And I Darken (The Conquerors Saga #1)(34)

“I am glad we are here,” Mehmed said.

Lada opened her mouth to agree, and then bit her tongue in horror. She was not glad. She could not be glad. Being glad would be the greatest betrayal of herself and her home she could ever commit. The sooner you stop fighting, Mara said in her head, the easier life will be.

It was getting easier to be here. She could not live with that.

“I want to go home,” she said, sitting up, pulling her hand away from Mehmed’s. It was cold where the air hit the skin that had been sealed against his.

“Can we stay a while longer? Then we will walk back.”

“No! I want to go home. To Wallachia.”

Mehmed sat up slowly, looking at the ground. Radu stayed where he was, perfectly still. “Why do you want to go back?” Mehmed asked.

Lada let out a strangled laugh. How had she felt so close to him just now, when he could ask her a question like that? He knew nothing about her. “Because I belong there. You said yourself no one cares what you do. So send me back.”

He stood, turning his back on her. “I cannot.”

“You can! Has your father ever once inquired after us? Has anyone? No one remembers we exist! That is how unimportant we are.” How unimportant Wallachia was. Even as leverage they were forgotten.

“My father would be angry.”

“He would not care. And if he did, what of it? He will not send you to the head gardener. He has already banished you here. What more can he do?”

“Enough! I said I cannot do it.”

“Cannot or will not?” Lada stood, head pounding. She did not want this, did not want to feel things or care about Mehmed. “Are you so desperate for friends you would keep us captive?”

“I do not need you! I do not need anyone!”

“Then prove yourself and send me home!”

Mehmed closed the distance between them, his face so close she could see his eyes in the darkness. “I have no power! Is that what you want to hear, Lada? I could not so much as requisition a horse and supplies for you, much less get you safely to Wallachia. No one cares what I do here, because I can do nothing. If you want to get away from me so badly, do it yourself.” Mehmed turned and stalked into the night.

“What is wrong with you?” Radu sounded on the verge of tears. “Why do you have to destroy everything good we have here?”

“Because,” Lada said, voice flat with the sudden wave of exhaustion pulling her heavily to the ground. “We have nothing. Can you not see that?”

“We have Mehmed!”

Lada looked up. The stars were static, still and cold in the night, all the fire gone from the sky. “It is not enough,” she said.





RADU SAT BEHIND LADA, brushing her hair, tearing it into submission. Lada hissed at him.

“Hold still,” Radu said, ignoring her slap at his hands. They sat as close to the fireplace as they could, a thick rug beneath them doing little to muffle the deep cold from the mountain beneath the keep.

The door to their joint chambers burst open. Mehmed rushed in, face pale and eyes wide. Radu was thrilled—Mehmed had not visited them much this winter, not since Lada’s cruelty that night on the mountain. Lada studied alone now. Though Radu attended lessons with Mehmed, a formality had descended. Radu hated the distance between them and he hated Lada for putting it there.

But Radu’s elation fell away as he realized something was wrong. He dropped the brush and rushed to Mehmed’s side. After guiding Mehmed to a cushion, Radu filled a cup with water and handed it to him. “What happened? What is it?”

“My brothers,” Mehmed said, staring vacantly into the cup. “My older brothers are both dead. They have been for months. No one told me.”

“Oh, Mehmed, I am sorry.” Radu put an arm around Mehmed’s shoulder and drew him close. Mehmed stiffened, then relaxed against Radu’s side. Radu could have warmed the room with the happiness burning inside him at this closeness after so many chilly weeks.

“Did you even know your brothers?” Lada leaned back, toying with her now-smooth hair.

Mehmed shook his head, dazed. “No, not really. Their mothers were important wives. They were raised to inherit the throne.” Mehmed’s mother was a concubine, a slave. Mehmed spoke of her infrequently, but when he did Radu listened with envy. He missed his nurse, and he missed the idea of a mother.

Lada sat up straight, suddenly interested. “And now?”

“Now they are dead. And my father has finally made peace with Hunyadi. He is tired, and his heart is heavy, and he wants nothing more than to retire to his estate in Anatolia and spend the rest of his days talking and dreaming and drinking with his philosophers.” Mehmed held out the sheaf of parchment he clutched in one hand. Lada stood and took it, scanning its contents. Mehmed rested his head on Radu’s shoulder. Radu stayed as still as he possibly could, even when his muscles begged for him to shift, scared that the tiniest movement would scare Mehmed away like a bird.

Lada stumbled down onto the nearest cushion, rereading the missive. “He has abdicated. To you. He gives you the title of sultan under the banner of new peace.”

The floor rushed out from under Radu. His ears buzzed with wind in the still room. Mehmed—his Mehmed—had been given the throne of the Ottoman state. One of the greatest powers in the world, draped over his shoulders like a rich, heavenly cloth. What would it mean for Radu and Lada? Would they be allowed to stay with Mehmed?