Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga 3)

Nicolae beat a hasty retreat. Oana’s hand appeared beneath the table, holding another jar of preserves and half a loaf of still-steaming bread.

Lada would be prince again in an hour. But for now, she allowed herself the luxury of letting her former nurse take care of her. “Thank you,” she murmured. Oana’s happy humming indicated Lada’s presence was all the thanks she desired. Perhaps they never really grew out of their roles. Oana would always be a nursemaid. Lada, her charge. Bogdan, the loyal playmate. Radu…

She pressed the warm bread against her cheek and decided not to think about anything at all.

* * *

Her older brother, Mircea, had been buried alive in dirt. Sometimes Lada feared she would be buried alive in parchment.

She shuffled through a new mound, squinting against a headache, missing the warmth of the kitchens. Spring kept promising it was coming, only to be met with a frost icing the stones of the castle.

“The fortress at Bucharest is almost done,” she said. Nicolae wrote it down, waiting for further information. “Poenari Fortress on the Arges is almost complete as well. I wish I were there right now.” Lada rubbed the back of her neck, dreaming of the cold stone of the peak, the deep green of the trees, the sparkling ribbon of the river far below. Of anywhere in Wallachia, her mountaintop fortress felt the most like home. But Tirgoviste demanded her presence with the nagging insistence of a hundred daily petitioners and dozens of urgent letters.

“Do we need to focus on any other fortifications?” Nicolae asked. “The city walls here could use some attention.”

“We will not win anything by barricading ourselves in.”

“Defending a well-fortified location is easier than meeting in the open.”

Lada put her feet up on the table. “Tell that to Constantinople. No. We will fight in ways no one has ever seen. That is how we will hold our land.”

“If the sultan comes after us.”

“He will come,” Lada said, her voice dark with memories of the last time she had seen Mehmed in person.

The gentleness in Nicolae’s voice was as false as a warm day in February. “Do you think maybe you are provoking him because you want him to come?”

Lada snarled, “Say what you mean, Nicolae.”

“I mean you are going out of your way to antagonize him. Bulgaria was unnecessary.”

Lada dropped her feet to the floor. “They killed my people!”

“In one village. You killed his envoy in response. I think that was more than enough of a message, but you keep stabbing deeper and harder. I am trying to understand why.”

“I do what I do for Wallachia.”

Nicolae smiled ruefully, his face twisting around its old scar. “Do you? Mehmed cares about you. You could leverage that, get him to agree to different terms of vassalage. Lower payments. No boys for his armies. He would do it. You could create the best, most powerful, most stable position for Wallachia in generations.”

“As a vassal state to the Turks!”

“Then so be it!”

Lada burst out of her chair, throwing Nicolae from his own and pinning him to the floor with one forearm pressed against his throat. She bared her teeth, her heavy breaths mingling with his increasingly labored ones. He did not move, did not attempt to push her off.

“I will not be anyone’s vassal,” she hissed. “Wallachia is mine. Mine. Do you understand?”

Nicolae blinked, his dark lashes moving over his brown eyes. Something that had been there longer than his scar, as long as Lada had known him, had disappeared from his gaze. She did not know what it was, had never noticed its presence, only registered it now that it was gone.

“I understand,” Nicolae said, his voice strained.

“Lada?” Daciana asked.

Lada stood and turned her back on Nicolae. Daciana stood in the doorway, hesitantly regarding the scene. She held several bundles in her arms.

“Yes?” Lada demanded.

“Your new clothes. We were going to make certain I cut everything correctly?”