“Radu!” Cyprian shouted. He grabbed Radu’s arm, spinning him out of range of a sword. Several Ottomans had breached the wall next to him. Radu wanted to tell them they were not enemies. But their blades were raised, and so Radu met them. Cyprian pressed his back to Radu’s. A sword flashed toward Cyprian. Not Cyprian was Radu’s only thought as he hacked off the arm holding the sword. It was then that he finally saw the face of the man. He looked at Radu, all rage draining away. He looked like Petru, that stupid Janissary Lada kept around. He could have been, had Lada not taken them to Wallachia. Then the man tipped off the edge of the wall and fell into the darkness.
Radu did not have time to think, to feel, because there was another sword and another arm. These were his brothers, but in the chaos and the fury, it did not matter. It was kill or be killed, and Radu killed.
And killed.
And killed.
Finally, the attack that had started like a wave receded like one, quietly fading back into the night. Giustiniani limped past Radu and Cyprian. “Burn the battering rams. Let them gather their dead.”
Radu did not know how long it had lasted, or what it had cost them, but it was over. He did not realize he was crying until Cyprian embraced him, holding him close. “It is done. We did it. The wall stands.”
Whether Radu was crying in relief or despair, he was too tired to know. He had had no choice—had he? He had kept Cyprian alive, and he had stayed alive. But it did not feel like a victory. Together, they stumbled from the wall and into the city, collapsing in the shadow of a church and falling into a sleep not even the angry increase of bombardment could disturb.
When Radu awoke, his head was resting against Cyprian’s shoulder. A deep sense of well-being and relief flooded him. They had done it. They had made it.
And then horror chased away the relief. He had fought at this man’s side, rejoiced in their survival, knowing full well that every Byzantine who survived was one more Mehmed had to fight to win. Knowing that every day the walls held, more of his Muslim brothers died.
Where was his heart? Where was his loyalty?
Radu staggered away from the still-sleeping Cyprian. He wandered, dazed and in mourning, once again finding himself at the Hagia Sophia. A small boy was curled into himself, asleep at the base of the building. Invisible in the midst of so much darkness.
Radu walked over to Amal, his steps heavy. He leaned down and shook the boy awake.
“Tell Mehmed he is firing the cannons wrong.”
32
Mid-April
LADA RAN TO meet the solitary form of Stefan making his unhurried way through the canyon toward them. He had shaved. Facial hair had helped him blend in at the castle in Hunedoara, but out here where only landed men could have beards, a bare face made him more invisible.
“No gossip precedes us,” he said. “We should make camp this afternoon, and travel the rest of the way in the morning.”
Lada sighed. “I would set up camp with the devil right now if it meant getting out of the cold.”
“I believe the devil quite likes flames.”
Lada started, narrowing her eyes. “Stefan, did you make a joke? I did not think you knew how.”
His face betrayed no emotion. “I have many skills.”
Lada laughed. “That, I already knew.”
The path they took followed the Arges River, retracing the route Lada had taken with her father so many summers ago. This time Bogdan rode at her side instead of in the back with the servants. And Radu was lost to her, as was her father and any tenderness she might have held for him.
Radu would survive. He would be fine. He could not die at the walls of Constantinople, because he belonged to her and she would not allow it. Just like Wallachia belonged to her and she would not allow anyone else to have it.
“Why do you keep looking up at that peak?” Nicolae asked, following her line of sight. “You are making me nervous. Do you expect an attack?”
Lada glared. “No.”
She had considered slipping out and making her way toward the ruins of the fortress on the peak. She wanted to stand at its edge to greet the dawn and feel the warmth of her true mother, Wallachia, greeting her and blessing her.
But the too-recent encounter with her other mother pulled at her, tearing at the edges of her certainty. What if she remembered the fortress wrong? What if she climbed up and the sun did not come out? What if it did, but it felt the same as any other sunrise?
She could not risk tainting that precious memory. She clutched the locket around her neck, the one Radu had given her to replace her old leather pouch. Inside were the dusty remains of an evergreen sprig and a flower from these same mountains. She had carried them with her as talismans through the lands of her enemies. Now she was home, and still in the land of her enemies.
She would climb that peak one day, soon. When it was all hers. She would come back, and she would rebuild the fortress to honor Wallachia.
They paused at the peak’s base, refilling their canteens and watering the horses. Lada dismounted. She scrambled through a jumble of dark gray boulders, following a trickle of water that met the stream. Hidden behind the rocks was a cave. She ducked inside, where the frigid temperature dropped even lower. She could not see far, so she felt along the rough edges of the cave. But then something changed under her fingers. These were too smooth, no longer the natural shape of rocks. Someone had carved this out of the mountain. Which meant it was not a cave.
It was a secret passage.
Lada pushed forward blindly until she hit the end. There were no other tunnels, no branches. Why make a passage that led nowhere? Had someone been cutting to the heart of the mountain just like Ferhat in the old story, only to find that mountains have no hearts?
A drop of water fell on her head and she tipped her chin up. She shouted. The sound echoed upward, disappearing into the noise of frantic bats disturbed in their slumber. Lada flinched, but none came down toward her.
Which meant there was another way for them to escape. She felt the wall again until she found handholds carved into the stone. There was only one place this tunnel could lead: straight to her ruined fortress. Which meant it was a secret escape, a way to be free when all other ways were closed.
Wallachia always found a way.
Though it was spring—bitterly cold, but still spring—Lada saw more fallow fields than ones ready for planting. The land they traveled through had an air of stagnation.
Finally they reached farmland that was being used. Decrepit hovels with smoke rising from their chimneys dotted the edges of fields. On the horizon, the Basarab manor soared, two stories and large enough to house all the peasants in all the hovels they had passed. Lada and her men made no attempt to hide their approach. Matthias had promised to send notice. If he had betrayed them, they were going to have to fight regardless.
A child sat on the side of the road. His head was too big for his rail-thin body, which was visible through his rags. It was too cold to be out in anything less than a cloak. He watched them approach, listless.
Nicolae paused in front of him. “Where is your mother?”
The boy blinked dully.
“Your father?”
When there was no response, Nicolae held out a hand. “Come with me,” he said. The boy stood, and Nicolae easily lifted him onto his horse.
“He is probably crawling with bugs,” Petru said, frowning. “Leave him be.”
Nicolae gave Petru a dangerous look, all his good humor gone. “If being infested disqualified someone from our company, you would have been out years ago.”
Petru sat straighter in his saddle, hand going to the pommel of his sword. “I tire of being the butt of your jokes.”
“If you do not want to be the butt, try to be less of an ass.”
Petru’s expression turned ferocious. Lada moved her horse between them. “If Nicolae wants to pick up strays, that is his choice.”