Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(8)

Lada could not believe she was hearing about this now, from an enemy instead of her own people. She hated that he was showing her he had more information than she did. “I have not had reports of this yet.”

He did not change his expression, which was as sharp and unyielding as steel. “All the Wallachians were dead. It is unfortunate. Most likely due to a misunderstanding. But once your terms of vassalage are secure, Bulgaria will be a powerful ally and such conflicts will cease. The sultan protects his vassals.”

This man, this Ottoman, thought he could come here and tell her about attacks on her own country—slaughter of her own people—as a method of forcing her to agree to Ottoman rule? As though dead Wallachians somehow argued in favor of allying with those who killed them? And it did not make sense that he would have news of this before her.

Unless he had come directly from doing it himself. Lada leaned forward, her voice cold. “You killed my people.”

The Janissary captain flashed a smile that did not touch his eyes. “No. Bulgarians killed your people along a chaotic border. The sultan’s terms eliminate such chaos. A solid treaty, respectfully followed, will protect your people.”

Lada bared her small white teeth. It was not a smile. “I protect my people. I avenge them, too. And you have nothing to teach me about respect. After all, none of you showed me the respect of removing your hats.” She stood. “Bind them.”

Her men sprang into action. The Janissary captain and his soldiers put up a fight, but they had not been allowed to bring weapons into the throne room. Everyone was subdued, though not without a struggle and several broken noses.

The lead ambassador glared murderously at Lada. “You cannot harm us. You do not want to risk what it will bring.”

“You did not worry about what risk killing my own people would bring.” Lada seethed with rage. They had come into her land. Slaughtered Wallachians under her protection. Unlike letters, such a thing as this could not go unanswered. She would send a message the likes of which would echo through Mehmed’s empire and all of Europe.

She prowled in a circle around the ambassador, then tugged on the edges of his turban. “I am going to help you. If it was so important to you to leave your heads covered in my presence, so important that it was worth disrespecting a prince, then I will make certain you never have to uncover your heads again.” Lada turned to Bogdan. “Bring me nails and a hammer.”

Finally, the lead ambassador trembled. Finally, he saw how Lada answered disrespect and the deaths of her own people.

Lada stood in the corner of the throne room as her men drove nails into the heads of the Ottomans. As always, she made herself watch. It would have been easier to do in private. In some hidden dungeon. But no. She would bear witness to the things that had to be done for Wallachia to be secure. This was her burden, her responsibility.

Their screams were loud. In a bright, bloody flash, she remembered one of her many childhood trips to watch the sultan’s torturers’ brutal work. The price of stability was always paid with blood and flesh and pain.

She watched, but as though from a great distance.

They were not men. They were goals accomplished. They were not men.

A sudden wave of relief that Radu was not here washed over her. She did not like to imagine the look on his face if he were. She had always tried to protect him because he was her responsibility. Now all of Wallachia was. She would do whatever it took to protect her people.

The screams stopped. Which was good. She had other things to do.

“Send them back to their Hand of God,” she said, glancing over the bodies. Some were still alive. It was unfortunate for them but would not last long. “Tell him I will have his respect.”

She turned to Bogdan, whose hands were slick with blood. His mother, Oana, would be the one to clean it up. Some things never changed. “Send for Nicolae and our forces. We have business to attend to in Bulgaria.”





4





Constantinople


RADU WAS NOT sitting as far from Mehmed as he had in Edirne, when they had pretended Radu was out of favor. But no one sat next to Mehmed here. He lounged at a table on a dais, at the head of the room and separate from everyone.

Radu was grateful he had not spent much time in the palace under Constantine, so this room was new to him. Dazzling blue and gold tile covered the walls in floral patterns growing up to the ceiling, which was ringed with gold leaf. A heavy chandelier hung overhead. It, at least, looked original. But Radu suspected that beneath the tile were the more Byzantine-favored religious murals. Mehmed was claiming every inch of the city, one mosaic at a time.

Radu had come in late—his detour into the city had made him miss the beginning of the meal—so after washing, he took a spot next to his old friend Urbana and a woman he vaguely recognized from Murad’s court. It was unusual for this many women to be at a formal dinner. Murad had excluded them entirely. But Radu was comforted and pleased to sit by Urbana. She had not been changed by the siege, other than the shiny burn scar that disfigured half her face. She smelled faintly of gunpowder and had black scorch marks on all her fingers.

Unchanged also was Urbana’s distaste for Ottoman food. She kept up a steady stream of complaints in Hungarian to the other woman. Radu stared determinedly at his plates, avoiding looking at Mehmed. Why had Mehmed called him back to the city? What would it feel like to talk to him again? When Radu had left six months before, Mehmed had been so busy with planning and rebuilding that they had scarcely seen each other. Had Mehmed missed him?