Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga 3)

Radu flinched. “I would never.”

Lada looked over at him, suddenly solemn. “I know. That is why I gave her to you. Mehmed would use her.” She paused. “I would, too, eventually. Or get her killed. I want better for her than we had. I trust Nazira and Fatima with that. And I trust you.”

Radu nodded, his chest swelling with emotions he had tried his hardest not to let surface. “I will raise her in love.”

“And strength.”

“And strength. Though I am certain we could not keep her from being strong if we tried.”

Lada reached up and undid her necklace. She held it in her hand, looking down at it. Then she took one of her knives and wrapped the necklace around the handle. She held both out to Radu. “Her inheritance. I do not expect you to ever tell her the truth of where she came from. But I want her to have these.”

Radu took them reverently, feeling the weight of Lada’s soul in his hand. “I may wait a few years to give her the knife.”

Lada waved dismissively. “I had one when I was three.”

“And look how you turned out.”

She cackled, looking at him with a smile that meant destruction, fire, or both. “First one back to Tirgoviste gets to decide whether we kill Matthias.”

Lada spurred her horse, quickly outpacing him. Radu watched as she rode forward into her destiny, knowing that she would always outpace him, would beat him to every destination. He was finished trying to catch up. It was a resignation both melancholy and peaceful.

Tirgoviste

LADA WATCHED LONG AFTER Radu and his party had disappeared down the road. Spring was reclaiming the land, everything soft and green with new growth. It was a time of renewal, rebuilding. And they were leaving.

It was good that he was gone. She would no longer have to pretend, have to fake happiness or calm when she felt neither. And it would be nice to no longer have him peering over her shoulder, telling her whom she could and could not kill.

He had done a good job, though. Better than she could have done. She had treaties in place with every border that mattered. The boyars Radu worked with seemed dependable, though she would watch them closely. Her country was running the way she wanted it to. With order. With strength. With justice and fairness. If it was slower change than she wanted, she hoped Radu’s promise that it would be like a tree with deep roots, growing for decades, was true.

Lada drifted to the throne room. She sat, looking out where her father had looked out before her. Where the Danesti princes had as well.

The throne was a death sentence. She was not foolish. It would claim her eventually, as it had claimed all who came before her. All except Radu cel Frumos, the prince who had walked away. Who had chosen life and love over country.

Lada would not walk away.

Once, she had sat here with the eyes of her friends on her. Now, and forevermore, she sat here alone.

She had dug through the mountain to reach her heart’s desire, and found the mountain had a heart after all: the beating pulse required of all those who would not stop, would not accept what the world offered, would not bow.

She drummed her fingers on the arms of the throne, looking out at the empty room. She was not stupid enough to think men would stop trying to take it from her. They would always be there, waiting for weakness, waiting for her to fall. They wanted what she had because she had it. And one day, eventually, someone would defeat her. But until that day she would fight with tooth and nail, with all the fire and blood that had formed her into who she was.

She was a dragon.

She was a prince.

She was a woman.

It was the last that scared them most of all. She smiled, tapping her fingers on the throne in a beat like her heart.

“Mine,” she said.

Hers. And hers alone.

Three Years Later, Outside Amasya

RADU FINISHED PRAYING, THEN sat back on his heels, enjoying the particular quiet peace of the space. A thump and a laugh roused him. He stretched, glancing over the letters awaiting him on his desk. Most were regional issues—minor disputes, tax claims, all the little matters of keeping his bey running smoothly.

One was from Mara Brankovic, though. He carried it with him out to the dizzyingly colorful garden, where Oana was setting up an afternoon picnic while Fatima sewed in the shade. Nazira sat on the swing that had hung from the old tree on Kumal’s country estate. They had brought it with them. Brought him with them, in spirit, in every way they could.