“I wish I had been there,” Lada said.

Nicolae laughed darkly. “I wish I had not. But if you had been there, little dragon, whose side would you have fought for?”

“My own.”

“And which side is that?”

Their father had killed Lada and Radu twice over—first by leaving them here, and next by breaking the treaty that protected their lives. She would not fight for him. And certainly not for Mircea, contemptible worm. Hunyadi she would kill on sight.

No. She rolled her head around on her shoulders, stiff neck straining against jacket collar. It was not Hunyadi’s fault her father left Wallachia weak enough that Hunyadi had found a foothold there and forced her father to turn to the sultan.

Mehmed, then? He was her ally in a world straining at its bit, bristling for her death. A laugh, a flash of his dark eyes, a tug on her hair. He was her friend.

He was also ruler of the country holding her captive.

She finally fixed her hooded black eyes on Nicolae. “My own side.”

She tethered her horse while the Janissaries—Ilyas’s men and a few other groups—drilled their horses, practicing formations. Lada was never invited to participate in those, as her participation served no purpose. Weapons training and sparring were individual skills, but hundreds of men moving and reacting as one was something she had no part in. She settled against the roots of a tree at the edge of the open space, in the shade and facing away from the troops.

“…seems fair enough,” said a man walking close by.

“I like him more than the last commander we had. He was a Bulgar. I cannot stand Bulgars.”

“I am a Bulgar, you cur.”

“And I cannot stand you, either.”

They laughed, then the first spoke again. “Are they really leaving the brat on the throne?”

Lada tried to see who was speaking, but the tree blocked her view. Her first impulse was to stand and defend Mehmed. But what would she say? That Mehmed was her friend? She doubted they would accept that as evidence of his leadership qualities.

“As far as I hear, yes. Murad has returned to his retirement.”

“Barely on the throne and we have already fought one crusade. How many more are we to fight to defend him?”

“They do not pay us enough to shoulder the burden of the brat.”

“They simply do not pay us enough. Last week Ismael openly spoke of protesting in front of the sultan’s own bodyguards.”

“What do they say?”

“They say nothing. They also do not prevent anyone from saying it. If we could get a few higher-ranking officials on our side, we would be able…”

They drifted away, and Lada lost the last of their gossip. Their complaints were not unfamiliar, though they sounded more widespread and accepted than she had thought they were. The Janissaries were a privileged class, educated and paid, but they were still slaves. She wondered how much actual force was behind their words, and how much was empty complaints.

Nicolae rejoined her some time later. They rode out behind the corps, done for the day. He let his horse slow, putting more distance between them and the rest.

When he spoke, he lacked his usual jesting tone. “I have been here since I was seven years old. I have trained alongside brothers from every nation under the shadow of the Ottomans. We fight, we bleed, we die for a country that is not ours, commanded in a tongue our mothers never spoke to us, instructed in a religion that allows us to be enslaved because we were not born to it.” He paused, their horses’ hooves meting out a discordant rhythm. “And yet my life is better than it would have been at home. I am educated and better trained than anyone we fight. I have enough to eat and clothes on my back, opportunities to advance. Until I am broken against the walls of a city that should be my ally, or die on the end of a sword held by a cousin I never knew. We are the most valuable force of this empire, and we exist here because we are not actually part of the empire. Most days I think I owe my life to the Ottomans. On the field at Varna, I realized I do not want to give my life for them. But in my heart, I am a soldier, and I wish to do nothing else.” He shook his head, a heavy sigh punctuated by his hands lifted into the air, palms up. “I would like to be as certain as you are, Lada, who my side is.”

She looked at his palms, open, waiting to receive. “In your heart, where you know you are a soldier, tell me: What language beats there?”

Nicolae’s eyes fell, his face going soft and far away. “Wallachian.”

She reached out and put her hand on his, resting it there, palm to palm. “We are on the same side.”