Now I Rise (The Conqueror's Saga #2)(18)

He shouted the same command in Turkish. As one, the men looked at him. No one moved.

Lada narrowed her eyes. “And they do not answer to Turkish.”

Hunyadi frowned, tugging at his beard. “Then how do I command them?”

“You do not. I do.” In Wallachian, she commanded her men to pack up. Immediately they sprang into efficient, well-practiced action. Hunyadi watched, his expression thoughtful. Lada rode with more cheer after that. She would prove herself to him yet.

Later that day, Hunyadi found Lada riding next to Stefan and Nicolae near the back of the company. Stefan veered his horse away, giving Hunyadi space.

“Your men are very disciplined,” Hunyadi said, scratching his beard. He toyed with it constantly. Lada wondered if it was because as a young man he had not been allowed a beard. He had fought long and hard to move from being the son of peasant farmers to one of the strongest leaders on the borders of the Ottoman Empire. She supposed he had every right to be amused by and affectionate toward his beard.

Or perhaps beards were just itchy.

“We were well trained,” Lada answered in Wallachian.

Hunyadi responded in the same language. “I always prefer fighting spahis to Janissaries. Janissaries are so much fiercer.”

Nicolae smiled wryly. “That is one of the benefits of a slave force that can have neither possessions nor families. It is easy to be fearless when you have nothing to lose.”

Hunyadi grunted. Pointing to Nicolae’s prominent scar, he asked, “Where did you get that?” His Wallachian accent was so bad that it hurt Lada to hear him speak.

Nicolae’s smile broadened, stretching his scar tight and white. “At Varna. From a Hungarian. Right before we killed your king.”

Lada’s hands went to her wrists, ready to defend Nicolae. To her surprise, Hunyadi laughed. “Oh, Varna. That was a disaster.” He shifted back into Hungarian. “Set me back a few years. We still have not recovered from the loss of our king. Our new one, Ladislas Posthumous, is not exactly ideal.” His expression grew faraway and thoughtful. “He could be replaced.”

Lada pounced on his tone before she could think better of it. “You?” Hunyadi had been a prince of Transylvania. He was beloved by his people, and a fearsome military force. If he were king—and her ally—

The path to the throne of Wallachia opened before her, bathed in golden light.

Until Hunyadi laughed, puncturing her hopes and bringing darkness crashing back down. “Me, king? No. I have tried a throne. It turns out I am not fond of sitting, no matter what the seat may be.”

Lada slouched moodily in her saddle. Hunyadi would still be a strong ally. But a king was better. “Your people would be fortunate to have such a man as their king.”

Hunyadi clapped a hand on her shoulder. “I am a soldier. I am not made for politics and courts. My son Matthias, on the other hand, has been raised in them. He will go far, and do greater things than I ever could.” Hunyadi beamed. “He is my greatest triumph. And he is very handsome.”

Lada frowned, unsure what that had to do with Matthias’s merits. She had seen, though, how many doors opened for Radu because of his face. “I am sure that will be useful to him.”

“He needs a strong wife. Someone who can temper his … extravagances. Help steer him.”

“He will need a good alliance.” If Matthias wanted to continue to rise within the Hungarian courts, he would have to bring some sort of power with him. Hunyadi had no family name, no history. He had land and wealth, yes, but they were new. And newness was not something to be proud of in the world of nobility.

Hunyadi patted her shoulder again. “I am less concerned with alliances. Those come and go. But strength of character—that cannot be valued enough.”

Hunyadi rode away, with Lada staring at his back in confusion.

“Does he want me to find his son a wife?” she asked, turning to Stefan, who had been leaning over to Nicolae and whispering. Stefan pretended not to speak Hungarian, but he understood it.

Nicolae’s face was purpling from the effort of holding something back. Finally, it escaped in a strangled, airy laugh. “Lada, my darling dragon, he wants you to be his son’s wife.”

“The devil take him,” she snapped. Anger and humiliation washed through her. All this time Hunyadi had been viewing her as merely a womb. How could she make the world see her as she saw herself? “And the devil take his son, too.” She rubbed her forehead wearily. No wonder he had tried to command her men. He probably already viewed them as his own, some sort of dowry. “Where exactly are we?”

Nicolae pulled closer to her. “Near Bulgaria.”

Staring bleakly at the winter-dead trees around them, Lada did not know what to do. Kill Hunyadi and move on? Marry his son for a chance at the Hungarian throne? Would that bring her closer to Wallachia, or take her even further away? It was the same choice she had faced before, the only choice ever given to her: take what little power you can through a man.

If she had known this would be her fate, over and over, she would have stayed with Mehmed. At least with him she had that spark, that burning. If Matthias was as smart and handsome as his father said, he would have no use for a wife such as her. And she did not want to be a wife.

Never a wife.

She had left behind love and ridden off to a future devoid of power. “I have nothing,” she whispered.