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“If I go and pull her out of the kitchens, someone is bound to notice,” Stefan said. “I cannot keep both of you secret.”
“She would not leave me behind.”
Stefan shook his head. “No, she would not.”
Lada had to make a decision. And she had to make it now. “She would not leave me behind, but she would tell me to leave her.” If Oana was in the kitchen, she had witnesses and an alibi. No one could hold her accountable for the dead men in the cell. But they could hold her as prisoner. Forever.
Lada was trading her freedom for Oana’s.
Accepting Stefan’s elbow for support, she fled from the prison building and out of Hunedoara, hating herself with each step. Hating Matthias more. And hating the world most of all, for taking the people she cared about and making her choose between them and Wallachia every time. Oana had once told her at this very castle that no sacrifice was too great in the cause of their country. Lada prayed that Oana still felt the same, would still feel the same when she discovered their abandonment of her.
But another day in that prison might kill Lada. And she would not go back for anything.
Snagov Island Monastery
“TELL ME AGAIN WHY Aron sent you to an island monastery far from Tirgoviste on a seemingly unimportant task that could have been done by anyone else?” Nazira batted her eyelashes innocently. Fatima shushed her reproachfully. Cyprian laughed.
Radu sighed.
Their ride here had been peaceful. Too peaceful. The entire area between Tirgoviste and Snagov was still almost empty. Would the whole country hide in the mountains forever? It made Aron’s task of ruling them far more difficult. How could he tax or command a populace he could not find?
Radu corrected his sturdy mare’s direction, guiding her back in line with the others. In front and behind were Janissaries, but it was easy to feel like it was just the four of them. “Aron is sending me because Mehmed was not able to take Snagov—attacking the island was too logistically complicated and not worth the time. We need to make certain that the monks there are loyal to the throne, and also invite one of them to take over the cathedral in Tirgoviste. No one has been willing to so far.”
“Yes, and that entire plan makes perfect sense. But the reasonable course of action would be to send someone to do it other than the man in charge of all the military forces currently in the country.” Nazira shushed Fatima before Fatima could shush her this time.
Cyprian twisted his mouth to the side and drew his eyebrows together. Radu loved every single expression Cyprian’s face was capable of, though his genuine smile was still—and always would be—his favorite. “I am inclined to agree with Nazira. Aron is trying to push you to the margins, decrease your visibility. You are already a threat.”
Radu could not deny it. Things had become increasingly tense between himself and the Danesti brothers. Radu rubbed his forehead, gazing at the dock they were drawing closer to. “Aron has nothing I want. I wish he could see that. Still, we are close to being finished. By the time we return I should have all my scouts back. It has been over three months with no word of Lada. I cannot imagine anything she might plan that would require this much silence and inaction. I suspect
something else has happened.” He did not like thinking about what might have ended her aggressions. After everything she had done, he still did not want her to suffer. He only wanted her to fail. “Regardless, I am confident we can move forward very soon.”
“Forward to where?” Fatima asked.
Radu dismounted and offered a hand to help her off her horse. “Somewhere out of Wallachia.”
“I do not know,” Cyprian said. “This area is quite nice.” He patted his horse and stretched his broad shoulders. Radu quickly looked away—and then remembered he did not have to. He let his eyes linger, drinking the other man in. Cyprian caught him staring. His answering smile was sharper than normal. Sharper, and more devious.
The Janissaries gathered and dismounted as well. Radu had left Kiril in charge in Tirgoviste, trusting him to keep an eye on things there. The guards who had accompanied them would cross over to the island with them, in case they encountered any hostility. In an effort to appear nonthreatening, Radu had dressed Wallachian-style. He had left his beloved turban at home and wore a rather absurd hat instead. He wanted to return to flowing robes and beautiful fabrics, leave behind these layers of breeches and vests and coats. Not only were they ugly, they were damnably hot in the heavy summer air.
Nazira and Fatima, too, had shifted their dress. They did not look quite Wallachian, but they did not look Turkish, either. As with everything, Nazira prettified whatever she wore simply by virtue of being in it. Radu suspected she could wear the dirty wool right off a lamb’s back and make it look deliberate and fashionable. Fatima’s clothes were serviceable and plain. Though Radu told her she did not need to play at being a servant here, she preferred to go unnoticed. Looking like a maid was an easy way to become invisible to anyone who had no use for you.
Cyprian at least was comfortable in Wallachian clothes, as they were similar to styles he had worn in Constantinople. He had stopped wearing the Janissary uniform—where Nazira had gotten one for him, Radu did not know, though he suspected somewhere was a Janissary still too charmed by her to bother being angry that he was walking about naked.
After issuing instructions to the guards, they walked to the rickety dock. It was apparent that the previous dock had been burned and dismantled. The replacement was just a few planks nailed together, but there was a boat waiting. With a queasy lurch, all Radu’s thoughts twisted away.
“Oh, a boat! Radu loves boats,” Nazira teased.
Radu climbed gingerly into the back, with Cyprian sitting at his side. Nazira and Fatima took a nearby bench, and the rest of the guards filled in where they could. They helped row, following the increasingly annoyed directions of the Wallachian-speaking ferryman. Radu translated as best he could in between trying not to vomit.
When they reached the island, Radu nearly fell over in his haste to rejoin firm ground. Cyprian leaned close and whispered, “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the real reason you stayed behind in Constantinople was not out of altruistic duty to my little cousins, but because you knew you could not survive a boat ride.”
Radu laughed weakly, and Cyprian joined him. That Cyprian could not only forgive his past but also find ways to joke about it was deeply reassuring. It would always be a tender spot—but as a scar, not an open wound.
After his stomach had settled, Radu finally took a look at the island. It was tiny, the borders marshy and overgrown. Insects droned, lending the humid and heavy air its own music. Short but dense trees offered the promise of shade, and a path led to carefully tended garden rows. The monastery rose in the distance, pale-red stone towers marking its place. Though the guards around them were on high alert, the monk ambling toward them seemed utterly unconcerned by the appearance of this many armed men.
“Hello,” Radu said. “I am…” He paused, unsure whether Radu Bey or Radu Dracul would get a better reception. He had already dressed the part of Wallachian nobility, though. May as well continue to play it. “I am Radu Dracul, here on behalf of Prince Aron Danesti, vaivode of Wallachia.”
The monk, his face lined and tanned with years of being outdoors, did not smile. But something in the lines around his eyes shifted with amusement. “Prince Aron? I was not aware we had a new one. Or that we needed one.”
