet, but he is not mine and never will be. Belief is weakness.” She would not cave to Islam as Radu had. But neither did she cherish the Orthodoxy she had grown up with. Religion was a means to an end. She had seen it wielded as a weapon. If she needed to use it, she would, but she would never allow herself to be used by it.

Mehmed grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. “You are wrong, Lada. Belief is not weakness. Faith is the greatest strength we can have.”

“Can faith take me back to Wallachia?”

“Faith can show you there are more important things.”

Lada scoffed. “If you want someone to listen to your inane ramblings, go find Radu. I have other things to do.”

She pulled the door open, but Mehmed ran forward and shoved it closed. “We are not done speaking!”

Lada’s blood turned to ice. “Would you command me to stay? And if I refuse? Will you have me beaten? Whipped? All that and more I have faced in your father’s courts. I did not bow before your god or your sultan then, and I will not now. Why did you bring me here, Mehmed? I will not be ruled.”

Mehmed’s face fell. He lowered his hand, and the line of his back—so straight—curved. “I have never wanted to be your master. I have servants. And teachers, and guards, and a father who despises me. I want you…to be my friend.”

This was not the answer Lada had expected. She grasped for a response. “Why would you want that?”

“Because.” Mehmed looked at the ground. “Because you do not tell me what you think I want to hear.”

“I would more likely go out of my way to tell you something you do not want to hear.”

Mehmed’s dark eyes flashed up to meet hers, something deep and hungry in them. He grinned. It was an off-center smile, pulling back his full lips and reshaping his face from arrogance to mischief. “Which is precisely why I like you.”

Lada huffed, exasperated. “Very well. What exactly does a friend do?”

“I have never had one. I was hoping you would know.”

“Then you are even stupider than you look. Radu is the one who makes friends. I am the one who makes people want to whip me.”

“I recall you giving me advice that helped me avoid being whipped. That seems a good foundation for friendship.” He held out a hand.

Lada considered it. What threads would be woven from this arrangement? She had given her heart to a friend once before, and losing Bogdan had nearly broken her. But Mehmed was no nursemaid’s son. “Your father would object to our friendship. He showed us no kindness in Edirne.”

“I do not care what my father thinks. If you have not noticed, no one cares what I do here. Amasya is ignored. As am I. I am free to do as I wish.”

“You are fortunate.”

“But am I fortunate enough to call you friend?”

“Oh, very well.” Some of the tightness left Lada as she at last realized that the punishment she had been waiting for all this time was not coming. They were not free of Murad, but they were far from his eye. For now, that was enough.

“Good. In the spirit of friendship, I must tell you that I am bitterly jealous of the time you spend in the Janissaries’ company. I want you to stop training with them.”

“And, in the spirit of friendship, I must tell you that I do not care in the slightest about your petty jealousies. I am late for my training.” She hooked her foot behind Mehmed’s ankle, then slammed her shoulder into his, tripping him and throwing him to the ground.

He sputtered in outrage. “I am the son of the sultan!”

She pulled the door open, slicing her sword through the air in front of his throat. “No, Mehmed, you are my friend. And I am a terrible friend.”

His laughter made her steps—always purposeful and aggressive—seem almost light.