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“How can you say that after what I did?” Radu finally looked at Cyprian, searched his face for the trick or the lie. Because it was not possible that Cyprian could look on him with anything but hate.
“We were on different sides. I would have done the same, given the circumstances. I did do the same—I went into Edirne with the sole purpose of using you for information. But the sides we were on no longer exist.” Cyprian took a step, closing the distance between them. Radu could touch him, if he could lift a hand. If he were not paralyzed and terrified by what he wanted.
“I told you once,” Cyprian said. “Do you remember?”
“I remember every moment we spent together.”
“I told you,” Cyprian said, with a tentative smile so full of hope it was physically painful to see, “that I would forgive you. I meant it.”
Radu let out a breath like a sob. This could not be real. It was too big, too great a gift, too powerful a mercy. He had never had anything like this in his cruel and punishing life. He did not know it was possible. Radu lifted one trembling hand and—still half expecting Cyprian to turn away—placed it against his cheek. Cyprian lifted his own hand, covering Radu’s and twining their fingers together.
“I meant it,” he whispered.
Radu leaned forward and Cyprian met him halfway, their lips touching in a movement as familiar, as sacred, as healing as prayer.
Hunedoara
“I THOUGHT SHE WAS GOING to be kept in a house,” a man with a face like a turnip said, peering into Lada’s dank cell. The door was solid wood with a square—too small to fit through, too high to reach the lock on the other side—cut out of it. A barred window was set high in the wall opposite the door. A pile of matted and mildewed fur lay on a low cot, beneath which a much-used and little-cleaned chamber pot resided.
“She is,” another guard out of her view said. “But she needs a little time to calm down. She killed four guards.”
“Four of them?”
Lada watched the first man’s face make an expression no turnip ever could. She did not smile. She did not break eye contact. He looked away first, tugging at his collar.
A third man shouldered the others out of the way, carrying a metal tray with a bowl of porridge on it. “I know you prefer to eat your meals in the company of the dead.” He leaned close to the opening. “Seen the woodcuts myself. No human flesh for you today.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Back up.”
Lada did not move.
“Back away from the door!”
Lada still did not move.
He shrugged, turning the bowl sideways and shoving it through the hole. It clattered to the rough stone floor, spilling its contents in a mess. “Next time I can bring something to make you feel more at home.” With a dead-eyed smile, he left. The other two settled into their chairs against the wall.
Lada stood in front of the door, watching them.
Hours later, her feet aching but her back still straight, someone she had never expected to see in a prison in Hunedoara came into view.
“Hello, Lada.” Mara Brankovic smiled with bland formality as though this were a routine social call.
“What are—” Lada took a deep breath, steeling herself against showing emotion. “Mehmed bought Matthias.”
“He does not come cheap, this replacement king.” Mara wrinkled her nose, whether in distaste for Matthias or as a reaction to the odors of urine and despair that permeated the prison, Lada did not know. “I am sorry for this. You always insisted on taking the more difficult path. Think of how different your life would be if you had married Mehmed, as I advised long ago.”
“You are not married, and here you are, free, while I am imprisoned,” Lada accused.
“It took me many years and many sacrifices to get here. But I did it in an acceptable manner. I am sorry to see you like this. You may not believe me, but I sincerely hope this is the beginning of a new path for you. One that will not end in your death.”
“All paths I take involve a tremendous amount of death.”
Mara arched one elegant eyebrow. “I suppose you have only yourself to blame, then.”
“I am perfectly capable of blaming you. And Mehmed. And my brother. And Matthias.”
“Be that as it may, you were given opportunities. It did not have to end like this. It still does not.” Mara leaned closer, her voice dropping lower. “Matthias cannot kill you outright. You still have goodwill in Europe for your success against Mehmed and for your willingness to fight. He is keeping your imprisonment a secret, so no aid will come. Only Mehmed knows that you are here. I am not to tell even your brother. As far as Wallachia is concerned, you disappeared into the mountains and abandoned them. Matthias will keep you for as long as he feels necessary. Play your part, be demure, at least pretend to be tamed, and eventually you may be able to arrange an advantageous marriage that will get you out of here. Not to Moldavian nobility—that would be viewed as a threat. Your odds of marrying anyone important in Transylvania are quite small. I assume you want no Hungarians. I can make inquiries among Serbian nobility.”
“Is that what Mehmed wants for me?” Lada asked, incredulous.
