And I Darken (The Conquerors Saga #1) - Kiersten White Page 0,16

glance.

Radu’s chest collapsed, all his pride and hope turning ugly and sour in his stomach. The rest of the ride was a sweaty and uncomfortable slog among trees buzzing with insects. He let his horse fall back, ending up near the rear of the group with the less important boyars, who grumbled and gossiped among themselves, oblivious to his presence.

Twice branches whipped Radu’s face, leaving it stinging. But he did not cry out, and he did not break form. He listened to the conversations around him, and he noted when complaints were a bit too pointedly directed at the head of the group.

He embarrassed no one. He remained unnoticed and invisible.

It was, apparently, both the least and the most he could do for his father.

LADA COULD NOT BREATHE in the castle. A miasma of anxious fear hovered over everything. People gathered in dark corners, whispering. Her father threw banquet after banquet, trying to appease the boyars, who were growing increasingly open in their hostilities. Everywhere she went eyes followed her. Bogdan had been a sort of shield—always at her side, always obedient. Losing him would have been difficult enough, but she had also lost the love and worship she had nurtured for her father.

Now she could see how little her father actually cared for Wallachia. Everything he did was for himself, to protect his own power at whatever cost. The armor she imagined his love had given her had been stripped away, and without it, she was naked and vulnerable. Every day was precarious, every smile and interaction dangerous. One false move and perhaps she, too, would be discarded. Her father still favored her, and she suspected that, in his own way, he truly cared about her, but his love was as contemptible and flimsy as one of his endless string of false political promises.

She would be thirteen this summer. Her mother had married at thirteen.

Lada’s mouth tasted like blood and iron all the time now. It tasted like defeat. As she walked through the corridors one evening on her way to the kitchens, a boyar knocked her out of his way without so much as an apology. It made her feel small and unimportant.

She was small and unimportant.

She hurried to the gardens behind the castle courtyard, dunked her head in a fountain, and swished water through her mouth to rinse everything away. Muffled screams caught her attention. She knew that sound well, as she was usually the one causing it. A fierce possessiveness welled in her chest and she stormed through the garden, closing in on Radu and his assailant.

Mircea had Radu by the back of his neck and was pushing him deeper and deeper into the unforgiving thorns of a dense rosebush. Mircea was strong and thick like their father, but his facial hair was still patchy. Sometimes Lada caught him standing over a reflecting pool and tugging on his sparse mustache like he could make the symbol of his status grow faster.

“What did you hear?” Mircea hissed, unaware of his audience. Radu screamed as Mircea pushed harder.

“Nothing, nothing,” Radu insisted.

Lada silently unsheathed the knife she always wore under her sash and held it behind her back. “There you are.” She scowled. “Father has been asking for you.”

Mircea looked over, face open and pleasant as though he had not been caught torturing their brother. “Has he?”

“Something about the boyars.” Lada lifted her free hand and waved it in disinterest. It was a good lie. There was always something about the boyars that needed attending to. She plucked a rose and held it to her face. She hated the way roses smelled, their sweetness too fragile. She wanted a garden of evergreens. A garden of stones. A garden of swords. She smiled conspiratorially at Mircea. “He seemed angry.”

Mircea met her smile. “He is always angry.”

“Perhaps his cap is too tight.”

“Perhaps his breeches are too small.”

“Perhaps,” Lada said, noting that Mircea had relaxed his grip on Radu’s neck and that Radu had the sense to stay perfectly still, “what is inside his breeches is too small.”

Mircea let go of Radu, throwing his head back and roaring a laugh. He clapped his hand on Lada’s shoulder, squeezing too hard. “Be careful, Sister. You have dirt inside that mouth.”

He directed one vicious kick at Radu’s prone backside, then hurried past them into the castle. There was meanness at Mircea’s core. Lada had watched him torment the castle dogs for sport, causing pain for no reason. She did not understand it. Why do