Now I Rise (And I Darken Series, #2)(61)

“What, then?” Nicolae asked. “Do we try to convince more boyars that you are a tame princess and not a warlord prince?”

Lada picked up a canteen of water and poured it on the flames, watching them sizzle and die. “I do not know. I have tried—” Her voice caught. She had tried everything. She had pledged loyalty to foreign kings, she had betrayed an ally, she had trusted that love was the same as honesty. “I have tried everything.”

“The little zealot was always unlikely. None of us blame you for looking for help there, though.”

Lada sat up straight, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

Nicolae’s expression was without reproach. “We are all very good soldiers and scouts, Lada. Did you really think we would fail to notice the sultan camped within miles of us?”

She hung her head, the weight of her shame pulling her down. “I told you I was freeing you. But when he offered help, I leapt at the opportunity.”

“We do not care,” Petru said.

The way Bogdan sat perfectly still next to her indicated that he, perhaps, did.

“We know you fight for us. For Wallachia.” Nicolae shrugged. “The little zealot was a means to an end. It did not work. So we find more means for the same end.”

Lada held out her hands. “I have exhausted my means. I am sorry you have followed me this far.”

“We still have Hunyadi,” Bogdan said.

Nicolae rubbed his beard, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. “No, Hunyadi is not our best option. We have our own Hunyadi in Lada. What we need is someone who can work new angles of power. What we need is Matthias.”

“He is the same as all the other leaders,” Lada said, shaking her head.

“That is precisely the point.” Nicolae smiled, the fire illuminating his face in the midst of the darkness. “He is the same as them. So if we get him …”

Lada took a deep breath filled with smoke. It seared her lungs. She wanted nothing to do with Matthias, and knew his help—if she could get it—would not be without a price. How much more of herself would she have to lose to get where she belonged?

“For Wallachia,” Bogdan said.

Lada nodded. “For Wallachia.”





27





April 4–6




A THICK FOG over the city muffled all life: muting church bells, softening footfalls, cloaking the streets in a layer of damp and stifling mystery.

Radu turned from staring out his window into the blank white that had settled over the distance like a sickness coming ever closer. Taking a deep breath, he knelt on the floor facing Mecca. Letting go of his fear and questions, he hoped his prayer could find its way out of the fogged-in city even if nothing else could. He was so lost in the ritual he failed to notice an increase in the frequency and number of church bells until his door burst open.

For a split second, Radu froze. He was upright on his knees, so he clasped his hands in front of himself like he had been caught in an acceptably Christian form of prayer. Cyprian, breathing hard, had been scanning the room at eye level. By the time he looked down at Radu, Radu was almost certain everything appeared as it should.

“What is it?” Radu asked, standing.

“The Turks.” Cyprian steadied himself against the doorframe. “They are here.”

Without a word Radu pulled on his cloak. Nazira was in the kitchen preparing the afternoon meal with anemic vegetables and some lumpy bread. “While you are out, try to buy some meat!” she called as they rushed by.

“The Turks are here!” Cyprian shouted. Nazira was at their side as they ran out the front door. She wore only slippers and a layered dress. Radu unfastened his cloak and threw it around her shoulders. She held it shut, keeping pace with the two men as they raced through the streets toward the walls.

If Cyprian had not been with them, Radu was certain they would have gotten lost. The fog changed the character of the city, obscuring landmarks, leeching the already faded colors. With no church steeples visible, bells rang out as though from the world of spirits, their metallic warnings hanging lonely in the air.

“When did they arrive?” Radu nearly slipped on a slick portion of road. Cyprian grabbed his elbow to steady him.

“I do not know. I only now heard word of it.”

By the time they bypassed several religious processions and made it to the walls, Nazira was winded and Radu was exhausted. They were allowed through a postern, one of the gates between the walls that let soldiers in and out of the city. Pulled down by the weight of fear, fog had settled heavily in this no-man’s-land, curling and pulsing like a living thing. Radu kept brushing at his arms, trying to rub it off.

They were not the only ones who had come running. They had to wait several minutes before there was an opening for them to climb a narrow ladder to the top of the outer wall. As he searched for a good position for them, Radu bumped into Giustiniani. The Italian nodded, shuffling to the side to let them squeeze in.

There, shoulder to shoulder with their enemies, Radu and Nazira looked out on their countrymen. Tents had sprung up out of the mist like a growth of perfectly spaced mushrooms. Movement stirred the white tendrils of fog, offering glimpses of men who were then swallowed again.

“We are beset by an army of ghosts,” Cyprian whispered.

“Do not let anyone hear you say that,” Giustiniani said, his tone sharp. “We have more than enough superstition to contend with.”