Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(42)

This was man-made.

No. This was Lada-made.

“See, there,” Kiril said, pointing. “Trenches. Diverting the river into the fields. It must have taken forever to dig them.”

“Find a way through, then return and report how far the marsh continues,” Radu said to the freckled scout. He could not hide his own despair as he looked at yet more land for feeding both the Wallachians and the Ottoman troops completely destroyed. He turned to Kiril. “Go around and see how far we have to go to skirt it. It may be better to clear our own roads than to drag cannon-laden wagons through this mire.” Radu stared at the ruin of the land. Lada had hurt them, yes. But she had also hurt her own people in the long run. How could she not see what she was doing? How could she justify this cost?

“Your sister did all this?” Kiril asked, surveying the damage as a group gathered to scout with him.

Radu took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the anger flaring toward Lada and her ever-growing damage to the world they both had to live in. “I cannot imagine this is the worst of what awaits us, either.”

Radu had been wrong all this time. He had felt guilty for the way his heart yearned for other men. But it was not his own love that was poisonous and destructive. His love destroyed nothing, hurt no one. Lada loved Wallachia above all else, and this was the result. What Mehmed and Lada did—because of what they set their hearts on with both people and land—was far worse than anything Radu’s love could ever lead him to do.

It was an odd sort of thing to take comfort in, but he accepted it. Nazira was right. His love had no evil in it.

He could not say the same for his sister’s.





21





Tirgoviste


LADA HAD NOT been able to take a deep breath since she hit the outskirts of Tirgoviste. Closing the castle door behind her, she pulled off the cloth over her mouth and nose and gasped for air.

“Yes, it is unpleasant out there,” Oana remarked, eyeing her with something like humor, though far darker.

“They have not completed as much as I had hoped.” Lada leaned against the door as though her weight would help keep the air outside from coming in. The smell had followed her, but it was merely overwhelming, not unbearable.

“They can only work in short shifts. We have to trade workers in and out more often than we had planned for.”

“They can do more.”

Oana laughed gruffly. “Not unconscious, they cannot. You will have to buy them a little more time.”

“Fortunately that costs only effort and lives, not money. I can always give up more of the first two, but the third I am entirely lacking.” Lada rubbed the small of her back. It had been a long, hard ride, and she did not have the luxury of resting. Not that she thought she could sleep here. “Why are you still here? I want you in the mountains. Go to my fortress at Poenari.”

Oana patted the top of Lada’s head in a way that made Lada wonder if it would be inappropriate to punch her old nurse in the stomach. “Child, are you worried about my safety?”

“The entire city could burn down and you would be standing in the center, entirely unharmed, holding a comb and telling me it was time to deal with my hair.”

Oana squinted. “It is looking rather the worse for wear.”

“Oh, go hide in the mountains, you monster.” Before Lada could dodge, Oana wrapped her in a hug.

“Be careful. We need you.” Oana squeezed too tightly, then released her and opened the door. The stench was so powerful that Lada staggered back as though struck. Oana did not even cover her face as she scuttled toward Lada’s horse.

Lada slammed the door shut again. She needed to do one last sweep to make certain Mehmed would find nothing to his advantage here, should he manage to make it to the center of the city.

In the throne room she found tiles still stained with the blood of her predecessor. The faded outline of the sword that once hung over her father’s head—now worn at her side—remained on the wall. In the halls she found ghostly whispers and memories of fear and rage. And in her chambers that had once belonged to her father, she found no memories at all worth taking.

“Lada,” a man said behind her.

She shouted in surprise, turning around with one dagger already drawn. Stefan was standing in a shadowed corner of the room. How long he had been there, she had no idea. Either she was slipping, or he was better than ever. She hoped it was the latter.

“I am glad it is you.” Her heart still raced as she replaced her dagger in its wrist sheath.

He remained as unmoving and still as his expression. His was such a forgettable face that when he was away, Lada had a hard time remembering what, exactly, he looked like. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the side as though Lada were a problem to be solved.

“I have been paid a tremendous amount of money to kill you.” His voice was so emotionless it took Lada several seconds to process what he had said.

Her hand twitched toward her wrist, but she stopped. She knew how deadly Stefan was. She had taken great pride in it. It was rather less pleasant knowing that, if he wanted her dead, she already was. At first, anger and sadness bubbled to the surface. But they were replaced with a bleak sort of pleasure. Had she not hoped that someday someone would realize she was deserving of an assassin of Stefan’s caliber?