Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(46)

She had a sudden image of Radu falling ill. Mehmed joined him in her imagination, both wasting away with sickness.

No. It was not how any of them were supposed to die. So they could not. She physically shook away the image and turned sharply to go deeper into the camp.

The lack of activity made her job slightly more difficult but also gave her some advantages. With only minimal men out and about, it would take more time for them to muster a response to any attack. Soldiers in tents were sleeping soldiers. On a campaign like this, a man never passed up an opportunity for sleep.

She kept going, noting locations and positions of any importance. The camp was set against the hills with broad open plains on three sides. They had cut down any trees that might offer hiding places. No army could approach on horseback without being seen from a great distance. And the hills were too barren and rough for an entire army to reach under short notice. It was a smart, defensible position.

A position that all the devastation in the countryside—too many pits in one direction, too marshy in another, rotting animal carcasses left all over another option—had subtly but surely directed them to.

She smiled happily to herself. It would be impossible to set an army up in those hills if the army were coming now.

But not if the army had already been there for weeks.

She nodded companionably to a passing Janissary, then turned a corner around a cluster of tents and stopped cold.

He never learned. In front of her was a glorious tent, taller and grander than any others in the camp. Mehmed’s name was actually written on it in the form of his flags and banners hanging slack in the still night air.

Lada walked around back, past the Janissaries standing guard at the tent’s entrance. With a spinning sense of history repeating itself, she pulled out a knife and slit the silken material to create her own door. Then she slipped inside.

Mehmed was sitting at a desk with his back to her. A few steps. Her knife. The end of the Ottoman campaign in Wallachia. Perhaps the end of Ottoman dominance entirely as they were plunged into a question of succession.

“You never learn,” she said. “I have killed you again.”

Mehmed tensed. Then he turned with a smile. He held a dagger, too. “You are late. I have been expecting you every night since I crossed the Danube.”

For a few moments Lada stood, poised on the brink of violence. Then she stepped past Mehmed and sank down onto one of his red silk pillows, stretching out her legs on the floor. Her boots got mud on his rich carpet. “I have been rather busy. Things to do. Empires to fight. Summer holidays to plan.”

“Am I such a low priority, then? That hurts my pride.”

He finally stood, his movements slow and measured as though she would spook—or attack—and sat across from her. He grabbed one of her boots and tugged it off. He tapped the knife she wore hidden at her ankle, then tugged the other boot off. He shook his head, tracing that ankle sheath, too. “Both sides?”

“I like to be prepared.”

“I know.” Mehmed removed her wool socks, knitted for her by Oana, and began kneading her feet. She could not imagine him doing this with—for—anyone else. Certainly not any of the women in his harem. They existed to serve him.

“I want you out of my country,” Lada said, not taking her eyes off him.

He smiled, as dark and secret as the night. “Then why did you invite me here?”

“I did no such thing.”

“Lada.” He moved past her feet, rubbing her tight calves. “You sent me men in boxes and an entire vassal state in turmoil. From you, that is practically courtship.”

Lada laughed. She did not want to. She had not come here to be with him. But in spite of their history, in spite of his betrayals, he was … Mehmed. Her Mehmed. She had known as soon as she entered the tent she would not kill him. Even though she really should have, if she believed in what she had set out to do.

She lifted a foot and put it against his chest, shoving him away. “You idiot. I should kill you.”

He leaned back on his elbows. “Probably. And I should call my men in here and have you arrested. But I do not want to do that.” His gaze on her was far more tender and intimate than his fingers had ever been. Lada felt it through her whole body. “I want you to come back with me.”

“I never will.”

Mehmed sighed. “I know. But I keep pretending to myself there is a way. To get you back. To be together. I have only ever wanted you.”

“You have wanted a tremendous amount more than me.”

Mehmed’s grin was sharp and wicked like her knives, and just as familiar. “That is true. But I also want you.”

“Yes, now that you have everything else you set out to gain.” Lada pulled her legs beneath her, scooting closer to him. “Is it what you hoped? Constantinople?”

“It is more.” Mehmed paused, his expression turning wistful and forlorn. “And less, at the same time.”

Lada touched a corner of Mehmed’s mouth. “I understand.” It was a hard thing, setting a lofty goal and achieving it, only to realize on the other side that the work had just begun.

“I think only you could understand me. And you? You have your country.”

“Says the man with an army camped in reach of my capital.”

“You know I had no other choice.”