Radu frowned. “He told me he was meeting with the Janissary leaders to go over budgets.”
They waited, two pairs of eyes peering out, searching for the object of their desire. He walked past in the company of a man Radu did not know. But he recognized the clothes, the white robes and the shaved head. A eunuch. Mehmed laughed as he drew even with the tree, and for a breath Radu thought he had spied them and was amused at the strangeness of their hiding spot. But he continued on with the eunuch, the comfortable match of their paces and the ease of space between them speaking of familiarity.
When the two men passed out of the garden, Lada lunged out from under the tree and followed. Radu ran to catch up with her. He had never been through the gate at the far side of the gardens. Lada paused, peering carefully over, then opened the gate. A path wound along the back of the fortress, still walled in but narrow and unusually private.
They turned a corner and Lada stopped so abruptly that Radu ran into her. Ahead of them was a building, one Radu had never seen before. Judging from Lada’s expression, he assumed she was equally surprised by its existence. The walls around it were high and crawling with ivy, but the two heavy entrance gates were thrown open. Through them they saw a section of sumptuous garden, vibrant to the point of garishness, trees dripping fruit and flowers painting every surface in a riot of color.
Radu felt a flare of resentment that Mehmed had kept the most beautiful part of the grounds from them, until he realized that waiting in the garden were several women. They mirrored the flowers, petaled and swirling with color, beautiful with the same temporary vibrancy. And one of them, standing in the center, held an infant.
In the time it took Radu to process that it was Mehmed who walked confidently forward and took the baby, Mehmed who laughed and held the infant up as though it were a piglet at a market, Mehmed who placed a wondering kiss on its forehead, the gates swung closed and sealed them off from the bright dream within. Radu could not say whether the gates actually made a deep clanging sound, or if he merely felt it inside.
“Did you know?” Lada’s voice came from far away, from underwater, from a cavern the depths of which would never see the light.
“No.”
It was an age before Radu realized the sun was setting and he was alone, still standing, staring at the gate and the mystery of the Mehmed he had seen inside. The Mehmed who had left him behind.
That night, Radu and Lada sat alone in Mehmed’s chambers, waiting far past the normal time when he usually met them for a late meal. Neither spoke nor looked at the other. Radu was cloaked in a suffocating blanket of misery and hurt. How could Mehmed have done this? How could he be a father?
Radu was hurt because Mehmed had not told him of this development. That was why. That was the reason for this horrible, clawing feeling.
Lazar’s knowing smile.
The door opened, and Radu cried out with relief. Mehmed was here, he would explain, it would make sense, and things would go back to how they had been. Radu would know how to feel again.
Lada, too, stood, leaning forward. Her face was a mask.
Mehmed’s face, however, was like the desert during a windstorm. Everything in his features was ripped away to one raw expression of rage. He threw a heavy piece of parchment onto the floor in front of them.
Lada picked it up. She frowned, etching her own trails of rage. “What is this? Are you mocking me?”
Mehmed shook his head. “I assure you, I am as surprised as anyone.” He held a hand up and out toward her, as though calming a spooked horse. Radu looked from one to the other. There was something off there, something new. Something he had missed while lost in his own swirl of confusion. What was it? What had happened?
Panicked, Radu tried to snatch the parchment from Lada, but her grip held tight.
A smile twisted Mehmed’s lips as his words came out in the same manner. “From my father. Apparently, I have been invited to my own wedding.”
Edirne, Ottoman Empire
THERE WAS GOLD EVERYWHERE.
Gold on fingers fat and thin, gold in noses long and stubby, gold in ears and on foreheads and necks and wrists, gold on arms, gold on ankles. The most gold on a pair of delicate ankles peeking out from beneath silk trimmed with gold threads, weak ankles that could never carry their owner in a fight or keep up in a race.
Sitti Hatun, Mehmed’s bride, had detestable ankles.