Bright We Burn

  A lone rider was leaving the city, heading toward the mountains. Radu did not begrudge him his freedom—but only because his own escape was fast approaching.

  “We are leaving today,” Radu said, turning from the landscape he could almost love now.

  “Today?” Cyprian took Radu’s hand in his own. Radu wondered when touching Cyprian would not feel like a shock, if he would ever get used to the thrill of it. He hoped he did not. He hoped they would have a lifetime to find out.

  “Aron does not want me here anymore. I trust Kiril. He will do a good job leading the men we leave behind. And no one has heard a breath of news about Lada since the attack. That was four months ago. If she were going to strike, she would have done it by now. This waiting, biding her time—”

  “It could be strategic.”

  “But it is not her style. She would not have wanted to lose momentum like this. I think—” Radu shook his head. “I suspect she is no longer in control.”

  “Do you think she is dead?” Cyprian asked gently.

  “She is too mean to die. I am sure whatever has happened to her is not good, but I do not think she is dead.” Radu put a hand over his heart, wondering if he would feel her death, if he would know. They had been separated for so long. She had looked at him that night in Mehmed’s tent as though faced with a memory, not a man.

  “Though,” Radu said, thoughtfully, “if she is dead, that means I will live forever.”

  Cyprian gave him a puzzled smile. “I do not follow your reasoning.”

  Radu leaned forward and rested his forehead against Cyprian’s. “A long time ago, Lada promised that no one would kill me but her. So if she cannot fulfill her end of the promise, it appears I will be immortal.”

  Cyprian wrapped his arms around Radu’s waist. “I like that idea very much.”

  “You will have to live forever to match, though,” Radu said.

  “I will see what I can do.” Cyprian pressed his lips against Radu’s neck, and Radu shivered. No, he would never get used to this. Every moment spent with Cyprian would always feel like a miracle. There was something holy, something pure about the way he felt for Cyprian. There was no shame or anguish. None of the pain that had accompanied his feelings for so long.

  “What are you thinking about?” Cyprian whispered.

  “God,” Radu answered.

  Cyprian laughed. “I did not realize I was that good at kissing.”

  Radu laughed, too, and then their lips met again.

  * * *

  They remembered to let go of each other’s hands before reaching the bottom of the tower. Radu was floating, unable to release the smile from his lips as he had released Cyprian’s fingers. He did not understand how anyone seeing them could not know how they felt. But Nazira and Fatima had done this for years. People saw what they expected, as Nazira had told him they would.

  “Radu Bey!”

  Radu turned to see a Janissary guard running up to him, white-faced and wide-eyed. Radu’s stomach dropped with fear. “What is it? Have they found my sister?”

  The Janissary shook his head. “The prince.”

  Radu had been putting this off, but it was time to tell Aron that he planned on leaving. He wondered if that would help or hurt their relationship. It did not matter anymore. “Does he wish to see me?”

  “No. He is dead.”

  Radu felt the words as though they had struck him. “Aron is dead?”

  “So is Andrei.”

  In a daze, Radu stumbled past the Janissary toward the royal chambers. The castle was waking up, various servants moving about unaware that, once again, they were without a prince. Several Janissary guards stood watch outside Aron and Andrei’s apartments. Kiril moved aside to let Radu by. The prince’s body was on the bed. Radu moved as quietly as he could, as though worried that loud footsteps might disturb Aron. If only they could.

  Aron was lying on his side, a tiny wound at the back of his neck where someone had slipped in a dagger and severed his spine at the base of the skull. It would have been a quick way to die. From the position of Aron’s body, he had not even woken up.

  “Andrei, too?” Radu asked, hushed.

  Kiril answered in the same tone. “The same manner. Both in their sleep. The bodies are cool, but only just. It could not have been more than an hour or two ago.”

  “And no one saw anything?”

  Kiril shook his head.

  Radu stared down at Aron’s body. He felt sorry for the other man, but a competing feeling of resentment churned beneath the surface. With Aron murdered in his own bed, in the middle of the castle, in the middle of the capital, how could Radu possibly convince any boyars they would be safe?

  And who would be prince now?

  * * *

  Radu was too overwhelmed to pretend at decorum or tradition. Around the table he had Kiril, Cyprian, and Nazira.

  “It was her, right?” Kiril asked.

  Radu pulled off his turban. He felt trapped, constrained. “It had to be. Aron and Andrei have no enemies. They did not have enough time to make any. Bulgaria, Moldavia, Hungary, Transylvania—it is in all their best interest that Wallachia is stable and under control. No one would have sent an assassin for them.”

  “But why now? Why did she wait this long, doing nothing?” Nazira asked.

  Radu shook his head. “I have no idea. Any word from the scouts?”

  “A few have returned,” Kiril said. “The rest I fear never will. Simion’s men found bodies in a pit. They did not know who they were, but the clothing suggested boyars. There was some evidence of a large camp, but the trail was cold.”

  “The Basarabs,” Radu said. “My guess is Lada found them.”

  “So, where do we go from here?”

  Radu rubbed the back of his neck where a tension headache was building. He imagined a slender dagger sliding in. How precise, how surgical, how tiny a cut that separated one forever from life. “We need a prince. I do not think the remaining Basarabs have anyone of age, but I will look at the records. What few Danesti are left will likely be wary of coming anywhere near the country. They have all fled to distant relatives. Perhaps there is a good candidate for prince among the—”

  “Why are you looking for a prince?” Nazira asked.

  “We need someone on the throne.”

  Nazira’s look somehow managed to be both hard and pitying at the same time. “Radu, my husband, we have an heir already. One we know is not afraid to come to Tirgoviste, or to face Lada.”

  Radu deflated. He had been hoping, pretending there was another option. “I do not want the throne.”

  “I know. We have spoken of it. But sometimes for the good of the people, we must do things we do not wish to.”

  “They are not my people!” Radu stood, surprised by the force of his declaration. He began pacing the room. “I do not want this. Any of this. I stayed as a favor to the empire. I cannot be prince.”

  “You have seen what state the country is in.”

  Radu laughed. “Precisely! Putting it back together will be the work of a lifetime.”

  “Hard work,” Cyprian said, smiling sadly. “Important work.”

  Radu looked at the faces around the table, then collapsed back into his chair. “I want to go home,” he said, knowing he sounded like a child, and not caring.

  Nazira put a hand over his. “We have our family. We can make home anywhere. But I think we—you and I—carry a tremendous weight on our souls from what we have seen and done. We have participated in destruction. It will do our souls good to nurture and rebuild, instead.”

  Cyprian leaned close. “I know you want to retire, to live quietly and forget everything that has come before. But you could not turn your back on my cousins. Surely you cannot turn your back now on an entire country that so desperately needs you.”

&nbs
p; They were right. Radu knew he would carry the ghosts of Constantinople with him forever. Perhaps this was his punishment for everything he had done. But perhaps it could be his chance at redemption.

  “Very well.” The words tightened around his throat like a shackle. “I will be prince.”

  His friends nodded solemnly, knowing this was not a cause for joy or celebration. There was no triumph in Radu’s ascension.

  “Would you like to throw a party?” Nazira asked, in a generous attempt to ease the tension. “That was Aron’s first order of business.”

  “No,” Radu said. “We will coronate me immediately and send out word that I am prince. We will post guards around the city so it is perfectly defended. And then we are going into the mountains.”

  All the pieces of his life clicked together to form sharp stones of a brutal path. Everything led him here. Everything led him back to Lada. And he knew what he should do. What Mehmed would do. What Lada herself would do.

  He had to end it, once and for all.

  Poenari Fortress

  THOUGH SHE HAD MAINTAINED her filthy disguise this whole time, lest someone recognize her, she could not bring herself to hide any longer. She did not want to ride up to her fortress looking—and feeling—this weak. She arrived at the village closest to Poenari. It was tiny, clinging to a shallow stretch of land between the river and the mountains. She had visited it often and kept horses here. They knew her. As she dismounted, she pulled off her shawl and glanced around, hoping that at least this far in the mountains the land was still hers. If it was not, she was dead regardless.

  “My prince,” an old woman gasped, dropping the clothes she was washing at the bank of the river. She took in Lada’s bloodstained dress, then stood. “Come with me.” The woman dried her hands on her apron. Lada followed her to a humble home on the outskirts of the village. The woman pulled out a wooden tub and put a cauldron of water over the embers of her fire. She stoked it, humming to herself.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I was not expecting to host the prince. But you are a prince of the people.” The woman smiled at Lada with more warmth than even the embers held, and Lada felt something inside herself break. She wanted to cry. She could not remember the last time she had wanted to cry, and could not fathom what it would accomplish now. Instead, she sat and accepted the bread and dried meat the woman offered her.

  “How have things been here?” Lada asked. She did not want to specify in her absence—if Matthias had kept her imprisonment secret, she would certainly not be the one who let it be known.

  “Quiet. Peaceful. A man came through a month ago asking for word of you.” The woman smiled. “He did not leave again.” The woman poured the scalding water into the tub, then excused herself. She returned with two buckets of cold water and dumped them in as well. “It would be the greatest honor of my life to wash my prince.” The woman bowed her head.

  Lada peeled away her clothes, throwing them into the fire. She set her locket carefully on a chair and then climbed into the tub, her knees against her chest. She sank as low as she could in the confines. The woman hummed a low sweet song to herself as she took a chunk of soap and a rough brush and began.

  Though Lada had not been bathed by someone else since she was a child, she accepted the offering of this woman’s kindness. Months of fear, of dirt, of caked blood came off into the water. Lada wished she could remove her skin to reveal something new and stronger beneath. Scales, or chain mail. But beneath the grime she was only soft and pink. Her body was unfamiliar to her. Her breasts still large, her stomach distended from months of poor nutrition. Her arms and legs thinner, weapon calluses on her hands gone.

  When the water cooled, Lada climbed out. The woman wrapped her in a blanket worn soft with years of use. Lada sat by the fire and—in yet another inexcusable betrayal of Oana—allowed the woman to brush her hair.

  “Why have you shown me this kindness?” Lada asked. It was one thing to serve the prince. But Lada had not demanded this, and it was clear she had nothing with her to pay for it.

  The woman paused, then kept brushing, though more thoughtfully. “Because you are the only prince who has ever visited our village.” Lada heard a smile shape the woman’s voice. “Because you are the only prince who knows what it is to be a woman in this world. And because I am a little afraid that if I am not kind to you, you will kill me.”

  Lada laughed. “I do not kill my people. Only those who take from my people.”

  The woman laughed, too, the sound as worn and soft as the blanket around Lada. “Another reason you deserve my kindness. I have never much cared one way or the other about a prince. Never did me any good to. But the people here know and love you. Because of you, we get to keep more of our crops and earnings. And my grandson—smart, strong little boy—will never be sold to those godless infidels to fight their battles.” She finished, patting Lada’s shoulder. “Now, you wait here. I know you do not wear skirts. I will find some clothes for you.”

  Lada knew what a sacrifice that was. In a village this size, every person would probably have only one change of clothing. The trousers and tunic the woman brought back were clean and well mended.

  Lada dressed. When she was done, a little boy—probably the woman’s grandson—peeked in. His eyes were wide with awe, or fear. Lada glared at him, then winked. He did not look any less terrified as he backed away and closed the door. The woman returned, smiling shyly, and held out a strip of red cloth. “My mother gave this to me when I got married.” She stroked the material. It was simple cloth, but the color of dye was expensive. It was probably her greatest treasure. Lada turned her back, and let the woman tie the cloth around her head, securing her wet hair.

  Standing straighter than she had when she arrived, Lada followed the woman out into the village. Everywhere, villagers had come out of their homes and back from the river or the fields. The woman’s grandson was running from door to door, whispering and pointing to alert them to Lada’s presence. They stood along the road, watching. Few smiled, but all regarded her with a fierce pride. Many of the women had their hands on the shoulders of young boys. Boys who would never be taken away. Boys who would grow up to serve their own country.

  Lada lifted her chin. “For the kindness shown me here today, this village will never again pay taxes to any prince.”

  The people cheered, little girls waving flowers—one brandished a stick like a sword—as she passed. A man solemnly handed her his own boots, though replacing them would cost him dearly. Lada accepted them and mounted her horse. She nodded, proud and strong, before turning and riding toward her fortress.

  No price was too high to pay for the good of Wallachia, and Wallachia—true Wallachia—knew and loved her for her sacrifices.

  * * *

  She met several of her soldiers at the base of the peak where Poenari loomed sentinel over the river. They seemed astonished at her appearance, but she invited no questions and offered no explanations. She handed them her horse’s reins and then walked past them and up the winding switchback trail. By the time she got to the top she was winded and exhausted, but she did her best not to show it. She would project only strength.

  Bogdan ran to the gate to meet her. She could see in his posture he wanted to throw his arms around her, but he restrained himself. She had trained him that well, at least. He looked past her.

  He looked for his mother.

  “She is not with me.” Lada gestured for Bogdan to follow, knowing that this might be the last time he was ever willing to follow her anywhere. She managed to walk to her room at the back of the fortress, regally ignoring the men she passed. And then, at last, with the door shut behind Bogdan, she collapsed into a chair.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Where have you been? I told everyone you were hunting Ottoman spies, but I did not know how much longer I could keep control of the men without you. I wanted to come after you. I knew yo
u would want me here, though.”

  “It is good you did not come. You would have been killed. Matthias betrayed us. He took me prisoner.”

  Bogdan knelt in front of her, searching her face. “You have not been well.”

  “I think he was poisoning me.”

  “And my mother?”

  Lada knew she should apologize. She knew Radu would, in her place. But she could not bear to. If she apologized, it meant she had done wrong, and if she admitted out loud she had done wrong in leaving Oana, she could never forgive herself.

  “When I got there, Matthias killed all my men. I was in a cell smaller than this room for three months. Your mother was put to work in the kitchens, safe and healthy. I escaped with Stefan’s help. We had to kill all the guards. Your mother was supposed to meet us, but she was in the castle when it happened. I could not go after her.”

  Bogdan’s blocky features twisted, flickering through a host of emotions. Finally, swallowing hard, he nodded. “She would have wanted you to go.”

  Lada tried not to let her relief show, but she felt those traitorous tears from before pooling in her eyes. All she had now was Bogdan. If he had hated her for this, left her for this…she did not want to think about it. And she did not have to. She reached out and tugged on one of his stupid jug-handle ears, clearing her throat to try to dislodge some of the inconvenient emotion stuck there with all the tender aching of an old wound.

  “Tell me what has happened in my absence.”

  Bogdan reported that Tirgoviste was fortified, but no major offenses had been made into the mountains. He had found and killed the Basarab boyars. The men under the boyars’ command were scattered, hiding from scouts looking for them, but all were within half-a-day’s ride and ready to reassemble as soon as she called for them.