Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3)

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Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 11

by Lauren Gilley


  “I’m glad I’m not an emperor,” Val said now, as Constantine read. “You’re always busy.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not really emperor. Only until my brother gets back from Rome, remember?”

  Val wrinkled his nose. “Will you be emperor one day?” He didn’t want to have to think of him as pro tempore. As of this moment, Constantine was ruling Constantinople, a symmetry that Val found pleasing. To his mind, the title wasn’t as meaningful as the actions; if Constantine’s brother John was so great, why wasn’t he here now?

  “I suppose I might be,” Constantine said with a shrug. “John doesn’t have any children. And.” Here he looked up from his reading, finally, grinning, and shot Val a wink. “I am the favorite brother.”

  Val smiled back in response. “That’s what Mircea always says: that I’m his favorite brother.”

  “Always a good thing.” His expression grew serious again, gaze narrowing. “There’s three of you, right? Three brothers?”

  Val smiled, pleased that he’d remembered. Once they’d finally gotten past the I’m-not-a-ghost-or-a-demon stage, Constantine had admitted that he knew little of Wallachian politics or the royal family.

  “Yes,” he said. “Mircea’s the oldest, and the heir. He’s always busy doing heir things. And then there’s Vlad, and I’m the youngest.” He felt his smile tug a little sideways. “I won’t ever be an emperor, or even a real prince. If anything happens to Mircea…” A lump formed in his throat, suddenly, and he swallowed, blinking against the prickle of tears. He heard the wolves whispering sometimes, muttered, angry stories about the Ottoman raids into Transylvania, the gold demanded, the janissaries taken, the pretty young women and beautiful boys stolen in the night. It was a dangerous time for princes; he worried for his oldest brother. “Then Vlad would be heir,” he said, hollow and afraid now.

  “Well,” Constantine said gently, drawing his gaze back. “It’s not much fun being in charge of things. So really, you’re lucky. You get to enjoy all the fun parts of being a prince without any of the hassle. Right?”

  A ghost of his former smile tugged at Val’s mouth. “Right.”

  He stepped away from Constantine’s chair and moved to sit on the edge of the table, legs swinging. It was a trick he’d been working to perfect: he couldn’t lift anything, or touch anyone, but if he concentrated, and stretched his magic, he could sit on solid surfaces…or at least project his image on top of them, so that he looked like he was really present in the room, and no longer had to stand in the center of the floor.

  When he was settled, and sure that he wasn’t about to flicker out of existence and wake up on the rug in front of the hearth back home, he glanced up, expecting to see Constantine poring over his reading again. Instead, the emperor pro tem was studying Val, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “Your Majesty ?” Val asked.

  That earned him a tiny smile. “Valerian, your father has a treaty with the Ottomans, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. Monetary tribute, additions to the Janissary Corps, and raiding rights,” he rattled off from memory.

  “Is there…” Constantine started, and then sighed and cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Forgive me. You’re only a child.”

  Val frowned. Folded his arms. “I’m not a baby.”

  “I said ‘child,’ not ‘baby.’ And I shouldn’t be bothering you with this anyway.” He went back to his ledger with an air of finality.

  Val lingered a while longer, until he began to feel stretched-thin and shaky. It took an immense amount of energy to maintain a projection like this. His body, lying prone in the palace back home, began to recall his conscience, reminding him that he needed to eat. Soon Vasile would come collect him for archery practice, where Vlad would no doubt show him up.

  “I need to leave now,” he said, the first time he’d spoken in long minutes.

  “Princely duties?” Constantine asked, teasing, lifting his head.

  “Archery.”

  “Ah. Have fun, then, little prince.”

  “Your Imperial Majesty,” Val said with a little bow, and then let go of the projection.

  He always came back to his body as if physically across the distance; a sense of rushing wind, and mountains and rivers flashing beneath his feet. A dizzy spin. And then he cracked his eyes and was looking at the cold grate, feeling the softness of carpet beneath his cheek, the stickiness of drool at the corner of his mouth.

  He pushed himself upright on trembling arms and heard the brisk footfalls that heralded Vasile’s arrival. A cursory knock sounded at the door before it creaked open.

  “Your grace,” Vasile started, and Val could sense the bristling of his figurative hackles when he spotted Val on the floor, unsteady and no-doubt pale. “Are you unwell?”

  Val forced himself upright, blinking back the black spots that crowded his vision, and turned to face the concerned wolf. “Fine,” he said, “only walking.”

  ~*~

  To no one’s surprise, Vlad made a mockery of everyone else’s archery attempts.

  The targets were set up on the palace lawns, thick wooden planks secured to a frame, backfilled with tightly-packed hay. Someone, probably Ioan, had painted crude human torsos and heads over the bullseyes, pretend Ottomans at which to aim. The three princes were staggered; Vlad’s target was the farthest, and Val’s was the shortest distance, with Mircea in the middle.

  “That’s just embarrassing,” Mircea said with a deep, tired sigh, lowering his bow and staring glumly at his target. It bristled with arrows, none of which were close to the center.

  Val didn’t look at his own target – all of his arrows were in the grass, none of them having reached their destination – and instead glanced toward Vlad. Watched his serious expression; watched the wind toy with loose wisps of his shoulder-length dark hair; watched him draw his arm back in one fluid movement, hold, breathe, and release. A faint whistle, and then a thunk and a twang as the arrow found its mark. Dead center.

  “A natural, your grace,” Vasile said with quiet pride.

  Val snapped his head around to see that Father had joined them. Dracul, Cicero beside him, his constant shadow, stood in the shade cast by the stable behind them, arms folded, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His gaze rested on Vlad as his middle son lowered his bow and turned to face his audience.

  “Well done,” Father said.

  Vlad nodded, once, and tucked loose hair behind his ear with a quick movement. “Thank you, Father.” His expression was careful, but his eyes shone. Pleased, proud.

  Val wanted to be just like him in four years. Wanted it the way he wanted fresh fruit, or Mother’s hugs, or to see the first cherry blossoms in the spring. A want so sweet it ached.

  Nicolae had said once that Val was jealous, but he wasn’t, oh no, he wasn’t.

  Father’s gaze shifted, then, to Val, and his smile softened. “How’ve you been faring, Radu?”

  Val ducked his head, cheeks heating. “Not well. Sir,” he mumbled.

  “He’s doing fine,” Mircea piped up. “He’s just got to grow into his bow a little more, and then he’ll be Wallachia’s own Robin Hood, wait and see.”

  Val lifted his face and found his brother smiling at him with warm encouragement. He smiled back, grateful.

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” Father said.

  Hands landed on Val’s shoulders, starling him; a warm body pressed up against his back. Vlad: he recognized the scent of his skin and sweat and hair, the same scents pressed into the pillows of their shared bed.

  “Here,” he said, breath warm across Val’s ear. “We’ll do it together.”

  Val clumsily nocked another arrow; his brother’s arms came around him, hands closing over his smaller ones, adjusting his grip. Val went through the motions, but it was really Vlad, his strength, his surety, that drew the bow and aimed the shot.

  “Ready?” Vlad whispered in his ear.

  Val nodded.

  They let go toget
her, and the arrow flew straight to the target, landing on the bullseye like a lover’s smacking kiss.

  It wasn’t Val’s achievement, not truly, but it felt like it, the burst of excitement in his chest. He cheered, and Vlad clapped him on both shoulders.

  “Well done,” he murmured.

  Val spun and flung his arms around his brother’s middle, hugged him tight.

  “Father!” he shouted. “Did you see? Did you–”

  He and Vlad both stilled in the same moment. A new scent reached them: Uncle Romulus.

  Val pulled back, slowly, though Vlad left a hand on his shoulder, fingers curling tight in the fabric of his shirt. Holding him there. Stay here beside me. It gave Val the courage to peer around Vlad and search for their uncle.

  Romulus stood several paces from Father, projecting a relaxed demeanor, one booted foot cocked, hands resting lightly on his hips. He didn’t acknowledge the aggressive stare Vasile drilled into the side of his head. His gaze was fixed on Mircea, who’d gone totally still, bow clenched in white-knuckled hands. Val could smell the first acrid notes of fear lifting off his oldest brother’s skin.

  “You should adjust your stance,” Romulus suggested.

  Mircea took a rattling breath. “S-sir?”

  “His stance is fine,” Vasile snapped, growling softly.

  Romulus snorted. “If he was full-blooded, or a wolf like you, yes, it would be. But he’s half-mortal. He needs to adjust his stance to make up for the strength he lacks. Here.” He stepped forward, and though Mircea’s brows jumped, he didn’t flinch away. “Face the target, yes, like that. Nock your arrow.”

  Mircea did as told, feet braced wider, elbow tilted at a higher angle at Romulus’s urging.

  “Now. Take a breath. Hold it. And then release.”

  Bullseye.

  Mircea stared goggle-eyed at the target.

  Romulus chuckled. “Perhaps you should invest in a mortal archery instructor, eh brother?”

  Vlad’s hand tightened again, a little spasm on Val’s shoulder.

  ~*~

  “You were frightened,” Val said the next day, sitting across from Mircea at a book-loaded table.

  Sunlight fell through the open window at Mircea’s back, turning his shaggy hair into a copper halo around his face. He turned the page and sighed. “What do you mean?” But he fidgeted in his chair a little, and his denial was just a token; Val already knew the truth.

  “Uncle Romulus.” Val lowered his head so his chin was propped on the back of one hand, low enough that the sun couldn’t slant into his eyes, and he could watch Mircea’s gaze grow distant, no longer reading, only staring at the page in front of him. “You were afraid of him.”

  Mircea chewed his lip a moment, eyes still glued to the book, then finally gave up with another sigh. Propped an elbow on the table and leaned sideways, gaze troubled when he lifted it to Val. “But you were too, weren’t you? This is Romulus. He tried to kill Father…probably even thought he succeeded.” He shook his head, and Val thought he was struggling with the notion of vampires again.

  His father was one, his brothers were; he was on, if not friendly, at least cordial terms with Eira. He knew all the wolves, had watched them shift. He knew immortals…but Val thought sometimes it overwhelmed him.

  His gaze sharpened, suddenly, coming back to Val’s and pinning him in place. “What does he smell like?”

  “What?”

  Mircea wrinkled his nose. “You can all, I don’t know, tell what a person’s intentions are, can’t you? You can smell their…emotions, or something?”

  “I…” It wasn’t something easily put into words. He couldn’t smell intent, or emotions. It was more that a person’s intent had a way of affecting their heartrate, the tang of their sweat. It was a sense. He’d been born with it, and explaining it to mortals was difficult. He had to try, though, for his brother. “He…there’s something wrong,” he said, reiterating what he’d said to Vlad before, frustrated with his own lack of understanding.

  “Wrong?” Mircea’s brows jumped.

  “I don’t know.” Val shook his head, but of course that didn’t clear it. “I can’t tell. There’s just…something.”

  Mircea studied him a moment, giving him a chance to come to some great revelation, then finally offered a lopsided smile. “It’s alright. Sometimes bad feelings are unfounded.”

  “Sometimes,” Val echoed, but he couldn’t return the smile.

  ~*~

  He dream-walked to his father’s study by accident one night. His projection manifested in a dark corner, as if his subconscious was trying to be sneaky. He heard his father’s and uncle’s voices, engaged in tense discussion.

  “…sultan is fairly peaceable, as far as sultans go,” Romulus was saying.

  “There’s nothing peaceable about it from where I’m sitting,” Father said, tone sharp-edged. “Wallachia and Transylvania are their pathway into Western Europe, and it’s a path they’re eager to take.”

  “Fuck Western Europe. What has it ever done for you? I’m telling you: Murat is an old man, and grows weary of war. But his heir…he’s only Vlad’s age, but he’s already got his eye set on the Red Apple. Mark my words, when he’s sultan, he’ll march on Constantinople, and he’ll succeed. Afterward, once Rome falls–”

  “Rome will never fall.”

  Romulus chuckled. “Brother, it’s as good as already fallen. But that doesn’t concern you, and your territories. If you would heed the advice of an older brother who was once your king, I would tell you this: cooperate with the Ottomans. Let them have whatever they want.”

  “And if what they want is my life?”

  It was quiet a beat; a gentle wind rattled the shutters.

  Val’s pulse pounded in his ears. He heard his father’s pulse as an echo, a rapid drumbeat.

  “It won’t come to that,” Romulus said at last, soothing. “The Turks want the world. It’s better to be a man living in that world, than a corpse living under it. Remember that.”

  Val closed his eyes and willed himself back to his bedchamber, to the small body burrowed against Vlad’s side. While he was dream-walking, he’d tucked himself in tight to his brother’s ribs, fingers curled to claws that gripped his shirt tight. He came awake and realized that he was panting, rapid breaths that turned the air beneath the covers humid and too-close.

  Vlad stirred. “What?” he asked, sleepily.

  “Nothing,” Val said, “sorry.” Because he was only four, and he didn’t understand wars and territories yet, and he thought that, maybe, if he pretended he hadn’t heard what Romulus had said, he wouldn’t have to find out if it was true.

  ~*~

  It nagged at him, though, that conversation, like a canker sore that he couldn’t stop poking at. A week later, he found himself in Constantine’s solar again, hiding behind a low table full of decanters and wine goblets, as the pro tem discussed something with his chief advisor. Over the past few months, Val had come to learn, through eavesdropping, that George Sphrantzes was Constantine’s closest friend, his most trusted and loyal of helpmates. Val wanted to meet him, but then they’d have to go through the whole not-a-ghost argument again.

  At every visit, Val made sure that Constantine was alone before he revealed himself. But today, worry throbbing in the back of his mind like a headache, he decided he couldn’t wait.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, stepping out into the open, and the conversation cut off abruptly.

  Both men turned to look at him, Constantine with mild surprise – maybe even a dash of worry – and Sphrantzes with something more like startled annoyance.

  “A little young to be a messenger, isn’t he?” Sphrantzes asked, already turning back to the map spread out on the table.

  But Constantine frowned, gaze searching Val’s face. “Is something the matter, Valerian? You look frightened.”

  Because he was. He swallowed with difficulty and walked closer to the table, booted feet silent on the stones. “My uncl
e.” The words scraped at his throat, like he’d swallowed bones, and he forced them out through suddenly-chattering teeth. The fear closed over him like a shroud. “I heard him talking. The Ottomans – Your Majesty, the Ottomans are coming for Constantinople. Not – not Murat,” he stumbled over the name, uncertain, “but his heir. The next sultan. My uncle, he knows things, he’s – he’s–”

  Sphrantzes turned around with an impatient snort. “Constantine, who is this? We don’t have time–”

  “George.” He silenced his friend with a wave. “This is Vlad Dracul’s son.”

  “He what–”

  “Shh.” Constantine came to crouch in front of Val, his expression soft and rapt all at once. “What is it, little prince? What did you learn?”

  Val took a deep, heaving breath, trying to calm down. “The Ottomans are going to try to attack the city,” he said all in a rush. “Uncle thinks they’ll win!”

  Constantine offered a sad sort of smile. “It won’t be the first time they’ve attacked. This is a very old fight, Val.”

  Sphrantzes came up behind the emperor, scowling down at Val. “What do you mean this is Vlad Dracul’s son? Is Dracul here? In Byzantium?”

  Constantine ignored him, so Val did too. “But, Uncle Romulus said–” He caught himself, teeth snapping shut, but too late. No one outside the family was supposed to know who exactly his uncle was, and he’d just blurted it out in a fit of panic.

  Constantine sucked in a breath. “Your uncle who?”

  Before Val could answer, Sphrantzes leaned down and reached for Val’s shoulder.

  Val winced, and a second later Sphrantzes stumbled back after his hand passed right through Val’s body. He panicked as calmly as a man who thought he’d just touched a ghost could panic, Val thought.

 

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