Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  Val found his brother in the chapel. The candles had been lit along the makeshift altar. Vlad knelt on the flagstones before it, hands pressed together in his lap, head bowed.

  Val hesitated in the doorway.

  After a moment, Vlad said, “You know I can tell that you’re there, don’t you?” Toneless.

  Val swallowed and walked in on silent feet. He approached his brother slowly, as he would a wild animal. “I didn’t want to disturb your prayers.”

  Vlad snorted. As Val drew alongside him, he could see his smirk in the glow of the candle flames. “Is that what you think I do in here? Pray?”

  “Isn’t it?” Val held his breath as he waited. He wanted to believe that of his brother – that when he bowed his head it was to ask for heavenly guidance. He wanted to believe that, under this new cruel façade, Vlad was still a boy who doubted, and wished, and hoped. That they were the same in that way.

  Slowly, Vlad’s expression relaxed into one of quiet surprise, eyebrows lifting. When he turned away, he shook his head, slightly. “What is it, Radu?”

  He’d almost grown used to the name at this point. Its bite wasn’t as painful. “I went to see Constantine tonight.”

  “Constantine Dragases,” Vlad said with a snort. “Him again?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “What are you hoping to gain from a widower Greek despot, eh?”

  Val sighed. “We’re friends, I said.” It was quite possible his brother had no concept of friendship.

  Vlad shrugged. “So? What of him?”

  “He’d had news of home.”

  “Oh?” Vlad’s tone was casual, bored even. But his spine stiffened, and Val sensed the acceleration of his pulse.

  This was the part that hurt to say. That choked him. “The pope dissolved the treaty between the Turks and Hungary. Ladislas and Hunyadi are marching to war.”

  “You’d think they’d get tired of doing that over and over.”

  “Father sent Mircea and a cavalry unit with them.”

  Vlad turned back to him. Even in the meager candlelight, Val could see the blood drain from his face. “No.” Not disbelief or fear, but a command. No, don’t tell me that.

  “It’s true,” Val said, panic tightening around his throat like a vise. “George Sphrantzes read it aloud; the message had come from one of Ladislas’s generals. There’s a new crusade, and Father has helped with it.”

  Vlad stared at him a long moment, expressionless, chest heaving as he breathed. His gaze finally shifted to the worn wooden cross hanging on the wall.

  They’d been allowed to keep their god, to worship in the way that they chose. A kindness.

  “He broke the treaty,” Vlad murmured. “He’s sentenced us to death.” His head snapped around. “Did you ask him why?”

  “Why? No, I – I haven’t seen him yet. I–”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s made his choice.” He stood and dusted off his knees. “When you do see him next, don’t hassle him about it. A prince must protect his people. That’s what he’s doing. You and I aren’t of any consequence. He has Mircea – he has an heir. That’s what matters.” His voice was terrible: brittle, fragile in a way it never was.

  Val reached for him. “Vlad–”

  Vlad brushed past him, heading for the door.

  Val watched him go. He wanted to call out, to try and offer some kind of comfort. But Vlad would never accept that.

  He returned to his room instead, and stared at the stars beyond the window for a long time before sleep finally came.

  ~*~

  In the days that followed, Val waited for a summons. He attended his lessons, tried valiantly to please his sword and archery masters; sparred with the other boys until he was dripping sweat, even in the autumn cool, and presented himself clean and tidy at all mealtimes. But worry lay over him like a funeral shroud.

  He kept trying to make eye contact with Vlad, in the fleeting moments that they were together, wanting to offer support and commiseration. But Vlad never looked back.

  And when he could, when he was in his bed at night, or when he stole an hour to himself in a quiet corner of the garden, he went dream-walking.

  He found Mircea on a bloody hill. The screams of dying men and dying horses indistinguishable from one another. The air filled with the smoke from the crudely cast canon that had laid waste to the enemy. Val was glad he couldn’t smell the ash, and the blood, and the shit. He closed his eyes against the sight of it, all that death. And yet it wasn’t a victory. Mircea’s sword gleamed crimson, his face streaked with dirt. His horse was still under him, but he was blowing and lathered, and almost done.

  Val wasn’t proud, but he fled. Retreated back to his body, his hiding spot in a corner of the palace wall, lacy strands of ivy trailing over his face. He scrambled to the side and vomited in the crushed rock of the path.

  That night, when he laid down to sleep, he went to find his brother again. The post-battle Mircea that sat slumped in front of a dying campfire looked pale and unsteady, his face still dirty. A deep cut marred one brow; it would scar, Val thought.

  There were others about, but they were at a further distance, half asleep in their bedrolls, too exhausted to notice a spectral boy pick his way up to the fire and settle on the hard ground beside his brother.

  Mircea had always been startle-prone when it came to Val’s dream-walking, and tonight was no exception. But tonight, a man now, a warrior, Mircea ripped his dagger from his belt and brandished it – firelight dancing across the freshly-whetted edge – before he realized it was Val beside him.

  “Radu,” he breathed in relief, and his arm dropped. The knife clattered against a stone and fell out of his hand to land in the dirt. “My God. How did you find me?”

  “I found you earlier, too.” Val swallowed against the images that tried to overtake his mind.

  “You’re getting stronger, then.” Mircea’s face fell. “You saw the battle?”

  Val nodded.

  Mircea licked at cracked lips. Dirt had worked its way into the creases around his eyes, lines of stress that hadn’t been there a year ago. “We lost.” He said it matter-of-factly, too tired and battle-sick to try to paint it in a flattering light. “Hunyadi escaped, as did we. Ladislas is dead. They cut his horse out from under him. I saw them take his head.”

  Val swallowed again. “The crusade failed?”

  “Yes.” He blinked, and his eyes looked wet. “I’m sorry, Radu. I wanted to bring you home–”

  Val couldn’t throw his arms around his neck, so he smiled at him, and wished that felt like enough.

  ~*~

  He found his mother in her bedchamber, staring sightlessly into the fire, embroidery hoop forgotten in her lap. Utterly still. He’d never seen her like that, and it frightened him.

  “Mama?”

  She started, head lifting with a gasp, hands clasping the embroidery hoop and lifting it in front of her. A shield – a weapon, more likely. In that first moment, before she recognized him, he saw that her pale eyes were wild, her fangs visible. A growl built in the back of her throat, and then quickly died. A moment of his mother the shieldmaiden, and then her face crumpled, and tears filled her eyes, and she said, “My darling,” and reached for him.

  He went, though he turned to smoke under her hands.

  She wiped her eyes and forced a sound that was meant to be a laugh. “Look how big you’re getting,” she said, hands hovering over his projection. “Your hair is so long. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  They talked of silly, sweet things long into the night. And when he left, before he faded away, she finally let fall the tears she’d been holding in check the whole time.

  Her hands hovered beside his face. She gritted her teeth. “I will get you back,” she said. “I will.”

  He wanted to believe her, but he knew better.

  ~*~

  Quiet, well-mannered, fluent in Turkish and a favorite amongst the women of the harem – they l
iked to braid his golden hair and buss his cheeks and smile into his eyes until he blushed and looked away, which made them laugh – Val heard not just the palace gossip, but the truth behind it. From the servant girls who attended to Murat’s Serbian wife, he heard that Murat had left the palace so that he could rouse his own troops in order to run to Mehmet’s aid. Not just aid – he crushed the forces that Mehmet had been unable to, shaming his sultan son, all but taking the title back from him.

  The day of Mehmet’s arrival dawned in creamy pinks and oranges; an autumn storm sky. Clouds built slowly all day, stacking up like gray wolf pelts until it seemed the weight of them would crush the horizon.

  Val had trouble eating, belly full of nameless dread. The electricity in the air – dancing tongues of lightning that flirted along the distant tree tops – kept inducing little shivers. Goosebumps that ached and prickled up the back of his neck. He felt restless; he wanted to spar, an urge so alien to him that it sent him into a quiet panic attack beneath the oils and combs of the slaves sent to beautify him for the reception banquet.

  It had been years since he’d last seen Mehmet, and it occurred to him now, wincing as tangles were tugged free, that those had been peaceful years. Years in which Vlad suffered the riding crop less; years in which there were no near deaths in the practice yard; years in which Val had started to hope that, maybe, just maybe, if they minded their manners, and learned their Ottoman history, they could go home soon.

  But Father had betrayed the treaty.

  Mircea’s men had died in a field of mud, and blood, and horse shit. All for nothing.

  And Mehmet, defeated and shamed, marched home now. He’d been an arrogant, angry boy before. Now…

  Val closed his eyes against the threat of anxious tears and prayed feverishly that Vlad wouldn’t do anything stupid tonight.

  He went down to the great hall in a gold-trimmed blue kaftan and gold silk şalvar, his hair done up in elaborate braids, woven through with jewels and tiny bells that chimed when he walked. His slippers had bells, too – not his usual, functional schoolboy boots, but fine leather slippers lined with cozy fur.

  “Beautiful,” one of the slaves dared to tell him, just a warm whisper in his ear. The mirror proved that to be a true statement.

  He fell into step with Vlad along the way, and Val did a double-take.

  It wasn’t often that Vlad actually looked the part of a prince, with his hair tangled and his sharp cheekbones smudged with dirt from the training yard. He had no affection for finery; he would rather ride, and fight, and work with his hands. The sort of second son born for the battlefield, wrong-footed indoors amongst polite company.

  But the slaves had attacked Vlad tonight with their oils, and combs, and abrasive soaps. He gleamed.

  Twin braids hugged the curve of his skull, falling loose down the back of his neck, his hair thick and glossy and dark. Like lamp oil in the flickering torchlight. His kaftan was deep red, blood-colored, picked with both gold and silver. His şalvar were white, tucked into buffed black riding boots. A heavy jeweled belt rested on his hips, hung with a ceremonial dagger, its hilt set with a massive ruby.

  There was no scrubbing away his scowl, though. “What?” he demanded, hand settling on the dagger hilt in a gesture Val thought was unconscious.

  “You look nice.”

  Vlad snorted.

  The great hall, with its ornate tiles and soaring columns, sparkled with torch and lantern light, a rainbow of colored reflections. Low, portable tables had been arranged in a double row down the center of the room, each lined with rugs for sitting. One stood apart, at the head of the room: a royal table for the young sultan and his father who’d rescued him in battle. Incense burned, undercut by the rich, savory smells of the food about to be served; between the tables stood decorative bowers twined with flowering vines, a thousand candles wavering in the breeze from the high windows. All of it like something from a fairy story.

  Val stood, staring in quiet wonder, until Vlad took his arm and steered him in the direction a hurrying slave indicated. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked, leaning into Vlad’s side.

  “No.”

  They were seated at a table with the other hostages and the sons of some of the notable members of court. Several of them looked at Vlad with wide eyes, but quickly ducked their heads when Vlad’s gaze fell over them.

  Oh, brother, Val thought. Why do you want everyone to be afraid of you?

  The room slowly filled with diners. The regular court, a collection of Ottoman nobles, scribes, viziers, relatives, and shameless hangers-on – same as at any court across the world. Then there were the leaders who’d pledged loyalty to the boy sultan’s campaign, a mix of austere tribal lords and Mongols in furs. They’d come from all corners, all willing to pledge fealty to the Turks for the chance to smash the West.

  Mehmet was the last to enter the hall; even his father was already seated. A collective hush, and then a turning of heads, a swiveling of bodies. A pointed murmur that moved through the room as a wave. The disgraced sultan entered with head held high, jewels glittering on every part of his person. Every inch royalty, from his crisp white turban, to his gold kaftan and şalvar, to the crust of sapphires on the tops of his boots, and their pointed golden toes. A ring gleamed on every finger.

  He’d grown tall and lean in his time away from Edirne, his face angular and handsome. He wore a close-trimmed auburn beard, and the green in his eyes was visible even from a distance – as was the shame. His bearing was arrogant and bored, but Val saw the single line pressed between his brows, the little lines of stress bracketing his mouth.

  He was a proud, proud boy, but he was just that: a boy. And now his entire empire knew it; had watched his father go rushing to his rescue.

  Val was startled by a low, pulsing growl beside him, and turned to look at his brother. Vlad’s jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists where they rested on the tabletop. Nostrils flared, scenting the air.

  “Brother,” Val whispered. He laid a hand on his arm. He’d caught Mehmet’s scent as well – vampire, male, threat, alpha – but his first inclination had been to duck down beneath the table, not to leap over it and start a brawl. “Please. You mustn’t.”

  Vlad’s response was to bare his teeth and issue a real growl, chest heaving, head tipped back as he looked at–

  Oh. Mehmet had stopped before their table.

  Val tucked himself into his brother’s side. The boys across from them ducked their heads low over their empty plates, whites of their eyes showing. It grew quiet again, eerily so, and the loudest sound was Vlad’s growl.

  There were members of the Ottoman court who knew what the Wallachian brothers were, but in this packed room, the majority thought they were only hostages princes, not immortals who drank the blood of living creatures. Vlad was exposing them. Startled glances came their way. A few guests lifted their heads, searching for the strange animal noise rolling across the polished floors.

  “Vlad.” Val pinched him. Hard. Right in the soft part of his inner arm.

  From above them, a chuckle. Val lifted his head, and the sultan was smiling at him, wide enough to flash his fangs.

  His eyes danced. “It’s alright, little prince.” A purr underlined his voice. “Your brother doesn’t frighten me.” He extended one ringed hand, palm-up.

  What did he…?

  Why was he…?

  Vlad’s hand clamped down on Val’s thigh, pinning him in place. “Don’t.”

  Mehmet’s smile widened. He wiggled his fingers, gemstones catching the light.

  Every eye in the room was fixed on them. If he refused the sultan, in front of everyone, after his father had been labeled a betrayer…it wasn’t possible.

  But Vlad’s fingers dug bruises into his leg.

  The sultan knew. He turned his smile on Vlad. “Like father like son?” he asked in Slavic.

  Vlad tensed.

  Val clapped his hand down over his brother’s. “Please, no,” he
hissed in Romanian. “They’ll kill you, Vlad!”

  In the silence that followed, Mehmet leaned forward and braced his palm in the center of the table, the boys in front of him flattening themselves to get out of his way. His fangs elongated, and his eyes flashed. “What will it be, golden one?”

  He had no choice. Hostages never had a choice.

  Slowly, he pried Vlad’s fingers loose and stood. Walked with head down and face flaming around the table to join the sultan.

  Mehmet extended his hand again, and it was warm and rough when Val slipped his own inside it. The rings were a disguise for the hard calluses at the base of each finger, the half-healed lacerations on his palm. Not just a dazzling sultan, but a warrior, too.

  Val gulped against his stuttering pulse and looked up at him through his lashes. Mehmet smiled at him again, no fangs this time, but with a brightness that Val didn’t understand. Mehmet looked at him with intent – but he was just a boy, he didn’t recognize it.

  “Come along with me, little prince,” the sultan purred, and drew him up alongside so he could hook their arms together. “You can sit and dine with me. Won’t that be an honor?”

  “Y-yes, your grace.”

  Val twisted back, once, to look over his shoulder at his brother.

  Vlad stared down at his empty plate, hands curled into claws on the tabletop, chest heaving. He didn’t lift his face, not once.

  ~*~

  It was a lavish feast, a fitting celebration of an army returned home victorious. Val, seated at Mehmet’s side like an honored guest instead of a hostage, stared down at his fifth course, delicate slices of stuffed quail, seasoned to perfection, and thought of Mircea, dirt-streaked and pale-faced beside his fire. Thought of King Ladislas, his horse cut out from under him, his head taken to the sultan as proof of death.

  There would have been a feast in Hungary, if it had been Mehmet’s head on a pike. One man’s butcher was another man’s hero, and so it went, so it had always been.