For a few dark moments—the darkest of her life, even worse than thinking Mehmed dead—Lada wondered if Radu had been behind it, after all. She had what he wanted. It would have been a perfect way to get rid of her without killing her.
But no. She could not think that of him. Whatever else was between them, Radu would not harm her this deeply. Because she would never do it to him, and Radu was not capable of being crueler than she was.
Mehmed continued. “It would have to be someone in his inner circle. Someone with access to his signature.” He looked up at her expectantly.
“You would know better than I.” Her tongue was dipped in the venom left from months of waiting and a week of grief. “I have been here, right where you left me. While Radu was at your side.”
Mehmed shook his head. “He is with my father. I saw him but once. He commands a small group directly under the sultan.”
“Then it could be anyone. I am no favorite of your father’s, or of Halil Pasha’s, or any number of men. My absence would not be mourned.”
“I would mourn it. Every moment of every day.”
“Did you?”
Mehmed’s eyes were heavy with longing. “I did.”
She turned away. “I was going to leave.”
He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. “I forbid it.”
“You can forbid me nothing.” But it sounded hollow and forced when she said it. She had spent the last week knowing exactly her value without him. It was a stolen horse, a single loyal friend, and a bleak and difficult future.
He moved from her hair to her ear, trailing his lips along it. Her body responded despite her resolve to be angry, to punish him.
He still wanted her. And she knew now what a fleeting and precious thing it was for a woman to be wanted in any way that made her important. She had been ready to run when she had lost this, but now…
She would never admit it to Nicolae, could barely admit it to herself, but she would stay for Mehmed. She would stay for the way she felt when his mouth or eyes were on her. And she would stay for the power it gave her.
His lips found hers, and she kissed him back with a determined ferocity. She touched him everywhere, his face, his hair, his shoulders, his hands, because he was here, and he was alive, and it was the first time that a man she loved had come back for her. She did not have to lose the life she had built here, the threads of safety and power she had. She had not lost him.
“Say you are mine.” He trailed his lips down her neck. She arched into him, digging her fingers into his back.
“I am yours,” she whispered. The words cut like knives, barely out of her mouth before he stole them, sealing them with his own lips.
THE CARAVAN TRAVELED SLOWER than the rest of the army, left behind to follow the trail of a hundred thousand failures beaten into the dirt ahead of them.
Radu was in no hurry to catch up.
He had received begrudging permission from Murad to attend to Kumal’s contingent as they tried to keep him alive long enough to get home. Though Radu knew it would accomplish nothing toward his larger goals of aiding Mehmed’s ascension, he could not simply leave Kumal behind. Not like this. Kumal had begun to improve, but he was still fragile enough that Radu feared he would not survive the journey.
Kumal had helped Radu understand his own soul, and he would not throw Kumal’s away without care.
He pulled his horse to a halt, raising a fist for the men behind him to stop. He led his Janissaries, down four poor souls, and Kumal’s spahis. He did not know how many Kumal’s men had lost, but dreaded the unacceptable loss they faced should they be delayed.
Up ahead, a group of men roughly equal in size to their own sat on horses, blocking the road. Hand on the pommel of his sword, Radu rode forward. Lazar moved to follow him, but he shook his head. A man broke off from the other group and rode to meet Radu. From a distance, Radu thought him very young; then he got closer and Radu realized his face was simply clean-shaven. Deep lines around the eyes betrayed his age, and Radu wondered who he was and why he would go against custom by not growing a mustache or a beard, depending on what he was entitled to.
The man smiled bleakly, raising a hand in greeting. Though he was dressed in clothes more closely matched to this region, he spoke perfect Turkish. “Hello, sultan’s dog. Have you lost your master?”
Radu narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar in the man’s face. And then he realized—he had seen this man’s portrait, altered now by the brushstrokes of age.
Skanderberg.
Radu looked over his shoulder. The wagon that carried Kumal sat like a fat beetle, unwieldy and vulnerable. Though their forces were evenly matched, Radu had seen too many caravans attacked to doubt for a second that the advantage was always with the attacker. He had something to protect—they had nothing to lose.
With a heavy sigh, he turned back to Skanderberg. “My friend is ill.”
Skanderberg looked into the distance, eyes soft and out of focus. “My whole country is ill.” His gaze fixed itself on Radu, taking in his clothes, his cap, his horse. “What is your name?”