Radu tried his best to keep the relief flooding through his body from showing on his face. He merely inclined his head in respect, then urged his horse forward as Skanderberg moved to the side, signaling his men to do the same.

For the next mile, Radu tensed, waiting for an arrow to find the center of his back, but none came. He said a silent prayer of gratitude for the kindness of Kumal, which had once again saved his life.

Murad had not ceased drinking. Everyone was so constantly consumed by avoiding remarking on it that they may as well have spoken of nothing else.

Radu walked through the streets of Edirne late one night. The winter chill had settled deep into the stones of the city, radiating outward and stealing the warmth from his bones. People imitated the buildings, huddling into themselves, peering out through shuttered eyelids, suspicious and bitter with cold.

He stopped in at every gathering place he could—the mosques, the inns, the markets. Everywhere the tone was the same. The Janissary barracks, normally boisterous at mealtime, were as silent as the frost-covered trees. Radu slipped in wearing a Janissary cap and sat at the end of a table, head bent over his food.

“…gets to keep his land and income? After all the ways the spahis failed during the siege? And our pay remains the same. He should have his wages garnished to give us a portion of what…”

“…ill, my girl says he will not last much longer. Where are we then? If we could not take Skanderberg’s city, imagine what a siege on Constantinople would do to our ranks. I will walk away before I will serve under the little zealot….”

He was learning nothing new. With a sigh, Radu pushed away his food and walked back into the night, staring up at the sky. Low-hanging clouds pressed down on Edirne, looming and cutting the city off from the stars. Perhaps it was just as well. Radu did not think any portents found in the stars tonight could be good ones.

When he arrived at the palace, the air tasted as sour and close as a tomb. He stepped lightly as he stole past doors where his presence would be desired, and found his goal: his own room.

His boots fell heavily to the floor in front of the hearth. The fire was low, but strong enough to warm the room.

He was so tired.

Murad requested his presence at all hours of the day and night, oftentimes demanding they stay awake until dawn. Radu had performed his poem so many times he often awoke, head aching and mouth dry, reciting it in his sleep as he had once joked he could do.

If there was any mercy in the world, tonight Murad would forget him.

A stack of letters had been left on his bedside table. He sifted through them, discarding the invitations from various acquaintances that were still pretending his return was a cause for celebration. After Kruje, he no longer had the spark for pretending to enjoy himself at gatherings. He had seen men die.

He had killed men.

And now he was right back where he had started, no closer to helping Mehmed. And Mehmed was as far away as he had ever been.

Radu paused on a letter in a shaky script, then tore it open.

It was from Kumal. Radu sat back, grinning with relief. Kumal was on the mend, slowly recovering his strength. But a sentence at the bottom of the letter left Radu both shocked and dismayed.

I expect that, by spring, I will be well enough to attend your wedding to Nazira, a joyous event we bask in the warmth of anticipating. Until then, my dear brother, take care of yourself.

Radu laughed in disbelief. Apparently Kumal did not view his survival as voiding a contract made on his deathbed. He would have to wait to tell Kumal it was impossible. He did not want any disappointment interrupting his friend’s convalescence.

Radu had no idea if he was even allowed to marry. Janissaries were not, but he was not strictly a Janissary, despite his command. He supposed it came down to the whim of the sultan. Nazira held no political value, with Kumal’s position dependent on the favor of the capital and no significant money to their family. He knew she could marry higher than him, though, a pashazada or another vali. Why would Kumal want such a thing for her?

A pang of bittersweet understanding rippled through him. Kumal wanted the best for his sister, which meant he wanted for her what he thought would make her happiest. All her kind attentions, her blushing smiles, her joyful radiance when he had visited—Radu was not Kumal’s choice. He was Nazira’s.

But how could he give Nazira his heart when it was so twisted and tangled up in Mehmed’s? Hers glowed pure and open. He would have to persuade Kumal that Nazira deserved more than he could give her.

A light knock on the door startled him. A servant boy, wide-eyed and wary-looking, bowed. “The sultan requests your presence.”