And I Darken
Page 128
Radu stopped fighting and released himself to the floor. Lazar’s weight was heavy against his back, the same as that patrol night in Kruje when Lazar had tackled him to save his life.
Lada would die defending Mehmed. Mehmed would die. But Lazar was right. If Mehmed lived, so many of the Janissaries—his friends and companions—would die. All to take a city that threatened nothing. Only because it was their dream, because the Prophet, peace be upon him, had declared it so long ago.
Radu turned his head, trying to look back at Lazar. Still keeping Radu pinned, Lazar shifted his weight, so their eyes could meet.
“I am so sorry,” Radu said. Lazar had saved him so many times—saved him with kindness as a child, saved him on the battlefield, saved him tonight. “I love you, too, my friend.”
Lazar’s face lifted with hope.
Radu answered that hope with a stab, his hand freed just enough to shove his knife into Lazar’s stomach.
Lazar rolled to the side, hands clutching his wound. Bright blood spilled between his fingers. Radu knelt over him. He threw Lazar’s sword across the room, then pressed his forehead to his friend’s. “I am so, so sorry.”
Lazar gave a lazy, lopsided smile. It broke Radu’s heart. “You always choose him.”
“I always will,” Radu whispered.
Then he ran, leaving Lazar to die alone. The door to the palace hall was barely splintered despite Lada’s men’s continuous attempts. Radu called for them to stop, then put his shoulder under the bar. They had warped the door, and Radu let out a cry of rage as he pushed up with all his might. Finally, the bar slid free.
Radu ran straight for Mehmed’s bedroom. “Mehmed is in there!” he shouted, pointing to the locked sitting room.
He scanned the bedroom, hands bloody and mind utterly focused. Long curtains were draped from the wall, held by a rod. Radu backed up, then ran and leaped, grabbing the rod and swinging his body until it tore free with a metal scream.
He carried the rod onto the balcony, too far from the room where Lada and Mehmed were. They were not dead yet. They were not allowed to be.
Radu could not leap from one balcony to the other. The distance was too great. He threw the rod across the gap, barely catching the curtain before it all followed. The rod clattered to the stone floor of the other balcony, curtain pulled taut. Radu yanked it, praying.
The rod caught, snagged on the stone railing.
Wrapping the curtain around one hand, Radu climbed onto the edge of the railing and jumped. The impact of the fall jarred his arm, nearly pulling it from its socket. He cried out in pain, then pulled himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, until his free hand found the edge of the balcony. With one last burst of strength, he climbed up.
He was in the darkness, looking in at the brightly lit room. The scene inside was a nightmare. Mehmed crouched, weaponless, in a corner. One good hit would be all it took to murder him. It was a testament to the wonder of Lada that that had not happened yet. She was all over the room, ducking and twirling and screaming. Her blade clashed with Ilyas’s, denying him at every turn.
Though Radu had missed the beginning of this story, he could see the end.
Lada was bleeding heavily, every footstep smearing her life against the delicate floral patterns of the tiled floor. She favored her right arm, and her breathing was too heavy, too fast. All Ilyas had to do was outlast her, and they both knew it. She fought with everything she had, and he stepped around her with the ease of a partner in a dance.
Neither had noticed him yet. Radu went to draw his sword—
He did not have a sword.
Or a knife.
He had been so desperate to get into the room, he had not thought what he would do once he got there. Bleak surrender threatened to pull him under. He had murdered his oldest friend. Now, as a reward, he would watch his only family and his only love killed while he stood by, unarmed and useless. All his wit and charm amounting to nothing in the end. He would at least die by Mehmed’s side. He stepped forward, nearly tripping on the curtain.
The rod!
Radu yanked it free of the railing, letting the curtain fall free.
Lada slipped on her own blood, crashing to the floor, sword trapped beneath her hand. Ilyas raised his blade. He was close enough to strike either Lada or Mehmed. Radu did not know who Ilyas would kill first, and he could not protect them both at once.
He chose Lada. With a scream, Radu ran in front of his sister, holding the rod. Ilyas’s sword fell on it, the force nearly jarring it from Radu’s hands. Lada kicked out at Ilyas’s knee, forcing him to stumble back.
Lada looked at Radu, wide-eyed with surprise. Then her focus snapped into place. “Get him to turn his back to the balcony,” she hissed.
Lada would die defending Mehmed. Mehmed would die. But Lazar was right. If Mehmed lived, so many of the Janissaries—his friends and companions—would die. All to take a city that threatened nothing. Only because it was their dream, because the Prophet, peace be upon him, had declared it so long ago.
Radu turned his head, trying to look back at Lazar. Still keeping Radu pinned, Lazar shifted his weight, so their eyes could meet.
“I am so sorry,” Radu said. Lazar had saved him so many times—saved him with kindness as a child, saved him on the battlefield, saved him tonight. “I love you, too, my friend.”
Lazar’s face lifted with hope.
Radu answered that hope with a stab, his hand freed just enough to shove his knife into Lazar’s stomach.
Lazar rolled to the side, hands clutching his wound. Bright blood spilled between his fingers. Radu knelt over him. He threw Lazar’s sword across the room, then pressed his forehead to his friend’s. “I am so, so sorry.”
Lazar gave a lazy, lopsided smile. It broke Radu’s heart. “You always choose him.”
“I always will,” Radu whispered.
Then he ran, leaving Lazar to die alone. The door to the palace hall was barely splintered despite Lada’s men’s continuous attempts. Radu called for them to stop, then put his shoulder under the bar. They had warped the door, and Radu let out a cry of rage as he pushed up with all his might. Finally, the bar slid free.
Radu ran straight for Mehmed’s bedroom. “Mehmed is in there!” he shouted, pointing to the locked sitting room.
He scanned the bedroom, hands bloody and mind utterly focused. Long curtains were draped from the wall, held by a rod. Radu backed up, then ran and leaped, grabbing the rod and swinging his body until it tore free with a metal scream.
He carried the rod onto the balcony, too far from the room where Lada and Mehmed were. They were not dead yet. They were not allowed to be.
Radu could not leap from one balcony to the other. The distance was too great. He threw the rod across the gap, barely catching the curtain before it all followed. The rod clattered to the stone floor of the other balcony, curtain pulled taut. Radu yanked it, praying.
The rod caught, snagged on the stone railing.
Wrapping the curtain around one hand, Radu climbed onto the edge of the railing and jumped. The impact of the fall jarred his arm, nearly pulling it from its socket. He cried out in pain, then pulled himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, until his free hand found the edge of the balcony. With one last burst of strength, he climbed up.
He was in the darkness, looking in at the brightly lit room. The scene inside was a nightmare. Mehmed crouched, weaponless, in a corner. One good hit would be all it took to murder him. It was a testament to the wonder of Lada that that had not happened yet. She was all over the room, ducking and twirling and screaming. Her blade clashed with Ilyas’s, denying him at every turn.
Though Radu had missed the beginning of this story, he could see the end.
Lada was bleeding heavily, every footstep smearing her life against the delicate floral patterns of the tiled floor. She favored her right arm, and her breathing was too heavy, too fast. All Ilyas had to do was outlast her, and they both knew it. She fought with everything she had, and he stepped around her with the ease of a partner in a dance.
Neither had noticed him yet. Radu went to draw his sword—
He did not have a sword.
Or a knife.
He had been so desperate to get into the room, he had not thought what he would do once he got there. Bleak surrender threatened to pull him under. He had murdered his oldest friend. Now, as a reward, he would watch his only family and his only love killed while he stood by, unarmed and useless. All his wit and charm amounting to nothing in the end. He would at least die by Mehmed’s side. He stepped forward, nearly tripping on the curtain.
The rod!
Radu yanked it free of the railing, letting the curtain fall free.
Lada slipped on her own blood, crashing to the floor, sword trapped beneath her hand. Ilyas raised his blade. He was close enough to strike either Lada or Mehmed. Radu did not know who Ilyas would kill first, and he could not protect them both at once.
He chose Lada. With a scream, Radu ran in front of his sister, holding the rod. Ilyas’s sword fell on it, the force nearly jarring it from Radu’s hands. Lada kicked out at Ilyas’s knee, forcing him to stumble back.
Lada looked at Radu, wide-eyed with surprise. Then her focus snapped into place. “Get him to turn his back to the balcony,” she hissed.
