Lada wanted no such thing from him. But he had given her another knife, and she would use it to cut her way to the throne.

She inclined her head, unwilling to bow or curtsy. “I will pay my respects to your father before I leave.”

Matthias’s expression turned briefly wistful before resuming its usual sharpness. “He is dead. His final act was rooting out the traitor Ulrich. I do not expect you to stay for the funeral.”

Lada flinched. She had betrayed Hunyadi to his downfall, and then she had falsely betrayed a good man in his name. This was the thanks she gave Hunyadi for his love, for his trust, for his support.

She clutched the locket around her neck so tightly her knuckles went white, drained of blood.

“You are a strange girl,” Matthias said fondly.

“I am a dragon,” she answered. Then she turned and left the toxic castle for what she hoped was the last time.

31

April 12–19

AS RADU AND Nazira prayed in their room in the predawn light, the end of the world began.

They felt the rumblings beneath their knees, cutting off their prayer. The church bells began pealing with all the urgency of angels ushering in the end of times. Radu heard screaming in the streets.

“The cannons.” He turned to Nazira. “The cannons are here.”

“Go,” she said.

Radu yanked on his boots, nearly falling over in his haste. Before he had finished fastening his cloak, there was pounding on the bedroom door. Radu opened it to find Cyprian, as pale and worn as the limestone walls. “The cannons,” he said, shaking his head. “We are finished.”

“We must go to the walls.” Radu grabbed Cyprian’s arm and turned him around. “Have you been yet? What has fallen? Are the Ottomans in the city?”

“I do not know what has happened since I left. I was with my uncle and Giustiniani. They have requested you. I think they finally believe your account of the Turks’ guns.”

Radu almost laughed as they raced out of Cyprian’s home and through the streets. They had to push past several mobs that had gathered outside churches, everyone trying to press in at the same time. Concussive blasts shook the whole city, bursts that punctuated the still-clanging bells and the desperate wailing.

“You!” Cyprian grabbed a monk by the collar. The man looked at Cyprian as though he were the devil himself. “Where are you going?”

“To the church!”

“You will do no one good there!”

The monk’s conviction that Cyprian was the devil solidified. He glared, aghast. “That is the only place we can do any good!”

“Gather citizens, have them haul stones and material to the walls. We will need everyone’s help if we are to survive the night. You can pray while you work.”

The monk hesitated but nodded at last. “I will spread the word.”

“That was good,” Radu said as they continued their sprint toward the walls.

“It will not be enough. Promise me that if they get through, you will run.”

“I must get Nazira first.”

Cyprian nodded. “Go to Galata, if you can. You may be able to slip out undetected.”

“What about you?”

“I will stay with my uncle.”

Radu stopped. The walls were in sight. They could see plumes of smoke, and the dust of shattered stone hanging in the air like a vision of the future. “You do not owe this city your life. It is not even your city.”

Cyprian stopped, too, and they stood side by side, chests heaving from their run. “My uncle has shown me every kindness.”

“And you should be and are grateful. But if it comes to staying and dying, or running and living, choose the latter. He would want that for you.”

“Would he?”

“If he does not, he should. The city will stand or fall depending on the whims of fate. It would be a tragedy if you fell with it.” Radu realized as he said it how true it was. He could not bear the thought of Cyprian dying with the city.

Cyprian’s gray eyes shifted from troubled to thoughtful. Then his smile, the one that nearly shut his eyes with its exuberance, the one Radu had not seen in some time, erased everything else. Cyprian shook his head as though trying to physically shift the smile into a more appropriate expression, but it lingered. “Thank you,” he said. Radu had never really noticed Cyprian’s mouth before, but for some reason he could not look away from it now.

With all the clanging and shouting, Radu was disoriented. His head felt light, and his heart was beating far faster than the run here should have made it.

The sound of a stone ball smashing against a stone wall shook him out of his stupor. Cyprian guided Radu through the chaos to where the emperor and Giustiniani waited. They stood beneath a tower, gesturing emphatically. The barrel of a very large cannon stuck out of the tower, pointed toward the Ottoman troops.

“No!” Radu shouted, sprinting toward them.

A cracking noise rendered him momentarily deaf. As though it were happening from a very great distance, he watched the unanchored force of the cannon shoot it backward. The heat and movement of the blast were too much for the gun. As it hit the back of the tower with shattering force, both gun and tower exploded. Radu turned and tackled Cyprian to the ground beneath them, covering his head as rubble rained down on them. Something slammed into his shoulder.

When only a fine shower of dust was left falling around them, Radu rolled off Cyprian, clutching his shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” Cyprian leaned over him, searching him for a wound.

“Look for the emperor! He was closer.”

Cyprian stood, dodging around the remains of the tower. “Uncle? Uncle!”

With a pained groan, Radu pushed himself up to a seated position. The tower was gone. Only its stone base was left. Several broken bodies were half buried in the rubble.

“Over here!” Cyprian shouted. Radu grimaced as he tried to stand. Cyprian must have found the emperor. Or his body. Radu knew he should feel relief or even joy that the emperor had been killed this soon—and by his own men’s folly, no less. But it made him sad.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, looking up in wonder as Constantine held out a hand to help him stand. “I thought— You were so close to the tower!”

“Giustiniani heard your shout and we jumped free. How did you know it would come down?” Constantine looked toward the remains with murder written on his face. “Is my weapons master a traitor? Did he sabotage us?”

Radu grabbed his shoulder as though that could ease the pain pounding through him. “Not a traitor. Simply a fool. You cannot fire a cannon that large without padding all around it. The force of the blast pushes it backward. He packed too much gunpowder, too. I told you I knew of the sultan’s guns. Urbana, the engineer who made them, was from Transylvania. She was my friend. We spoke often.”

“Let me see,” Cyprian said. He turned Radu around and gently peeled Radu’s shirt free from his injured shoulder. His fingers were as light as a promise where they traced Radu’s skin. Radu shivered. “You are not bleeding. There will be a lot of bruising. But if you can still move your shoulder, it is probably not broken.” Cyprian’s fingers lingered for a few infinite seconds longer; then he replaced Radu’s shirt. That sense of breathlessness was back.

Giustiniani cleared his throat, spitting. He had so much stone dust in his hair he looked as though he had aged thirty years. He considered Radu thoughtfully. “Are you an expert in cannons, then?”

“Not an expert. But none of these towers are equipped for cannons. They are not strong enough, and there is not enough room to support the guns. You will have to figure out another way to use them.”

“We thought if we could fire back at the sultan’s cannons, we could—”

“Too small a target. By the time you used enough shots to get the range right, they would move their guns. You have seen their camp. If you managed to destroy even one cannon, they have the means to repair and cast new cannons. I am certain Urbana will be with them. No one is better than she. And I am guessing they have dug in and are firing from behind a bulwark.”

Constantine nodded grimly. “That first shot at the Saint Romanus Gate—even I thought the world was ending. But it has not been repeated. Maybe the cannon broke?”