Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(16)

“So you want to work together? Coordinate?” Stephen asked.

“No. If we give him a single front, it is that much easier for him to defeat us. I want us to do everything separately. No clear target, no attainable path for defeating us. I used a small, unexpected force to slaughter his men up and down the border. Our best plan is to defy plans.”

Matthias rubbed his throat, his glare as sharp as Bogdan’s blade. “But Mehmed is not in Hungary. I am not going to attack other countries. What good will I do you?”

“Deal with the Transylvanians. Convince them to work with me. I need their numbers.”

Stephen laughed, idly spinning an empty wine goblet on the arm of his chair. “I have read some of their work on you, Lada Dracul. Very creative.”

“Did you see the one about the picnic?” Nicolae asked.

Stephen nodded. “Oh, yes. Charming. King Matthias will have his work cut out for him.”

“I am certain he is up to the task,” Lada said. She was certain of no such thing. “And your other role is far more important, Matthias. We need money. The only person who can give us the funds we seek is the pope.”

“The pope?” His threatened throat forgotten, Matthias leaned forward, eyes narrowed shrewdly as the conversation turned to something he was interested in. “What makes you think the pope will give us money?”

“He fears Islam invading Europe. I wrote him about my victories in Bulgaria, and he likes me very much.”

Matthias laughed meanly. “That is because he does not know you.”

“Exactly. I have neither the time nor the temperament to pursue that advantage. Will you?”

The Hungarian king steepled his fingers. “You will have to convert to Catholicism.”

“No.”

“He will not support you if you are still Orthodox.”

Why were men always trying to claim different parts of her? Her body, her name, her soul. Why should they care where its allegiances lay? She waved a hand crossly. “Then I have converted. You can inform him.”

“I think it is rather more complicated than that,” Nicolae said.

“If the king of Hungary writes to the pope that I am Catholic, I am Catholic.” Lada had converted to Islam in much the same way, thanks to Radu’s political maneuverings. That had been to save their lives. This was to finance war.

Besides, they could not touch her soul in the end, despite all demands on its loyalties.

“Your people will not like your conversion.” Stephen raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Lada followed his gaze to find Bogdan aghast. Bogdan held his Orthodox faith almost as dearly as he held Lada.

“My people,” Lada said, glaring at Bogdan, “will like it because I choose it, and everything I choose is for the good of Wallachia.” Bogdan looked down at the floor, chastised.

Matthias’s eager hunger had not quite left his face, though he tried to smooth it away. Lada was struck with a sudden, powerful longing for Matthias’s father, Hunyadi. An honest man. A true man. A man who would have been invaluable on the battlefields to come.

But all she had was Hunyadi’s son, so she would use him if she could.

He smiled tightly. “It may work. With the loss of Constantinople so fresh, I think I can convince Rome to send us gold. Perhaps a lot of it.”

“Good. We all know what our duties are, then.”

Stephen grinned rakishly, holding his goblet out to Lada in a toast. “Disrupt stability. Petition for gold. Provoke the greatest empire on the face of the earth.” He paused. “This is going to be fun.”





8





Constantinople


OVER THE NEXT two weeks, Radu kept to the palace—the least haunted part of the city for him. He spent his time writing letters and consulting with Mara on where they could look for Nazira. Mara’s smiling patience nagged at him; the calm and soothing way she spoke terrified him that there was, in fact, no hope.

He would not give up hope. Not for Nazira. Not ever.

Radu was invited to sit in on all the meetings that involved Europe. He wondered if it was to give some legitimacy to his place in Mehmed’s court, though he felt useless. Unlike Mara, he had not kept up any of his ties with his home country aside from Aron and Andrei Danesti, whom he met with occasionally. Theirs was a relationship destined for discomfort. His sister had murdered their father; their father had murdered Radu’s father. And now his sister sat on the throne they had equal claim to. He avoided them, and everyone else, as much as was polite.

The only peace Radu found was in prayer, but even his studies of Islam could not distract his itching, straining heart. Every time Radu thought he had found a place in the world, the world changed around him, and he was once again left alone.

Today, Mehmed was at the head of the room on an elevated platform. Along with several other of Mehmed’s advisors, Radu sat nearest to him. But no one was allowed on the platform. Not even Radu, despite how close they were behind closed doors. Some things never changed.

He rubbed his eyes wearily. He did not know how much longer he could stand playacting. It had kept him alive through his cruel childhood, navigating the Sultan Murad’s capricious court, and behind the walls of Constantinople during the siege. But when Nazira and Cyprian left, he had lost the one person who truly knew him. And he had lost the other person whom he would have liked to let try.