They laughed, and then it was quiet for a few warm minutes, safe and dark with their childhood between them. The things they had had and the things they had lost that only they could ever understand.
“I have something for you.” Radu reached into a box on his side table and pulled out a locket. “That night. When the physician was sewing you back together, I found your little pouch. The one you always wear around your neck. It was ruined, but…Well, I saved what was inside and had this made for you.”
He held out the necklace. The metal locket was heavy and cold in his hand.
With a sniffling gasp, Lada lowered the chain around her neck and clutched the locket to her chest. “Thank you. I have lost too much recently.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. Radu knew some of what she lost had been solely to protect him. As she had always done, in her own way. He breathed out a sigh and steadied himself to tell her he was sorry. That he loved her. That he understood her.
“The throne is yours,” Lada said, puncturing the space and bringing the night with all its dark terrors back down on Radu.
“No.”
“It is.” Her voice rose, excitement kindling there and growing toward a fire as only Lada could burn with. “Nothing holds us here now. We are beholden to none, ransom against nothing. You could claim the prince title. Mehmed will support you, he will be glad of it. We could go back to Wallachia, together, strong, and no one could tell us—”
“No! Lada. No. I do not want to go back.”
“But it is our home.”
Radu shook his head, rising to sit on the edge of his bed. “My home is here.”
“You mean Mehmed is here.” There was no accusation in her voice, but the way she said it stung Radu.
“Yes.” He did not pretend it was otherwise, but he could not explain to her the other reasons. The mosques, with their domed towers making him feel insignificant in the most comforting way. Praying in perfect union with his brothers around him. Having a place, a life, a position where he was valued. And yes, doing it all by Mehmed’s side. Even if it would never be as much as Radu needed.
As though following his train of thought, Lada said, “He can never love you. Not the way you love him.”
Radu laughed, but it sounded old and brittle. “Do you think I do not know that? And still this is better than what we can ever hope for in Wallachia. How can you not see that? You have him, Lada. You have his heart and his eyes and his soul. I have seen the way you wait for him to look at you, the way you relish his attentions. You pretend you do not love him, but you cannot lie to me.” He paused. Then, unable to stop himself, he slipped into a goading tone. “No one will ever love you as he does—as an equal—and you know it. You will not leave that. You cannot.”
She stiffened. Radu saw her fingers curl into fists, ready for a fight. “I can. I have already started. He will never forgive me for admitting my betrayal.”
Radu was reminded of her beating the boyar sons in the forest outside Tirgoviste. Those same fists had always defied everything expected of her. Now he had made her love of Mehmed a challenge to be overcome. His heart sank as he realized that by taunting her that she could not leave, he had virtually guaranteed she would do exactly that.
Maybe he had known that all along.
“Come with me,” she commanded. “I will not go home without you.” She waited, then shocked Radu with her desperate, soft tone. “You chose me.”
He had. And Lada had not asked him for something like this in so long. She was his sister, and she was begging him to choose her again. But maybe, if Lada left, Mehmed would finally choose him.
“I am home, Lada.” Radu lay back and turned on his side, away from her.
THOUGH LADA DID NOT know what would happen, she was certain of two things:
It would hurt, and she would need to be strong.
She dressed in chain mail and the Janissary uniform, except for the cap. She left her hair down, a tangled mass of curls in defiance of both Janissary custom and feminine styles. At her hip was her sword, and on her wrists were her knives.
Her spine was steel. Her heart was armor. Her eyes were fire.
At her side were Bogdan and Nicolae. Bogdan, to remind her of what she had left behind and could find again. Nicolae, to remind her that she could lead and men would follow.
Mehmed looked up in surprise when Lada entered the reception room. He sat behind a table, robed in purple, perfectly in place in his gilded chair. His official stool holder crouched nearby, waiting. Behind Mehmed, Radu avoided Lada’s eyes.
Unable to account for her appearance, Mehmed’s eyebrows rose in a question. “Leave us,” he said, and the attendants scattered and disappeared.
Lada planted her feet, rooting herself. “Make Radu prince of Wallachia.”
Radu shook his head, turning toward the window, away from her.
Mehmed’s expression fell, then turned deliberately neutral. How long had he known about her father and kept the information from her? And why? But she would not ask those questions. They made her look weak. She was here to demand, not question.