Arslan paced back and forth in front of the brazier. “The sultan is returning. He’s riding back into camp.”
“What?” That was ridiculous. A conquering monarch would immediately install himself in the finest rooms of the palace, and send slaves and soldiers to fetch his things. He wouldn’t come back himself.
Arslan shook his head.
“He sent a messenger ahead,” Nestor said without pausing in his task. “He’s bringing you a gift.”
Val leapt to his feet.
Tried to. It was more a lurching, stumbling, flailing attempt, and he ended up with both hands pressed flat to the chest, breathing harshly through his mouth. Everything in him screamed for him to run, but his chains shivered together, and he couldn’t. All he could do was–
The tent flap lifted, and a janissary stepped in, spear propped on his shoulder. He held the way open for Mehmet, who swaggering in with a delighted air, every inch the conqueror.
–wait.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” he said, strolling forward. His armor was smudged, dusty; a few curled auburn locks had fallen loose of his turban. His grin dominated his face.
But Val’s gaze went straight to the sack he carried. The one stained dark on the bottom. The one that, when Mehmet halted in front of him, began to drip down onto the rug.
It reeked of blood.
Mehmet chuckled. “Prince Radu, I come forth victorious, and I bring you a gift.”
Val wanted to look away, but he couldn’t turn his head. He started up a low, frantic chant. “No, no, no, no–”
Mehmet upended the bag without ceremony. A human head fell out, and landed with a wet sound on top of the chest, inches from Val’s face. It rolled once, and fetched up against his wrist, face-up. Death had a way of distorting features, but he knew that nose, and those open, sightless eyes. The silky black curls on his head.
Constantine XI Dragases Palaiologos. Emperor of Constantinople.
“No, no, no, no–” The chant became a wail, a high, keening sound that burned his throat. He had no more tears, but he choked, and hissed, and howled over the head of the man he’d met as a boy of four, learning how to walk in his dreams for the first time.
Mehmet chuckled again, so, so pleased with himself. He crouched down beside Val, and caught a handful of hair in one dirty, gloved fist, pulled tight. The pain didn’t register. There was only the dead face staring up at Val, and the white flash of teeth in his periphery, the feral grin of his tormentor.
“I’ve brought you your emperor, Radu,” Mehmet said. “So that you can finally meet him, face-to-face, in the flesh.” He breathed hotly in Val’s ear. “His head is mine, his palace is mine, his city is mine. I have walked through his holy houses, and touched your people’s relics with my own hands. The Roman Empire is mine. As are you.” He leaned in close, so his lips were against Val’s ear. “Never forget that.”
“No,” Val managed through chattering teeth. “I won’t forget it.”
36
TURNING
He fell asleep again, at some point, curled up on the rug like a dog, and when he woke next it was morning, and the head was gone. Fresh tears burned his eyes, but he didn’t ask after it. Constantine was dead; there was nothing he could do, and carrying around a skull seemed…too delusional, even for him. Nestor would tell him later that it had been returned to the city – that he’d seen to it personally. So that what Romans remained in the city might be able to bury their emperor.
A useless mercy.
They’d moved their camp inside the city walls by this time, filling up the streets with a whole army of Ottomans and their things.
Val stood at a window in the Palace of Blachernae, hand braced on the ledge, gazing out across the city. Black smoke rose from a dozen different fires; he heard the din of humanity as a low roar, louder than the waves that slapped against the sea wall, and the occasional shriek or shout that rose above the others. In the nearest streets, he could see the detritus of the initial invasion: bits of torn cloth – ladies’ dresses, mostly; there’d been rape in the streets, and the houses, and in every alley. Bits of broken crockery, forgotten tokens that had spilled from thieves’ pockets, gold coins glinting in the late sunlight.
“Those cultureless fools,” Mehmet said behind him. He was sorting through crates of books that had been brought to him, heavy tomes with illuminated pages and jewel-encrusted covers, many of them damaged during the ransacking. “The way they tore this place apart like fucking jackals…” He tsked.
Val didn’t turn away from the window. The chains were gone, as were the heavy silver cuffs and collar he’d worn in the tent, but his slender collar remained, the one that looked like jewelry, but was always pulling at him, draining his energy and his mental gifts. He wouldn’t have cared if the chains were still there. He didn’t care about anything.
“You wanted Rome,” he said, flatly, “and apparently so did your men.”
“I wanted to lay claim to it, not raze the fucking place! Those idiots raped every woman and girl, even the elderly ones, and they’ve stolen uncountable valuables! Pulled down the relics in St. Sophia…damn them! This isn’t how you conquer a place!”
Perhaps, if he hadn’t fallen asleep staring at the head of one of his oldest friends last night, Val would have howled with laughter at the irony. That the man who’d raped a boy hiding in a tree would find fault with his own men for doing the same…
“Radu.”
He finally turned. Mehmet was frowning at the stacks of books, but he was overall in a good mood, exuding productive energy and a scent of clean sweat.
But something else, too. Now that Val took the time to notice it, he detected something…something off about the sultan’s scent. As he watched, Mehmet rubbed absently at a wrist – one thicker than it had been a few years ago, fleshier.
“Come help me sort these,” Mehmet said. “My joints ache so.”
“Must be all that conquering,” Val quipped without any emotion, and walked forward toward the books. “Or gout. You should eat less.”
“Watch it,” Mehmet said, and they set to work.
~*~
That evening, Val plead an upset stomach, locked himself in his quarters, and sent the guards after his two favorite slaves. “To comfort and attend me,” he said.
He didn’t have to name them; his preference was well-known at this point. A few minutes later, Arslan turned up, Nestor in tow. The Russian wolf was, technically, the sultan’s scribe, but that was a formality. Everyone knew he was a particular favorite of the Wallachian prince.
Arslan led the way, while Nestor ensured the door was soundly shut. “Your grace,” the boy said, hurrying forward, expression worried. “They said you were ill. What can I do?”
Val sat upright. “I’m not ill.” Not physically, anyway. “But there is something you can do for me. Both of you. You can let me help you escape.”
~*~
They didn’t like it. Of course they didn’t.
“Your grace,” Nestor said, panting he was so anxious. He stank of nerves.
“Nestor-Iskander.” Val squeezed his shoulder. “You are not bound.” He shifted his hand up, so he cupped the side of the boy’s neck, thumb pressed over his galloping pulse; not a threat, but a way to ground him, and the young wolf leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering. “You are no one’s Familiar. You are strong, and swift, and if you flee, you can outpace any man, outlast any horse. The sultan owns you as a king owns a servant, but he does not own you as a vampire owns a wolf. Do you understand?”
He nodded, throat jumping under Val’s thumb as he swallowed. But said, “He’ll hunt us down, though. He’ll never allow this.”
“How will he hunt you?” Val countered, gently. “With dogs? With men? He and I are the only two immortals in his empire – at least that he knows of. He will be furious, yes, but not forever. Forgive me, dear, but you aren’t that important. Not to him, anyway. But I want you safe. Both of you.”
Arslan cried openly, but silently, shiny tears tracking down his face.
“Arslan, darling,” Val said, turning to him.
The slave threw himself at Val, wound both thin arms tight around his waist, buried his wet face in Val’s chest. “I want to stay with you,” he choked out. “Please…Val, please. I don’t want to be sent away.”
Val had thought his heart shattered past the point of breaking any further after yesterday, but that proved untrue; those shards were ground now to dust by the boy’s tearful pleas.
“My sweet boy,” he murmured, rubbing Arslan’s back, his own voice threatening to crack. “I would keep you with me always, if I could. But it isn’t safe for you here.”
Would the wider world be safer? For a slender, beautiful eunuch with big brown eyes? No. But being a eunuch wouldn’t matter so much after tonight, after Val was done with him.
“But – but where would we go?” he asked, miserable.
Val lifted his head, and saw that Nestor’s expression had firmed to one of resolve. “Russia,” he said, and his accent thickened, just on one word. “Out deep, in the wilds. Siberia. Where it’s only wolves – real wolves – and reindeer herders.”
“Yes,” Val said, grateful, “that’ll do nicely.”
“But I’m only…” Arslan tipped his head back, looking up at Val with tear-filled eyes, jaw quivering. “I’m only…me.”
Val cupped his face in one hand, gentle and careful. “No, my darling. You aren’t ‘only’ anything. And tonight, when you leave here, you’ll be stronger than any man who would do you harm.”
He stared a moment – and then his eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “Your grace.”
“I would call it a gift,” Val said, “but I don’t honestly know if it is. It hasn’t kept me from my own fate. But,” he rushed to add, “it’s kept me alive. And whole.” Physically. “It will give you the strength and resilience necessary to survive anywhere. In that sense it is a gift. Will you let me give it to you?”
The boy deliberated a long moment – and Val let him. It was no small decision, this. He’d been born to it, and knew nothing else. But forever was a massive weight to lay across someone’s shoulders. There were those he’d seen, had known, for whom death had been a final, welcome escape. Sometimes he thought – no, more than sometimes – that he himself would like to close his eyes and never have to see any of this again. He thought of the day he’d slain Arslan’s rapists; that moment when he’d wanted to put his face in the water and breathe it into his lungs.
He pushed Arslan gently back and sat on the edge of his bed. Folded his hands in his lap. And waited.
Arslan chewed on his lower lip a long moment, gaze trained on the toes of his slippers – gold-embroidered, delicate, meant for household attendance, not riding…not escaping. Val would have to stuff rags into a pair of his own boots to pad the toes to give him.
If he agreed to the plan.
Val would never force either of his young charges to do anything. He knew the taste of forced compliance too well for that.
Eyes still downcast, Arslan said. “Would I have to…drink, as you do, your grace?”
“Yes.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Could I not be what Nestor-Iskander is instead?” His gaze flicked up, desperately hopeful.
Val had never seen a wolf made, but one night, as a boy hungry for ghost stories, Fenrir had told him of his own turning. Of the sharp knife, and the sound a dying wolf made.
He shook his head. “I have not the means to turn you into a wolf. Nor should you like the process, I don’t think.”
Nestor shuddered hard, and shook his head.
“This is the best way,” Val said. “The only way. Meaning no disrespect to Nestor, vampires are the kings of the immortals. I would like that for you – a bit of power.”
Another rattled breath…but Arslan nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it.” His face creased, as if with pain. “But I don’t want to leave you.”
Val made himself smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
Arslan and Nestor traded a look, knowing it was a lie.
“When the sultan finds out you’ve helped us escape…” Nestor said, and left the rest dangling.
Val’s breath hitched in his lungs, painfully sharp fear. But he frowned and said, “The sultan isn’t the conqueror he thinks he is. One day, he will learn that.”
~*~
Turning required an exchange of blood. Back and forth, and back again, recycling it, strengthening the power of the process. It was intimate. Val had never done it before, though he’d been told what to expect. But hearing and doing were never the same thing.
Val situated himself against the ornate, carved headboard of his bed, and pulled Arslan down to sit cradled in his lap. The boy trembled head-to-toe, hard shivers that left his teeth clacking together, but he tipped his head back and exposed his throat, completely trusting.
“It’s alright,” Val murmured against the warm skin of his neck, and kissed him there. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.” He opened his mouth, and touched with just the tips of his fangs, breathed over the spot, humid, preparing.
Arslan looped an arm around his neck. Loose at first, tentative, and then tight, fingertips digging into Val’s shoulder.
Val bit.
Living blood.
He’d had it, a few times, from his family’s wolves. But most often the blood was spilled into cups. To drink blood straight from the vein was an intoxicating temptation. Headier than wine, than hallucinogens; it hit his own blood like lightning, streaking through his veins, flooding him with a breathtaking shock of energy. A sense of invincibility. A predatory urge in the back of his mind, something insidious and instinctual: drain him. A holdover, from the days of his father and uncle nursing from wolf’s milk. Drain. Feast and eliminate a potential enemy all in one.
But this was his dear sweet Arslan, and aside from that one, frightening flicker, he was never in danger of over-drinking.
He took slow, gentle sips, and then pulled back to bite his own wrist, and press it to the boy’s trembling lips. “Drink, darling.”
He did.
They went back and forth. Arslan stopped shivering, and began to drink with more fervor, gripping Val’s neck tight with one hand, and his wrist with the other, his body warm in Val’s lap. Arousal stirred, a natural reaction, and Val could smell it on the boy as well. But they ignored it, and pressed on, drink for drink.
Nestor stood with his back to the door, a barrier that wouldn’t be very effective if someone tried to force his way in. When Val glimpsed his face, briefly, he noted a stricken expression. It couldn’t be helped.
And then…
Arslan’s scent changed.
Slow-blooming, like the opening of a new spring flower, his scent shifted from boy to vampire. A hint at first, and then a flood of scent, and Val felt something like satisfaction, a rich swell of positive emotions.
He pulled back, and licked the wound clean, clotting the blood. When he lifted his head, Arslan stared up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, gaze wondrous for all that it was exhausted.
“I feel…”
“Hush,” Val said, feeling his own energy flagging. “Rest a bit.” He stretched out on the bed, Arslan cradled to his chest, and cast one last, tired, fading look toward the door.
“I’ll keep watch,” Nestor said gently.
They slept.
Val woke to a moonless dark, able to pick out shadows, the shapes of furniture, and the faint glow of Nestor’s eyes. He sat on the floor, leaning back against the door, but rose smoothly when he realized Val was awake.
“Your grace?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Val said, just to acknowledge him. He pushed up on an elbow and touched Arslan’s face, which woke him immediately. His scent marked him as a young, healthy vampire. Val felt a little groggy, but otherwise unharmed. “How do you feel?”
Arslan took a breath and sat up. Lifted his hands and stared dow
n at them. His vision would be sharper; Val had no idea how dull a human’s sight was, only that he could see clearer and farther than his mortal companions.
“I feel…” He lifted his head, and grinned, teeth flashing in the dark. “Oh, your grace, I feel wonderful!”
Val chuckled. “Good. Up you get. Make sure your legs are steady.”
Within a few minutes, Arslan was leaping in place, steady as the young soldier he might have been if not for castration.
“I’m afraid,” Val said with regret, perching on the edge of the bed, “that the turning can’t rectify everything.”
Arslan paused. “It can’t grow my…parts…back, you mean.” He flushed, afterward.
Val chuckled, though sadly. “It might. Who’s to say? I’m not an expert. But don’t count on it, my dear. That’s a very old, well-healed wound. Connections can be healed, fresh, bloody injuries. But something like that…” He shook his head, and wished he knew more about his own kind. His parents had been loving, had educated him well – but that had only been his boyhood, and they’d been firmly rooted in the human world. Human history, and the ways of human nobles.
That raised another point he wanted to make. “Arslan,” he said, and the boy – the vampire – came to sit beside him, close, their sides pressed together. Val had always found him comforting, but the effect was greater now, knowing they were of the same kind; he supposed his own scent would be a new, welcome comfort as well, for Arslan’s newly heightened senses. “There are things I must tell you.”
And he shared all that he could think of; told him what to expect of his own abilities, about his need for blood, and the best ways to attain it, and control his own appetites. “Wolf blood is the strongest, and wolves are the easiest to feed from; they’re stronger than men, and can spare the blood. If the two of you can stay together, it would be mutually beneficial.” He glanced between them, and they nodded in understanding.
He warned them of mages, and of the possibility that Arslan could develop psychic gifts in the weeks and months to come. “I was four when I first began to dream-walk. It could take some time, and it might never happen, but don’t rule out the idea of it.”
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 53
