My brother and I entered the new sultan’s new throne room unannounced for two reasons: First, whether we were hostages to Vladislav’s good behavior or his potential replacements, we had princely status as guests of the court, and the guards were therefore not inclined to delay us. Second, Sultan Allaedin was busily speaking, and the guards dared not interrupt an imperial majesty, especially not in the middle of an angry lecture.

The new sultan, a full turban’s height taller than his deceased father, glared down at his little redheaded half-sister as he chided her for the unseemly display she’d made of herself before the battle. If she were not his favorite sister, he would have thrashed her five times over: First, she had evaded her minders. Second, she had broken into his quarters, rummaging about and leaving everything a mess. Third, she had boarded a warship—not a fitting place for a woman, much less a girl. Fourth, she had run shrieking across the deck of said warship, an event witnessed by princes and pashas en masse, forcing them to take notice of her misbehavior. Fifth and finally, she had planted a kiss on Radu in front of sundry persons to wish him luck.

Did she think a Vlach was an appropriate champion for an Osman princess? Did she think it was appropriate to touch a boy she was not related to like that, planting her lips upon his face? As a girl, she clearly did not understand conduct becoming a princess, and she would become a woman soon enough. She could not act wantonly or recklessly.

“I’m sorry!” Gulben said tearfully, stepping forward to hug her older half-brother.

Roughly, he shoved her away. “I love you too much to thrash you, but I must make you understand. Nedaxe will take your punishment.”

Gulben shrieked, but the sultan’s surviving uncle stepped forward to grab her and hold her while the sultan applied a horsewhip to Gulben’s favorite maidservant, five vicious strokes that left the woman’s back and legs bleeding.

“There. I have thrashed her five times,” Allaedin said, his face in a dissatisfied frown. “Now stop mewling—it is unbecoming of an Osman princess.”

Gulben sobbed quietly in her uncle’s arms.

“You will tend to her wounds yourself—but if you should escape her supervision again, she will have earned twenty lashes. You may ask your tutors for advice on how best to tend to her, but they are not to lift a finger to help you, only answer your questions.” Sultan Allaedin sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his finger in exasperation. “That is as merciful as I can be, Gulben.”

Her uncle whispered in her ear, and then Gulben spoke sullenly. “Thank you, brother.” She bowed and then turned to leave and saw us. Or perhaps I should say she saw Radu—I do not think her gaze landed on me at all, but it fixed on my brother for a long moment before she hastily hid a blushing, embarrassed face behind her hands, looking down at her feet as she led her bloodied maid away.

The sultan’s gaze fell on us. “Radu. I see you are wearing my old shirt.”

Radu touched a hand to the gold-washed links of the chain shirt he wore and bowed deeply. “I will return it at once, Your Imperial Majesty; I had no idea…”

“It suits you. Keep it for as long as it fits you.” Sultan Allaedin shook his head. “Call it your reward for your princely efforts on the battlefield. I understand you already wagered away what Pasha Mustafa decided to gift you on my behalf, so we can say that my sister was the accidental agent of my will in this matter. You may keep it as my apology for being thrust into battle and wager it not—I am glad it kept you safe. You would be of no use to the Sultanate spitted on a Varangian spear.”

To the sultan’s left, Pasha Mustafa shifted nervously. To the sultan’s right, the sultan’s half-brother winked with his right eye, tapping the hilt of his new jeweled sword with a lopsided smirk.

“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” Radu said, bowing deeply. He shot the sultan’s half-brother a look that I couldn’t interpret, then looked back at the sultan. “I must apologize for my role in—”

“Say no more, and I will not take notice,” Allaedin said brusquely. “But in the future, discourage her attention as best as you are able.”

The sultan’s half-brother cleared his throat.

Allaedin gave his half-brother a measuring look. “You would advise me?”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” the half-brother said, bowing quickly. “I could take Prince Radu under my supervision—he will learn about martial matters all the better with me in Trebizond. As comely as he is, I fear Gulben’s present interest may be a mere shadow of what it will become, and as loyally as Radu pledges his obedience to your will in this matter, her proficiency in the art of enchantment will only grow. Even the Dragon’s son only has so much capacity for resisting subtle magics.”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Sultan Allaedin had a suspicious look on his face but nodded slowly, acknowledging the logic. “Very well,” he said. “Keep him away from the front lines, though, until the boy has reached his full growth—he should not be flung into boarding actions.”

Next to me, Radu inhaled as if about to voice an objection; I elbowed him in the ribs roughly, knocking just enough wind out of his lungs to interrupt him for one moment. That moment was all it took for him to remember that arguing with the sultan was unwise. Perhaps it was that motion that drew the sultan’s attention to me.

“Vladimir, come forward. And bring the woman with you. This is Helena, is it not?” The sultan turned to Pasha Mustafa, who bowed and murmured affirmatively.

“Gifted to you by Pasha Mustafa, in my name?”

Mustafa bowed deeply a second time.

“For valor in what was to be a company of Osman princes, proving their continued worth to the royal family?”

Mustafa’s third bow was accompanied by a nervous expression. “Sultan, I was told only it was to be a company of all the princes—that was the order as it was passed to me by Pasha Halil, word for word. I did not summon the Vlach princes specifically, but when they arrived—well, was I to disobey the very words of your orders from Pasha Halil’s lips?”

The sultan gave both pashas a measured look before turning his gaze to me and the subtly slouching Helena at my side. His eyebrows raised as his eyes slowly raked down from her now-pimpled forehead to her sandaled feet, where his gaze paused for a moment, and then back up. “Her maids took good care of her fingernails and toenails, and she has some fine jewelry. I must say that her portrait was very flattering,” the sultan said drily. “In this case, I suppose you have not cost me anything I was not already willing to lose.”

Helena stiffened next to me. I bowed deeply. “Sultan, may I ask a boon?”

He waved a hand negligently. “You may keep the jewelry. It is the better part of your prize in any event.”

“May I accompany my brother to Trebizond?” I kept my face pointed to the floor, hoping I was not impertinent in asking.

The sultan glanced over at his half-brother, then frowned. “No. You will stay here, in this city—in this palace, where I can easily summon you at need.”

“Thank you for the jewelry,” I said, then stood back up from my bow to hug my brother goodbye. As I bent down to clasp his shoulders, I saw that Helena was glaring at me with an expression fit to curdle milk.

“I shall be fine, brother,” Radu whispered in my ear. “Mehmed likes me well enough. He was always the nicest of the Osman princes—and I am due a fresh turn of luck the next time we play dice, too. I would hate for him to leave court without giving me a chance to win back my prizes.”

My eyes burned as I held back tears; then, dragged down by the iron cuffs under my sleeves, my arms drooped, sliding off my brother’s back as the anti-mage cuffs pulled away the trickle of magic I had unwittingly drawn from the depths of my being. A vivid vision lingered in my mind, though, a waking dream. I could see the divide between us opening wider; I could imagine that next we talked, he would address me in the Osman dialect, country Latin pushed entirely out of mind in favor of the Turkish tongue.

“Stay safe,” I choked out under my breath and then straightened.

“You may go—settle yourself somewhere nearby.” The sultan waved negligently. In response to his wave, Pasha Mustafa muttered in the ear of an astrologer. The astrologer let out a frustrated but very quiet groan and joined me as I walked out of the sultan’s newly captured throne room.

“I am to find you auspicious quarters,” the astrologer told me.

“Quarters within sight of Pasha Mustafa?” I asked quietly.

“Quarters out of sight of everyone who is anyone,” the astrologer said.

“Oh? What have I done?” I quirked an eyebrow as we walked down the hallway, Helena hurrying in our wake with her shorter legs.

The astrologer paused, looking in both directions. As Helena caught up to me, he leaned forward. “Between you and me—Pasha Mustafa described her as a stunning beauty. Now the whole court knows he is nearsighted and will be reminded of it every time they see you with her. I hope you do not mind if I show you to the far end of the palace.”

“Please,” I said. “House me in the deepest obscurity.” For my part, I was worried what questions might be asked if other members of the sultan’s court saw Helena looking as beautiful as she had the previous night. Whatever transformation she had effected with makeup in the morning, I felt certain her true face was the sleepy one I had seen in the early morning, and her real figure the flawless one I had seen every inch of rather than the lumpy one hinted at by her ill-fitting gown.

The astrologer nodded slowly. “I know that Pasha Mustafa did not truly mean it when he asked for auspicious quarters—but I know the chart of your birth, for the old sultan was much concerned with such things, and I regularly read the skies on behalf of every prominent personage at court. For you, there is one very fortunate chamber—but it is out of the way, and there are a great many steps.”

“If it is more trouble to fetch me, then all the better,” I said. “Lead on.”

In more primitive ages, a lighthouse needed a keeper to ensure the light was kept; but we live in an age of great wonders. The perpetual light installed by the Roman archmage Virgil on the heights of the rebuilt walls of Troy overlooking the Hellespont is no longer a singular wonder but an easily duplicated product of magical engineering. Even a declining city-state calling itself a Roman Empire could afford such an extravagance sooner or later, especially as it saved them the trouble of manning and fueling a conventional lamp.

There was a lighthouse built on top of the great sea-facing hall of the Great Palace, and the keeper’s quarters within the tower had been dusty and disused in the decades since the light had been upgraded—at most, the light needed to be shut down and the mirrors polished a few times a year, no constant attendance required. The old keeper’s quarters were a place where I could be forgotten and, more importantly, where Helena could be forgotten.