Halil Pasha was waiting in the throne room, murder on his face. Mehmed strode straight up to him and clasped his shoulders. Lada stood with sword drawn, directly behind Mehmed. Naked fear quickly replaced the violence on Halil Pasha’s face. This had been Radu’s idea, the grand plan behind all their secret maneuvers.
“Halil Pasha, my father’s most trusted advisor, the wisest man in our great empire.” Mehmed turned to the crowd of nobility gathered, some still hastily adjusting their finery. “Halil Pasha will serve as my grand vizier, to help guide me in ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity for the glory of the Ottomans!”
The crowd cheered. Halil Pasha’s terror was replaced with incredulity, and then the sly, triumphant smile of a fox that had stolen another beast’s prey. But the fox failed to notice Radu’s hounds surrounding him, driving him exactly where they wanted him.
Poor fox, Radu thought.
MEHMED WAS GIVEN THE sword of his ancestor Osman Gazi. He held it reverently in front of him before sheathing it and girding it about his waist. He now wore the dreams of his entire country’s history.
Lada did not know how to feel as she watched it happen. This was not the Mehmed who had spoken so passionately about that dream when they were alone. This Mehmed was wrapped in silk and girded in armor, a turban obscuring his head, his face as sharp as steel and as untouchable. He stood on a dais, separate from all others. There was a man whose only role—complete with royal title—was to carry around a stool for Mehmed’s feet should he require it. There was a man who had stewardship over Mehmed’s turbans. There was a man who stood to the left of Mehmed, ready with perfume and a fan should some noisome scent dare approach the unapproachable.
Because that was what Mehmed had become.
Through the endless ceremonies, the naming of viziers, the acknowledging and receiving of gifts, Mehmed stayed in the same spot and moved further and further away.
Lada wondered if the poison testers would taste the seething jealousy creeping in her veins as she stood on guard and watched Mehmed’s dream take root.
Lada could not have anticipated that an even more odious and discomfiting task than watching the endless coronation lay ahead. Mehmed, in the outer chambers of Murad’s apartments, met with each of his father’s wives and concubines. As per Lada’s demands, there were two guards stationed at each door, and one of her own men in the room with Mehmed at all times.
Today, that was her role. As woman after woman entered, starting with the lowliest who had only recently moved from servant to full harem member, Lada was forced to acknowledge the reality of this part of the throne. Her hand constantly twitched over her sword. She was not certain what, exactly, she wanted to kill.
A trembling concubine left, to be replaced by a woman Lada knew. Mara still wore clothes unsuited to the courts—a full, intricately embroidered dress with no veil. Her hair was pulled back and elaborately curled. There was no touch of Ottoman style in her entire ensemble. She did not bow to Mehmed, merely raised an eyebrow. “Good morning.” She spoke Latin instead of Turkish.
He smiled, bemused. “Mara Brankovic.”
“My fame precedes me.” Sweeping her skirts out, she sat on a sofa parallel to Mehmed’s chair, rather than cowering in front of him.
“I am glad to see you well.”
“Widowhood suits me.”
Lada snorted a laugh. Mara acknowledged her with a glance, smiling coldly.
Mehmed cleared his throat, trying to regain Mara’s attention. “I am not certain what to do with you.” Most of the other women were being sent to various estates, depending on their rank within the harem and whom they were related to. Daughters of important families were returned, some with marriages already prearranged by Mehmed and their fathers. Radu was, even now, discussing a match with some important pasha on Mehmed’s behalf. Like coins exchanged, the women passed from one hand to another.
Lada’s fingers tightened around her sword hilt.
“I have had an offer of marriage from Constantine,” Mara said.
Mehmed could not hide his surprise. “Constantine?”
“I suspect he thinks it will soften your alliance with my father and Serbia, since it was in large part due to my influence that my father stayed out of the conflict at Varna. Losing Serbia as a vassal state would be a blow to your empire, and an embarrassment to your recent ascension to the throne. Europe does not expect much from you.”
Mehmed nodded, his face now carefully impassive. “I am surprised at his boldness. And his speed. Though I wonder at your wisdom in telling me.”
Lada did not question it. Mara had something behind this. She was too smart to let an opportunity go to waste.
Mara shrugged, tilting her head. “God has freed me. I will never marry again. I have already written Constantine a refusal, which I will sign and send as soon as I am on my way home to Serbia.”