Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(92)

She had dug through the mountain to reach her heart’s desire, and found the mountain had a heart after all: the beating pulse required of all those who would not stop, would not accept what the world offered, would not bow.

She drummed her fingers on the arms of the throne, looking out at the empty room. She was not stupid enough to think men would stop trying to take it from her. They would always be there, waiting for weakness, waiting for her to fall. They wanted what she had because she had it. And one day, eventually, someone would defeat her. But until that day she would fight with tooth and nail, with all the fire and blood that had formed her into who she was.

She was a dragon.

She was a prince.

She was a woman.

It was the last that scared them most of all. She smiled, tapping her fingers on the throne in a beat like her heart.

“Mine,” she said.

Hers. And hers alone.





50





Three Years Later, Outside Amasya


RADU FINISHED PRAYING, then sat back on his heels, enjoying the particular quiet peace of the space. A thump and a laugh roused him. He stretched, glancing over the letters awaiting him on his desk. Most were regional issues—minor disputes, tax claims, all the little matters of keeping his bey running smoothly.

One was from Mara Brankovic, though. He carried it with him out to the dizzyingly colorful garden, where Oana was setting up an afternoon picnic while Fatima sewed in the shade. Nazira sat on the swing that had hung from the old tree on Kumal’s country estate. They had brought it with them. Brought him with them, in spirit, in every way they could.

“It is from Mara,” Radu said, handing Nazira the letter.

Nazira read it, smiling and shaking her head. “Mara says Urbana sends her love.”

“She has to know we know she is lying.”

“I suspect she does it to amuse herself. She thanks us for sending our respects when her mother died. Mehmed’s eastern borders are giving him trouble, so he has not been in the capital much lately. Oh, and yes, here is the real reason for the letter, and it took her only three pages to get to it: she wants to know if you would be willing to remind Lada of her tax obligations. ‘Such things are always so much more pleasant coming from a family member.’” Nazira laughed. “She is trying to delegate.”

Radu lowered himself to the ground, sitting next to Fatima and peering over her shoulder at the tunic she was sewing. “That is beautiful.”

She smiled, pleased. “It is for Theodora.”

“So it will remain beautiful for three whole minutes after she puts it on.”

Fatima’s smile grew both softer and prouder. She stroked the cloth. “Yes.”

With a roar, Cyprian ran into the garden, Theodora riding on his shoulders. He did several circles around the tree before collapsing onto the grass. Theodora jumped on his stomach, laughing, but Cyprian pretended to be dead.

Scowling, Theodora wandered back to the house, her long black hair already undone from the careful braids Fatima had put in just that morning.

Radu stretched out, resting his head on Cyprian’s torso. The day was warm, lovely and soft, the best season. This evening, he would answer Mara and write his report on the status of his bey for Mehmed. But this afternoon?

This afternoon was for happiness.

Oana finished laying out the food, grumbling about not being able to find the right ingredients here. She had done well adjusting to a new life, though she refused to learn Turkish. It was good for Theodora, though, to understand Wallachian. It felt right. “Theodora!” Oana shouted. “It is time to eat!”

Radu sat up, passing the food and listening to Nazira make plans for a holiday to Bursa to see the sea. Someday they would make the pilgrimage to Mecca, but that could wait until Theodora was older. They would also visit Cyprus to see where Cyprian’s mother had come from. But Bursa was far enough for now.

“As long as I do not have to ride on any boats,” Radu said.

“Oddly enough, Cyprian and I have had a lifetime’s worth of experience on boats as well,” Nazira replied.

“And deserted islands,” Cyprian said with a laugh, lacing his fingers through Radu’s.

It had never stopped feeling like a miracle.

“I had to fight a mountain,” Theodora said, plopping down in the middle of the blanket and knocking over several bowls of food. “It was mad. I screamed at it, and it had fire eyes. But then I got it with my knife.” She held up a knife clutched in her still-dimpled hand.

Radu reached out and plucked it away.

“Where is she always finding knives?” Nazira said, frowning as she pulled Theodora into her lap and fussed over her hair. Theodora nuzzled against Nazira, reaching up and patting her cheek.

Radu knew he should be cross, but he could not help laughing.



Later that evening, as Radu tucked Theodora into bed, he reached beneath her pillow and retrieved a knife she had hidden there.

Her lips stuck out in a pout. He kissed her forehead.

“I will save it for when you are older. And if you have to fight a mountain, come get me. I will fight it with you.”

Her three-year-old body could hold neither rage nor consciousness for long. Radu stayed, hours after she fell asleep, gazing at her face. Lada and Mehmed had combined in a softening of both their features. Mehmed’s full lips with Lada’s large eyes, Mehmed’s dark lashes with Lada’s hooked nose.