And I Darken
Page 34
Mehmed’s narrow eyebrows, finely shaped like his father’s, drew low over his eyes. “You have seen my country. Where are the poor, suffering, and starving in the streets? Where is the crime? Radu told me that you cannot go into the streets of Tirgoviste at night for fear of thieves and murderers. Yet one can walk in Edirne without assault.”
“Yes, but—”
“And our roads are safe for trade, which means our people have what they need to buy and sell, to live on what they have been given. They are free from hunger and poverty.”
“But you oppress those who do not believe in your god!”
Mehmed shook his head in anger. “We do not act as your precious Christians do, slaughtering other Christians for believing the wrong way. Yes, we ask for payment. That is the price of safety. But we allow all people under our rule to believe what they will, so long as they do not disturb the peace.”
“I am here as evidence of the peace your father instills, the freedom he grants others. My father is free to rule his people, so long as he rules them the way the sultan sees fit! And if not, his children suffer the consequences.”
“Do you know what kind of man your father is?”
Lada turned away from Mehmed, hiding the shame that colored her cheeks. “The kind of man who promises the pope to fight infidels, and then makes peace with them. The kind of man who leaves his children under a sword to return to a false throne. Yes, I know what kind of man he is. He is the kind of man your father loves to deal with. They are both of them devils.”
“We keep your country safe!”
Lada whipped around, crossing the room and hissing in Mehmed’s face, “I would sooner see my country burn than see it improved under Ottoman rule. Not everywhere needs to be remade in your image. If we were not so busy constantly defending our borders and being trespassed by other nations’ armies, we would be able to care for our own!”
Mehmed stepped back, puzzled. “Then you do not hate me on your father’s behalf?”
Lada’s shoulders dropped, weariness tugging them low. “My father is weak. Wallachia deserves better.”
“Perhaps you deserve better than Wallachia.”
“No.” Lada felt the fire rekindling in her chest, burning away her fear and exhaustion. She had been away from her land too long. Sometimes she wondered if she remembered it rightly. But here, now, she knew she could never truly leave it behind. It pulsed in her veins, beating through her. “I love Wallachia. It belongs to me, and I belong to it. It is my country, and it should always be mine, and I hate any king or sultan or god or prophet that proclaims anyone else has any right to it.”
“Please do not say that about the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Mehmed’s voice was soft. Not commanding—requesting. “Why do you refuse to listen to what Molla Gurani teaches us?”
Lada looked at the wall of practice swords. Though Mehmed scoffed at the amount of time she spent watching the Janissaries, she spent every spare hour observing their practice sessions and drills. After a couple of weeks, Nicolae had even let her join in, correcting her form, laughing at her mistakes, but increasingly admiring her ferocity and determination to win.
Do you know of a Bogdan of Wallachia? she had asked as soon as she dared. The words stung as they left her mouth, cutting her up with the hope they contained.
My brother’s name is Bogdan, he had answered.
So is my cousin’s! said a Bulgar.
And my father’s! answered a Serb.
Nicolae had smiled an apology, and Lada had swallowed the pain that saying Bogdan’s name had caused. And then she had fought.
Now, ignoring Mehmed, she selected a blunted sword, curved like the one that hung over her father’s throne. Even the sight of it fed the fire in her chest. She hefted it, tested the balance. She liked being angry before fighting with Nicolae. Anger carved away everything else inside—doubt, fear, embarrassment—leaving room for nothing else. She never felt more powerful than when she was angry with a sword in her hands.
“Stop,” Mehmed said, joining her at the wall. “You have not answered my question.”
“You may worship your prophet, but he is not mine and never will be. Belief is weakness.” She would not cave to Islam as Radu had. But neither did she cherish the Orthodoxy she had grown up with. Religion was a means to an end. She had seen it wielded as a weapon. If she needed to use it, she would, but she would never allow herself to be used by it.
Mehmed grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. “You are wrong, Lada. Belief is not weakness. Faith is the greatest strength we can have.”
“Yes, but—”
“And our roads are safe for trade, which means our people have what they need to buy and sell, to live on what they have been given. They are free from hunger and poverty.”
“But you oppress those who do not believe in your god!”
Mehmed shook his head in anger. “We do not act as your precious Christians do, slaughtering other Christians for believing the wrong way. Yes, we ask for payment. That is the price of safety. But we allow all people under our rule to believe what they will, so long as they do not disturb the peace.”
“I am here as evidence of the peace your father instills, the freedom he grants others. My father is free to rule his people, so long as he rules them the way the sultan sees fit! And if not, his children suffer the consequences.”
“Do you know what kind of man your father is?”
Lada turned away from Mehmed, hiding the shame that colored her cheeks. “The kind of man who promises the pope to fight infidels, and then makes peace with them. The kind of man who leaves his children under a sword to return to a false throne. Yes, I know what kind of man he is. He is the kind of man your father loves to deal with. They are both of them devils.”
“We keep your country safe!”
Lada whipped around, crossing the room and hissing in Mehmed’s face, “I would sooner see my country burn than see it improved under Ottoman rule. Not everywhere needs to be remade in your image. If we were not so busy constantly defending our borders and being trespassed by other nations’ armies, we would be able to care for our own!”
Mehmed stepped back, puzzled. “Then you do not hate me on your father’s behalf?”
Lada’s shoulders dropped, weariness tugging them low. “My father is weak. Wallachia deserves better.”
“Perhaps you deserve better than Wallachia.”
“No.” Lada felt the fire rekindling in her chest, burning away her fear and exhaustion. She had been away from her land too long. Sometimes she wondered if she remembered it rightly. But here, now, she knew she could never truly leave it behind. It pulsed in her veins, beating through her. “I love Wallachia. It belongs to me, and I belong to it. It is my country, and it should always be mine, and I hate any king or sultan or god or prophet that proclaims anyone else has any right to it.”
“Please do not say that about the Prophet, peace be upon him.” Mehmed’s voice was soft. Not commanding—requesting. “Why do you refuse to listen to what Molla Gurani teaches us?”
Lada looked at the wall of practice swords. Though Mehmed scoffed at the amount of time she spent watching the Janissaries, she spent every spare hour observing their practice sessions and drills. After a couple of weeks, Nicolae had even let her join in, correcting her form, laughing at her mistakes, but increasingly admiring her ferocity and determination to win.
Do you know of a Bogdan of Wallachia? she had asked as soon as she dared. The words stung as they left her mouth, cutting her up with the hope they contained.
My brother’s name is Bogdan, he had answered.
So is my cousin’s! said a Bulgar.
And my father’s! answered a Serb.
Nicolae had smiled an apology, and Lada had swallowed the pain that saying Bogdan’s name had caused. And then she had fought.
Now, ignoring Mehmed, she selected a blunted sword, curved like the one that hung over her father’s throne. Even the sight of it fed the fire in her chest. She hefted it, tested the balance. She liked being angry before fighting with Nicolae. Anger carved away everything else inside—doubt, fear, embarrassment—leaving room for nothing else. She never felt more powerful than when she was angry with a sword in her hands.
“Stop,” Mehmed said, joining her at the wall. “You have not answered my question.”
“You may worship your prophet, but he is not mine and never will be. Belief is weakness.” She would not cave to Islam as Radu had. But neither did she cherish the Orthodoxy she had grown up with. Religion was a means to an end. She had seen it wielded as a weapon. If she needed to use it, she would, but she would never allow herself to be used by it.
Mehmed grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. “You are wrong, Lada. Belief is not weakness. Faith is the greatest strength we can have.”
