Nazira worked on a tender knot and Radu grimaced. “Let me think of what I heard today,” she said. “Mehmed is the Antichrist.”

“Yes, I heard that one, too.”

“Did you hear about the child who dreamed that the angel guarding the city walls abandoned his post?”

“No, that is a new one. I heard about a fisherman who drew up oysters that dripped blood.”

“Good thing I never cared for oysters. And fish! So much fish in this city. If I never eat fish again when we leave, I will be happy. What else. Hmm. Oh! Helen, one of my new friends, is very bitter. Apparently the first emperor of the city was Constantine, son of Helen. And now this emperor is Constantine, son of Helen, which means the circle of history is closing and the city is doomed. It also means the name Helen is deeply unpopular, and she is taking it quite personally.”

“Why are you friends with her?”

“She is currently entertaining one of the Venetian ship captains, a man named Coco. She talks about him constantly.”

“Well done,” Radu said, wincing as Nazira hit another particularly sore area of his shoulders. “Word from the walls is that with the relic of the true cross in the city, it cannot be taken by the Antichrist. On the other hand, they do not like the patterns of birds flying in the skies. However, Mary herself is protecting the city. Unfortunately, someone’s uncle finally decoded the secret messages scrawled on a thousand-year-old pillar that declares this the last year of Earth. But the moon will be waxing soon, and the city cannot be taken on a waxing moon, so there you have it. The city is both utterly doomed and cannot possibly fall.”

“These people are insane,” Nazira said sadly.

“At least it saves us the trouble of trying to foment chaos within the walls. They need no help with that.”

“How are you doing with getting close to Constantine?”

Radu shrugged, rolling back over. Nazira lay on her side, propped up on an elbow. He had not told her the real reason why Constantine accepted his loyalty without question; he was too humiliated to speak it aloud. “I see him only in passing. He is everywhere in the city, constantly on the move to inspire people.”

“I have seen him a few times. Helen hates him. I think he looks nice. What about the other important men?”

“Right now they are trying to organize, and waiting for further aid before they decide where to commit. I do not see much of them. I never knew waiting could be such a wearying task.”

“What about Cyprian?”

Radu shifted uncomfortably. “He is close to Constantine. He takes notes for him. I am sure he knows most of the organization of the city. But …”

“But what?”

Closing his eyes, Radu rubbed his face. There was a bigger issue where Cyprian was concerned, a nebulous one, the contours of which Radu had not yet traced out. He did not know if he wanted to or even could. “We are living with Cyprian. We eat meals with him, sleep next to his room.” And they liked him. Nazira had not said it, but Radu could see in the smiles she gave Cyprian, the easy way she laughed at his stories over meals. Radu was not the only one with complicated feelings toward their enemy. But he rationalized them anyway. “It would be dangerous to abuse any information we get through him. Too immediately suspicious.”

“True.” Nazira drew the blanket up to her chin and snuggled into Radu’s side. “We carry on, then.”

Radu patted her arm, waiting for her breath to go steady and deep. Then he rolled away, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

The only thing coming here had accomplished was getting Radu far away from Mehmed and the rumors spread about them. Radu knew if that was what Mehmed needed, he should be glad. He should be willing to sacrifice himself to protect Mehmed’s vision, to protect his reputation. But he could not—would not—be willing to sacrifice Nazira.

He would stay the course. He would make something of their time here. And he would get her out alive, no matter what.

24

Early April

OANA—THE ONLY one who knew about Lada’s meeting with Mehmed—said nothing as Lada commanded her men to pack up camp the next morning. Lada was grateful to her for that. She could not have handled questions about the soldiers she should have returned with.

Bogdan stayed closer to her side than ever. He never asked where she had gone. At least his unquestioning acceptance of her actions had not changed. But even if he asked, she would never tell him.

Or anyone.

Lada’s mind chased itself in angry circles. Mehmed—whom she had always trusted—had deceived her. And he thought she would choose Constantinople after that? How little he knew her.

The next night, though, lying on the frozen ground, her mind betrayed her. Images of being empress next to Mehmed haunted her when she closed her eyes. It was the worst part of everything, knowing that, on some level, she wanted that much power, even at that cost.

She awoke, gasping and aching. No. The worst were dreams of Mehmed at her side in an entirely different fashion.

She made her men move before dawn. Sleep was not her ally. She drove them hard toward Hunedoara, reassuring herself that at least she had done some good for Hunyadi. Constantinople would fall—of that she had no doubts, whatever else she might now doubt and hate about Mehmed—and Hunyadi would have died there. Her duplicity had spared him his life. She could take comfort in that.

“I hate Hungary,” Petru grumbled, riding abreast of Lada, Nicolae, and Bogdan. “And that lord or noble or prince, Matthias? Whenever he is around me, he holds a handkerchief to his nose.” Petru ducked his head to smell under his arms. “I smell nothing.”

Nicolae leaned close, then feigned fainting. “That is because your sense of smell has killed itself out of despair.”

“Matthias is not a prince,” Lada said. “He is Hunyadi’s son.”

Petru’s expression shifted in surprise. “How did Hunyadi’s seed produce that weak politician?”

Nicolae’s cheerful voice answered. “The same way Vlad Dracul’s traitorous seed produced our valiant Lada!”

Lada stared straight ahead, numb. In that moment, she realized she was exactly like her father. Hunyadi had cautioned her not to discount the man who made her the way she was. Apparently her father had done his job well. She, too, had taken someone who trusted her and leveraged that trust for Ottoman aid—aid that benefitted her nothing. And she had been stupid enough to make it personal with Mehmed.