But it was simply too hot for worry.
He copied Mehmed’s movements, surprising himself with the ease of his own descent. Lada always made him feel weak and clumsy, but Mehmed expected him to keep up, which made it easy to do so.
They ran, hunched over and low to the ground, stifling laughter as they went. Not far from them was a spot where a tree had grown over the wall. Radu knelt, boosting Mehmed up to grab a branch. Mehmed scrambled on top of the wall and reached back down to help Radu climb. They both jumped to the ground on the other side, where it was noticeably cooler, the heavy stone of the mountain and the crowding trees doing their part to defeat the sun.
They had escaped only a short distance when they heard a soft thunk, followed by a string of cursing.
In Wallachian.
“Lada,” Radu whispered.
Mehmed put a finger to his lips, and they crept forward with exaggerated stealth. Lada stood in the middle of a small clearing, her back to them, a quiver of arrows next to her. She had marked out targets on a tree some distance away, ambitious even for a practiced bowman. She pulled back the bowstring, then released it. The arrow flew wide of the tree, landing two arm lengths away.
She stomped her foot, berating herself in meaner, more foul terms than any Radu had ever heard. Mehmed could not understand what she was saying, could not hear the hatred and recrimination Lada spat out on her own head. Radu could, though, and he wondered when his sister had decided that nothing less than perfection was acceptable. He stood, wanting to go to her, to hug her, to tell her that it was okay. She still had time to learn, and she was good at so many other things. He wanted her to stop saying those horrible things, to stop thinking them.
Mehmed had other ideas. He crept forward, then grabbed the quiver and, whooping loudly, ran.
Lada spun, murder in her eyes.
Radu ran, too.
He passed Mehmed, motivated by knowledge of what awaited them if Lada caught them. The two boys sprinted headlong through the trees, dodging low branches and leaping over logs, Lada close on their heels.
Radu burst out of the trees and skidded to a halt. He threw out an arm to stop Mehmed. They were on the edge of a drop, a deep green pool a body’s length beneath them flanked by sheer rock on one side and tumbled boulders on the other. A slender creek sang down the boulders, feeding the pool. Everything was still and quiet, the only sound their labored breathing.
Lada caught up to them, fists raised, momentum set to carry her straight into them.
“Stop!” Radu said. “There’s a drop into a pool!”
With a shout of triumph, she shoved both boys over the side and into the water.
Radu spluttered to the surface, immediately looking for Mehmed. The pool was not deep—his feet had touched the bottom—and he was terrified that Mehmed might have hit his head or broken his neck, or suffered some other grievous injury.
Instead, Mehmed floated on his back, arms behind his head as he laughed. “Why, thank you, Lada. This is quite the miracle on a day like today.”
With a growl, she jumped, landing between them with a great splash. After she had satisfied herself by shoving their heads underwater again and again despite their fighting to get away, she swam to a submerged boulder and sat on it. She looked content, her head tipped back to feel the sun on her water-cooled face. The self-hating, cursing demon of the trees seemed forgotten entirely. Radu had done that. A flush of pride warmed him against the icy water.
“I did not know this was here,” Mehmed said. “I think no one does. Though there is a story…”
“Tell us!” Radu splashed water at him.
Mehmed slipped into a deeper voice, speaking slowly, relishing the tale. “Once, long, long ago, there lived a great king who had a single daughter. Her name was Shirin, and her beauty was legend.”
Lada made a sound like a horse. Radu glared at her.
“Shirin lived on the other side of this mountain. One day, she traveled with her maids to this side, for the apples were said to be sweeter, fed by a clear, cold stream of unparalleled purity. A young man, Ferhat, from a humble family saw her and immediately knew he would never love another. He presented Shirin with the bushel of apples he had been collecting for himself, and as their hands touched he knew she felt the same.”
Lada yawned dramatically.
“But she was a princess, and he was no one. Still, he traveled to the other side of the mountain to ask for her hand in marriage. Her father, aghast, but seeing his daughter’s preference, presented Ferhat with an impossible task: if Ferhat brought the stream of pure water to the king’s side of the mountain, he could marry Shirin. Ferhat tried many things. He carved irrigation channels, but the water turned sluggish and muddy as soon as it left its source. He carried the water in giant vessels, but it spilled or dried up before he could complete the journey. Finally, desperate to be nearer Shirin, he began to dig. He cut deeper and deeper into the mountain, guiding the stream along with him, traveling through the darkness, knowing her light shone on the other side.
“But this did not sit well with the king. He heard of Ferhat’s progress and knew that if Ferhat succeeded, he would have to live with the shame of giving up his prized daughter. Since he could not go back on his word, the king sent a servant to spread the tale that Shirin had died. Ferhat, stumbling from the mountain after countless hours in the dark, was met with the news that the light he dug toward had been extinguished forever.
“Overcome with despair, he fled back into his tunnel and beat his head against the end of it until he died. Shirin, heartbroken and betrayed by her father, disappeared. They say she wandered into the mountain in search of Ferhat and was never seen again. Together, they form the heart of the mountain, still beating, pouring forth a spring as pure as their love forever.”
/> “That is beautiful,” Radu said, swishing his hands reverently through the water, as though it carried the legacy of the lovers, buoying them up.
“That is absurd,” Lada said. “They both died for nothing.”