Kumal had helped Radu understand his own soul, and he would not throw Kumal’s away without care.

He pulled his horse to a halt, raising a fist for the men behind him to stop. He led his Janissaries, down four poor souls, and Kumal’s spahis. He did not know how many Kumal’s men had lost, but dreaded the unacceptable loss they faced should they be delayed.

Up ahead, a group of men roughly equal in size to their own sat on horses, blocking the road. Hand on the pommel of his sword, Radu rode forward. Lazar moved to follow him, but he shook his head. A man broke off from the other group and rode to meet Radu. From a distance, Radu thought him very young; then he got closer and Radu realized his face was simply clean-shaven. Deep lines around the eyes betrayed his age, and Radu wondered who he was and why he would go against custom by not growing a mustache or a beard, depending on what he was entitled to.

The man smiled bleakly, raising a hand in greeting. Though he was dressed in clothes more closely matched to this region, he spoke perfect Turkish. “Hello, sultan’s dog. Have you lost your master?”

Radu narrowed his eyes. There was something familiar in the man’s face. And then he realized—he had seen this man’s portrait, altered now by the brushstrokes of age.

Skanderberg.

Radu looked over his shoulder. The wagon that carried Kumal sat like a fat beetle, unwieldy and vulnerable. Though their forces were evenly matched, Radu had seen too many caravans attacked to doubt for a second that the advantage was always with the attacker. He had something to protect—they had nothing to lose.

With a heavy sigh, he turned back to Skanderberg. “My friend is ill.”

Skanderberg looked into the distance, eyes soft and out of focus. “My whole country is ill.” His gaze fixed itself on Radu, taking in his clothes, his cap, his horse. “What is your name?”

“Radu.”

“Simply Radu? No family?”

Radu smiled darkly. “My father sold me as collateral against the throne of Wallachia. You will understand why I do not claim him.”

Skanderberg nodded. “I do. We must claim ourselves, sometimes. You should pick a new name.” Skanderberg’s name was a perversion of the name he had been given by the Ottomans—Iskander—and the bey title he had been given and then defied.

Skanderberg’s mouth twisted playfully. “Perhaps Radu the Handsome.”

“I was considering Radu the Overwhelmingly Weary.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Skanderberg rubbed his cheeks, examining the men behind Radu. “Who are you escorting?”

“His name is Kumal. He is vali of a provincial area half a day’s travel from Edirne. He owns very little, is no particular favorite of the sultan’s, and has no living relatives other than a younger sister who has nothing if he dies. And he will probably be dead before a ransom can be demanded.”

Skanderberg laughed. “I see. So why are you risking your life escorting a corpse of no value?”

“He showed me kindness when there was no advantage to him for doing so.”

With a grunt, Skanderberg pulled a beaten metal flask from his saddlebag, took a drink, and then wiped his mouth. There was no tension in his body, no sense of imminent attack. Looking at Skanderberg’s men, Radu saw that their shoulders were turned inward, away from the potential fight. They looked, instead, over the ravaged and burned countryside. Radu wondered if they were the ones who had set the fires.

“You do not seem to be taking much joy in your victory,” Radu said.

“Ah, yes, my victory.” Skanderberg bared his teeth, holding his arms wide. “I remain lord of a broken and burned land, my coffers empty, my people sick, my fields destroyed. And yet my pride remains intact! My damnable pride and my people’s freedom will not fill their bellies this long coming winter. Some victories are merely defeat wearing the wrong clothing.” He spat on the ground. “How many men would you estimate we will lose if my pride demands one last gesture of defiance against our sultan?”

“I will certainly lose the wagon. Even if you do not take Kumal, delay and hardship will mean his death. My men are tired but angry at their humiliation. Yours are bitter at the forces that cost them so much. I suspect you will ride away, as you always manage to, but with nothing gained other than Janissary blood mingling with your own men’s to water your dead fields. I do not think I will survive, which will be disappointing.”

Skanderberg nodded thoughtfully. “He is a kind man, you say?”

“The kindest I have ever known.”

“Well then. We are late for our afternoon meal. Give Murad my regards, Radu the Handsome.”