Radu could not help but wonder what his relationship to his God was. It had been sorely tested and tried during his time in Constantinople. But it had not broken. Sometimes Radu had feared it would, but he still found the same peace and solace in prayer he always had.
Radu wished he had been open with Kumal about what was in his own heart. He had worried that Kumal might say something that would separate them, or, worse, separate Radu from God. Molla Gurani, the scholar who had taught Mehmed and Radu and had witnessed his conversion, doubtless could have told Radu everything written about whether the love in his heart for other men condemned him. Radu had done some study on the subject, but it brought him no peace.
Perhaps Kumal could have talked about the heart of faith, and whether Radu could have a heart filled with God and still love as he needed to.
But Kumal was gone. Molla Gurani, too. All Radu had was himself and his God, the movement of prayer and the ritual of worship connecting them. He would not sever that connection. He felt Nazira was right: where God and love were concerned, he was happy to leave it unreconciled.
Wishing he could linger, Radu rolled up his rug and packed his tent. He made his way to Mehmed’s tent. By the look of things, packing the sultan for the day’s travel had not yet begun. Radu did not relish the idea of standing about idly. The progress of the camp was plodding, and Radu did not think he could handle the boredom today. It left too much room for thought. He saw a group of his scouts and mounted to join them.
The day had dawned bright and clear, the air warm and humid. “Do you know the land well?” one of the scouts asked. He was a quiet, thoughtful man, a Janissary named Kiril. Radu had ridden with him before and liked him.
“I remember it,” Radu said, “though I have not been through here since I was a boy. We followed a road along the river, from Tirgoviste to Edirne.”
“What brought you to the empire?”
Radu smiled wryly, remembering. “Politics. I was a hostage, actually.”
“I did not know, Radu Bey.”
Radu laughed to ease the other man’s discomfort. Kiril was older than him by only a year or two. Radu liked the younger Janissaries. It was easier to be in their company. He felt he had less to prove to them than he did to the older ones. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“As being sent to train as a Janissary was for me. This must be an odd sort of homecoming for you, then.”
“It is not my home. It never was, really.”
A scout appeared from a bend between two tree-dense hills farther up the road. He rode to them, frowning, his freckled features twisted with confusion. “Is there another road? I think we have taken a wrong turn.”
“No,” Radu answered. According to both his memory and his maps, they were exactly where they were supposed to be. “This is the only road wide enough for the wagons to get through. There are no other major roads. It is all farmland until outside Tirgoviste.”
“There is no farmland up there.”
Radu shared an alarmed look with Kiril. He had not been here since he was a child, but things could not have changed that much. With a growing pit of dread in his stomach, Radu spurred his horse forward. He stopped abruptly as they crested a low hill. Instead of rolling acres of budding green fields lining the river, there were … marshes.
Leagues and leagues of marshes. The river, now low and sluggish, had soaked the land all around it. Radu knew that on occasion the river flooded and caused this type of damage, but they had had no such rainy season lately.
This was man-made.
No. This was Lada-made.
“See, there,” Kiril said, pointing. “Trenches. Diverting the river into the fields. It must have taken forever to dig them.”
“Find a way through, then return and report how far the marsh continues,” Radu said to the freckled scout. He could not hide his own despair as he looked at yet more land for feeding both the Wallachians and the Ottoman troops completely destroyed. He turned to Kiril. “Go around and see how far we have to go to skirt it. It may be better to clear our own roads than to drag cannon-laden wagons through this mire.” Radu stared at the ruin of the land. Lada had hurt them, yes. But she had also hurt her own people in the long run. How could she not see what she was doing? How could she justify this cost?
“Your sister did all this?” Kiril asked, surveying the damage as a group gathered to scout with him.
Radu took a deep breath, closing his eyes against the anger flaring toward Lada and her ever-growing damage to the world they both had to live in. “I cannot imagine this is the worst of what awaits us, either.”
Radu had been wrong all this time. He had felt guilty for the way his heart yearned for other men. But it was not his own love that was poisonous and destructive. His love destroyed nothing, hurt no one. Lada loved Wallachia above all else, and this was the result. What Mehmed and Lada did—because of what they set their hearts on with both people and land—was far worse than anything Radu’s love could ever lead him to do.
It was an odd sort of thing to take comfort in, but he accepted it. Nazira was right. His love had no evil in it.
He could not say the same for his sister’s.
21
Tirgoviste
LADA HAD NOT been able to take a deep breath since she hit the outskirts of Tirgoviste. Closing the castle door behind her, she pulled off the cloth over her mouth and nose and gasped for air.
“Yes, it is unpleasant out there,” Oana remarked, eyeing her with something like humor, though far darker.
“They have not completed as much as I had hoped.” Lada leaned against the door as though her weight would help keep the air outside from coming in. The smell had followed her, but it was merely overwhelming, not unbearable.
“They can only work in short shifts. We have to trade workers in and out more often than we had planned for.”
“They can do more.”
Oana laughed gruffly. “Not unconscious, they cannot. You will have to buy them a little more time.”
“Fortunately that costs only effort and lives, not money. I can always give up more of the first two, but the third I am entirely lacking.” Lada rubbed the small of her back. It had been a long, hard ride, and she did not have the luxury of resting. Not that she thought she could sleep here. “Why are you still here? I want you in the mountains. Go to my fortress at Poenari.”
Oana patted the top of Lada’s head in a way that made Lada wonder if it would be inappropriate to punch her old nurse in the stomach. “Child, are you worried about my safety?”
“The entire city could burn down and you would be standing in the center, entirely unharmed, holding a comb and telling me it was time to deal with my hair.”
Oana squinted. “It is looking rather the worse for wear.”
“Oh, go hide in the mountains, you monster.” Before Lada could dodge, Oana wrapped her in a hug.
“Be careful. We need you.” Oana squeezed too tightly, then released her and opened the door. The stench was so powerful that Lada staggered back as though struck. Oana did not even cover her face as she scuttled toward Lada’s horse.
Lada slammed the door shut again. She needed to do one last sweep to make certain Mehmed would find nothing to his advantage here, should he manage to make it to the center of the city.
In the throne room she found tiles still stained with the blood of her predecessor. The faded outline of the sword that once hung over her father’s head—now worn at her side—remained on the wall. In the halls she found ghostly whispers and memories of fear and rage. And in her chambers that had once belonged to her father, she found no memories at all worth taking.
“Lada,” a man said behind her.
She shouted in surprise, turning around with one dagger already drawn. Stefan was standing in a shadowed corner of the room. How long he had been there, she had no idea. Either she was slipping, or he was better than ever. She hoped it was the latter.