“Do you know what kind of man your father is?”
Lada turned away from Mehmed, hiding the shame that colored her cheeks. “The kind of man who promises the pope to fight infidels, and then makes peace with them. The kind of man who leaves his children under a sword to return to a false throne. Yes, I know what kind of man he is. He is the kind of man your father loves to deal with. They are both of them devils.”
“We keep your country safe!”
Lada whipped around, crossing the room and hissing in Mehmed’s face, “I would sooner see my country burn than see it improved under Ottoman rule. Not everywhere needs to be remade in your image. If we were not so busy constantly defending our borders and being trespassed by other nations’ armies, we would be able to care for our own!”
Mehmed stepped back, puzzled. “Then you do not hate me on your father’s behalf?”
Lada’s shoulders dropped, weariness tugging them low. “My father is weak. Wallachia deserves better.”
“Perhaps you deserve better than Wallachia.”
“No.” Lada felt the fire rekindling in her chest, burning away her fear and exhaustion. She had been away from her land too long. Sometimes she wondered if she remembered it rightly. But here, now, she knew she could never truly leave it behind. It pulsed in her veins, beating through her. “I love Wallachia. It belongs to me, and I belong to it. It is my country, and it should always be mine, and I hate any king or sultan or god or prophet that proclaims anyone else has any right to it.”
“Please do not say that about the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Mehmed’s voice was soft. Not commanding—requesting. “Why do you refuse to listen to what Molla Gurani teaches us?”
Lada looked at the wall of practice swords. Though Mehmed scoffed at the amount of time she spent watching the Janissaries, she spent every spare hour observing their practice sessions and drills. After a couple of weeks, Nicolae had even let her join in, correcting her form, laughing at her mistakes, but increasingly admiring her ferocity and determination to win.
Do you know of a Bogdan of Wallachia? she had asked as soon as she dared. The words stung as they left her mouth, cutting her up with the hope they contained.
My brother’s name is Bogdan, he had answered.
So is my cousin’s! said a Bulgar.
And my father’s! answered a Serb.
Nicolae had smiled an apology, and Lada had swallowed the pain that saying Bogdan’s name had caused. And then she had fought.
Now, ignoring Mehmed, she selected a blunted sword, curved like the one that hung over her father’s throne. Even the sight of it fed the fire in her chest. She hefted it, tested the balance. She liked being angry before fighting with Nicolae. Anger carved away everything else inside—doubt, fear, embarrassment—leaving room for nothing else. She never felt more powerful than when she was angry with a sword in her hands.
“Stop,” Mehmed said, joining her at the wall. “You have not answered my question.”
“You may worship your prophet, but he is not mine and never will be. Belief is weakness.” She would not cave to Islam as Radu had. But neither did she cherish the Orthodoxy she had grown up with. Religion was a means to an end. She had seen it wielded as a weapon. If she needed to use it, she would, but she would never allow herself to be used by it.
Mehmed grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. “You are wrong, Lada. Belief is not weakness. Faith is the greatest strength we can have.”
“Can faith take me back to Wallachia?”
“Faith can show you there are more important things.”
Lada scoffed. “If you want someone to listen to your inane ramblings, go find Radu. I have other things to do.”
She pulled the door open, but Mehmed ran forward and shoved it closed. “We are not done speaking!”
Lada’s blood turned to ice. “Would you command me to stay? And if I refuse? Will you have me beaten? Whipped? All that and more I have faced in your father’s courts. I did not bow before your god or your sultan then, and I will not now. Why did you bring me here, Mehmed? I will not be ruled.”
Mehmed’s face fell. He lowered his hand, and the line of his back—so straight—curved. “I have never wanted to be your master. I have servants. And teachers, and guards, and a father who despises me. I want you…to be my friend.”
This was not the answer Lada had expected. She grasped for a response. “Why would you want that?”
“Because.” Mehmed looked at the ground. “Because you do not tell me what you think I want to hear.”
“I would more likely go out of my way to tell you something you do not want to hear.”
Mehmed’s dark eyes flashed up to meet hers, something deep and hungry in them. He grinned. It was an off-center smile, pulling back his full lips and reshaping his face from arrogance to mischief. “Which is precisely why I like you.”
Lada huffed, exasperated. “Very well. What exactly does a friend do?”