Now it was Vlad’s turn, and the bandaged Cicero watched Eira’s hands, unblinking, his shoulder pressed to Vlad’s.
Malik stood in the center of the room, admirably calm for a man who was, clearly, dumbfounded.
Vlad looked at him, finally; he needed a distraction, if nothing else. “You still haven’t said anything.”
“I’m thinking, your grace.”
“In my experience,” Eira said as she worked, “that doesn’t do much good with men. They still do whatever stupid thing they set out to do in the first place.”
Malik’s gaze went to her, eyes brimming with questions.
“You’ve been thinking the whole time,” Vlad said. “Mostly, you’ve been thinking my mother must be my mistress, because she doesn’t look old enough to have a son my age. And also because the princess, my father’s wife, is dead.”
Malik looked back at Vlad, the shadows on his cheeks seeming darker – a blush. “I – forgive me, but yes, your grace. I’ve been thinking exactly that.”
Eira sighed as she stepped back and set the cloth down, reaching for the herbs and grease and mortar and pestle Helga offered her. “Honestly, Vlad, don’t toy with the man.”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s a suggestion, from someone much older than you.” She began to grind a handful of herbs in the mortar. “Curiosity,” she said to Malik, “is only natural – and so are we.”
Malik took a shallow breath. “Vampires? There…there are stories…”
“That our kind sleep in coffins and burn in the sunlight,” Vlad said. “That we turn to smoke, and fly, and abduct young women.”
“That you drink blood.”
“We do do that,” Eira said. “But only to survive, and mostly from our wolves.”
“Mostly,” Vlad emphasized with a grin, and Malik’s throat worked as he swallowed. He sobered. “We can go about in the daylight, as you can plainly see. And we can eat garlic, and go into churches – I was raised Eastern Orthodox, and I pray to the Christian God. I can neither turn to smoke, nor to a bat. But we are strong, and we are immortal.” He hitched up straighter in his chair, feeling defiant. “My father was not only Vlad Dracul of Wallachia, but also Remus, son of Mars, co-founder of Rome.”
Malik’s gaze went wide. His mouth worked, but he could not speak.
“Your sultan?” Vlad continued. “Mehmet? He’s a vampire as well. Not bred, as I was, born of two vampire parents, but turned. Turned by my uncle, Romulus, who is still very much alive and, apparently, sending mages and wolves to attack me.
“The woman? With her fire? That was a mage. Learn the word – learn to fear it. They’re far more dangerous than any other immortal.”
“I-immortal.”
“Immortal,” Vlad repeated. “Wolves, mages, vampires. That’s what we are. We can be killed – but not easily. And if not.” He shrugged. “So now you know.”
Malik’s mouth fell open, a rare show of discomposure, and he took a series of slow, deep breaths. Then he closed his lips, nodded to himself. “What you said in the city square today.” He sent Vlad a pointed, questioning look.
This was the big question. The one that could have his own men turning on him.
Vlad took a deep breath, and heard the other immortals in the room do the same. His mother hesitated, poultice ready, but not wanting to intrude.
What was this truth after the mind-bending reveal of what they really were?
He said, “I’m here with the sultan’s blessing. I know this.
“But the Ottomans have been my captors. My tormentors. The entire reason why my father fell into conflict with the neighboring princes. And they–” His voice caught, emotion rising, and he swallowed it down. “Mehmet. Has disgraced my brother in every way imaginable. He’s hurt him. I know you belong to the sultan, but make no mistake: when I’m able to, when I have the means, I will forsake my alliance with him in a heartbeat. And if I can, I will wash this land clean of his influence.”
He lifted his chin. “What do you think of that, captain?”
Silence.
Vlad stared at the janissary. He didn’t have his father’s power for persuasion, nor Val’s sweet, pretty looks. He could only hope that honesty was a kind of weapon in and of itself.
And if all else failed, he could kill Malik Bey and make it look like an accident.
Finally, Malik spoke, and the words were not what Vlad had expected. “I do not remember my family,” he said. “I was taken from my mother’s breast, and nursed by a slave woman. I don’t remember my mother’s smile. My father’s laugh. I don’t know if I had any brothers or sisters. I don’t know which god my family worshipped; what their home looked like; what they ate, and how they fit into their community. I was handed a spear when I was old enough to hold it, and told how to pray, and who to serve, and how to fit into the place I’d been given. I don’t remember my name – my real name, that my mother gave me the day of my birth; I hope she kissed my forehead. I hope she loved me.
“I was raised a janissary, Prince Dracula,” he said. “And I am a slave. I would like, very much, to serve a man who might change that.”
Slowly, Vlad sat up straighter in his chair.
“A man who doesn’t want glory,” he continued. “Who doesn’t want to take over the world just because he can. Anyone can make slaves of the people he conquers; it is another thing entirely to serve a peasant people and to be loved for offering them freedom.
“There were rumors amongst us in Edirne: that the heir – and now sultan – wasn’t quite human. We spoke of his appetites, though we dared not make accusations. And I thought, ‘Who could stop such a creature? Who could halt his ceaseless, violent progress?’ It would take another such creature. One who is also a man of worth.
“I don’t know what you are – not completely. But I will fight for you. Whatever happens, whatever your orders from the sultan, you shall have me as an ally.” And he bowed deeply, his fist to his chest.
Eira stood with her tools held in limp hands, eyes wide. She looked at Vlad, brows raised.
All three wolves looked likewise stunned.
Vlad eased to his feet, pushing up with his uninjured hand, aware of a dozen aches and pains he hadn’t known before he’d sat. “I will know if you’re lying,” he said.
Malik tipped his head back, his throat exposed, his gaze clear. “Then it’s a good thing I am not.”
Vlad tested the air. The man smelled nervous – but a normal amount, considering what he’d just been told. Good old-fashioned fear for one’s safety, and not the acrid stink of deception and guilt.
Vlad found that he believed him.
He extended a hand. “I’ll hold you to what you’ve said tonight.”
Malik clasped his hand with his own. “Yes, your grace.”
~*~
“You should drink.”
Vlad looked down at his bandaged hand, curling his fingers. A tiny movement that brought great pain. Eira had wanted to wrap the whole thing up, like a club, but he’d told her to leave his fingers free so he could use them – even though doing so left him breathless. The pain made it difficult to sleep. He sat by the hearth in his bedchamber, examining his ruined flesh by the firelight, replaying the night’s events in his mind. Beyond the window, dawn crept across the horizon on slow, silver feet.
“I will do no such thing,” he said. Exhaustion took the bite out of the words.
Cicero snorted and dropped a heavy fur over his shoulders.
With his good hand, Vlad reached to pull it tighter, pressed his face into it and inhaled. An old, old wolf fur, musty with age; he imagined he could still smell his brother on it.
Cicero limped over to the other chair and eased down into it with a wince.
“Look at you – you can barely walk,” Vlad said. “I should be the one taking care of you.”
Cicero settled in, his smile small, tired, but true. “That isn’t the way this arrangement works.”
“It sho
uld be,” Vlad insisted. “Familiar’s aren’t slaves. They shouldn’t have to serve if they’re hurt or sick.”
Cicero tipped his head, expression soft, fond…sad. “Did your mother teach you that?”
“You know she did. Don’t be coy. And she’s right.”
Cicero held up a hand. “Not coy, just…you were away from home for a long time.” Among enemies. Away from Eira’s life lessons, and her relentless, ironic gentleness.
“That’s irrelevant,” Vlad said. “I am the same person I was always going to be.”
“Only a little angrier, I should think,” his Familiar said, gently.
Vlad slumped back in his chair, fur pulled tight around his shoulders. “You’re very old and wise. I’m in no mood for it today.”
Cicero chuckled, and then sobered. “If that mage truly was sent by your uncle–”
“Then we have more than Vladislav to contend with.” A fresh wave of exhaustion crashed over him. He fought it, blinking, curling his fingers so the pain would keep him alert. “I think,” he said, “that things will get much worse before they get better.”
“Unfortunately, that’s usually the case.”
~*~
Hunyadi’s son Matthias married the Serbian princess.
The Hungarian was free.
As the weather grew colder, Vlad’s small force at Tîrgovişte began preparing in earnest. He drilled his troops, and his troops in turn began training the boys who willingly joined his tiny army. Some were strong – blacksmith apprentices and farm boys with wide shoulders and thick arms. But most were too young, or too sickly, or so old they weren’t boys at all, but ragtag fathers and husbands in need of a job. All of them had spirit – but spirit wouldn’t hold a palace.
They began stockpiling: hay and grain for the horses, carted up from the city in wagons pulled by oxen. Craftsmen made arrows, barrels of them. And there were barrels of wine, and ale, and casks of cured meats and pickled vegetables and fruits.
“Will the walls hold?” Malik asked one day, as Vlad stood atop them, bitter wind tugging at his clothes and hair.
“Unless they have sappers or siege towers, yes.”
But his heart thudded too hard in his chest, and anxiety crawled across his skin like insects.
It wasn’t enough. Vladislav was coming, and he was only seventeen, and he had too few troops, and no allies in the region, and–
A hand landed on his shoulder, light, unobtrusive. Malik’s face, when Vlad turned to look at it, was unusually kind. “What?”
“I just wanted to say, your grace, speaking as someone with – forgive me – a fair amount of war experience more than you – that there is no shame in standing down, if that’s what it comes to.”
Mother had told him the same thing. Doubtless Father would agree, given his record of surrender and appeasement. Logically, he knew that there was honor in retreating, in surrendering, especially when it was done to prevent one’s people from being slaughtered.
But his jaw tightened, and his pulse elevated another notch. “This seat is my birthright. Those are my people down there.” He motioned to the city, the glazing of shiny frost on the rooftops. “I can’t…” He trailed off. The weight of it crushed him.
Malik squeezed once, comforting, and let go. “Just an observation, your grace. We are with you.”
Three days before Christmas, the scout arrived. A wild-eyed boy atop a winded, lathered horse. “An army, your grace!” he shouted, hysterical, as he slipped to the ground and nearly fell. “Thousands!”
Vlad went to the top of the wall, but of course he couldn’t see them yet. They were still miles away.
Eira joined him, dressed for battle – or for travel.
The awful tug in his guts told him he’d already made his choice.
“Mama,” he said, helpless, turning to her, and she touched his face. Cupped his cheek in one small, strong hand.
“Oh, baby. I know,” she murmured. “It’s alright.”
“I should fight. I promised to.”
“Darling.” She smoothed his hair. “They are too many. We can’t win.”
“Are you telling me to flee?” Shame made his stomach hurt.
“I’m telling you to live. This isn’t the time for your fight. Be patient – you have forever.”
But it was fleeing. And it shamed him, badly.
He took his troops, and what was left of his family, and he bid a momentary adieu to his childhood home.
He paused, at the crest of the last hill, and looked back, though he knew he shouldn’t. There was the city, and above it, perched pale and regal on the hill, the palace that he hadn’t been able to hold.
His heart clenched.
I’ll come back, he promised, and hoped it was a vow that he could keep.
27
TUCKED TAIL
“And so he returns,” Murat said from his favored chair, his audience chamber warmed with coal braziers, lit by dozens upon dozens of candles. “Not as a conquering hero, but with drooping ears and a tucked tail. You failed.”
An accusation would have been easier to swallow – he could have argued his case against it. But a simple statement of fact, such as this, settled across the back of his neck, heavy as a yoke. He clenched his hands together behind his back, nails digging into his palms. “I had but a small number of men. Vladislav’s numbers were superior.”
“Yes, and yet you didn’t stay and test them against your own. Knowing you, and your penchant for…futile violence. I expected rashness, rather than retreat.”
“Sorry to have disappointed you.”
Murat waved. He looked bored. “I overestimated you, it would seem. You are, after all, just a boy, and clearly not ready for leadership.”
Vlad opened his mouth and drew in a deep, fast breath; he felt his fangs against his lip. The former sultan’s attendants lifted their brows in some alarm.
He checked himself. Swallowed, forced his shoulders to relax. “If I had more men–”
“No.” Murat snapped his fingers and a pair of slaves stepped forward behind Vlad. “You may stay.” The for now was silent, but very much felt. “I will figure out what to do with the new prince of Wallachia. Until then, what remains of your belongings and retinue have been stowed away in guest quarters. You may follow the slaves.”
He bowed and did so. Furious. Shamed.
In the end, there hadn’t been much choice in returning to the Ottoman capital. Without any allies in the immediate area, fleeing from Vladislav’s forces, with all of his own forces belonging to Murat…they’d turned up on the palace doorstep only hours ago.
Vlad had never known such self-loathing.
The slaves both carried lanterns, and they led him out a side door and onto the grounds, all the usual beauty of the gardens muted and pruned back for winter.
A shadow peeled away from the trunk of a pear tree and fell into step beside Vlad, so quiet the slaves didn’t notice. Cicero.
Vlad wanted to scold him – he’d left the wolf with strict instructions to stay with their possessions and rooms, though he should have known his Familiar would want to keep close watch on him.
Soft enough just for Vlad to hear, he said, “Was your brother there?”
“No.” And he hadn’t expected him to be. “Neither was his master.”
But Val’s scent was here. Faint traces in the corridors, on the shrubs they walked past, here.
“They’ll want to keep us apart, I’m sure,” Vlad said. “And for his own safety, I can’t be seen seeking him out.”
“But your mother…”
Vlad sighed. “That will be a problem.”
~*~
“What’s happening?” Val asked, and Arslan stilled behind him.
When Val tried to turn his head, the slave corrected him with a gentle touch of fingertips at his temple, and resumed brushing out Val’s hair. It had grown long; sleek and flaxen, it held waves when the weather was damp, but could be smoothed into submission with a boar-b
ristle brush and a small dollop of oil. This was part of their now-normal morning routine, his and Arslan’s. After a great amount of obedience, and true effort in bed, Val had been able to request the slave as his own.
Something about that day after the failed duel, waking to find himself in chains, had hardened Val’s resolve. He no longer cried; no longer pressed tears into his pillow and choked back pained cries. But he wasn’t afraid of the sultan in the same way, either. He requested things; he negotiated. “You’re growing bold,” Mehmet had said with clear disapproval, but then Val had taken his cock into his throat, down to the root, and Mehmet hadn’t punished that boldness.
So two months before, Val had risen from bed, shaken his gold hair back over his shoulder, and said, “I wish to have a slave of my own.”
Mehmet had reached for the cup on his night table and laughed.
“I’m quite serious.” He still wore the cuffs, and a new collar, less noticeable, had been designed for him: delicate silver, with a sapphire set in its center, dampening his psychic abilities. “Concubines have servants. Am I not a concubine?”
“You do make a very good case.”
He’d picked Arslan, and doubtless the boy’s status as a eunuch was the only reason Mehmet had allowed it. His was the only company Val enjoyed; treasured, even, in this palace full of men who would rather pretend he was a bit of ornamentation in the corner than acknowledge their young sultan’s blasphemous proclivities. No one but Arslan spoke to him (Mehmet did, but, well…that was rarely a conversation). He’d enjoyed visiting the harem when he was younger, but he’d grown tall, willowy – starting to look like a proper little man now, and he was uncut; feminine company had been denied him.
“Arslan,” he said now, watching the boy’s face in the mirror. “What is happening in the palace? I can feel the energy; it’s a hum, like a beehive in spring.”
A notch formed between Arslan’s black brows, and he studiously continued brushing. “I don’t know. I’m only a slave, your grace.”
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 39
