Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga 3)

“A hundred, perhaps? A few more come every day, but it is a trickle, not a flood.”

Radu shook his head. “And Aron wants to celebrate. We cannot even be sure that some of the citizens are not working with Lada. She may be reviled by the boyars, but we should not underestimate how much she did for the peasants of this country. We will have to work hard to earn their support, or even just their complacency.”

Kiril bid them farewell, and Radu and Cyprian walked alone toward their rooms.

“Do you think Aron is up to the task?” Cyprian asked as th

ey joined Nazira and Fatima.

“I hope so.” Radu could not help the fear that the cycle of bloodshed over the throne of Wallachia would continue indefinitely. Nothing ever changed.

No. Some things changed. Radu looked at his hand, his fingers laced with Cyprian’s. It did not seem possible that those were his fingers, that this was his life. How could something so simple as holding hands with another person feel like a miracle?

As though sensing his thoughts, Cyprian lifted their hands and put his lips against the back of Radu’s hand, then rested his cheek there.

Nazira frowned as she listened to Radu’s report of the situation, not looking up from playing with Fatima’s hair. Fatima lay on the floor with her head in Nazira’s lap. Cyprian and Radu were across from them in the sitting room that connected their two bedrooms. For the first time in his life, the castle felt like home. Not because of the place, but because of the people.

“I cannot believe he thinks a party is the solution. I have hinted very strongly he should focus on preparing marriage offers.” Nazira sighed. “He only asks my advice on clothing styles.”

“You should have heard him,” Cyprian said. “He offers the boyars a dinner party as evidence of his right to be prince.”

Nazira lifted her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “I do not think he is suited to this. He is not the type of leader capable of transitioning a country in so much turmoil.”

“He is the only real choice.” Radu closed his eyes, imagining them all back at home in Edirne, or, better yet, the country estate where Nazira and Fatima usually lived. It felt within grasp. He and Cyprian would marry soon, in the same way Fatima and Nazira had, and then…

And then they would simply be. And it would be enough. More than enough.

“There is another heir far more suited to this work,” Nazira said.

“Andrei worries me as well. I do not think—”

“Not him.” The nagging tone of Nazira’s voice forced Radu’s eyes open. She was giving him a look full of meaning. “The Draculesti line has just as much claim to the throne.”

Radu recoiled. “I do not want this throne. I never have.”

“Which is why you are the right person.” Nazira’s gaze was intense with the confident assurance that carried her through life. “Not because you feel like it is owed you. You would take the throne as a true servant to your people. The prince they both desperately need and deserve. Not a violent warlord, and not a spineless noble. An actual prince.”

Radu shrugged, but his smile was a challenge to her sentiments. “Alas! The position has already been filled. I will do what I can for him and for Wallachia. And then we are going home.” He squeezed Cyprian’s hand and felt the warm rush of reassurance as Cyprian squeezed back. “All of us. Permanently.”

Nazira’s full lips drew down at the corners. “Your people deserve better than Aron.”

“You are my people. My people are the three people in this room with me right now.”

Only Fatima looked pleased by the sentiment. Nazira’s frown did not lift. And Cyprian made a noise in his chest that sounded unsure.

“We will get to Lada before anyone else does. We will send her back to the empire where she will spend the rest of her days in a prison. And then Aron can find his way as prince without me.” Radu spoke with all the authority and confidence he did not feel, willing it to be true. He did not want to have to shoulder the burden of Wallachia. Let it take care of itself as it had never taken care of him.

Hunedoara

LADA SAT ON THE floor, her back to the door. The cell that had been cold and dank was now oppressively warm and humid as spring shifted into summer. “I think I am dying.”

“Nonsense,” Oana chided from the other side. She rapped her knuckles against the wood. “You are not allowed to die. Besides, I have taken one of the cooks as a lover.”

“You what?” Lada sat up straighter.

“The nights here are long. And it seemed an easy way to make certain your food was safe. He is definitely not poisoning you. First, because no one has told him to. And second, because if you died, I would have no reason to stay here. Poor fool adores me.”

Lada did not know whether to laugh or to cut off her ears in an effort to remove the information she had just received.