And I Darken
Page 65
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Bidding Mehmed a temporary farewell, Radu returned to Lazar, his steps buoyed with anticipation. Lazar’s eyes narrowed, his lips twisted in a back-market imitation of a real smile. “Watch yourself, little brother.”
Radu paused in picking up the weapons they had left scattered around the yard. “What do you mean?”
“There are some things it is not acceptable to want, but there are ways around it, and those who will look the other way. And then there are some things that it is impossible to want. Even the mere act of wanting, if noticed by the wrong people, can get you killed.” He gave a heavy, meaningful look at the spot where Mehmed had been. “Be more careful.”
Radu’s throat constricted, his heart racing so he thought he might die of it. What had Lazar seen? What did he suspect? Could he tell simply by watching Radu that something was very wrong with him, when even Radu did not understand what it was? All he knew was that there was some light, some pull, some fire that Mehmed carried, and Radu only felt truly alive when he was nearby.
Was that wrong?
Lazar put his long fingers on the back of Radu’s neck, let them linger for a few impossibly long seconds, the time beating past in the terrified pulse of Radu’s blood. “Let me know if you ever want to…talk.”
Radu watched him walk away, soaked tunic clinging to his broad shoulders, and knew he would never, ever seek Lazar out again. Because whatever this secret was, whatever this question Radu now knew he did not understand, whatever this aching, secret hollow inside of him meant, an answer felt far more terrifying than any question could ever be.
Two days later, the conversation with Lazar still felt like sand against sunburned skin, a prickling discomfort when Radu least expected it. He sat in a garden tucked into a far corner of the keep, hidden in the cool, dim shade of a tree overburdened with weeping branches. Maybe he would ask Mehmed to have Lazar sent to another part of the country. He knew Mehmed would. But what if Mehmed asked why? How would he answer? He had told Mehmed how happy he was to be reunited with his old Janissary protector.
He should stop worrying. Mehmed was his friend. His dearest friend, his only friend. Perhaps Lazar had never had a friend like Mehmed. He could not possibly understand how Radu felt. It was foolishness for Lazar to imply there was something wrong, something dangerous with loving Mehmed more than anyone. Mehmed was the heir to the throne! They should all feel that way about him.
Mehmed had brought him safety and hope, helped nourish the seed of God planted by Kumal’s kindness when Radu needed it most. Of course Radu valued Mehmed above all others. He even loved him more than he loved Lada, which filled him with guilt. But Lada had let him be hurt on her behalf, all that time ago, by their first Ottoman tutor. Radu had never forgotten the way she sat back, impassive, as he was beaten for her failure to respond. Mehmed would never have let that happen.
His love for Mehmed made perfect sense.
Why, then, did Lazar’s look still make him feel strange and wrong?
He was distracted by the sound of feet stomping gracelessly along the gravel path. Well hidden, he peered through the curtain of leaves. Lada was prowling up and down, turning in one direction before jerking herself back in the other, as though her body were engaged in an argument that neither side was winning. After a few minutes of furious indecision, during which an entire generation of flowers was mercilessly decapitated, Lada went suddenly and shockingly still. Not her usual type of watchful stillness, but a dreamy, placid cessation of movement. Her limbs, normally so rigid, looked almost soft as she lifted a hand and traced her lips, eyes closed.
Radu held his breath, watching, wondering what was going on in his sister’s head. It had been a long time since he wished he could understand what she was thinking. Most of the time he knew and wished he did not. But in this moment she was transformed from his determined, brutal sister, into…
A girl.
That was it. Lada looked like a girl.
He exhaled sharply, holding back a wondering laugh. In a flash, his sister turned from a girl back into a predator. Her eyes found the source of the noise, and a dagger flashed in either hand.
“Who is there?” she demanded, feet spread, stance low and balanced.
“Please do not kill me.” Radu pushed aside two curtains of branches, holding his hands out in mock supplication.
“Were you spying on me?” Her voice was shrill, panicked, as though she had been caught at something devious.
But no—that was not it. Radu had caught her doing terrible things during their childhood. Once he found her in the stables, choking Vlad Danesti, an insufferable son of rival boyars. When Radu shouted in surprise, Lada had merely looked up and calmly informed him that Vlad had told her she was worth less than the bastard son of their father. She was punishing him, and wondered how long she would have to choke him until he fainted.
Radu paused in picking up the weapons they had left scattered around the yard. “What do you mean?”
“There are some things it is not acceptable to want, but there are ways around it, and those who will look the other way. And then there are some things that it is impossible to want. Even the mere act of wanting, if noticed by the wrong people, can get you killed.” He gave a heavy, meaningful look at the spot where Mehmed had been. “Be more careful.”
Radu’s throat constricted, his heart racing so he thought he might die of it. What had Lazar seen? What did he suspect? Could he tell simply by watching Radu that something was very wrong with him, when even Radu did not understand what it was? All he knew was that there was some light, some pull, some fire that Mehmed carried, and Radu only felt truly alive when he was nearby.
Was that wrong?
Lazar put his long fingers on the back of Radu’s neck, let them linger for a few impossibly long seconds, the time beating past in the terrified pulse of Radu’s blood. “Let me know if you ever want to…talk.”
Radu watched him walk away, soaked tunic clinging to his broad shoulders, and knew he would never, ever seek Lazar out again. Because whatever this secret was, whatever this question Radu now knew he did not understand, whatever this aching, secret hollow inside of him meant, an answer felt far more terrifying than any question could ever be.
Two days later, the conversation with Lazar still felt like sand against sunburned skin, a prickling discomfort when Radu least expected it. He sat in a garden tucked into a far corner of the keep, hidden in the cool, dim shade of a tree overburdened with weeping branches. Maybe he would ask Mehmed to have Lazar sent to another part of the country. He knew Mehmed would. But what if Mehmed asked why? How would he answer? He had told Mehmed how happy he was to be reunited with his old Janissary protector.
He should stop worrying. Mehmed was his friend. His dearest friend, his only friend. Perhaps Lazar had never had a friend like Mehmed. He could not possibly understand how Radu felt. It was foolishness for Lazar to imply there was something wrong, something dangerous with loving Mehmed more than anyone. Mehmed was the heir to the throne! They should all feel that way about him.
Mehmed had brought him safety and hope, helped nourish the seed of God planted by Kumal’s kindness when Radu needed it most. Of course Radu valued Mehmed above all others. He even loved him more than he loved Lada, which filled him with guilt. But Lada had let him be hurt on her behalf, all that time ago, by their first Ottoman tutor. Radu had never forgotten the way she sat back, impassive, as he was beaten for her failure to respond. Mehmed would never have let that happen.
His love for Mehmed made perfect sense.
Why, then, did Lazar’s look still make him feel strange and wrong?
He was distracted by the sound of feet stomping gracelessly along the gravel path. Well hidden, he peered through the curtain of leaves. Lada was prowling up and down, turning in one direction before jerking herself back in the other, as though her body were engaged in an argument that neither side was winning. After a few minutes of furious indecision, during which an entire generation of flowers was mercilessly decapitated, Lada went suddenly and shockingly still. Not her usual type of watchful stillness, but a dreamy, placid cessation of movement. Her limbs, normally so rigid, looked almost soft as she lifted a hand and traced her lips, eyes closed.
Radu held his breath, watching, wondering what was going on in his sister’s head. It had been a long time since he wished he could understand what she was thinking. Most of the time he knew and wished he did not. But in this moment she was transformed from his determined, brutal sister, into…
A girl.
That was it. Lada looked like a girl.
He exhaled sharply, holding back a wondering laugh. In a flash, his sister turned from a girl back into a predator. Her eyes found the source of the noise, and a dagger flashed in either hand.
“Who is there?” she demanded, feet spread, stance low and balanced.
“Please do not kill me.” Radu pushed aside two curtains of branches, holding his hands out in mock supplication.
“Were you spying on me?” Her voice was shrill, panicked, as though she had been caught at something devious.
But no—that was not it. Radu had caught her doing terrible things during their childhood. Once he found her in the stables, choking Vlad Danesti, an insufferable son of rival boyars. When Radu shouted in surprise, Lada had merely looked up and calmly informed him that Vlad had told her she was worth less than the bastard son of their father. She was punishing him, and wondered how long she would have to choke him until he fainted.
