When Mehmet lifted his head…he was smiling. Teeth stained red with blood where he’d bit his tongue. “Wouldn’t you like to know who turned me?” he asked, his laughter pained, tight. “It’s a fascinating story.”
“Not interested.” Vlad lifted his sword.
Shouts now, from the onlookers, finally. Because this was him raising arms against an opponent who’d fallen. Dimly, a voice in the back of his head warned him what would happen if he struck the prince while he was down. He’d be flogged. Probably killed.
Did he care?
No.
But…
The long game, George had said. Patience. Because one day they would send him home as their trained dog, and–
It was a moment of hesitation, and that was all Mehmet needed.
He pushed up onto one knee, and brought his sword with him.
Vlad parried, shoved him away, kicked him in the ribs –
“Stop,” someone was saying behind him, over and over, an angry adult voice.
Mehmet tried to run him through, sun winking off the sharp edge of his sword.
Vlad avoided the stab, but he tripped, and went down hard on one elbow.
Mehmet made a triumphant sound, and Vlad kicked him again, in the hand this time. Fingers broke with a little snap. Mehmet snarled, an animal sound of mixed fury and pain, and then, suddenly, neither of them was armed, and they were grappling in the dirt like beasts. Fangs, and claws and struggling lungs, and hate, hate, hate.
Vlad felt blunt nails rake his skin, and hard heels kick at his belly, and he didn’t care, because he just wanted to kill this boy. The rank smell of another vampire, a rival, filled his sinuses and he hated him.
“Damn you, stop it!” A hand latched onto the back of Vlad’s collar; he was aware that it was George, and that he was about to be pulled away from his opponent.
Vlad found Mehmet’s throat and bit him.
This was a mistake. Because when the blood filled his mouth – oily, putrid, wrong – he realized, immediately, who had turned this boy.
Vlad went limp and let George drag him backward, opening his lips, letting the blood run out, down his chin, his throat. Spitting it, wanting it off his tongue.
Mehmet – bloody, and filthy, and winded, face pale with shock – laughed at him, eyes glazed. “Do you see now?” he taunted, wheezing. “Do you understand, Vlad? Your uncle sends his regards.”
It was Romulus.
Romulus had turned the sultan’s heir.
~*~
They stripped off his kaftan and shirt and had him press his hands flat to a wall. A janissary did the caning, because his arms were stronger. Vlad bit his tongue, and the insides of his cheeks, but he did not scream.
He pissed blood for the next twenty-four hours, but he didn’t weep over it.
They took him to a cramped room with a sloppy pallet. He wasn’t to be allowed to sleep alongside his brother anymore, who, they told him, was being moved to one of the pavilions that housed the other hostages. But he didn’t fret.
As his bruises faded, and the marks healed, Vlad could only think of the foul taste of a rival’s blood in his mouth, flavored with the blood his uncle had pressed to his tongue with a single pricked fingertip, so that he might know it in the future.
So that he’d know it in this inevitable moment, Vlad now knew.
Romulus had turned Mehmet, but he didn’t understand why.
No…that wasn’t strictly true. He knew why Romulus would…why anyone would…he just hadn’t thought…
He rolled over, teeth clenched against the painful welts on his back, and stared out through the barred window. A cloudy, starless night had fallen across the mountains, the sky indigo and rain-scented. He thought of his father’s regal profile, his gentle smiles, the flicker of his lashes as he read a Latin volume and chewed thoughtfully at the inside of his lip. The legend of Remus was no legend at all, but his real life, his real past; an oversight and trust that had warred within him in his new life as Vlad II. Did he raise his sons with love? Or bring them up to question everything?
Vlad thought the result shook out somewhere in the middle. Vlad was suspicious, Val trusting and sweet, and Mircea fell somewhere between, the well-balanced heir.
But all of them had distrusted Romulus. The king who’d tried to kill their father.
And all of them had sipped his blood, and called him “uncle,” and wanted to believe that – without a throne – he was a changed man.
But he’d turned the Ottoman heir.
Who was their enemy…at the very least their liege lord. And…
And Vlad could find no justification for that outside of treachery.
Sleep came slowly that night, and was filled with helpless nightmares.
The next morning, he chose a rug directly behind his brother; gritted his teeth and refused to handle himself gingerly despite the pain that flared from healing bruises.
“Radu,” he started, and when that earned him only a stiffening of narrowed shoulders, whispered, “Valerian.”
Val was seated, as usual, between the Serbian princes Stepan and Gregor. For the first few weeks of the brothers’ captivity, the Serbian princes had been attended by a slave during their lessons. Val had, through innate kindness, adopted the role for them. So when Val turned, the other boys turned as well, though they couldn’t see Vlad.
“Not you, idiots,” he hissed at them, and they hastily faced forward again. They knew his voice; they’d listened to him snarl and growl and beat the heir with a practice sword. Vlad wondered if they’d heard the shattering of bone, the way that he had.
Val’s pretty face was carefully composed; guarded. It pained Vlad to see, but he knew it was for the best. He might always be golden and beautiful, but he could at least harden himself.
Vlad crooked a finger. Closer.
Val hesitated a long moment, gaze screened by his lashes – so long that Vlad began to fear the mullahs would enter and take the crop to the back of his neck. But finally, Val leaned in and said, “What?”
“The next time you go walking, I need you to take a message home. I got a taste of his blood – I know who turned Mehmet.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Romulus.”
Val’s cool mask slipped. His brows leapt, and his mouth fell open. Not just fear, but terror bloomed on his skin, a sudden sweat that was acrid to Vlad’s nose. “What? Are you – are you–”
“I’m sure. He had us taste his blood remember?” That was something that had dogged his nightmares. “I think he’d already done it then, and he wanted us to know.” He felt the grim lines of his expression. “He knew we would get captured. Or maybe even helped to orchestrate it.”
“But…” Val’s breath came in quick little pants. “Why would he…?”
“Because he’s tainted, and he always has been.” And he was, but Vlad knew that wasn’t the whole truth. There was something else there, something he was missing. Romulus might very well be the sort of man who enjoyed the suffering of others – and clearly he was. Perhaps he was jealous that he was now unknown and exiled, while father was a prince, with a family, a loyal contingent of wolves.
But something prickled at the back of Vlad’s mind. The understanding that he was, after all, still just a boy, and that Romulus was working a scheme that he didn’t yet fully comprehend.
“He turned our enemy,” Val whispered, eyes glazed, face slack. “Our enemy. And set us against him.” He gripped the fabric of his own kaftan, knuckles white.
“I need you to go walking tonight,” Vlad repeated. “I need you to warn Mother, warn Mircea. Father, if you can find him. Tell the wolves. Tell them what we’re dealing with. If Romulus is at the palace…”
And he hadn’t thought of that until just now. He swallowed an unsteady breath. “Can you do that?”
Val pushed his hands through his hair, grimacing. But he said, “Yes. As soon as I can, I will.”
It would have to be enough, because that wa
s all Vlad could do.
~*~
George found him in the chapel that afternoon. “Mehmet’s healing well, they say,” he said as he dropped down onto the pew beside Vlad. “Then again, they wouldn’t say if he wasn’t. So. Anyone’s guess, really.”
Vlad nodded to himself.
George sighed. “What happened to being patient, Vlad?”
“I am patient. But I needed to settle the score.”
Another sigh, weary and long-suffering.
“You disagree?”
“No, I…no,” George admitted. When Vlad said nothing else, George prompted, “So that was it? A beating for a beating? That was your plan?”
Strange as it seemed, the older boy seemed not only curious, but lost, too. Searching for answers.
“I did want to beat him, yes,” Vlad said. “I also needed to know how strong he was.” He left off the part about the blood. He’d come as close to trusting Iskander Bey as he ever had anyone, but there were some things he would never voice to someone outside his immortal family.
“Yes? And what were your findings on that matter?”
Vlad smirked. “He might be immortal, but he’s not as strong as me.” And there was something wrong in his blood. Romulus’s famous taint. He had not a single bred child, and now Vlad thought he understood why.
“And now what will you do?” Less curiosity, more test.
Vlad turned to face him, brows raised.
“Press your strength advantage? Kill him?”
“Speak plainly.”
George chuckled. “You are stubborn.” Then it faded. “When Mehmet first came to court, before I knew what he was, I thought I could have killed him. During practice, during a sparring session, just like yesterday. Now, I know that he could have healed–”
“The heart.”
“What?”
“Vampires can overcome even the most grievous of wounds – save those mortal to the heart. Cut it out, ruin it beyond repair: it’s the heart that counts.”
George’s face went blank with surprise. “Huh.”
“Just thought I’d pass that along.”
“Alright. Yes. Well. As I was saying, I could have. Or at least tried. But I didn’t. Because it isn’t just about the immediate victory. If I’d killed Mehmet, they would have impaled me and mounted me on the wall as an example to the others. And then another heir would have been chosen. Legitimacy isn’t an issue with the Ottomans; Murat doubtless has other get, or could have gotten more. The empire would have ruled on, Mehmet or no. That kind of assassination wouldn’t have helped my people – nor any of the people forced to live as vassals.
“But,” he continued, eyes shining, “if Mehmet is beaten in the field, if the empire is forced out, that will make a difference. I meant what I said before about the long game. It isn’t about me, here and now, or you, or any of us hostages. It’s about fighting for the freedom of our people.”
“That…makes sense.”
Tone wry, George said, “Then why do I have the feeling I’ll have to remind you of the fact often?”
Vlad shrugged. “I’m just stubborn.”
~*~
Val dream-walked to Father’s study that night. It was late, but a dozen candles flickered, the room dancing with light. Mircea sat at the desk; the heavy wooden piece with its ornate chair had always suited father, but looked comically large swallowing up Val’s brother. Like a boy playing pretend – only it was real, and all the more tragic for it.
Val cleared his throat as he stepped up to the desk, so as not to startle him.
Mircea jumped a little anyway, but recovered quickly, smiling tiredly when he laid eyes on Val. “Little brother,” he greeted.
“Hello, Mircea.” Val noted the lines on his brother’s face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve…” He faltered; it seemed cruel to lay more at his feet, when the desk was piled high with ledgers and correspondence.
“What, Radu? What is it?”
By the door, a shadow moved; Cicero, shifting his weight. Val was glad to see the wolves were watching after the new prince, even if he was only half-vampire.
Val didn’t know what his face was doing, but when he looked at Cicero, made contact with his glinting golden eyes, the wolf stepped away from his post and came forward.
“What?” he asked, tone gentler than Val was used to from him. A grave sadness lay etched in his face; his bound master had been taken, and he struggled with the itch and pull of instinct.
Val took a deep breath and looked back and forth between them. “I have to tell you something. I told you the heir was a vampire? Well, Vlad got a taste of his blood–”
Cicero made a low noise that Val could have sworn was proud.
Mircea groaned and put a hand to his forehead. “Oh, Vlad…”
“We know who turned him now,” Val continued. “It was Romulus.”
Both of them froze. The only movement in the room was the dance of candle flames.
Then Cicero growled.
“Are you certain?” Mircea asked, but his white-rimmed eyes and his shaking hand proved that he already believed.
“Vlad’s always certain.”
Mircea sat back, hands braced on the desk. “This changes things,” he muttered. “This…this is…”
Cicero crossed to the window in three long strides and peered out into the night, growling low, figurative hackles raised.
“Has Uncle been back here?” Val asked. “Since we were taken?”
Mircea shook his head and seemed to gather his wits. “No, not since then. He sent a note via courier, asking if I needed anything, saying I should call on him if–” He shuddered. “Damn it, Father should never have let him in the palace! He should have turned him away the second he dared to show his face. Once a brother-killer, always a brother-killer. He hasn’t changed at all!”
Cicero latched the shutters and came back to the desk, shaking his head. “Your father has a forgiving spirit.” He didn’t say what he truly meant, but Val could read his tone well enough: your father is a sentimental fool.
“But I just don’t understand – why,” Mircea said. His eyes had glazed over. When he ran his hands through his sable hair, he tugged at it, hard; it had to hurt, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Cicero glanced at Val, and then at Mircea, gaze knowing, sympathetic. He also looked like he thought they were stupid boys. He sighed. “Romulus has never been able to have an heir.” He waited, expecting them to pick up the story. When they didn’t: “Your father didn’t tell you? Of course not.” A sigh. “He’s sterile. He can’t breed an heir. But he wanted one – or he used to, back in the Roman days. He was obsessed, Remus says.”
Val stared at him. “You think Mehmet is – is his heir?”
Mircea’s mouth fell open. “If – if he wanted an heir–” he spluttered. “Why not name one of the three of us?”
“You misunderstand me, your grace,” Cicero said, bowing his head in deference. “Romulus doesn’t have any property or riches – he has no legacy. But I think…” He hesitated. Wolves – especially bound wolves – took subservience seriously.
“Go on,” Mircea said, gently, “I want to hear your thoughts, Cicero.”
The wolf lifted his head, expression steely. “It isn’t my place to say so, your grace, because I don’t know it for a fact. But I think that Romulus wants to gain some property. A seat of power. He could fight someone for it…or he could appoint an already powerful boy as his heir and then take it from him, when the time is right.”
Slowly, Mircea reached for the cup at his elbow – the rosy glow of wine – and brought it to his lips. Drained it dry in one long gulp, head thrown back. “God,” he breathed after, hand clenched tight around the cup. “My God, I think you’re right. This is – this is disturbing. It’s untenable.”
“Does he hate us?” Val asked Cicero. His heart throbbed in his chest, uneven, lurching beats. “Does he really?”
Cicero sent him an apologetic look. “I don’t know. He might. Then again, it might just be his nature. He’s the son of a god, and I’m just a wolf. I won’t pretend to understand.”
A dark thought occurred. “Father’s gone,” Val said. He breathed so quick and unsteady that his voice fluttered. “Father’s gone, and maybe that’s – maybe Uncle means to march on Wallachia, maybe he already has his army, maybe this is just–”
The top of his head swirled up into mist.
Cicero pulled his hand back, expression oddly unguarded; caught out with dismay. “Apologies, your grace.” He’d been trying to lay a steadying hand on his head. To comfort him.
Fenrir, as Mother’s wolf, had always been affectionate and familiar with him and Vlad. But Cicero, as Father’s, trusted confidante and battle consultant, had always seemed cool and removed; Val had sensed that he didn’t care about the plight of boys.
But he’d been wrong. This sudden show of caring brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them away and did his best to control his voice. “Cicero, do you think Romulus’s plan was to have Father removed so that he could take Tîrgovişte for his own?”
“I suspect not,” he said, grimly. “If he was going to move against us, he would have done so in the early days, before Mircea was officially installed, while there was chaos. And also.” Here he looked pained. “I think Wallachia is too small for his great ambition. If you’d waited this many centuries to make your move, would you settle for one vassal state? Or would you want the whole empire?”
It made horrifying sense.
“You’re right,” Mircea said. He looked at his cup, as if willing it to refill itself. “You are absolutely right.”
Something tugged at Val’s guts. His edges thinned.
He made a noise in his throat, and the others looked at him.
“My body,” he said. “I have to go back. Someone’s–”
And then he was gone, spinning away through the stars, opening his eyes to his dark room in the palace at Edirne.
A figure stood over him, limned in faint silver by the moonlight beyond the window bars. Val couldn’t make out the face, but he didn’t need to; he could smell that it was Mehmet.
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