“Beg.”
Vasilissa’s tiny frame trembled. Then she dropped to her knees, lowered her head, and took Vlad’s hand in her own. “Please. Please, I beg of you. Let me go home.”
Vlad put out his other hand and stroked Vasilissa’s lank, greasy hair. Then he grabbed it, wrenching her head to the side. She cried out, but he pulled tighter, forcing her to stand. He placed his lips against her ear. “You are the weakest creature I have ever known. Crawl back to your hole and hide there. Crawl!” He threw her down, and, sobbing, she crawled from the room.
The nurse looked steadily at the finely woven rug that covered the stone floor. She said nothing. She did nothing. She prayed that Radu would remain silent.
“You.” Vlad pointed at Lada. “Come out. Now.”
She did, still watching the door Vasilissa had disappeared through.
“I am your father. But that woman is not your mother. Your mother is Wallachia. Your mother is the very earth we go to now, the land I am prince of. Do you understand?”
Lada looked up into her father’s eyes, deep-set and etched with years of cunning and cruelty. She nodded, then held out her hand. “The daughter of Wallachia wants her knife back.”
Vlad smiled and gave it to her.
1446: Tirgoviste, Wallachia
RADU TASTED BLOOD IN his mouth. It mixed with the salt from the tears streaming down his face.
Andrei and Aron Danesti kicked him again, their boots sharp against his stomach. Radu rolled onto his side, curling in on himself, trying to become as small as possible. The dried leaves and rocks littering the forest floor scraped his cheeks. No one could hear him out here.
He was used to being unheard. No one heard him in the castle, which, after six years, still felt like a home only when he was in his room with his nurse. His tutors were engaged in a constant power struggle with Lada, and Radu’s exemplary work often went unnoticed. Lada was always either studying or off with Bogdan, and she never had time for him. Their older half brother, Mircea, forced Radu to seek out hiding places to avoid his blunt comments and even blunter fists. And his father, the prince, went entire weeks without acknowledging his existence.
The pressure built like steam until Radu did not know whether he was more terrified that his father would never notice him again, or that he would.
It was safer to go unnoticed.
Unfortunately, today he had failed at that. Aron Danesti laughed, a sound sharper than his boots. “You squeal like a piglet. Do it again.”
“Please.” Radu covered his head as Aron slapped his cheeks. “Stop. Stop.”
“We are here to get stronger,” Andrei said. “And no one is weaker than you.”
At least once a month, all the boys ages seven to twelve from boyar families—boyar was a word for nobility, to be said with a twist of the lip and a sneer if Lada were speaking—were left deep in the forest. It was a tradition, one most of the adults laughed at indulgently. A game, they called it. But they all watched with narrowed eyes, seeing who emerged first, looking as though he had been merely out for a stroll rather than tired and scared like a normal boy.
The Danestis, who had traded the throne back and forth with the Basarab family for the last fifteen years, were particularly interested in how Aron and Andrei, both a year older than Radu, fared. They were not overfond of the Draculesti usurpers.
Radu was the son of the prince, a Draculesti, the smallest boy and the biggest target. He was never the winner. And today, for the first time, he wondered whether he would make it back at all. Terror clawed in his throat. His breath came in short, painful gasps.
Andrei grabbed Radu, fingers digging into his arms as he dragged him up to stand. His mouth was against Radu’s ear, breath hot. “My mother says your father wishes you had never been born. Do you wish that, too?”
Aron hit him in the stomach, and Radu gagged.
“Say it,” Andrei commanded, his voice cheerful. “Say you wish you had never been born.”
Radu squeezed his eyes shut. “I wish I had never been born.”
Aron hit him.
“I said it!” Radu screamed, coughing and struggling for breath.
“I know,” Andrei said. “Hit him again.”
“My father will—”
“Your father will do what? Write the sultan to ask permission to scold us? Ask my family to donate to the throne so he can afford a switch to whip us with? Your father is nothing. Just like you.”