John Hunyadi, vaivode of Transylvania,
I am writing on behalf of our shared interest in defeating the infidel Turks and protecting the Christian sanctity of Transylvania, Wallachia, and Constantinople itself. You will know me as the daughter of Vlad Dracul, vaivode of Wallachia. These past years I have been held in the Ottoman courts as ransom to secure my father’s loyalty.
During my time here, I have become privy to many secrets. I desire the overthrow of the plague of Islam upon the earth, and you can help achieve it. Murad has this very day given up the sultanate, handing the throne to his young son, Mehmed. Mehmed is impetuous and untried, a zealot, fixated on taking Constantinople. He has neither the respect of his soldiers nor control of his people. Strike now. Strike hard. Secure our borders, push the infidels back, squeeze their filth from the lands of all Christendom.
I will do what I can to foment dissension and rebellion within Mehmed’s own borders. I trust you to be an Athleta Christi beyond them. Rally the forces for a crusade such as the world has never seen.
I look forward to the day when I am released from this den of vipers and can join you in protecting Wallachia, Transylvania, and blessed Constantinople.
Ladislav Dragwlya, Daughter of the Dragon
Lada slammed her knee into Nicolae’s stomach, narrowly missing his groin. His deflection threw him off-balance. She pressed her advantage, hitting him with her wooden practice sword until he dropped his own sword and stumbled back. To keep the fight challenging, she threw her sword down as well.
She hated being back in Edirne, hated the way it made her feel caged, hated even more that she had briefly imagined she was free in Amasya. Freedom in these lands was a lie, a glittering fantasy to lull her into sleepiness, into acceptance, into forgetfulness.
She was not free here and never would be.
She had not seen Halima or Mara and did not know if they were even still in the capital, or if Murad had taken his wives with him. She hoped for Halima’s sake that he had, and for Mara’s sake that he had not.
But she had no desire to see either of them, or ponder the questions they had raised.
For now, she and Radu were stuck waiting. Mehmed had laughed, delighted, at Lada’s statements in her letter to Hunyadi. Radu had laughed as well, while giving his sister terrified looks behind Mehmed’s back. He understood the truth behind each and every one of her words.
But until they found out if Hunyadi would take the bait, if a war would threaten the empire and lure Murad back from his early retirement, Mehmed was sultan. In the two weeks since they had come to Edirne with its new sultan, Lada had not seen him once. He had been snatched away by the courts, pulled under in a too-familiar poison current of enemies and allies. More of the former than the latter. No one was happy with the young new leader.
Lada had been certain he would wilt under the pressure, but in spite of his machinations to lure his father back, Mehmed had risen to the occasion. He bent to no man and met every challenge in the open, eager to learn.
But all doors to him were closed now. Lada missed him sometimes, and she hated him for that. She had been right to push him away. Trusting him would only hurt her in the end.
She swung her fist at Nicolae’s head. He raised an arm to block the blow, and she delivered a killing stab with her wooden dagger.
Nicolae laughed, staggering dramatically to the ground. “Dead, again, at the hands of the ugliest girl in creation.” He stuck out his tongue, face contorted in a grimace.
Lada kicked him in the stomach. “I am no girl. Who is next?”
The other Janissaries, gathered in a loose circle around Lada and Nicolae, shuffled their feet and avoided eye contact. Nicolae pushed himself up on an elbow. “Really? Cowards!”
“I still have bruises from the last time.”
“I cannot sit without pain.”
“She fights dirty.”
Ivan did not even respond, having never forgiven Lada for besting him when they were introduced. He refused to fight her and rarely acknowledged her presence.
Lada laughed, showing all her sharp teeth. “Because when you are on the battlefield, honor will mean so much. You will die with a blade between your ribs, secure in the knowledge that you fought with manners.” She picked up her dull practice sword, abandoned on the edge of the circle, and swung it through the air, sweeping it across the line of the Janissaries’ collective throats.
“I would rather die in this ring at your hand than on the field in the name of the little zealot,” Nicolae said. The other Janissaries grumbled in assent. They had become more and more vocal in their complaints about Mehmed, about their work, about their pay. Lada did not fail to notice that their grievances were aired without regard for who could hear, indicating little fear of reprisal or reprimand.