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“I am tired of being the right hand to powerful men. I want you as my right hand. I have seen you move among nobility as easily as a hawk cuts through the air. Cut through the boyars for me. Come home, Radu. Help me. Wallachia belongs to us, and I will not be complete without you.”
Radu paused, shocked. “And then she signs her name.” He did not say how she signed it.
Lada, on the ice and in need of your hand this time.
With one line she had dragged him back to his helpless childhood, when he had needed rescuing after going out too far on the ice. And—he could not quite believe it—she was asking him for help.
She recognized that he was good at something she was not. Mehmed had been right. Lada needed him to secure her path to power. For a few silent, painful moments, he considered it. She was his sister. She had never asked him for anything. She had expected him to come along initially, because she thought he should, not because she wanted him to.
Now, though…
“Will you go to her?”
Radu looked up, surprised. Mehmed’s voice was as quiet as his own had been, as carefully devoid of emotion. But Radu knew his friend’s face better than anything on earth. He had studied it, worshipped it. And Mehmed could not hide his fear and anguish.
It was balm to Radu’s soul, such a tremendous relief that Radu let out a shaky laugh. Lada was not the only Dracul who mattered to Mehmed.
“No. No, of course not.”
Mehmed’s shoulders relaxed, the tension draining from his face. He again put a hand on Radu’s shoulder, then took the letter from him.
And Radu was happy, standing there with his friend. Because as much as it meant to be valued by his weapon of a sister, it was not where he belonged. She wanted him to achieve her goals. But, as always, she discounted his feelings. He had worked too long and hard here to abandon it all in pursuit of her dream. It had never been his dream.
Lada would be hurt by his decision. The thought made him feel oddly powerful. He hated that about himself, but he could not avoid it. Lada wanted him, and Mehmed wanted him. He would choose Mehmed. He could not do anything else.
Mehmed tapped his finger against the page. “It is very interesting that she is in Hunyadi’s inner circle. After everything he did to your father and brother.”
Radu was surprised, too. But it made a sort of sense. “Lada only holds grudges that are useful to her. In a way, our father’s death freed her. She might even be grateful to Hunyadi. Regardless, if she can learn from him and use him to gain power, she will forgive him anything.”
“Hmm,” Mehmed said. His finger traced Hunyadi’s name.
Radu wanted the letter back. He wanted to read again how he could do things his strong, vicious sister never could. He wanted to hold the letter and remember the fear on Mehmed’s face when he thought Radu would choose to leave. That fear was enough to give Radu hope.
He might have his own dream yet.
A WEEK INTO LADA’S TRAVELS with the Hungarians, Hunyadi rode along the edge of camp where her men had set up. He shouted a command in Hungarian to pack up. No one responded. He looked to Lada.
They had not spoken much, and Lada was beginning to question her rashness in sending Bogdan to find someone to carry a letter to Radu. Maybe she had written too soon of Hunyadi as her ally. And if anything happened to Bogdan, she would never forgive herself. He was the one piece of her childhood she had managed to hold on to. She could not bear to lose him, too.
The absence of Bogdan reminded Lada of the absence of the other two men who mattered most to her. But soon Radu would receive her letter and join them. The other man she chose not to dwell on.
Hunyadi shouted the order again. “Why do your men not obey?” he asked.
Lada raised an eyebrow. “They do not speak Hungarian.”
He shouted the same command in Turkish. As one, the men looked at him. No one moved.
Lada narrowed her eyes. “And they do not answer to Turkish.”
Hunyadi frowned, tugging at his beard. “Then how do I command them?”
“You do not. I do.” In Wallachian, she commanded her men to pack up. Immediately they sprang into efficient, well-practiced action. Hunyadi watched, his expression thoughtful. Lada rode with more cheer after that. She would prove herself to him yet.
Later that day, Hunyadi found Lada riding next to Stefan and Nicolae near the back of the company. Stefan veered his horse away, giving Hunyadi space.
“Your men are very disciplined,” Hunyadi said, scratching his beard. He toyed with it constantly. Lada wondered if it was because as a young man he had not been allowed a beard. He had fought long and hard to move from being the son of peasant farmers to one of the strongest leaders on the borders of the Ottoman Empire. She supposed he had every right to be amused by and affectionate toward his beard.
Or perhaps beards were just itchy.
