Stop it, he begged her every night. Stop making them angry. Stop making them hurt us. It is your fault. You will get us both killed.
Finally, she had snapped at him, No one will kill you.
But if they kill you, I will be alone. And I will want to die.
He did not want to die at all, but he definitely did not want to die second. Radu met his sister’s eyes, sending her all his heartbroken betrayal. She could not even pretend to be civil to save their lives.
She spoke in Wallachian, voice calm and unconcerned about her armed escort to what was likely her death. “Halil Pasha is the reason I am a prisoner here. I will not let him take any more of my freedom. I cannot accept that a political marriage is my fate. It would mean I was set aside and forgotten, and I would rather die than be forgotten.”
“I would never let that happen,” Radu said, but he did not know if he meant he would never let her die, or he would never let her be forgotten.
He wished he had more options than those two.
“We have orders to take her to the south wing,” one of the Janissaries said. “You can come along if you would like.”
Radu snapped his attention back to the soldiers, giving them a smile as brilliant as the summer sunshine. He walked next to them, asking what region they were from, getting them to talk to him. Very soon he knew their names, their various duties, and what they hoped to eat for supper that night. Their hands never drifted toward the swords at their side, and his chatter remained light, friendly, focused on keeping them calm so they would not provoke his sister into doing another stupid thing.
Lada walked behind them, thankfully silent.
The soldiers instructed them to wait on a gilded bench outside two massive copper doors. Then they left.
Radu sank onto the bench, wiping his hands over his eyes in relief. “If they are leaving us here, you might live after all.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make people talk to you. Is it because you are a boy?”
Radu knew she envied him his ability to persuade people to trust him. She looked sharp, contrary, and sly. Hers was the face of a fox raiding the livestock. Radu’s was the face of an angel. But it hurt Radu that she thought it was a trick. Did anyone ever truly like him, or was she right? Did his face and tongue merely fool them into thinking they did?
Radu gazed at the gilded ceiling in exasperation. “People respond to kindness, Lada. They trust a smile more than a promise that you will leave them choking on their own blood.”
Lada snorted. “Yes, but my promise is more sincere than your smiles.”
She was right, of course. It had been a lifetime since his smile felt like anything more than a desperate and false ploy. He sniffed, trying to keep the mood light, keep his sister calm. “But no one knows that.”
“Someday they will, Radu. Someday they will.”
They both startled as the door beside them opened. The gaunt man swept into the hall, his robes a bland brown, oddly austere for the court. Even his turban looked functional rather than ornate. He considered them both with a penetrating stare magnified by his spectacles. Radu had never seen any like them. The glass pieces were perfectly cut and polished, balanced on the bridge of the man’s nose by a thin length of metal that connected the two pieces and fitted to his face.
“You may go in,” he said, gesturing to the door behind him, then leaving.
Radu and Lada entered. These apartments were to their sparsely furnished rooms what Edirne was to Tirgoviste. The ceiling soared overhead, painted in bold, clear blues with gold script swirling around the edges. Chandeliers hung down, glowing even during the day. The windows, taller than Radu, were peaked at the top and framed by scrolling metal lattices. Silk in blues, reds, and purples—the colors of wealth—draped everything. The floor beneath them shined so clearly that Radu could see his face in it. A fountain of water bubbled in the middle of the room, and the walls were lined with low cushioned benches. Sitting near the fountain on one of a dozen lush pillows was the boy.
He clapped delightedly and stood. “Here you are!”
“Where are we?” Lada asked.
“In my chambers!”
“And who are you, to earn such esteem from the devil?”
Radu elbowed her. The boy’s smile turned wicked. “Why, I am the son of the devil himself. Mehmed the Second, son of Murad.”
“God’s wounds,” Radu gasped, clutching at his stomach. He swept into a deep bow. He had hoped to see the boy again, had thought of him often since their meeting, imagining what friends they would be. And now this. Lada had threatened him, had insulted his father, and would doubtless continue to do both. Radu’s fear was replaced with weary resignation. Lada would be the death of him, and that death would be swift and soon.