And I Darken
Page 31
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He clapped delightedly and stood. “Here you are!”
“Where are we?” Lada asked.
“In my chambers!”
“And who are you, to earn such esteem from the devil?”
Radu elbowed her. The boy’s smile turned wicked. “Why, I am the son of the devil himself. Mehmed the Second, son of Murad.”
“God’s wounds,” Radu gasped, clutching at his stomach. He swept into a deep bow. He had hoped to see the boy again, had thought of him often since their meeting, imagining what friends they would be. And now this. Lada had threatened him, had insulted his father, and would doubtless continue to do both. Radu’s fear was replaced with weary resignation. Lada would be the death of him, and that death would be swift and soon.
“I had you brought here.” Mehmed waved an arm dismissively. Radu peered up through his lashes, where he could see another massive room behind this one and several doors.
“Yes, congratulations,” Lada said. She had not moved since finding out they were in the chambers of the sultan’s son. There was no indication of respect, no deference in her wide-legged stance. “But why are we here?”
“Because I hate Halil Pasha, and I hate my cousin.”
Lada shook her head in exasperation. “And who is your cousin?”
Radu flinched at her tone. He straightened. No point in continuing to bow if Lada was going to get them both killed.
“Why, your beloved, of course! The man whose tongue you are going to cut out and devour.” Mehmed collapsed back onto a velvet pillow as large as a horse, overcome with laughter. “I thought he would piss himself, he was so humiliated! By a girl! Oh, he is a loathsome, foul man. I have never been so delighted as I was today.”
“I thought Lada would be punished.” Radu took a hopeful step forward.
Mehmed shook his head, putting his feet up on another pillow. “No. I requested that she—and you, too, I suppose—be brought to me. I am being sent back to Amasya to govern. I suspect it is more to get me away from here, because my father has no use for me, and my mentor, Molla Gurani—he is the one who sent you in—does not get along with Halil Pasha.”
Lada tapped her foot impatiently. Radu pinched her, and she slapped his hand away.
Mehmed snapped his fingers. “Yes! The reason you are here. I have requested that you come with me to Amasya as my companions.”
Lada sat on a pillow nearest the door and sighed. “So I am being punished.”
“She does not mean that!” Radu glared at her, then looked at Mehmed, trying not to betray himself with the obviousness of the hope writing itself all over his face. Away from here! Away from the tutors and the head gardener! And with Mehmed, the boy from the garden, who maybe would be his friend, after all. He wanted to know Mehmed with a painful, yearning desperation. Even now, aware of who he actually was.
Mehmed smiled. “I think she does mean it. But I do not mind. I find your sister very amusing.”
Radu sat on a pillow near Mehmed, back straight and hands folded carefully in front of him. “Tread carefully, in that case. She very much hates to amuse.”
Lada threw a pillow at Radu’s head with vicious accuracy. Mehmed watched it all, his face a picture of joy. Radu did not know what to make of this new development, but he dared to nurture that seed of hope sprouting inside him. The smile that met Mehmed’s did not, for once, feel false.
Amasya, Ottoman Empire
ANOTHER CITY, ANOTHER TUTOR. Lada’s life seemed an endless parade of droning men pushing information between her ears. It could be worse, though. It could be an endless parade of droning women. Halima painting the world in cheerful tones while Mara loomed over her, insisting she accept her fate. Embroidery in place of history, courtliness in place of languages. But at least if she was learning embroidery with Halima, she would have needles to stab out Molla Gurani’s eyes.
Molla Gurani, Mehmed’s lifeless teacher, either did not realize or did not care that Lada spent much of her time idly dreaming of smashing his spectacles into his face. She suspected that if he did know, it would not change his expression one bit. He was a man without passions. This meant he did not beat Lada for disobedience. Thankfully, he also did not beat Radu on her behalf. Her relief was tempered by the knowledge that they would find something else to hurt her with. They always did.
During their first lesson, as Radu had feverishly scrambled to keep up and Mehmed had recited whole sections of the Koran, Lada spoke only in Wallachian. Molla Gurani had merely gazed at her, impassive behind those hated lenses, and informed her that his sole duty was to educate Mehmed.
“Where are we?” Lada asked.
“In my chambers!”
“And who are you, to earn such esteem from the devil?”
Radu elbowed her. The boy’s smile turned wicked. “Why, I am the son of the devil himself. Mehmed the Second, son of Murad.”
“God’s wounds,” Radu gasped, clutching at his stomach. He swept into a deep bow. He had hoped to see the boy again, had thought of him often since their meeting, imagining what friends they would be. And now this. Lada had threatened him, had insulted his father, and would doubtless continue to do both. Radu’s fear was replaced with weary resignation. Lada would be the death of him, and that death would be swift and soon.
“I had you brought here.” Mehmed waved an arm dismissively. Radu peered up through his lashes, where he could see another massive room behind this one and several doors.
“Yes, congratulations,” Lada said. She had not moved since finding out they were in the chambers of the sultan’s son. There was no indication of respect, no deference in her wide-legged stance. “But why are we here?”
“Because I hate Halil Pasha, and I hate my cousin.”
Lada shook her head in exasperation. “And who is your cousin?”
Radu flinched at her tone. He straightened. No point in continuing to bow if Lada was going to get them both killed.
“Why, your beloved, of course! The man whose tongue you are going to cut out and devour.” Mehmed collapsed back onto a velvet pillow as large as a horse, overcome with laughter. “I thought he would piss himself, he was so humiliated! By a girl! Oh, he is a loathsome, foul man. I have never been so delighted as I was today.”
“I thought Lada would be punished.” Radu took a hopeful step forward.
Mehmed shook his head, putting his feet up on another pillow. “No. I requested that she—and you, too, I suppose—be brought to me. I am being sent back to Amasya to govern. I suspect it is more to get me away from here, because my father has no use for me, and my mentor, Molla Gurani—he is the one who sent you in—does not get along with Halil Pasha.”
Lada tapped her foot impatiently. Radu pinched her, and she slapped his hand away.
Mehmed snapped his fingers. “Yes! The reason you are here. I have requested that you come with me to Amasya as my companions.”
Lada sat on a pillow nearest the door and sighed. “So I am being punished.”
“She does not mean that!” Radu glared at her, then looked at Mehmed, trying not to betray himself with the obviousness of the hope writing itself all over his face. Away from here! Away from the tutors and the head gardener! And with Mehmed, the boy from the garden, who maybe would be his friend, after all. He wanted to know Mehmed with a painful, yearning desperation. Even now, aware of who he actually was.
Mehmed smiled. “I think she does mean it. But I do not mind. I find your sister very amusing.”
Radu sat on a pillow near Mehmed, back straight and hands folded carefully in front of him. “Tread carefully, in that case. She very much hates to amuse.”
Lada threw a pillow at Radu’s head with vicious accuracy. Mehmed watched it all, his face a picture of joy. Radu did not know what to make of this new development, but he dared to nurture that seed of hope sprouting inside him. The smile that met Mehmed’s did not, for once, feel false.
Amasya, Ottoman Empire
ANOTHER CITY, ANOTHER TUTOR. Lada’s life seemed an endless parade of droning men pushing information between her ears. It could be worse, though. It could be an endless parade of droning women. Halima painting the world in cheerful tones while Mara loomed over her, insisting she accept her fate. Embroidery in place of history, courtliness in place of languages. But at least if she was learning embroidery with Halima, she would have needles to stab out Molla Gurani’s eyes.
Molla Gurani, Mehmed’s lifeless teacher, either did not realize or did not care that Lada spent much of her time idly dreaming of smashing his spectacles into his face. She suspected that if he did know, it would not change his expression one bit. He was a man without passions. This meant he did not beat Lada for disobedience. Thankfully, he also did not beat Radu on her behalf. Her relief was tempered by the knowledge that they would find something else to hurt her with. They always did.
During their first lesson, as Radu had feverishly scrambled to keep up and Mehmed had recited whole sections of the Koran, Lada spoke only in Wallachian. Molla Gurani had merely gazed at her, impassive behind those hated lenses, and informed her that his sole duty was to educate Mehmed.
