Bright We Burn (The Conqueror's Saga #3)(10)

Radu choked on the piece of bread in his mouth. He stood, unable to sit for a meal in this place that had taken so much from him. If Mehmed wanted him here, he would be here. But he could not pretend everything was normal. He could not have conversations about his future as though his past were not looped around his neck like a noose, choking him with regret and sorrow.

Just then, the banquet hall doors opened. A procession of unarmed men, roughly dressed under fine black cloaks, entered, dragging and pushing large wooden boxes. Mehmed’s Janissaries stood at the ready, eyes narrowed in observation. A servant hurried past them and bowed at the base of Mehmed’s dais. “They would not wait,” he said, trembling.

The leader of the men bowed as well, sweeping one arm out in exaggeration. His boots were filthy and his clothes dusty. They must have just arrived. Radu looked closer, and realized all the men wore cloaks with the Dracul family seal on them. It was a dragon and a cross, taken from the Order of the Dragon. It felt wrong, seeing it here. Radu’s already fragile emotions recoiled at the symbol of his family. Of his past.

The man spoke Wallachian, not Turkish, as would have been appropriate. “We bring a gift from Lada Dracul, vaivode of Wallachia, to his honor the sultan. She sends her respects, and asks that, in the future, you make certain your men offer her the level of respect she deserves as prince.”

With that, the man turned on his heel and left the room. The other Wallachians followed him out. They walked quickly. Radu looked up at Mehmed, who met his gaze, raising an eyebrow. Mehmed did not speak much Wallachian.

“He said it is a gift. From Lada. She sends her respects and asks that your men respect her as a prince in the future.”

“What is it?” Mehmed asked.

Radu shook his head in a small motion. “He did not say.”

Mehmed had gotten even better at keeping his expressions guarded. Radu did not know how Mehmed felt about the surprise, or how he felt about Lada. The sultan gave away nothing. He gestured, and a servant ran forward with a lever to pry open the lid of the first box. As soon as it was lifted, he cried out in shock and dismay. He covered his nose and mouth with one arm and backed away.

Mehmed moved to get off the dais, but Radu held up a hand in warning. “Let me.” He stopped a few paces from the boxes. The smell released with the lid gone was enough to tell him he did not want to see what his sister had sent.

He leaned over to peer inside anyway.

A corpse stared up at him, dried blood in lines of agony down its sunken face. As far as Radu could see from his vantage point, a metal spike had been driven through the turban, right into the head.

Radu leaned away to hide the horror from his sight once more. Keeping his eyes on the far wall, he replaced the lid. “Clear the room,” he said.

No one moved.

Mehmed stood, gesturing sharply. The room emptied rapidly, only his Janissary guards and one personal servant remaining. He stepped down from the dais and joined Radu next to the first box. There were ten more. Mehmed reached out.

“No,” Radu said. “You do not need to see it.”

“My ambassadors?” Mehmed asked.

“Yes.”

Mehmed stared down at the box, then swept his eyes over the rest of them. “And there is no letter with them.”

“No.”

Mehmed pointed to one of his guards. “Catch the men who delivered these. I want a full account of what happened.” The guard sprinted from the room.

Mehmed turned, his purple silk robes swishing through the air. “Come with me.” He glided through a separate, private door. Radu followed. They entered a sitting room with high ceilings. Tiny jeweled windows let in light but were too small for anyone to break in through. As soon as Radu was inside, Mehmed bolted the door behind them. There were no other exits.

Radu faced a wall bearing Mehmed’s elaborate, beautiful tughra, the sultan’s own seal and signature. Around it in gold Arabic script were verses from the Koran. Without turning around, Radu said, “This is why you called me back, then. Because of her.”

Mehmed hesitated. Radu could feel the other man just behind him, close enough to touch. Then Mehmed sat with a sigh on one of the low sofas. “I did not know this was coming.”

“You should not be surprised.”

“She always surprises me.”

Radu clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “I cannot help you with her. I cannot—I will not—go between you and my sister. You will have to find someone else.”

Radu turned to leave. Mehmed stood and grabbed his arm. Radu looked down at Mehmed’s hand, each finger weighted with a jeweled ring. Mehmed was heavy with privilege and power. Radu remembered the lightness of their shared childhood. If the two boys who had met at a fountain in Edirne, who had clung to each other against the cruelty of the world, saw themselves now, they would see strangers. All the years had built a wall of silk and gold and power and pain between them.

Mehmed dropped his hand from Radu’s arm. “I did not ask you here to help me with Lada!”

“Then why did you?” Radu turned to face him.

“Because!” Mehmed wrapped his own arms around himself, shrinking. “Because I am building an empire, and turning this city into the jewel of the world, and becoming the sultan my people need. And it is so lonely.” His voice broke on the last word.

Gone was the cold assurance of the sultan, the calculating intelligence that last year had sent Radu away as a spy. The untouchable Hand of God was replaced by the boy at the fountain. The friend of Radu’s youth. The foundation of his heart. Radu opened his arms, and Mehmed fell into him, burying his face in Radu’s shoulder.