Page 8 of Bright We Burn

“How is your sister, Radu Bey?”

Radu looked up, surprised. The woman who had been part of Murad’s court had spoken. She was a paradox of harsh elegance. Everything about her was precisely fashionable by European standards, her elaborate dress and hair acting as a barrier between herself and the world. She sat up straight, her skirts awkwardly pooled around her, rather than leaning on an elbow like many of the other diners.

“I am sorry, I do not remember your name.” Radu smiled in apology.

“Mara Brankovic. I was one of Murad’s wives.”

“Ah, yes! You negotiated the new terms of Serbia’s vassalage.” It had been her parting move, using an offer of marriage from Constantine to negotiate her own freedom and better rights for her country. Mehmed had admired her for it.

Without conscious thought, Radu found himself staring again at Mehmed. He dragged his eyes back to Mara. “What brings you to the empire?”

She turned her gaze toward Mehmed. Her look was affectionate. “A leader who recognizes my value. I am here as an advisor on European issues. I help with handling the Venetians. The Serbians, obviously. And a troublesome little country you are quite familiar with. And familial with.” She laughed lightly at her own joke.

“So you are not asking after my sister as a social courtesy.”

“Oh, I am! Social courtesy is the heart of my role here.” Her tone was pleasantly wry. “It is amazing what one can accomplish through polite inquiry. Besides, I quite liked Lada. Though she was foolish to pass up a marital alliance with Mehmed. She would have done quite well.”

Radu looked at his plate, now filled with tiny pieces of flatbread he had torn apart. “Quite well would never have been enough for her.”

Mara laughed. Urbana snagged her attention to point out how much worse unleavened bread was, and Radu was again left to his own thoughts. Which, to his surprise, did not linger on the person on the dais. “Mara,” he interrupted. “Do you have any contacts in Cyprus?”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Not personally, but I am certain I know someone who will. Why?”

“I am looking for news of my wife and my…friends. They fled during the fall of the city, and I have had no word of them since.”

Mara put a hand on his. Her dark eyes were sympathetic and serious. “Write down their names and any details that matter. I will set all my resources on it.”

“Thank you,” Radu said. “I have been searching, along with Kumal Pasha, and—”

“He is very handsome.” Urbana said it in the same tone she would use for talking about the quality of metal for casting cannons, or remarking on the weather. “He does not seem like he would ever be violent. And he has been a widower for some time.”

Radu could not quite follow the change in conversation. “Are you…courting him?”

Urbana gave him the same glare of disgust she directed at the spiced meat. “I meant for Mara. I have neither use nor time for a husband.”

Mara shared a long-suffering look with Radu. “Urbana worries that my childbearing years are dwindling quickly. She speaks of it often.” She sighed heavily. “Very often.”

Radu nearly laughed but was hit with a pang, remembering Urbana prying into his own private life—and lack of babies—with Nazira. Nazira should be here, at his side. No. She should be at Fatima’s side. It was his fault she was not.

“You could marry Radu,” Urbana said, thoughtful. “He is quite young for you. Eighteen, now? But he married his first wife very young, so he does not mind. He is very kind and does not have a temper. I used to hear girls gossiping about how handsome he is, with his large dark eyes and his prominent jaw.” She peered at Radu in a way that made him intensely uncomfortable. “I suppose I understand what they meant. He is tall and healthy, at least. And with his wife missing, he is lacking for company.”

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.

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