Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga 3)

But then again, had Hunyadi been fighting with her, doubtless all credit for winning would have gone to him. Only he would have been remembered.

The guards presented a panting boy covered in a light sheen of sweat. It was no small task climbing up the mountain to the fortress. Most of her prisoners had died hauling stones up.

The boy bowed low, holding out a leather satchel. “Letters, my prince.”

Lada took them. One, from Mara Brankovic, she tossed aside for later with a renewed surge of envy that she did not have her own Mara.

Radu. Radu would have been her Mara.

Her grip tightened, creasing various missives from people whose names she did not recognize. But at the bottom of the stack was a letter sealed with a coat of arms featuring a raven. Matthias. She sliced it open with her dagger.

Lada drew her eyebrows close, anticipating bad news. For once, she was surprised. “Matthias praises our victory. He claims to have been unaware of the Basarabs’ cowardice, and gives us the last known location of the men Galesh was leading!” Had he merely claimed not to know of the betrayal, Lada would have continued to suspect. But if the location proved accurate…Lada could kill the remaining boyars and take both their Wallachians and the Hungarians into her own ranks. “He is surprised by how quickly Mehmed ran.” Lada laughed. “Clearly Matthias does not know how deeply Mehmed cares about the cost of things. But Matthias is emboldened! He is willing to commit more men and money. He thinks we can retake the Danube, and deny Mehmed that passageway into Europe! With control of the Danube, we could damage his entire vassalage system….”

Lada lowered the letter, her mind spinning with possibilities. She had longed for Hunyadi at her side, but perhaps Matthias would prove the more useful of the two after all. He brought European connections. She brought ferocity and the ability to lead men against Mehmed. Together, they stood a real chance of freeing not just Wallachia but also the rest of the European countries that Mehmed held under his thumb.

What a blow that would strike against Mehmed! Against his treasury, against his faith, against his pride. Lada could taste it. She wanted Wallachia free, yes, but if she could have even more?

She would take it. Gladly. Gleefully, even.

“Matthias wants me to ride to his court so we can plan, and then I will return with his men.” If she left now, she could be there in a couple of days. It would give them time to come up with a strategy and track down allies. She had no doubt Matthias with his noble face and gilded tongue could do better than she. And she would be back in Wallachia before the remnants of Mehmed’s men could set up a good defense in Tirgoviste unchallenged. Mehmed had left, but she was not naïve enough to trust that he was truly gone.

She tucked the letter into her tunic. “I will leave immediately.”

Bogdan nodded. “I will come.”

“No. I need you to go after Galesh and the Basarabs. This information might be a week old. You need to find them now. Send word when they are dead and the men are yours.”

“I do not like you going alone. I do not trust Matthias.”

“Neither do I, but for now our goals intersect. I will not let this opportunity fall.”

“Grigore can handle going after Galesh so that—”

Lada grabbed Bogdan’s arms, cutting him off. “I trust only you to do this.” It was true. So many of her men were lost to her. But Bogdan remained. She knew that, of every man in the world, he would be true.

“I will attend to her,” Oana said with a reassuring pat on Bogdan’s arm. It made Lada realize how little they touched. Oana was far more demonstrative with Lada. So was Bogdan, for that matter. Whether it was because Lada had been Oana’s charge, or because Bogdan had been taken from her at such a young age, Lada was the center of their mother-son relationship. She pushed away a pleased smile at the thought.

Oana threw her shawl over her shoulders and tied it in place. “A lady should not be alone, ever. Not in a foreign castle.”

Lada snorted a laugh. “If someone threatens my honor, will you kill them with your knitting needles?”

Oana grinned, warm wrinkles around her eyes. “Do not doubt what I can do.”

“I never would.”

Bidding farewell to Bogdan, Lada and Oana climbed down the mountain with thirty guards. Horses awaited them at the nearby village, so remote the villagers had not bothered evacuating.

Lada sat straight and eager in her saddle. For the first time, going to Hungary did not feel like a punishment. It felt like victory.

Tirgoviste

RADU COULD NOT TELL if the stench of death lingered in Tirgoviste, or if his memory of it was so strong that he would never be able to walk through the city again without gagging.

The work of clearing the bodies—taking them down, burying them with their heads toward Mecca, and giving them the respect they deserved—was finished. It had been a week of nonstop, wearying work. Because they had no grave markers, and could not identify most of the bodies anyway, Radu had them buried in the sections of forest that had been cleared to make the stakes. They planted seeds and saplings between each grave. Someday, a forest would grow and hide his sister’s abomination from the heavens.

Until then, they all carried it with them.

Radu paused at the castle gates, staring at where Kumal had been displayed. He would never tell Nazira. He would carry the memory himself; there was no reason to burden her. If Radu were still Christian, he would dedicate a church to his brother-in-law. As it was, whenever he prayed, he dedicated himself to Kumal’s memory. It was not enough—it would never be enough—but it was all he had to offer.