The monk stood. “Would you like us to do anything for you before you leave?”
Radu did not want to tell the monk that this religion had nothing he wanted any longer. They were good people—and he wished them all the best in living their faith—but it was only a childhood memory for him. He felt nothing for it, either good or ill. That, he supposed, was a blessing of sorts. It was nice to have something in Wallachia that he was neutral toward, something that caused no pain.
“Will you tell me if my sister visits again?” His own visit had given him the clarity that he was not only fighting his sister—he was fighting the very idea of her. And that was just as, if not more, elusive and difficult to target. Aron was not likely to inspire devotion or encourage a change of loyalties in anyone who had responded to his sister.
The monk gazed up at the same mural. “She did say she enjoyed being here. She found something as close to peace as a creature like her ever can, I think. I hope she will come again. And if she does, she will be welcomed, and none of her enemies will be warned.” The monk looked at Radu, lifting an eyebrow. “Are you her enemy?”
Though Radu had no attachment to this religion, it was more than he had in him to lie to a man who had devoted his life to God. “I do not know. I think I might be.”
The monk nodded, no reproach in his face. “You should spend the night. See if you can find some of the peace here as well.”
No matter what he did, this country still belonged to Lada. He had never been able to take away something once she claimed it. Not their father, not Mehmed, and now not Wallachia. “Maybe,” Radu said, but he knew there would be no peace for him here. Lada had seen to that.
41
Town of Arges
LADA HAD BEEN too miserable during their escape to think about much of anything. Stefan had gotten horses somewhere, and it had all been accomplished silently and swiftly. No one looked twice at a man riding next to a hunched-over, shawl-wrapped woman. Even if she was dirty and barefoot.
Once out of the city, it was all countryside and farmland. Summer had passed its zenith and was slipping from its muggy, warm haze toward autumn. Lada should have been overwhelmed with joy to be outside again, but she found herself aghast and resentful. How dare the seasons change, how dare nature continue its trek forward, when she had been so cruelly stalled? And how dare anything be so soul-nourishingly lovely when she had left behind her nurse in order to save herself?
She rejected the beauty of the Hungarian landscape, ignored the vibrant green warmth of Transylvania, and let herself take in only a little relief and happiness when they finally crossed into Wallachia. Even in this state, she could not resist loving her country. But she feared what she would find when she got there. Ahead of them loomed the mountains along the Arges, where she would return to her fortress. To Bogdan.
Without his mother.
Lada did not think Matthias would kill Oana. Or at least she hoped he would not. He seemed the type of person to think a servant woman inconsequential enough that he might not have truly noticed her. Besides, Oana had been nowhere near when Lada had escaped. Surely that would be in her favor. Still, Lada had to add one more name to the list of those who were not at her side.
Matei. Traitor, still missed as her first meaningful Janissary loss.
Petru. Murdered, avenged.
Nicolae. Died for her, which was perhaps why he haunted her most.
Oana. Sacrificed, which would doubtless haunt her.
And always, ever, the phantom presences at her right and her left: Mehmed and Radu. Someday she would grow old enough that she would no longer care about the two best companions of her childhood.
She hoped.
Both that she would no longer care, and that she would grow old. Neither seemed likely on that dazzling summer afternoon. Huddled and hunched in the saddle, Lada was bothered not only by what nature was flagrantly displaying but also by what it was not:
Farmland. They rode through acres and acres of unplanted land. Last fall, this very stretch had provided ample crops. This fall, there would be nothing. Which meant that the coming winter would be far deadlier than the previous spring. The Ottomans could be tricked, defeated, turned away. Starvation was the world’s most patient and unrelenting foe. What had she done? How could she fix it?
Stefan drew his horse to a stop. “I am not going to Poenari.”
Lada sighed. Another name to add to the list of those she had lost, and with him, Daciana. He had warned her; apparently that time was here. “Are you certain?”
He nodded gravely. “My debt to you is fully paid.”
Lada lifted an eyebrow. “Well, not quite.”
“Oh?”
“My debt for freeing you from the Ottomans, yes. But do not forget it was my choice to allow Daciana to remain with our company. If I had refused her, you would still be a shadow of a man, untethered, mine.” Lada scowled. “I should not have let her stay.”
Stefan rewarded her with the barest of smiles, and she looked away so she would not get emotional. At least this one friend she was losing to life, not death.
Lada brushed off her heavy emotions and made her tone befitting that of a prince. “Do one more task for me, and then I will tell you where Daciana is.”
“What task?”
“There are usurpers in my castle. Kill Aron and Andrei Danesti, so it is clear that I am the only prince Wallachia has or needs. It should not be too difficult for you.”
“It will be done.” He turned his horse away. “One last favor between friends.”
“Do you not want to know where Daciana is?” Lada called.
Stefan looked over his shoulder, and, for the first time ever, Lada caught the full power of his smile. She understood what Daciana had seen, and why it might be worth having more than just the military loyalty of such a man. “I would not be a very good spy if I had not already figured it out on my own.”
Lada laughed, undone by that smile. “Then why did you stay?”
“I told you: I am grateful. I wish you well, my prince. It has been an honor.”
If Lada were not so weary and ill, she might have been angry at his departure. But the ghost of Nicolae was heavy at her side, reminding her it was not so bad to lose Stefan this way. There were worse things. “You had better raise your own little Lada to be a terror.”
“I expect nothing less.”
Lada watched as the last of the men she had trained with, the last of her core group of loyal allies and followers—friends—rode away. It was the end of an era. She did not know if she would be weaker for it. She decided she would not be. Each of them had, in one way or another, been sacrificed for the greater good of Wallachia. Had she not decided she would sacrifice everything it took?
Pulling the shawl tighter around her, she rode forward, toward her fortress and toward the last remaining friend of her youth. But what was she really riding toward?
She took account of her resources.
The only member of her inner circle left was Bogdan. She had a few other men she knew to be good, but it was not the same. With Daciana and Oana lost from her household, she would never again trust anyone in the castle—assuming she got it back. After all, she had seen how easy it was for a servant to be someone else entirely.
Hungary was against her, though she knew Matthias would not fight her outright. She probably should have sent Stefan to kill him, but Wallachia always had to be her first priority. Regardless, there would be no conflict but also no aid from Hungary.
Moldavia was not against her, but her cousin King Stephen had taken land from her. That had to be answered with blood, so they would not be allies in the future. Maybe before then she could maneuver him into helping her. She could delay revenge for now.