Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga 3)

Radu rode through the sector, then found himself in a more familiar area. Boys surrounded a giant building that had been a derelict library. They lounged on the steps, talking or playing. A bell clanged, and the boys jumped up and rushed inside. Radu wondered what their lives were like. Where they had come from. What they knew of what had happened to create a city where they could play on the steps of their school, safe. At peace.

Radu stared down the street. If he went farther this way, he would reach the Hagia Sophia.

He turned and headed for the palace instead. The ride had been enough to clear his head a bit. He had anticipated how difficult it would be to see the walls again. But seeing the vitality of the city was a balm to his senses. He would not risk that by revisiting the Hagia Sophia so soon.

Amal was waiting near the palace entrance, nervously wringing his hands. Doubtless Radu had complicated his day by taking a detour. It was not Amal’s fault Radu felt the way he did, and Radu really was glad to see Amal alive and well. He dismounted and passed his reins to his former aide. “Forgive me,” Radu said. “Coming back has been…emotional.”

“I understand.” Amal smiled, and suddenly he looked even older than the young man he had grown into. Radu had shielded Constantine’s two young heirs from the horrors of the city’s fall, but Amal had been in the thick of it before Radu pulled him free. “I will see to your horse. And, if you do not mind, I have asked to be assigned as your personal servant while you are here.”

“I would like nothing more.” Radu watched as Amal led the horse away, putting off his own entrance into the palace.

A small bundle of motion rushed toward him. Radu barely had a chance to hold out his arms before a boy threw himself into them.

“Radu! He said you were here!”

Radu pulled back, looking into the saintly face of Manuel, one of the two heirs to the fallen emperor Constantine. Radu had stayed behind when Nazira, Cyprian, and Valentin left so that he could save Constantine’s child heirs. They were his attempt at redemption for all he had done during the siege and everyone he had betrayed. He had fallen far short of redemption, but holding Manuel—alive, healthy, happy Manuel—in his arms, Radu felt joy for the first time in months. Laughing, Radu pulled him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Of all the life he had seen return to the city, this little life was the best he could possibly have hoped for. “Where is your brother?”

Manuel squirmed free, adjusting his clothes. He wore silk robes in the style of the Ottomans. It was a far cry from the stiff and structured Byzantine clothes he had worn before. “Murad is inside, waiting. He is too old now to run, he says.”

“Murad?” Radu asked, puzzled. It had been Mehmed’s father’s name.

Manuel beamed. “Yes. And I am Mesih. The sultan let me choose it myself.”

“You have new names.” Radu frowned.

“We thought it was best. It is a new empire! A new start. A rebirth, we decided.”

“We?” Radu asked.

“Yes, Murad and me. And the sultan.”

Mehmed had meant what he said, then—that he would make the boys part of his court. Radu was glad to hear that this promise had been kept. And he supposed renaming them made sense. He himself had finally been able to adjust and accept his new life when he felt like he truly belonged. It was probably best for the boys to remove themselves from who they had been, to forget the trauma and loss of the past. Manuel—Mesih—certainly seemed happy enough.

If only Radu Bey’s new name had had the same effect.

Mesih took Radu’s hand and pulled him deeper into the palace. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, telling Radu what they could expect for dinner and asking whether Radu would join them for

evening prayer at the Hagia Sophia or if he would be praying somewhere else. Then he went on to speak of his lessons, which tutors he liked best, how his writing was much better than his brother’s. “And you have noticed how good my Turkish is, I am sure.”

Radu laughed. “I have. I could listen to it all day.” And he suspected he would, until they were separated. Something nagged at Radu, though, as Mesih continued describing his lessons.

He realized with a pain both happy and sad what was different: This boy was receiving a true education with no cruelty. There were no visits to the head gardener, no instructional trips to the prisons and torture chambers, no beatings. This was not the same childhood Radu and Lada had experienced under a sultan.

Mehmed was not his father. He had taken the city and made something better. He had taken the heirs of his enemy and made them his family. The dread Radu had felt about seeing his oldest friend dissipated. There was still much distance between them, but at least Radu had not been wrong to believe in Mehmed’s ability to do great things.

“Are you well, Radu Bey?” Mesih asked.

Radu sniffed, clearing his throat. “Yes, I am well. Or at least, I think I will be.”

Tirgoviste

IF LADA HAD KNOWN the sheer volume of parchment she would be buried under, she might have taken a title other than prince. She had returned revitalized from her visit to her fortress, only to find mounds of letters waiting for her.

Lada groaned, leaning her head forward. The brush Oana was working through her hair caught on a snarl.

“Sit up straight,” Oana snapped.