She walked through camp as though in a dream, happier and more relaxed than she had felt in months. Perhaps years. Nicolae would be proud of her. She had made the smart decision. The decision that bought her time to build, to get stronger. To continue to create the Wallachia her people deserved.
Voices speaking in Wallachian caught her ear. She stopped. One of the voices pulled on her heart. It was a voice of her childhood, of hiding in barns, of venturing onto thin ice. Of tears and then of cold distance. A voice she had needed on her side.
She found the tent and paused outside, leaning close to listen.
“The Basarabs—those who are left—will support us,” said a man she did not know.
“I suspect the Hungarian king will as well,” Radu said. “Perhaps not outright, but when Aron is on the throne, Matthias will not be a problem.”
Lada’s hands went to her wrist daggers. But Radu’s words had already cut deep. After all this time, he was back in Wallachia. But he was here aiding her enemies. Not only Mehmed—that she had expected—but also the treacherous boyars. The ones who had killed their father. The ones who had let them be traded to the Ottomans. He had willfully become everything she stood against.
She staggered from the physical pain of hearing him conspiring against her. Then she steeled herself, listening more carefully.
Aron. Aron. Who was Aron? She knew the name.
Danesti. He was the son of the Danesti prince Lada had overthrown.
And he was in Mehmed’s camp. Even as Mehmed was offering her peace, he had a replacement ready to go.
See, Nicolae? she thought. I am always right.
Lada would still be coming back the following night. And she knew Mehmed would be waiting in anticipation. This time, his hopes would be met with her blade.
One Day South of Tirgoviste
RADU WISHED THE TENT were larger so he could pace. Anything to keep himself awake during this endless discussion of probable futures with Aron and Andrei Danesti.
“Will you stay and help us, after we retake the throne?” Aron asked.
Radu wanted to return to his tent and sleep. He did not want to contemplate a longer tenure in this country. They had spoken of him staying to ease the transition, but he hoped it would not be necessary. Now that he was here, all he wanted was to be elsewhere.
“I do not know,” he said. “To be perfectly honest, I do not like Wallachia. I have no wish to remain beyond what is necessary to aid the sultan.”
Andrei grunted. “Like it or not, it is your heritage.”
Radu smiled tightly. “I decided long ago not to let my past dictate my future.”
Aron met Radu’s smile with one of his own. “That is a very nice luxury.”
Radu could not bear the judgment in the other man’s tone. He owed nothing to this country, nothing to its people. They had traded him for a few years’ peace. It
was not the Danesti’s place to imply that Radu was being selfish.
Radu nodded and, without bidding them farewell, left the tent.
A Janissary was standing nearby, posture stiff. He was short and stocky. Radu turned to go back to his own tent, but…something…
Something—
He whipped around and watched the Janissary walk away. The gait was aggressive, the movements predatory. Radu had never realized how well he knew his sister’s walk, but it was unmistakable.
“Lada,” he said.
She did not stop walking. He was not sure she had heard him. He could still catch up to her. Grab her arm and force her to stop. Send up an alarm and have her captured, ending this entire campaign. Once again he was faced with an opportunity to betray someone he cared about and force a quick end to violent struggle.
Instead, he watched her leave.
What had she been doing here? And where—