“Yes, you poor thing.”
Radu laughed, reaching for a bucket of water. He scooped some into his mouth, then put a wet hand to the back of his neck. Lazar leaned over, shoulder brushing Radu’s, and took the bucket. He pulled off his cap and upended the whole thing over his head.
Radu jumped away, but his side still got soaked. “Wasteful cur!”
Lazar’s smile turned his face from boyish to wicked. He held the bucket behind his back. “Come and get it, then.”
There was something in his voice that gave Radu pause, made a strange buzzing void come between his heart and his ribs. But then he heard his name being called. He turned to find Mehmed at the far wall of the small practice enclosure.
“Mehmed!” Radu called, beaming. It still delighted him to see Mehmed after such a long absence. His face was always surprising, like a question Radu had yet to find the answer to.
Mehmed gestured animatedly, his hands too excited to be still. “Tonight at supper we host a dervish, who has traveled here by way of India. Wait until you see his feet! And his face—he is truly a holy man. Get cleaned up and come to my rooms.”
Radu nodded, Mehmed’s excitement contagious. Ever since Molla Gurani’s death the previous year, Mehmed sought more and more outliers in the faith: dervishes who took vows of poverty and wandered the earth, scholars who studied to better understand the words of the Prophet, even teachers deemed heretical. He was never content with a simple, unquestioning practice of Islam. It was one of the things Radu loved about him. Studying and learning at his side had always been an adventure.
Bidding Mehmed a temporary farewell, Radu returned to Lazar, his steps buoyed with anticipation. Lazar’s eyes narrowed, his lips twisted in a back-market imitation of a real smile. “Watch yourself, little brother.”
Radu paused in picking up the weapons they had left scattered around the yard. “What do you mean?”
“There are some things it is not acceptable to want, but there are ways around it, and those who will look the other way. And then there are some things that it is impossible to want. Even the mere act of wanting, if noticed by the wrong people, can get you killed.” He gave a heavy, meaningful look at the spot where Mehmed had been. “Be more careful.”
Radu’s throat constricted, his heart racing so he thought he might die of it. What had Lazar seen? What did he suspect? Could he tell simply by watching Radu that something was very wrong with him, when even Radu did not understand what it was? All he knew was that there was some light, some pull, some fire that Mehmed carried, and Radu only felt truly alive when he was nearby.
Was that wrong?
Lazar put his long fingers on the back of Radu’s neck, let them linger for a few impossibly long seconds, the time beating past in the terrified pulse of Radu’s blood. “Let me know if you ever want to…talk.”
Radu watched him walk away, soaked tunic clinging to his broad shoulders, and knew he would never, ever seek Lazar out again. Because whatever this secret was, whatever this question Radu now knew he did not understand, whatever this aching, secret hollow inside of him meant, an answer felt far more terrifying than any question could ever be.
Two days later, the conversation with Lazar still felt like sand against sunburned skin, a prickling discomfort when Radu least expected it. He sat in a garden tucked into a far corner of the keep, hidden in the cool, dim shade of a tree overburdened with weeping branches. Maybe he would ask Mehmed to have Lazar sent to another part of the country. He knew Mehmed would. But what if Mehmed asked why? How would he answer? He had told Mehmed how happy he was to be reunited with his old Janissary protector.
He should stop worrying. Mehmed was his friend. His dearest friend, his only friend. Perhaps Lazar had never had a friend like Mehmed. He could not possibly understand how Radu felt. It was foolishness for Lazar to imply there was something wrong, something dangerous with loving Mehmed more than anyone. Mehmed was the heir to the throne! They should all feel that way about him.
Mehmed had brought him safety and hope, helped nourish the seed of God planted by Kumal’s kindness when Radu needed it most. Of course Radu valued Mehmed above all others. He even loved him more than he loved Lada, which filled him with guilt. But Lada had let him be hurt on her behalf, all that time ago, by their first Ottoman tutor. Radu had never forgotten the way she sat back, impassive, as he was beaten for her failure to respond. Mehmed would never have let that happen.
His love for Mehmed made perfect sense.