EMPIRE (EBOOK)

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SEVENTEEN NOVELS & SHORT STORIES
Hunted (Book 1)
First Death (Short Story 1)
Dancing Blades (Short Story 2)
The Meeting (Short Story 3)
Warrior (Book 2)
The Warrior Monk (Short Story 4)
Empire (Book 3)
The Hunger (Short Story 5)
Legacy (Book 4)
The Bank Job (Short Story 6)
Origins (Book 5)
Destiny (Book 6)

October 1553. Amasya. Ottoman Empire.

The messenger hurried along the wide marble hallway, the leather soles of his dusty riding boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. Golden beams washed through open archways in the south walls of the palace and painted patterns of shadow and light across the colored tiles. The trickle of falling water carried from the fountains in the courtyards outside, where crystal jets sparkled like diamonds in the fading, yellow light. Dusk was falling fast across the Pontus Mountains and the narrow river valley that held the fortified city of Amasya.

It had taken the man the better part of a day to ride across Anatolia from the province of Konya. The document he carried inside his kaftan lay heavy against his breast during the long, solitary hours on the road, the weight matched by the growing despair in his heart.

He reached an imposing pair of gilded doors and halted in front of the armed guards who blocked his path.

‘I need to speak to Her Highness,’ he said in a low voice, ignoring the glances they cast at his Janissary uniform. He removed his bork hat and took the slim roll from his tunic. ‘I bring urgent news from the south.’

A muscle twitched in his jaw while the guards carefully inspected the imperial seal on the parchment. He barged past them when they finally opened the golden doors.

The messenger’s eyes darted around the lavish interior of the royal chamber before falling on the figure slowly rising from the ornate window seat overlooking the glimmering Yesilirmak River.

‘Captain Rajkovic. What a pleasure to see you. I was not expecting a visit,’ murmured Mahidevran Sultan.

Low and mellifluous, the older woman’s voice matched her regal appearance. Gold and silver threads glittered in her garments as she crossed the floor toward him, the tips of her silk slippers peeking from beneath the hem of her dress. He caught the sweet scent of rose water drifting from her fair skin and auburn hair, and could not help but feel a flutter of admiration for the Sultan.

Despite the passage of time, the first concubine of Suleiman the Magnificent had retained the ageless beauty that had earned her the name of Gulbahar, the Rose Spring.

Rajkovic bowed. ‘Your Highness.’ He straightened and scanned the attendants lounging around the private quarters of the Sultan, before meeting the eyes of the woman he had traveled so far to see.

Mahidevran’s steps faltered when she saw the expression he could no longer mask. She waved the other women away with brisk flicks of her hand, her gaze never leaving his face. Her attendants disappeared through a door at the rear of the chamber.

‘You bring me news of my son?’ she said stiffly, once they were alone.

He nodded wordlessly and handed her the sealed document.

The Sultan’s hands trembled as she unrolled the parchment. The color drained from her face when she read the message inscribed upon it.

Rajkovic closed his eyes briefly at the sight of the raw anguish on her face. He knew the words already. He had been there when they were written.

Birdsong rose from the gardens outside the windows, the innocent sound at odds with the devastating tidings he had been ordered to bring to the woman before him. The parchment dropped from the Sultan’s fingers and fluttered to the marble floor. She stared at him blindly, tears spilling over and rolling down her silken cheeks.

A single cry left her lips and she slowly folded to the ground, her sobs shattering the frozen silence. The door at the back of the chamber opened. Her attendants rushed in, their voices raised in alarm.

The guards at the main doors quickly followed. They staggered to a stop next to Rajkovic, their swords drawn. Confusion clouded their faces when they observed the women around the weeping Sultan.

‘What happened?’ said the closest man, his fingers whitening on the handle of his blade. He glanced anxiously at the captain.

‘Prince Mustafa is dead,’ Rajkovic replied, his tone leaden. As the words fell from his numb lips, the reality of the statement overwhelmed him once more. His shoulders sagged. ‘Suleiman Sultan had him executed.’

The guard gasped.

His companion swore under his breath. ‘The King killed his own son?’

Rajkovic dipped his chin.

As the wails of Mahidevran’s attendants echoed around the royal chamber, the captain tore his gaze from the crying Sultan. A slight motion drew his attention to the back of the room.

A young woman he had never seen before stood at the door. Her arms were wrapped around her midsection, and she hunched over as if she had received a blow to her body.

His breath caught in his throat.

Thick lashes fell to touch creamy, flawless skin, hiding her eyes. Tears trembled on the curved, velvet-black strands and dropped silently onto her pale cheeks. Her full, crimson lips glistened in the golden light as she pressed them together.

Despite the grief that shadowed the stranger’s face, her beauty outshone even that of the Emperor’s concubine.

Guilt and shame suddenly washed over the captain, drowning his dawning interest in the woman. He turned on his heels and exited the chamber.

In the chaos that followed, Branimir Rajkovic strode along the flame-lit corridors and halls of the palace and headed out into the city. As news of the death of the heir to Suleiman the Magnificent spread around him, a smoldering anger replaced the crushing pain inside his heart. Cries of ‘The Lawgiver has killed Mustafa! Our Prince is no more!’ soon reverberated across the narrow streets of Amasya. He stopped outside the forbidding gates of the Janissary barracks and stared at the moon rising over the valley, his hands fisting by his sides.

He had dedicated his whole life in service of the man who had been destined to become the next Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Not only had Mustafa been a valiant warrior and much-loved Prince of Anatolia, he had also been the captain’s closest friend since he joined the Janissary Corps twenty years earlier. He recalled the hours they had spent together, laughing and dreaming of the day they would rule the world and all the people within it. Although Mustafa spoke of such matters more in jest than in earnest, deep down, Rajkovic knew the prince was capable of achieving that vision and would be an even greater ruler than his father, Suleiman. The captain had wanted nothing more than to remain at Mustafa’s side and help him realize that dream.

Images of his best friend’s final moments flashed in front of the captain’s eyes once more. He took a deep, shuddering breath and headed inside the barracks.

In the days that followed Prince Mustafa’s wrongful execution, the rage simmering inside Rajkovic’s veins grew stronger and was soon reflected by the civil unrest that broke out across Anatolia. News rapidly spread that Hurrem Sultan, Suleiman’s wife, and her son-in-law, Rustem Pasha, had concocted a conspiracy to overthrow the rightful heir to the Ottoman throne. This caused further outrage from the Janissary Corps and Mustafa’s soldiers, forcing Suleiman to remove Rustem from his position.

Two weeks after the death of the Prince, Rajkovic awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of knocking on the door of his quarters. He almost dropped the candleholder in his hand when he opened it and saw the two figures standing on the threshold.

Mahidevran Sultan observed him solemnly from beneath the hood of her cloak, her face ghostly pale in the flickering light of the flame. Standing behind her was the hauntingly beautiful young woman Rajkovic had first seen on that fateful day when he visited the palace to deliver the gruesome news of Prince Mustafa’s death to the Sultan.
‘May we come in?’ said Mahidevran softly.