And he had seen nothing of the fabled wealth of Constantinople. He had always known, rationally, that the streets were not paved in gold, but he had expected something more. Even Tirgoviste had glittered brighter than this.

Finally they came to a quarter that showed more life. They pulled to an abrupt stop as a priest crossed their path, swinging a censer and trailing scented smoke in his wake. He sang hauntingly in Greek. Behind him was a parade of people. It took several minutes before the citizens, eerily silent save for the singing priest, finally passed and their way was clear again.

“What was that?” Radu asked.

“A procession.” Cyprian looked troubled. “There is no small amount of internal strife. Most of it centers around Orthodoxy versus the Catholic Church. I will explain later. Come.”

Bells tolled, their clanging echoing through the city. Cyprian looked up, then sighed. “I had forgotten the day. My uncle will be in the cathedral. We cannot speak with him there. Come, I will get you settled. I have a home near the palace.”

“We cannot intrude,” Nazira said. “Surely there is someplace else?”

Cyprian waved her worries away. “I have many bedrooms and only one me. We could all live there and never see one another. Much like this city, my home is in need of a much higher population.”

Cyprian’s house was not far. It was a handsome, well-maintained building. The houses in Constantinople practically shared walls, narrow gaps between them sometimes disappearing where the roofs met. He pulled out a key and opened the front door. They were greeted with a wall of frigid air.

“Valentin, go start the fires.” The boy nodded and ran inside. Cyprian frowned. “I have a maid. Where is that girl? The main room should have a fire going already. Maria? Maria!” There was no response. “Well, come in. It will warm up soon enough.” He led them to a small sitting room, where Valentin had already succeeded in lighting a fire.

They heard footsteps on the stairs. “Maria?”

“Just me,” Valentin called out. “No one else here.”

Cyprian looked troubled. Nazira put a hand on his. “Your home is lovely. Thank you so much. I hope you know your kindness is not unappreciated.”

“Of course!” Cyprian covered her hand with his other hand. “I am sorry. I have been so caught up in my own worries and fears, I have scarcely thought how you must be feeling. You have left your home, your country, all your possessions.” He turned to Radu. “Both of you have.”

Radu thought of what Lada might have said in response. “Edirne was my prison, not my home. Nazira’s is the true sacrifice.”

She nodded, looking down. “I will miss my garden. But I no longer recognize the landscape of the empire under this new sultan. And I do not think I belong there anymore.” She stood straighter, brightening. “And I have my Radu.”

Radu tried to imagine what Fatima must be doing right now, alone in the home that she shared with Nazira. How she must worry. If his separation from Mehmed was agony, how much worse to be separated from someone with whom you shared everything, including your heart?

He held out his arms. Nazira met him, resting her head against his chest. Cyprian watched them with the same look of longing Radu had seen before. Then he cleared his throat. “I will see to some food and send a message to the palace to find out when the emperor can meet with us.”

He left them alone. Radu stroked Nazira’s back one last time, and then they sat, side by side, staring into the fire.

“I like him,” Nazira said, and it sounded like a eulogy.

“Me too,” Radu echoed.

LADA’S MEN HAD NEARLY finished breaking camp when Hunyadi rode up. His horse pranced and shifted beneath him, picking up on his agitation.

“You have heard, then?” he asked Lada.

She paused in tightening her saddle straps. “Heard what?” she asked, careful not to reveal anything by her tone.

“Rumors of Ottoman troops massing in Belgrade, with designs on our Serbian border. You were right about Serbian loyalties. Housing the infidels in their own capital!”

Lada whipped around. How had Mehmed been this stupid? They were to meet in southern Transylvania. Surely he would not have come close to the Hungarian border. She had accepted that she needed Mehmed’s help, but she would be damned if she let Hunyadi know what she had done.

“Are you certain?”

Hunyadi shook his head. “One report. And the scout saw nothing himself. But I cannot risk this. Not with Matthias so close to the throne. You were wise to counsel me to stay.” He smiled at her, his eyes sad. “My duty is here. I cannot turn my back on Matthias for Constantinople. When will your men be ready to ride?”

Lada was seized with a sudden need to recheck every strap on her saddle. “You want us to ride into Serbia?”

“No. I want you in Transylvania. Protect the passes in case the Ottomans try to go through Transylvania and come into Hungary that way.”

Hunyadi had aided her yet again, giving her the simplest way to disguise her true goals: Mehmed an

Tags: Kiersten White The Conqueror's Saga Fantasy
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