And I Darken
Page 48
He wrapped his fingers around hers, then opened his eyes and smiled wryly. “We had best not tell anyone else, then, seeing as how we are deep in enemy territory.”
Lada pulled back her hand and took the reins. “For now.” She kicked her horse to a gallop, past the soldiers, hair whipping around her face as she raced toward home. Toward Edirne, she corrected herself, silently cursing her traitor mind. Maybe she was not so certain whose side she was on after all.
In spite of Ilyas’s allowances, the leaders in Edirne were stricter than they had been in Amasya, and too often Lada had been prevented from training with Nicolae’s men. She stomped into her chambers, startled to find Radu deep in conversation with Molla Gurani, whom she had not seen these last three months since leaving Amasya.
Her brother looked up, guilt painting itself across his face like the sun disappearing behind a cloud.
“Lada! I thought you would be with the Janissaries.”
“Are we being forced to endure his lessons again?” She scowled. In their time here, with the war and Mehmed’s constant duties as sultan, she and Radu had not yet received regular tutelage. While she wanted to resume the history, logic, and strategy lessons, she had not missed Molla Gurani’s insufferable dronings on Islam.
Molla Gurani’s eyebrows lifted slowly, heavy with the weight of his disdain. “I am here at your brother’s request. You are welcome to be elsewhere.”
“What is he talking about?” Lada snapped, lapsing into Wallachian for privacy.
Radu shrugged, head tilted to one side as though he were trapping something between his ear and shoulder. “Know your enemy?”
Caught off guard, Lada barked out a sharp laugh. “You will have to know this enemy enough for both of us.” She bowed mockingly toward the teacher and went into her own small room. While this freed her from Molla Gurani’s fetid-water voice, it left her with nothing to do and no refuge.
She flopped onto her bed and boredom made her eyes heavy with sleep. She dreamed of Amasya, swimming in the pool with Radu and Mehmed, stars swirling and burning around them. When she awoke, it was with Mehmed’s name heavy on her tongue, his absence in her life a palpable pain.
She hurried out of their rooms before Radu could ask where she was going, before she had to admit to him—and herself—how much she longed for a few private moments with Mehmed as her friend, not as the sultan.
In the halls of the palace, she felt invisible. There were so few women here. In Tirgoviste women had been far more present, less separated from the regular courts. She wondered, sometimes, what her life would have been like had her mother not fled. Would she have had an ally? A friend? Would her mother have stopped her father from leaving them here?
Probably not. Her mother had not been strong enough to stay with them, much less keep them safe.
Perhaps, though, she would feel stronger walking down these halls with another woman at her side. Halima laughing, or Mara glowering. Maybe they did have something to teach her, after all. Men here either looked right past her as though she did not exist, or looked so hard that she knew they were not seeing her at all. It made her long for a weapon in her hand, for a crown instead of snarled braids, for a beard, even. For anything that would make them see her for what and who she was.
Or perhaps, looking at her and seeing nothing, they understood perfectly well who she was already.
She was not certain the guards would allow her to see Mehmed. She had never come without an invitation. If she was turned away, she did not know what she would do. But after only a few heartbeats of waiting, the guards let her through.
Mehmed looked up from his desk, eyes lighting as he stood. Lada felt the tension and terror of anonymity drain from her body.
She mattered to Mehmed.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked, sweeping his arm back in an exaggerated bow.
“Do not make me knock your turban off.” She pushed past him and sat in his seat, examining the papers so he would not notice how grateful, how glad to be in his presence she was. He did not need anyone else nourishing his ego; Radu did that enough for the entire Draculesti line. Lada lifted several pages, all notes and ledgers and maps. Detailed lists of troops and supplies, Janissary forces, horses, wagons, weapons. Ledgers of various accounts. Maps of…Constantinople.
She tapped a finger on one. “You have been busy.”
He leaned over her, tracing the edge of the map reverentially. “I am the sultan, Lada.”
“I have noticed.”
He grinned, the expression wiping away the regal years he tried to force onto his face by distant scowls. “My father has returned to his retirement. I did not think I was ready, but the throne is mine regardless. And I will be worthy of it.”
Lada pulled back her hand and took the reins. “For now.” She kicked her horse to a gallop, past the soldiers, hair whipping around her face as she raced toward home. Toward Edirne, she corrected herself, silently cursing her traitor mind. Maybe she was not so certain whose side she was on after all.
In spite of Ilyas’s allowances, the leaders in Edirne were stricter than they had been in Amasya, and too often Lada had been prevented from training with Nicolae’s men. She stomped into her chambers, startled to find Radu deep in conversation with Molla Gurani, whom she had not seen these last three months since leaving Amasya.
Her brother looked up, guilt painting itself across his face like the sun disappearing behind a cloud.
“Lada! I thought you would be with the Janissaries.”
“Are we being forced to endure his lessons again?” She scowled. In their time here, with the war and Mehmed’s constant duties as sultan, she and Radu had not yet received regular tutelage. While she wanted to resume the history, logic, and strategy lessons, she had not missed Molla Gurani’s insufferable dronings on Islam.
Molla Gurani’s eyebrows lifted slowly, heavy with the weight of his disdain. “I am here at your brother’s request. You are welcome to be elsewhere.”
“What is he talking about?” Lada snapped, lapsing into Wallachian for privacy.
Radu shrugged, head tilted to one side as though he were trapping something between his ear and shoulder. “Know your enemy?”
Caught off guard, Lada barked out a sharp laugh. “You will have to know this enemy enough for both of us.” She bowed mockingly toward the teacher and went into her own small room. While this freed her from Molla Gurani’s fetid-water voice, it left her with nothing to do and no refuge.
She flopped onto her bed and boredom made her eyes heavy with sleep. She dreamed of Amasya, swimming in the pool with Radu and Mehmed, stars swirling and burning around them. When she awoke, it was with Mehmed’s name heavy on her tongue, his absence in her life a palpable pain.
She hurried out of their rooms before Radu could ask where she was going, before she had to admit to him—and herself—how much she longed for a few private moments with Mehmed as her friend, not as the sultan.
In the halls of the palace, she felt invisible. There were so few women here. In Tirgoviste women had been far more present, less separated from the regular courts. She wondered, sometimes, what her life would have been like had her mother not fled. Would she have had an ally? A friend? Would her mother have stopped her father from leaving them here?
Probably not. Her mother had not been strong enough to stay with them, much less keep them safe.
Perhaps, though, she would feel stronger walking down these halls with another woman at her side. Halima laughing, or Mara glowering. Maybe they did have something to teach her, after all. Men here either looked right past her as though she did not exist, or looked so hard that she knew they were not seeing her at all. It made her long for a weapon in her hand, for a crown instead of snarled braids, for a beard, even. For anything that would make them see her for what and who she was.
Or perhaps, looking at her and seeing nothing, they understood perfectly well who she was already.
She was not certain the guards would allow her to see Mehmed. She had never come without an invitation. If she was turned away, she did not know what she would do. But after only a few heartbeats of waiting, the guards let her through.
Mehmed looked up from his desk, eyes lighting as he stood. Lada felt the tension and terror of anonymity drain from her body.
She mattered to Mehmed.
“To what do I owe the honor?” he asked, sweeping his arm back in an exaggerated bow.
“Do not make me knock your turban off.” She pushed past him and sat in his seat, examining the papers so he would not notice how grateful, how glad to be in his presence she was. He did not need anyone else nourishing his ego; Radu did that enough for the entire Draculesti line. Lada lifted several pages, all notes and ledgers and maps. Detailed lists of troops and supplies, Janissary forces, horses, wagons, weapons. Ledgers of various accounts. Maps of…Constantinople.
She tapped a finger on one. “You have been busy.”
He leaned over her, tracing the edge of the map reverentially. “I am the sultan, Lada.”
“I have noticed.”
He grinned, the expression wiping away the regal years he tried to force onto his face by distant scowls. “My father has returned to his retirement. I did not think I was ready, but the throne is mine regardless. And I will be worthy of it.”
