Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(80)

“I am sorry,” she said. “I was not expecting to host the prince. But you are a prince of the people.” The woman smiled at Lada with more warmth than even the embers held, and Lada felt something inside herself break. She wanted to cry. She could not remember the last time she had wanted to cry, and could not fathom what it would accomplish now. Instead, she sat and accepted the bread and dried meat the woman offered her.

“How have things been here?” Lada asked. She did not want to specify in her absence—if Matthias had kept her imprisonment secret, she would certainly not be the one who let it be known.

“Quiet. Peaceful. A man came through a month ago asking for word of you.” The woman smiled. “He did not leave again.” The woman poured the scalding water into the tub, then excused herself. She returned with two buckets of cold water and dumped them in as well. “It would be the greatest honor of my life to wash my prince.” The woman bowed her head.

Lada peeled away her clothes, throwing them into the fire. She set her locket carefully on a chair and then climbed into the tub, her knees against her chest. She sank as low as she could in the confines. The woman hummed a low sweet song to herself as she took a chunk of soap and a rough brush and began.

Though Lada had not been bathed by someone else since she was a child, she accepted the offering of this woman’s kindness. Months of fear, of dirt, of caked blood came off into the water. Lada wished she could remove her skin to reveal something new and stronger beneath. Scales, or chain mail. But beneath the grime she was only soft and pink. Her body was unfamiliar to her. Her breasts still large, her stomach distended from months of poor nutrition. Her arms and legs thinner, weapon calluses on her hands gone.

When the water cooled, Lada climbed out. The woman wrapped her in a blanket worn soft with years of use. Lada sat by the fire and—in yet another inexcusable betrayal of Oana—allowed the woman to brush her hair.

“Why have you shown me this kindness?” Lada asked. It was one thing to serve the prince. But Lada had not demanded this, and it was clear she had nothing with her to pay for it.

The woman paused, then kept brushing, though more thoughtfully. “Because you are the only prince who has ever visited our village.” Lada heard a smile shape the woman’s voice. “Because you are the only prince who knows what it is to be a woman in this world. And because I am a little afraid that if I am not kind to you, you will kill me.”

Lada laughed. “I do not kill my people. Only those who take from my people.”

The woman laughed, too, the sound as worn and soft as the blanket around Lada. “Another reason you deserve my kindness. I have never much cared one way or the other about a prince. Never did me any good to. But the people here know and love you. Because of you, we get to keep more of our crops and earnings. And my grandson—smart, strong little boy—will never be sold to those godless infidels to fight their battles.” She finished, patting Lada’s shoulder. “Now, you wait here. I know you do not wear skirts. I will find some clothes for you.”

Lada knew what a sacrifice that was. In a village this size, every person would probably have only one change of clothing. The trousers and tunic the woman brought back were clean and well mended.

Lada dressed. When she was done, a little boy—probably the woman’s grandson—peeked in. His eyes were wide with awe, or fear. Lada glared at him, then winked. He did not look any less terrified as he backed away and closed the door. The woman returned, smiling shyly, and held out a strip of red cloth. “My mother gave this to me when I got married.” She stroked the material. It was simple cloth, but the color of dye was expensive. It was probably her greatest treasure. Lada turned her back, and let the woman tie the cloth around her head, securing her wet hair.

Standing straighter than she had when she arrived, Lada followed the woman out into the village. Everywhere, villagers had come out of their homes and back from the river or the fields. The woman’s grandson was running from door to door, whispering and pointing to alert them to Lada’s presence. They stood along the road, watching. Few smiled, but all regarded her with a fierce pride. Many of the women had their hands on the shoulders of young boys. Boys who would never be taken away. Boys who would grow up to serve their own country.

Lada lifted her chin. “For the kindness shown me here today, this village will never again pay taxes to any prince.”

The people cheered, little girls waving flowers—one brandished a stick like a sword—as she passed. A man solemnly handed her his own boots, though replacing them would cost him dearly. Lada accepted them and mounted her horse. She nodded, proud and strong, before turning and riding toward her fortress.

No price was too high to pay for the good of Wallachia, and Wallachia—true Wallachia—knew and loved her for her sacrifices.



She met several of her soldiers at the base of the peak where Poenari loomed sentinel over the river. They seemed astonished at her appearance, but she invited no questions and offered no explanations. She handed them her horse’s reins and then walked past them and up the winding switchback trail. By the time she got to the top she was winded and exhausted, but she did her best not to show it. She would project only strength.

Bogdan ran to the gate to meet her. She could see in his posture he wanted to throw his arms around her, but he restrained himself. She had trained him that well, at least. He looked past her.