Now I Rise
Page 12
Secrets gave everything more power, more potential for devastation and destruction.
Radu stood and walked to the window. Nazira and Fatima lay on a blanket in the garden, whispering and laughing. If he had seen them without knowing the truth of their relationship, he would have assumed they were very dear friends. No one questioned why Fatima was always with Nazira, why they were happy to live out in the countryside with no one else around.
They hid their love in plain sight.
“Urbana,” Radu said, an idea forming that he liked the shape of, “how do you feel about parties?”
“I hate them,” she said.
“What if I said that going to a lot of parties is the price you will have to pay to make your cannons?”
Her voice was flat but determined. “What should I wear?”
6
January
THE TREK BACK from interrogating the governor of Brasov was a frigid and lonely one. Lada looked for Matei on the way to camp. At every sound she whipped around, expecting to find him. He did not appear.
She was nearly there, the fires in the distance promising rest and warmth, when a horse whinnied in the darkness to her right. She dropped into a crouch, cursing her generosity with the little girl that left her with only one knife out of the three she had brought. Why had she felt compelled to give the brat one?
The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.
She shuddered at the distant memory. Her father had given her a knife, and it had changed her life. She only hoped her own gift would change that little girl’s life, because Lada might very well die for the gesture.
“Quiet, boys,” a man whispered exaggeratedly, his voice carrying through the night. He spoke Hungarian. “We seem to have found a small predator. They are very dangerous when cornered.”
Lada backed up against a tree so at least she could face whatever was coming. Her muscles were tight with the cold. She flexed her hands rapidly, trying to work some blood back into them.
She heard someone dismount. He made no attempt at hiding his footfalls as he approached. He sat close enough for Lada to see him, but too far for hand-to-hand combat. She would not throw her last knife. If she missed, she would be weaponless.
With a groan, he picked up a rock from beneath him and tossed it to the side.
“I have been looking for you, Ladislav Dragwlya. You are terrorizing the Transylvanians. It is in very poor taste.”
Lada lifted her chin defiantly. “I owe them nothing.”
“You were born here.”
“And will I die here?”
The man laughed, pulling something from his vest. Lada tensed, but he leaned forward, striking flint until it caught on a pile of tinder. He fed the fire a few sticks pulled from the frozen forest floor. As the flames grew, the face of her enemy revealed itself. The face of the man who had driven her father from Tirgoviste and into the arms of the sultan, where he had abandoned his children. The face of the man who had returned to kill her father and her older brother.
Lada leaned back. She did not relax her grip on the knife, but it was an odd relief to have a connection to the man who would be her undoing. “Hunyadi.”
His auburn hair gleamed as red as the fire. His forehead was broad, his eyebrows were strong, and his nose bore the evidence of multiple breakings. He did not seem to have grown older since Lada had last seen him in the throne room at Tirgoviste. He was around the same age her father would have been, if Hunyadi had not killed him. It was not fair that Hunyadi had remained unchanged when his actions had altered Lada in unimaginable ways.
Hunyadi dipped his head in acknowledgement. “What mischief have you been up to tonight?”
Lada saw no advantage to lying. “Arson. Threats of death. Gathering information.”
Hunyadi sighed. “You have had a very full night. What did you burn?”
“The cathedral.”
He coughed in surprise. “I paid for the new altar.”
“It was a poor investment.”
He snorted. “I suppose so. I was vaivode of Transylvania for a few years. I have never been so happy to be relieved of power. Saxons.” He shook his head, breath fogging the night in a silent laugh. Then he put an elbow on one knee, reclining to the side. “Tell me, what did burning the church give you?”
Lada touched her index finger to the point of her knife. “Distraction so I could accomplish my task. And satisfaction.”
“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that anything here is going to satisfy you. I know you were sent for the Wallachian throne. Are you still in league with the sultan?”
Lada twirled her knife. “Does it look like I serve the Ottomans?”
“So you are not sending updates to him on where you are and what you are doing?”
Lada was glad the firelight covered her flush of humiliation. Write to Mehmed and admit her failures? Never. “No.”
“He has been keeping track of you.” Hunyadi held out a thin sheaf of parchment. It was crowded with spidery writing. One corner was blotted and darkened with a few large splashes of ink.
Lada squinted. Not ink. Blood.
“We found this on a wounded man following you. It is a letter to the sultan, detailing everything you are doing.”
“Matei,” Lada said. So that was why he had not caught up to her. He could not. She breathed something as close to a prayer of relief as she was capable of that she had left Bogdan behind. It surprised her, how glad she was that he was safe. She did not dwell on it. “What did you do with my man?”
“He fought. We killed him.”
Lada nodded numbly. Matei was dead. Wounded in Brasov, finished by Hunyadi. And carrying a letter to Mehmed. How long had he been updating Mehmed on her? How much did Mehmed know? And whom should she be most angry with—Mehmed, for spying on her, Matei, for betraying her, or herself, for trusting Matei?
Or herself, for having so many miserable failures to write of?
Matei’s betrayal cut deep, though. She had chosen Wallachians precisely because she assumed they would be as eager as she was to sever their Ottoman ties. But apparently Matei’s hunger had extended beyond what Lada could provide. “I did not know he reported to Mehmed.”
“I thought as much from the contents of the letter. So you are not working for the sultan. But you call him by his name. You know him, his temperament, his tactics.”
Radu stood and walked to the window. Nazira and Fatima lay on a blanket in the garden, whispering and laughing. If he had seen them without knowing the truth of their relationship, he would have assumed they were very dear friends. No one questioned why Fatima was always with Nazira, why they were happy to live out in the countryside with no one else around.
They hid their love in plain sight.
“Urbana,” Radu said, an idea forming that he liked the shape of, “how do you feel about parties?”
“I hate them,” she said.
“What if I said that going to a lot of parties is the price you will have to pay to make your cannons?”
Her voice was flat but determined. “What should I wear?”
6
January
THE TREK BACK from interrogating the governor of Brasov was a frigid and lonely one. Lada looked for Matei on the way to camp. At every sound she whipped around, expecting to find him. He did not appear.
She was nearly there, the fires in the distance promising rest and warmth, when a horse whinnied in the darkness to her right. She dropped into a crouch, cursing her generosity with the little girl that left her with only one knife out of the three she had brought. Why had she felt compelled to give the brat one?
The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.
She shuddered at the distant memory. Her father had given her a knife, and it had changed her life. She only hoped her own gift would change that little girl’s life, because Lada might very well die for the gesture.
“Quiet, boys,” a man whispered exaggeratedly, his voice carrying through the night. He spoke Hungarian. “We seem to have found a small predator. They are very dangerous when cornered.”
Lada backed up against a tree so at least she could face whatever was coming. Her muscles were tight with the cold. She flexed her hands rapidly, trying to work some blood back into them.
She heard someone dismount. He made no attempt at hiding his footfalls as he approached. He sat close enough for Lada to see him, but too far for hand-to-hand combat. She would not throw her last knife. If she missed, she would be weaponless.
With a groan, he picked up a rock from beneath him and tossed it to the side.
“I have been looking for you, Ladislav Dragwlya. You are terrorizing the Transylvanians. It is in very poor taste.”
Lada lifted her chin defiantly. “I owe them nothing.”
“You were born here.”
“And will I die here?”
The man laughed, pulling something from his vest. Lada tensed, but he leaned forward, striking flint until it caught on a pile of tinder. He fed the fire a few sticks pulled from the frozen forest floor. As the flames grew, the face of her enemy revealed itself. The face of the man who had driven her father from Tirgoviste and into the arms of the sultan, where he had abandoned his children. The face of the man who had returned to kill her father and her older brother.
Lada leaned back. She did not relax her grip on the knife, but it was an odd relief to have a connection to the man who would be her undoing. “Hunyadi.”
His auburn hair gleamed as red as the fire. His forehead was broad, his eyebrows were strong, and his nose bore the evidence of multiple breakings. He did not seem to have grown older since Lada had last seen him in the throne room at Tirgoviste. He was around the same age her father would have been, if Hunyadi had not killed him. It was not fair that Hunyadi had remained unchanged when his actions had altered Lada in unimaginable ways.
Hunyadi dipped his head in acknowledgement. “What mischief have you been up to tonight?”
Lada saw no advantage to lying. “Arson. Threats of death. Gathering information.”
Hunyadi sighed. “You have had a very full night. What did you burn?”
“The cathedral.”
He coughed in surprise. “I paid for the new altar.”
“It was a poor investment.”
He snorted. “I suppose so. I was vaivode of Transylvania for a few years. I have never been so happy to be relieved of power. Saxons.” He shook his head, breath fogging the night in a silent laugh. Then he put an elbow on one knee, reclining to the side. “Tell me, what did burning the church give you?”
Lada touched her index finger to the point of her knife. “Distraction so I could accomplish my task. And satisfaction.”
“Hmm. Somehow I doubt that anything here is going to satisfy you. I know you were sent for the Wallachian throne. Are you still in league with the sultan?”
Lada twirled her knife. “Does it look like I serve the Ottomans?”
“So you are not sending updates to him on where you are and what you are doing?”
Lada was glad the firelight covered her flush of humiliation. Write to Mehmed and admit her failures? Never. “No.”
“He has been keeping track of you.” Hunyadi held out a thin sheaf of parchment. It was crowded with spidery writing. One corner was blotted and darkened with a few large splashes of ink.
Lada squinted. Not ink. Blood.
“We found this on a wounded man following you. It is a letter to the sultan, detailing everything you are doing.”
“Matei,” Lada said. So that was why he had not caught up to her. He could not. She breathed something as close to a prayer of relief as she was capable of that she had left Bogdan behind. It surprised her, how glad she was that he was safe. She did not dwell on it. “What did you do with my man?”
“He fought. We killed him.”
Lada nodded numbly. Matei was dead. Wounded in Brasov, finished by Hunyadi. And carrying a letter to Mehmed. How long had he been updating Mehmed on her? How much did Mehmed know? And whom should she be most angry with—Mehmed, for spying on her, Matei, for betraying her, or herself, for trusting Matei?
Or herself, for having so many miserable failures to write of?
Matei’s betrayal cut deep, though. She had chosen Wallachians precisely because she assumed they would be as eager as she was to sever their Ottoman ties. But apparently Matei’s hunger had extended beyond what Lada could provide. “I did not know he reported to Mehmed.”
“I thought as much from the contents of the letter. So you are not working for the sultan. But you call him by his name. You know him, his temperament, his tactics.”
