“Yes, Salih’s interests are rather peculiar.” Halil Pasha resumed eating, then, his voice as casual as a knife in the dark, asked, “And what of your friend Mehmed? Do you hear much from him?”

Radu sighed, letting guilt play across his face as he looked over in Murad’s direction. “My comportment with Mehmed does not reflect well on my character. It is a source of shame for me.”

Halil Pasha leaned closer. “Oh?”

“When he left, he accused me of using his friendship to get closer to his father, and…I fear he was not wrong. I am grateful for the kindness Mehmed showed me, but I never agreed with his tolerance for radical views on Islam, nor his misguided militaristic ideas. Though,” Radu said, tilting his head thoughtfully, “he has softened considerably on those. I think his time in the country has much improved his temperament. But our sultan is a scholar and a philosopher of the highest order, and it has long been my dream to be near enough to absorb some small portion of his wisdom.”

Halil Pasha made a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, though he frowned as he digested Radu’s words. Radu went back to his meal as if the information he had just given Halil Pasha was not carefully constructed and entirely false.

From across the table, a conversation grew more heated, loud enough for Radu to pick up a few words. One, Skanderberg, kept being repeated. “Who is this Skanderberg they speak of?” Radu asked, leaning close to Halil Pasha.

“Have you not heard? He was once a favorite of Murad, though back then he was Iskander Bey. An Albanian Janissary who rose through the ranks until Murad made him bey of Kruje. And Skanderberg repaid Murad’s generosity by betraying him and claiming that section of Albania as his own. Twice now we have made attempts to reclaim it and been repulsed.” He paused to give Radu a poisonous smile. “Favorites can fall far.”

Murad shifted in his chair, face deepening to red. If Radu could hear the talk of Skanderberg, surely Murad could. It had to be a source of tremendous embarrassment for him.

Seeing an opportunity to insinuate himself further into Murad’s good graces, Radu stood.

All eyes turned to him, but he bowed toward Murad. “If it pleases you, my father, I have written a poem about the glory of your rule.”

It was one of the many weapons in his arsenal, one he had hoped to keep sheathed for a while longer. But Murad was primed for a strike. The sultan beamed, gesturing for Radu to stand on a platform in the corner of the room.

Radu had practiced the poem so often he could recite it in his sleep. He had stolen shiny bits from famous Arabic poems, gathering them like a raven to line his own nest. The language was dense and flowery, hyperbolic in the extreme. Murad listened, enraptured, as his reign was likened to the ocean and his posterity a mighty river.

While Radu performed the many long stanzas, he watched as the meal was finished and men began to move around the room. While Murad sat, untouchable, nearly everyone of any importance eventually followed the pull to Halil Pasha to pay their respects. He sat in the center of a vast web of influence.

Radu smiled and spoke in brighter tones to cover the despair he felt watching his enemy, the spider, and wondering how he ever thought he could hope to defeat him.

Lately, prayer brought Radu little comfort. Even joining five times a day at the dizzyingly beautiful mosque, surrounded by his brothers, Radu felt alone. Heart heavy and head hanging, he trudged out onto the steps of the mosque, evening already eating away the blue of the sky. If he lost his faith, what was left to him?

“Radu?”

He looked up to find a man staring at him, arms open, face wide with wonder. “Can this be the lost little boy I prayed with so long ago?”

Recognition dawned on Radu, warming him like the sun. “Kumal?”

With a laugh, the older man threw his arms around Radu, drawing him into an embrace. It was the first sincere physical affection Radu had had since that horrible night with Salih. Something in his chest broke free, and he hugged Kumal too tightly, clinging to him.

Kumal’s voice was as tender as his touch on Radu’s back. “Are you still lost, then?”

“I think I am.”

“Come, let us take a meal.” Keeping an arm around Radu’s shoulder, Kumal shepherded him as he had when Radu was so much younger. They found an inn serving supper. Plates of spiced meat, steaming with fragrant warmth, were set before them.

“Where have you been?” Radu asked. “I have not seen you in the courts.”

“I do not visit often. There is too much to do in my vali, and I have always preferred filling my duties there to spending time here.”