Knowing that with Mehmed, it was not possible.

But how could he let go of the man written onto his very soul?

30

Mid-April

THEY SPREAD THROUGH the manor like fire. Servants awoke to the sounds of crashing furniture and breaking glass. Some tried to fight. Lada had instructed her men to kill no one. It was not difficult to subdue half-asleep, unarmed people.

By the time they reached Ulrich’s bedchambers, he had dressed and was waiting for them. His back was straight, his shoulders broad, his face impassive. There was no one else in the bedchamber. Lada was grateful his wife was not there to weep and beg, to bear witness. It was cleaner this way.

Ulrich had a sword sheathed at his side. He made no effort to draw the weapon.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice calm and assured.

Lada knew his fate already. She did not wish to engage with him. With no witnesses, she did not have to playact and accuse him of things they both knew he had not done. Watching him greet his end with such stoic resolve filled her with a measure of shame. He was a strong man. Possibly even a great one, according to Stefan’s information.

So she said nothing. She walked past him, drawing the letter from Mehmed out of her vest. The seal was still intact, his elaborate signature unmistakable. She took tongs and pulled a coal from the fire. With a small thrill of vindictive pleasure, she burned away her own name and the poetry Mehmed had written with his false fingers. When she was finished, the only things that could be seen were Mehmed’s signature and his promise to meet in Transylvania with a gift of men.

She held out the letter to Nicolae. “We found him trying to burn this.”

Nicolae took it, an uneasy look shadowing his face. She had not told her men everything, merely that they were raiding the house on behalf of Matthias and Hunyadi. This alliance had been Nicolae’s idea, after all. He had no right to question where the road he had set them on would lead.

Lada turned back to Ulrich. Now, at last, emotion shaped his warm brown eyes. But he did not look angry or afraid as she had expected. He looked sad. “He could be an excellent king, you know.”

Lada wondered why Ulrich was talking about Matthias. But then Ulrich continued. “He is a good child. Smart. With a genuine kindness to his soul that is uncommon in anyone, much less royalty. If he is allowed to grow long enough to reach manhood, he will be a fair and just king. The type of king Hungary needs and deserves.”

“I am sorry.” And, to her surprise, Lada was sorry. She had been so focused on getting Matthias’s bidding done, she had not stopped to think how it would feel. Securing the throne of Hungary for someone else was not so simple as she had imagined.

She shook her head. “But I cannot put the needs of Hungary over the needs of Wallachia.”

The tears that pooled in Ulrich’s eyes caught the light of the fire. He lowered his head, whispering a prayer. Then he held out his arms to either side. “Remember that he is a child. Give him a gentle death.”

Lada’s knife paused. She looked down at it as it trembled in her hand. This was the first time she would kill a man outside of battle. It was not a reaction to save her own life. It was a choice. She could let Ulrich—a good man—live. He would take this attack as proof of Matthias’s treachery and use it to drive him out of the castle. The young king could grow into a man shaped by the strength of his genuine protector.

Lada looked up into Bogdan’s face—the face of her childhood. It held no judgment. He simply watched her, waiting. The locket around her neck pressed heavy against her heart.

Wallachia.

She took a deep breath. When she plunged the knife into Ulrich’s heart, her hand was steady.

The “evidence” was enough to justify Ulrich’s death with only moderate outcry. And since Elizabeth had chosen him as the king’s protector, her decisions were suspect as well. She was removed to a far distant castle, to be kept there in seclusion. Matthias was named regent—and heir, should the king die without issue.

Lada did not doubt that would be the case, and sooner rather than later. When she watched Matthias put a hand on the trembling child’s shoulder, Lada remembered Ulrich’s request.

“Kill him gently,” she said when Matthias met her in a quiet hall of the castle that would be his. Lada hated Hunedoara, hated this castle, hated her ally. She needed to be free of Hungary.

Matthias laughed. “Are you giving me commands now?”

“It was Ulrich’s last request.”

“I will do as I see fit.” He handed her a letter, sealed with his coat of arms, in which a raven figured prominently. That morning, Lada had seen a raven pull a pigeon from its own nest in the castle eaves, tearing it apart methodically and efficiently.

“This is an introduction to Toma Basarab. He will instruct and help you on your way to the throne. No one knows the Wallachian boyars better than Toma.”

“And men?”

Matthias shook his head. “I have no men better than the ones you already possess, and besides, I cannot part with any. If my men were to accompany you and you failed, it would destroy relations between Hungary and Wallachia.”

Lada smiled tightly. “So regardless of whether I win or if I die, you still have an ally on the throne.” Matthias was born to this. The young king might have a core of kindness, but Matthias knew what it took to gain and keep power.

“You understand perfectly,” he said. “I do hope you succeed, Lada Dracul. I am very curious to see what you can do. I look forward to a long and fruitful relationship.”

Lada wanted no such thing from him. But he had given her another knife, and she would use it to cut her way to the throne.

She inclined her head, unwilling to bow or curtsy. “I will pay my respects to your father before I leave.”

Matthias’s expression turned briefly wistful before resuming its usual sharpness. “He is dead. His final act was rooting out the traitor Ulrich. I do not expect you to stay for the funeral.”

Lada flinched. She had betrayed Hunyadi to his downfall, and then she had falsely betrayed a good man in his name. This was the thanks she gave Hunyadi for his love, for his trust, for his support.

She clutched the locket around her neck so tightly her knuckles went white, drained of blood.

“You are a strange girl,” Matthias said fondly.