Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(41)

Satisfied, Lada turned to the mean-spirited, brutal man she was leaving in charge. She had found Grigore in prison, where he was awaiting execution for beating the son of a boyar. He was perfectly suited to her needs.

“Make them pay for every step of progress with ten bodies. Once you finish off the gunpowder, no more is coming. Destroy the cannons so they do not take them. Then run to Bucharest and man the walls.”

Grigore smiled, breathing deeply of the scent of burning flesh and blood. “It will be my pleasure.”

Bogdan was waiting with their horses. While an army could not get through the land without tremendous planning and difficulty, two people on horseback could cover the distance with ease. Lada knew Mehmed’s main force had not advanced far toward Tirgoviste yet. They would easily beat him to their target.

“I will go on to Tirgoviste alone,” Lada said. “I need to make sure Oana is out safely, and that there is nothing for them to take. Also, I need to check the final logistics for their welcome. I want you to go to the hill camps and organize the soldiers. Some of them are being led by boyars”—Lada grimaced at the thought—“and I expect they will need a lot of help.” It aggravated her that she had to use any of the boyars, but some had remained loyal to her and she simply did not have enough men trained to lead. After this was over, she would change that. Never again would she depend on anyone else. They all inevitably disappointed her, or left. Or chose someone over her.

Bogdan leaned close as if he would try to kiss her. She kicked her horse’s flanks, quickly outpacing him.

She rode alone. It felt right.





20





Wallachian Countryside


RADU FINISHED PRAYING and remained on his rug. The loss of Kumal weighed heavily on him at all times, but he felt it most strongly during prayer. Kumal was the man who had invited him in, who had given him Islam as a refuge for his soul when all else was in turmoil.

All else was in turmoil once again, and Radu had cost Kumal his life.

Radu could not help but wonder what his relationship to his God was. It had been sorely tested and tried during his time in Constantinople. But it had not broken. Sometimes Radu had feared it would, but he still found the same peace and solace in prayer he always had.

Radu wished he had been open with Kumal about what was in his own heart. He had worried that Kumal might say something that would separate them, or, worse, separate Radu from God. Molla Gurani, the scholar who had taught Mehmed and Radu and had witnessed his conversion, doubtless could have told Radu everything written about whether the love in his heart for other men condemned him. Radu had done some study on the subject, but it brought him no peace.

Perhaps Kumal could have talked about the heart of faith, and whether Radu could have a heart filled with God and still love as he needed to.

But Kumal was gone. Molla Gurani, too. All Radu had was himself and his God, the movement of prayer and the ritual of worship connecting them. He would not sever that connection. He felt Nazira was right: where God and love were concerned, he was happy to leave it unreconciled.

Wishing he could linger, Radu rolled up his rug and packed his tent. He made his way to Mehmed’s tent. By the look of things, packing the sultan for the day’s travel had not yet begun. Radu did not relish the idea of standing about idly. The progress of the camp was plodding, and Radu did not think he could handle the boredom today. It left too much room for thought. He saw a group of his scouts and mounted to join them.

The day had dawned bright and clear, the air warm and humid. “Do you know the land well?” one of the scouts asked. He was a quiet, thoughtful man, a Janissary named Kiril. Radu had ridden with him before and liked him.

“I remember it,” Radu said, “though I have not been through here since I was a boy. We followed a road along the river, from Tirgoviste to Edirne.”

“What brought you to the empire?”

Radu smiled wryly, remembering. “Politics. I was a hostage, actually.”

“I did not know, Radu Bey.”

Radu laughed to ease the other man’s discomfort. Kiril was older than him by only a year or two. Radu liked the younger Janissaries. It was easier to be in their company. He felt he had less to prove to them than he did to the older ones. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“As being sent to train as a Janissary was for me. This must be an odd sort of homecoming for you, then.”

“It is not my home. It never was, really.”

A scout appeared from a bend between two tree-dense hills farther up the road. He rode to them, frowning, his freckled features twisted with confusion. “Is there another road? I think we have taken a wrong turn.”

“No,” Radu answered. According to both his memory and his maps, they were exactly where they were supposed to be. “This is the only road wide enough for the wagons to get through. There are no other major roads. It is all farmland until outside Tirgoviste.”

“There is no farmland up there.”

Radu shared an alarmed look with Kiril. He had not been here since he was a child, but things could not have changed that much. With a growing pit of dread in his stomach, Radu spurred his horse forward. He stopped abruptly as they crested a low hill. Instead of rolling acres of budding green fields lining the river, there were … marshes.

Leagues and leagues of marshes. The river, now low and sluggish, had soaked the land all around it. Radu knew that on occasion the river flooded and caused this type of damage, but they had had no such rainy season lately.