Bulgaria, of course, hated her and would for some time. Albania and Serbia were firmly Ottoman vassals. She had no love for or from the Transylvanians or the Saxons.
The pope held her in esteem, but her country was not Catholic and he would only praise them, offering no real help. What help he had sent had gone through someone he trusted more—for all the good that did them. She would most certainly write of Matthias’s deceit, though. Let him explain his crown to the papal treasury that bought it.
And even in her own country, her resources were sparse. Her brother had been helping the Danesti usurper. Tirgoviste would be fortified. Any boyars left would have flocked to him. Assuming Galesh Basarab and his men were dead—she hoped they were, but did not count on it considering the information had come from Matthias—Radu would not have gotten a huge influx of men from the remaining scattered boyars. But still, she did not relish the idea of besieging her own capital.
So: enemies within and without. All men in power set against her. Almost no one she could trust. A country in disarray. A fall without a harvest. A people hidden in the mountains. A capital filled with snakes.
There was only one solution.
She had been too kind, too gentle. She had tried keeping what she could intact, tried building on what was already there. But the entire foundation was rotten. She could not build a strong kingdom by removing only a few of the most decay-ridden stones. She would have to dismantle the entire thing.
She would have to burn it—all of it—to the ground. Only then could Wallachia rise anew from the ashes.
She sat straighter, eyes on the horizon. There was no room for kindness, no room for mercy. Matthias had proved that she could not play by any rules that already existed. She would have to become something altogether new.
The countryside around her was hushed, quiet, as though even the insects and wind recognized the passing of a great predator. She again imagined wings unfurling behind her, covering all the land in shadow and fire. There would be no more order, no more structure. She would kill the leaders of every country on her borders, and all their heirs. She would sow absolute chaos and destruction.
And she would be there, in the center, curled around her own land. Wallachia would survive. It always survived. But with her there, and everything around them descended into deadly disorder, Wallachia would finally thrive.
After all, fire and blood and death were nothing to a country led by a dragon.
42
Tirgoviste
RADU STOOD AT the top of the tower. This tower had heralded so much change in his life. First, when he and Lada watched Hunyadi ride into the city, signaling the end of their lives here as their father petitioned the Ottomans for support—and traded their lives as collateral. Though it had been terrifying at the time, it had been the best thing that could have happened to Radu. And now the tower had been the site of the most unexpected and joyful reunion of his life.
As though called by his thoughts, Cyprian joined him. The air was sharp with the first hints of impending autumn. Radu shivered, and Cyprian put an arm around him as they looked out over the dawn breaking soft and gentle through the mist. All the scars of the past few months had blended with the green, leaving everything muted and peaceful. The fields around Tirgoviste were full and almost ready for harvest. It had been an unconventional use of trained killers, but thanks to Radu’s Janissaries working under the direction of a few grizzled farmers, there would be enough food to see Tirgoviste—and any refugees that joined them—safely through the winter. He had been stationed here to protect the city, after all.
Radu was proud of those fields. Aron had demanded Radu send his men into the mountains to hunt down Lada, but Radu had known there were more important things. And when Aron did not starve to death over the coming long winter, he would be grateful. Or if not grateful, at least resentful that Radu had, once again, been right.
A lone rider was leaving the city, heading toward the mountains. Radu did not begrudge him his freedom—but only because his own escape was fast approaching.
“We are leaving today,” Radu said, turning from the landscape he could almost love now.
“Today?” Cyprian took Radu’s hand in his own. Radu wondered when touching Cyprian would not feel like a shock, if he would ever get used to the thrill of it. He hoped he did not. He hoped they would have a lifetime to find out.
“Aron does not want me here anymore. I trust Kiril. He will do a good job leading the men we leave behind. And no one has heard a breath of news about Lada since the attack. That was four months ago. If she were going to strike, she would have done it by now. This waiting, biding her time—”
“It could be strategic.”
“But it is not her style. She would not have wanted to lose momentum like this. I think—” Radu shook his head. “I suspect she is no longer in control.”
“Do you think she is dead?” Cyprian asked gently.
“She is too mean to die. I am sure whatever has happened to her is not good, but I do not think she is dead.” Radu put a hand over his heart, wondering if he would feel her death, if he would know. They had been separated for so long. She had looked at him that night in Mehmed’s tent as though faced with a memory, not a man.
“Though,” Radu said, thoughtfully, “if she is dead, that means I will live forever.”
Cyprian gave him a puzzled smile. “I do not follow your reasoning.”
Radu leaned forward and rested his forehead against Cyprian’s. “A long time ago, Lada promised that no one would kill me but her. So if she cannot fulfill her end of the promise, it appears I will be immortal.”
Cyprian wrapped his arms around Radu’s waist. “I like that idea very much.”
“You will have to live forever to match, though,” Radu said.
“I will see what I can do.” Cyprian pressed his lips against Radu’s neck, and Radu shivered. No, he would never get used to this. Every moment spent with Cyprian would always feel like a miracle. There was something holy, something pure about the way he felt for Cyprian. There was no shame or anguish. None of the pain that had accompanied his feelings for so long.
“What are you thinking about?” Cyprian whispered.
“God,” Radu answered.
Cyprian laughed. “I did not realize I was that good at kissing.”
Radu laughed, too, and then their lips met again.
They remembered to let go of each other’s hands before reaching the bottom of the tower. Radu was floating, unable to release the smile from his lips as he had released Cyprian’s fingers. He did not understand how anyone seeing them could not know how they felt. But Nazira and Fatima had done this for years. People saw what they expected, as Nazira had told him they would.
“Radu Bey!”
Radu turned to see a Janissary guard running up to him, white-faced and wide-eyed. Radu’s stomach dropped with fear. “What is it? Have they found my sister?”
The Janissary shook his head. “The prince.”
Radu had been putting this off, but it was time to tell Aron that he planned on leaving. He wondered if that would help or hurt their relationship. It did not matter anymore. “Does he wish to see me?”
“No. He is dead.”
Radu felt the words as though they had struck him. “Aron is dead?”
“So is Andrei.”
In a daze, Radu stumbled past the Janissary toward the royal chambers. The castle was waking up, various servants moving about unaware that, once again, they were without a prince. Several Janissary guards stood watch outside Aron and Andrei’s apartments. Kiril moved aside to let Radu by. The prince’s body was on the bed. Radu moved as quietly as he could, as though worried that loud footsteps might disturb Aron. If only they could.
Aron was lying on his side, a tiny wound at the back of his neck where someone had slipped in a dagger and severed his spine at the base of the skull. It would have been a quick way to die. From the position of Aron’s body, he had not even woken up.