“What is going on here?” A short man with piercing dark eyes, one ear a mangled, scarred stub, strode into the practice ring. The Janissaries snapped to attention.

“We were practicing, sir.” Nicolae stared straight ahead, as though if he did not look at Lada, the commander would not notice her.

She met the man’s gaze without batting an eye. “I train with these Janissaries.”

“Since when?”

“For months now. I traveled with them from Amasya.”

“We are not so lax in Edirne as they are in the outer regions. You will remove yourself.” He turned, effectively dismissing her.

“No.”

He cocked his head. “No?”

“No. I am doing no harm, and your men can certainly use the challenge.”

The man turned toward Nicolae. “Show this girl that she has no place on a field with Janissaries.”

Nicolae grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do I have to, Ilyas?”

“Did it sound like a request?”

“But I just fought with her. Make someone else go.”

Disbelief coloring his face, Ilyas gestured at one of the other Janissaries. He was a Wallachian, so Lada automatically liked him. With a beleaguered sigh, Matei stepped forward, picking up a practice sword. Lada had not fought him yet. The Edirne Janissaries always hung back, confused and wary, while the Amasya Janissaries were used to her.

Matei had decent form, his precise movements backed by a compact, powerful body. Lada had him disarmed and on the ground in six moves. The next Janissary took four. The third Janissary was more difficult, and it was a full minute before he, too, was beaten.

“Enough!” Ilyas took up a sword and strode into the center of the practice ring.

Lada attacked first—she always attacked first. He anticipated it, blocking her strike with bone-jarring force. He seemed to know what she would do before she did it, reading her as easily as Radu read people’s emotions.

After several of her failed attacks, Ilyas caught the edge of Lada’s sword, ripping it from her hands. Instead of backing away, she screamed and spun herself into him, past his sword, a dagger pulled from her wrist sheath at his neck.

He slammed his head into hers, knocking her to the ground.

The bright blue sky spun above her. Ilyas leaned into her view, holding out a hand. She took it, and he pulled her up. She refused to sway on principle, though her head complained bitterly.

Ilyas regarded her. “Carry on.” He walked away.

“I lost,” Lada said, hand against her head.

“No,” Nicolae answered, draping an arm across her shoulders. “I am pretty sure that means you won.”

“Lada!”

She turned, scowling, to find Radu running toward her. He was gasping and breathless. She crouched into a fighting stance, looking behind him for the threat, ready to kill whatever was chasing him. Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulders. His eyes shone with panic or excitement or both.

“Hunyadi. The pope. They have declared a crusade. They are already marching.”

Lada blinked. Even as she wrote to Hunyadi, she doubted anyone would listen to her. They must have already been poised on the brink of attack, waiting for an opening. And now they were taking it. She threw her head back and laughed, a barking, strangled sound like that made by the stray hounds that slunk through the streets of Tirgoviste. “Hunyadi! A crusade!”

Matei shouted a command, and the Janissaries left, instantly falling into formation as they headed to the barracks for more information. Radu had not let go of Lada’s shoulders, his grip crushing. Lada looked at his face, the tightness and fear there.

“What? This is what we wanted. What Mehmed wanted. It will force Murad to take the throne again.”

Radu shook his head. “No, there is more. Father…he sent troops. Mircea leads a contingent of Wallachians.”

For one brief, glorious moment, Lada’s heart swelled with pride for her father. He had finally found his spine, had come down in defense of his own people, against—

Against the country that held their very lives as collateral.

“He has sacrificed us,” Radu whispered.

Lada squeezed the pommel of her practice sword until her fingers cramped. Mara’s talk of duty to one’s country was meaningless if one’s country cared nothing for its duty to you. “He sacrificed us years ago. But I will be damned if I let him kill us.” She dropped her sword and grabbed Radu’s wrist, pulling him along behind her as she rushed to the main wings of the palace. Her head ached, a bump already growing where Ilyas had struck her, but she did not have time to indulge the pain.