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She did not realize she was again clutching her silver locket so tightly that the edges bit into her skin. She owed it to Wallachia to be whole and complete. Dedicated and clear-eyed. No one could break her heart if all it contained was her country.
* * *
Unlike Lada’s last visit to Hunedoara, where she had been invisible when she was not being ridiculed, this time she was treated with respect. One of Matthias’s top advisors rode out to greet her at the outskirts of the city. He bowed to her as he would any male prince. There would be no dresses for her this time, no pretending to be something she was not. She entered the city as an equal.
“Your men can stay in the barracks,” the advisor said as they were escorted to the castle. Last time, her men had had to sleep outside. Lada rode proud and tall across the bridge and through the gates that had felt suffocating just last year. Now, the castle rose around her like a promise.
“You,” Lada said, selecting twenty of her men, “help see to the horses and the beds.” The other ten she motioned to remain with her. Oana, too, stayed at her side. Oana’s lessons about appearances had not failed entirely. Lada needed to make an impression. Fortunately, radiating power and authority came far more naturally to her than navigating crowded rooms in a bulky dress.
Lifting her chin proudly, Lada reentered the castle not as a nationless girl, but as a prince. A conquering prince, no less.
Matthias, as handsome and shrewd as she remembered, stood when she approached him in the throne room. He did not embrace her—it would have been inappropriate, and frankly Lada would not have welcomed it—but he did smile and incline his head respectfully. She did the same, as befitted their positions.
“You have surprised me,” he said, studying her.
“That is because you never knew me. If you had, nothing I have done would surprise you.”
Matthias laughed, gesturing to a servant. Wine was brought in on a tray. Lada took her goblet, raising it when Matthias raised his. He watched her over the rim, eyebrows drawn together thoughtfully. “I understand now why my father spent so much time on you. You know, I was a bit jealous. I did not see why you merited his attention when I could scarcely attract it all.”
“Your father did what he thought was best by you. And it worked.” Lada gestured to the room around them. “You are king.” Lada lifted her goblet to his crown. Her hand froze mid-gesture. His crown. The crown he had not been able to afford. She lowered her wine, wariness settling over her like a cold draft. He wore a fur-trimmed vest with a high white collar that covered his neck. His dark hair was short and curling, his beard neatly trimmed. He looked exactly as he had the last time she had seen him; the crown had changed nothing. And everything.
Matthias sat back on the throne, tilting his head to one side. “You really are a remarkable creature. I still cannot believe what you managed to accomplish.”
Lada held out her goblet for the servant to take. She tried to shake off the premonition of doom. It was just a crown. He had probably convinced Poland to give it to him. She could not risk losing his aid. She needed to leverage his newfound esteem into action. She cleared her throat. “Now imagine what we will accomplish together. For Europe. For Christianity. For our peoples.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “I have not forgotten the services you provided the last time. Please know how grateful I am for the service you provide me now. And accept my apologies, in advance.”
Matthias gestured. Dozens of men swarmed into the throne room, quickly overwhelming and killing Lada’s. Lada drew her sword with a scream of rage, but already there were too many men between her and Matthias. She killed two, three, four before they had her on the floor, her face smashed against the tile as her hands were bound behind her back. She could hear Oana screaming curses in Wallachian, but none of her men cried out. None were alive to do so.
Matthias’s voice rang through the room, bouncing off the floor she was smashed against and the ceiling she could not see. “You helped me to my throne, and now you will help me keep it. Such a little thing, to trade your freedom for my security. I know you may not think it, but I truly am grateful.” Her last glimpse of him as she was dragged away was a warm smile and a goblet lifted in a toast.
Tirgoviste
RADU ONCE AGAIN FOUND himself hiding in the castle.
It had been his main childhood occupation. Back then, he had hidden from his brother, Mircea, and, for
a period of time, from the same men he avoided now. Though they had been boys back then, looking to hurt him.
Today they wanted money. At every opportunity, they pressed him for more. Radu struggled to remain civil and pleasant. He had stayed behind to help them. It was growing increasingly difficult.
He did his best to be impossible to find. He did not sleep in the castle, moving from manor house to manor house under the guise of making certain they were well maintained for when the boyars returned. He frequently patrolled with Kiril and Simion, and spent as much time on the outer walls as possible.
Today an argument between his Janissaries and Aron’s men had forced him to return. Aron’s men were insisting any horse stabled there necessarily belonged to the prince. The Janissaries were not as inclined to politeness as Radu was.
After firmly informing Aron’s men that the sultan would not take kindly to his horses being stolen—and then arranging for Simion to transfer the horses to stables away from the castle, where they were apparently too great a temptation—Radu retreated to the castle wall to catch his breath. He leaned out, looking over the still-empty city.
A mounted procession making its way toward the castle caught his eye. Radu could not imagine who would be arriving this soon. Surely the boyars would wait until they knew things were safe, even after receiving Radu’s invitations. Then he realized the guards all wore Ottoman-style clothing. One, riding in back, struck Radu as deeply familiar, though from this distance he could not identify why.
In the center rode two women. One dressed simply in dark blue robes, the other dressed like a flower in springtime.
Like the ghost of his father, a Wallachian curse came unbidden to his lips. “God’s wounds,” he whispered. Nazira must not have received his warning not to come!
Her route here would have taken them directly through the freshly covered graves. Radu cringed, thinking of the thousands of stakes that were piled on the sides of the road while they debated whether to burn them or use them to build another layer of defense around the city. The first was more respectful to the dead, the second more practical. Radu hated that these types of decisions fell on him.
He was grateful, at the very least, that Nazira had been delayed enough to miss the burials. He could not imagine what the original state of the city would have done to her. Or to sweet, delicate Fatima. They should not be here.
He raced down the wall, nearly bumping into Aron.
