Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(6)

“Murad?” Radu asked, puzzled. It had been Mehmed’s father’s name.

Manuel beamed. “Yes. And I am Mesih. The sultan let me choose it myself.”

“You have new names.” Radu frowned.

“We thought it was best. It is a new empire! A new start. A rebirth, we decided.”

“We?” Radu asked.

“Yes, Murad and me. And the sultan.”

Mehmed had meant what he said, then—that he would make the boys part of his court. Radu was glad to hear that this promise had been kept. And he supposed renaming them made sense. He himself had finally been able to adjust and accept his new life when he felt like he truly belonged. It was probably best for the boys to remove themselves from who they had been, to forget the trauma and loss of the past. Manuel—Mesih—certainly seemed happy enough.

If only Radu Bey’s new name had had the same effect.

Mesih took Radu’s hand and pulled him deeper into the palace. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, telling Radu what they could expect for dinner and asking whether Radu would join them for evening prayer at the Hagia Sophia or if he would be praying somewhere else. Then he went on to speak of his lessons, which tutors he liked best, how his writing was much better than his brother’s. “And you have noticed how good my Turkish is, I am sure.”

Radu laughed. “I have. I could listen to it all day.” And he suspected he would, until they were separated. Something nagged at Radu, though, as Mesih continued describing his lessons.

He realized with a pain both happy and sad what was different: This boy was receiving a true education with no cruelty. There were no visits to the head gardener, no instructional trips to the prisons and torture chambers, no beatings. This was not the same childhood Radu and Lada had experienced under a sultan.

Mehmed was not his father. He had taken the city and made something better. He had taken the heirs of his enemy and made them his family. The dread Radu had felt about seeing his oldest friend dissipated. There was still much distance between them, but at least Radu had not been wrong to believe in Mehmed’s ability to do great things.

“Are you well, Radu Bey?” Mesih asked.

Radu sniffed, clearing his throat. “Yes, I am well. Or at least, I think I will be.”





3





Tirgoviste


IF LADA HAD known the sheer volume of parchment she would be buried under, she might have taken a title other than prince. She had returned revitalized from her visit to her fortress, only to find mounds of letters waiting for her.

Lada groaned, leaning her head forward. The brush Oana was working through her hair caught on a snarl.

“Sit up straight,” Oana snapped.

“I do not want to do this.” Lada gestured weakly toward the table covered with demands for her time and attention.

“Well, I would help, but I cannot read.”

“Count yourself fortunate.” Lada sat on the floor next to the table, sweeping a pile of missives onto her lap. “Go find Stefan. I want to speak with him if any of these prove interesting.” Lada began sorting.

Boyar asking for redress for the loss of life of a relative—tossed in a pile in the corner.

Boyar asking for a meeting to address the conscription of land for Lada’s own purposes—same pile.

Letter from her cousin Steven, the king of Moldavia. This, she read carefully. She had never met him, but he had a fierce reputation. He wrote to congratulate her on taking the throne, and to commend her on the reports of order and peace in her country. He said nothing of her mother. It gave Lada a dark thrill of vindictive pleasure. Her mother had talked almost obsessively of his yearly visits. He was one of the highlights of Vasilissa’s sad, solitary life, and she did not so much as register in his own.

But then the end of the letter soured some of her pleasure. Please take care to avoid antagonizing our neighbors. Let me know when you have new terms with the sultan. I am most curious to hear them.

Glowering, she threw his letter in with the boyar demands.

“From Matthias Corvinus,” Stefan said, passing her a slender letter.

Lada did not know when he had entered the room, but would not give him the pleasure of reacting to his stealth. She was still cross with him for failing to meet her at Nicolae’s estate. “Read it. I do not care to.” She picked up another letter, more nonsense from a wheedling boyar.

“Matthias wants to meet. He says you have much to discuss.”

“I have nothing to say to him. We both got what we bargained for. As far as I am concerned, our relationship is over.”

Stefan held out the letter to her. “We want him as an ally.”

“‘We’? I do not want him as anything.”

Stefan did not lower his hand or change his impassive expression. Growling in frustration, Lada snatched the letter and set it next to herself, but not in the pile for burning. “Very well.”

Stefan picked up another letter. “This one is from Mara Brankovic. She is—” He paused, eyes scanning the air as he retrieved one of the thousands of bits of stored information he carried at all times. “The daughter of the Serbian king. Widow of Sultan Murad.”

Lada opened this letter with more curiosity than she had felt about any so far. Mara’s handwriting was perfect and elegant. There was not so much as an ink spot out of place. Lada read the letter twice to make certain she understood it. “Mara has gone to Constantinople and joined Mehmed’s court as one of his advisors. Have you ever heard of such a thing? She was so eager to escape Edirne, and now she goes back to the empire of her own free will?”