Tears filled his eyes, and he blinked them away and kept running.
He’d become an expert at dodging guards and nighttime garden-walkers; the gardens were vast, but no obstacle for his regular endurance. Tonight, though, as his adrenaline waned – sustained for too long already – and exhaustion set its hooks in him, he knew he had to stop.
He found a tall apple tree with far-flung branches, and shimmied up it. Rested in the crotch of two wide branches, tucked up and hidden beneath the leaves, and let his flushed face rest against the cool, rough bark.
He breathed through his mouth for long minutes, trying to will his heartbeat slower. The breeze tugged at his loose hair, a gentle sigh through the branches all around him. His cramping muscles unclenched by degrees. Alone, untouched. Alive.
Sleep beckoned, and he let it claim him.
He dream-walked.
His mother sat on her favorite bench in her own garden, the dark close around her, a light shawl all that shielded her from the chill, her hands white-knuckled on its edges. Her bench rested on top of a low hill at the palace’s base, and the land sloped down, so that she could see across the moat and toward the moonglow-silvered roofs of the houses in Tîrgovişte.
“Mama?”
In the first moment, when she turned to him, she couldn’t hide the grief etched into her face. Loose pieces of hair haloed a countenance drawn tight with deep sadness.
“My darling,” she whispered, and held out her hand.
Val settled on the bench beside her, as well he could in his projection form, and she leaned in close, even though his edges smoked and wisped away into the night.
They sat a moment, together in this one small way they could be. Until Val felt tears threaten. He wanted to be real; for his mother to put her arm around him and wipe his tears away with her thumb that smelled of herbs, and kiss his hair. Tell him that she would make it all better.
“Mama?”
Her hands twitched on the edges of her shawl; she wanted to be able to touch, too.
“Have you ever…” It was an impossible thing to ask.
“Have I ever…what?” She sat up straighter. “What is it, darling?”
He would give anything not to reveal this about himself – that he was the kind of boy that men wanted to grope, and fondle, and seek pleasure in. That he was weak, so much weaker than his brothers, warriors both. They were worthy princes, honors to their Roman heritage, and he was only beautiful.
But fear closed around his throat like a fist, and he wanted to know. Needed to. If there was some way to grit his teeth and get through this thing that was being demanded of him.
“Have you – has anyone ever…forced you–” He choked on the words. Saying this to his mother had to be some kind of sin.
She stared at him a long moment, when he couldn’t say anything else, and then she understood, eyes flying wide and white, shiny in the moonlight. “Who?” She tried to grab him, his shoulders turning to mist beneath her touch. She growled, but it was a despairing sound. Halfway to a sob. “Val, who? Who – did someone – who would – oh, love…”
He was snatched away from her.
Back in his body, his eyes flew open, and in that first moment of disorientation, he knew only that it was still dark, and that he lay hugging a tree branch, and that someone’s warm hand rested on his ankle. He gave a shout of surprise and sat up.
It was a small tree, decorative, and the sturdiest branches, one of which Val straddled, hung low enough that Mehmet could stand below and reach to touch him – which he was doing now. The pearlescent light of dawn suffused the misty garden, and by its light, Val could see the black stain of blood on the sultan’s kaftan, dry now; no doubt the wound had already healed.
Mehmet’s smile was very small, and very determined. The night’s drunken lust had hardened in the past few hours; he now stared up at Val with sober surety – but no less hunger. You will obey, his gaze said, accompanied by an intangible shove of resolve. You will come to me, or I will do terrible things to you. His was the face of a prince who’d been crowned a king too early, who wielded all of the privilege, but carried none of the weight.
He tugged lightly at Val’s ankle. “Found you.”
Val couldn’t speak.
“How about,” the sultan continued, the words casual, his voice anything but. “You come down and we’ll go have a nice breakfast together. We can pretend that last night never happened.”
Do as I say, and I won’t punish you for refusing me.
Val closed his eyes and thought of his mother’s face, the way it had crumpled, the tears in her eyes. Oh, love… But what was he to do?
Being alive…that had to be better than being dead, didn’t it?
That was the conclusion he came to, anyway, in all his nine-year-old wisdom.
He swallowed, and nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
~*~
Oh, he thought, dazedly. There’s blood.
Mehmet had stripped off his clothes without ceremony; run his hands over his body, like he was judging a horse at market. Had pinched his nipples until Val had to bite the tip of his own tongue; tugged fruitlessly at his soft cock a few times, growling under his breath. Then he’d put Val on the bed and pressed his face into a silk pillow, hand cupped around the back of his skull, holding him there. He’d used a palmful of fragrant oil to ease the way; Val had jumped, surprised, when he felt it. But a firm smack stilled him.
And then–
He knew he’d cried, because the pillow was wet when he was finally allowed to sit up, but he was proud that he’d been silent, sobs muffled in the silk. And he’d felt something tear; pain like the blinding like of a sunset, overwhelming him; he’d been split open.
He twisted around now, as the sultan sat at his dressing table, ignoring him, and saw fresh red blood on the sheets – his own. Felt more dribbling out from inside him. He reached to touch himself with careful fingertips, trying to assess the damage, and recoiled with a bitten-off cry. It hurt so badly.
Fresh tears clouded his vision.
“If you go crying to your brother about this,” Mehmet said lightly, not bothering to turn around, “I’ll send his head back to your father in a box.”
Of course he couldn’t go crying to Vlad – he’d only call him a baby and say he’d invited this on himself for being so soft and pretty.
21
WORSE THAN DEATH
Dawn found Vlad on the back of a horse. A rangy gelding built for speed rather than battle. In the dim glow of a lantern, Vlad tilted at the practice dummies in the stable yard until a host of sleepy grooms arrived for the morning feeding, the animals whickering and stamping. The gelding swiveled his ears, interested in the prospect of food. Vlad steered him away from the barn, out to the open field where they took the hawks hunting. There he leaned low over an already-sweat-damp neck and dug his heels into fleet sides; pushed his mount into a gallop, the wind snatching tears from his eyes.
When the sun unfurled above the tree tops, blood orange, he finally pulled up. Let his tired horse walk with his neck stretched low, catching his breath and occasionally stripping the seeds off a tall stalk of grass with nimble lips.
Vlad was sore from tilting, all his muscles pleasantly exhausted. Sweat glued his shirt to his body, and his breath came deep and labored. But he still carried so much pent up energy that his bones seemed to vibrate.
He was, without question, the worst brother in existence. Worse even than his uncle: Romulus had killed Remus, or at least tried to, and there was some dignity in death. It was clean, at least. What Vlad had allowed to happen to Val, though…
He closed his eyes tight and let the horse’s movements sway him side to side in the saddle.
Why couldn’t it have been me? If only he’d been the one with the fine features, the soft little face, the sweet, doe-eyed look of innocence. Then perhaps Mehmet would have wanted Vlad, have reached for him across a table. And then, when he was in the sultan’s bed, he could
have slit his throat and cut the awful immortal heart from his chest.
But Val was sweet. And innocent. Val would never defend himself. Val would cooperate to stay alive.
And now Val had to know that some things were worse than death.
The gelding tossed his head. Vlad’s hands had clenched to fists on the reins, and he forced them to relax. He wanted to kill. With sword and dagger, but with his fangs and bare hands, too. Wanted to drink deep of his enemy’s blood in a visceral urge stronger than lust, or hunger, or homesickness.
His horse came to a halt, ears flicking back and forth, questioning his rider’s agitation. Vlad tipped his head back and stared up at the lightening sky. The moon was still out, a wide cheery smile.
He snarled at it. “I will kill him,” he murmured, a promise to himself, to his family, to God. “I will.”
When he returned to the stable, the day had begun in earnest: riders coming and going. Messengers, troops moving between outposts, nobles off hunting, hooded hawks on their gloves. A boisterous group of merchants had arrived with laden wagons of merchandise, shouting directives at harried stable boys. No one paid Vlad any mind. He unsaddled and rubbed down his mount himself; paused afterward to cup water from the fountain in his hands and splash his face and neck, letting it pour down inside his shirt. He stood a moment, after, hands braced on the stone lip, staring down at his wavering reflection, water dripping off his nose, and lashes, and hair. How young he looked, still, though he felt he’d lived a lifetime already.
Just a boy, still. A hostage boy, helpless in the face of everything.
He straightened, turned…and there was Mehmet.
The sultan was dressed for riding in dark leathers and a simple turban, sword belted to his hip. His Grand Vizier, Halil Pasha, flanked him, along with a scribe and a noble whose name Vlad had never bothered to learn.
A growl built in Vlad’s chest before he could check the impulse. He hated him.
Mehmet turned to him, his grin slow and mocking. “Ah,” he said, and Vlad realized he’d taken three long strides toward him, hands balled into fists. “There he is: the prince who can’t control his temper.”
Vlad let his growl swell; it drew startled glances from the merchants. A pair of stable boys ducked around a wagon.
Mehmet moved toward him, unhurried, unbothered. He clasped his hands behind his back, and let his shoulders fall at a casual angle. Four guards had materialized behind him, lances at the ready to defend their sultan. “Been out riding?” Mehmet asked. “Enjoying my horses? They’re exceptional, aren’t they?”
“Enjoying my baby brother?” Vlad snapped. Mehmet smelled like oil, and soap, and clean clothes, yes…but he also smelled of spend, and blood, and fear-sweat. And of Val. He hadn’t washed everywhere. He’d kept the scent of rape on himself, so he could linger over it…or maybe to taunt Vlad.
Eyes widened around them. Halil laid a hand on Mehmet’s arm. “Your Majesty–”
Mehmet waved him off and stepped in closer to Vlad, eyes glittering like gems: bright but cold. His voice was a low murmur, just for the two of them. “Can you smell him?” He inhaled, breathing in the scent that lingered on his own body. Showed Vlad his fangs. “He is exquisite. Gentle. Tight. More beautiful than any girl.”
Vlad growled again.
Mehmet chuckled. “Hit me. And see what happens.”
He almost did. It was more tempting than anything had ever been in his life. But he checked his swing. Striking the sultan would get him clapped in irons, and beaten to within an inch of his life…probably killed. And of the two of them, he was determined not to die first.
So instead, he said, in low Greek, “I’m going to kill you.”
Mehmet laughed in his face. “Lofty aspirations, Wallachian.”
“I will,” he insisted.
“Hm, maybe so.” Mehmet tipped his head to the side. “But first…I think I’ll kill your entire family, and take your palace for my own.”
He departed with one last smile, turning back to his retinue, confident that he could present Vlad with his back and remain unharmed.
He was right in that, at least. When Vlad eventually put a sword through him, he wanted to be looking the fucker right in the face.
~*~
Val woke in a panic. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep. As dawn broke over the palace, slaves had come to assist Mehmet with his morning ablutions. Val had lain in the rumpled bed that reeked of his own blood and Mehmet’s seed, clutching a pillow to his chest, hiding beneath the covers. He hurt; he burned. He felt like he choked the tears back one at a time, a struggle that took all his concentration.
“Bring the prince a breakfast tray,” Mehmet had ordered, and someone had scurried to comply.
Val’s plan had been to lie quietly until Mehmet left, off to do sultan things, and then he would gather his ripped clothes, and the tatters of his dignity, and go back to his own quarters.
He hadn’t meant to fall asleep.
He sat up now, too warm beneath the sheets, flinging them off in a haste. Thick, golden sunlight fell in through the iron grills of the garden doors. It was late afternoon. Songbirds trilled, lazy from a day’s activity.
“Oh no,” he groaned, scrambling to get up. He was still sore, and worse, weak from hunger. He’d slept nearly the whole day away, still naked, still in the sultan’s bed.
He got unsteadily to his feet and was reaching for his discarded şalvar when he noticed he wasn’t alone. A small slave boy, not much younger than himself, one of Mehmet’s eunuchs, sat quietly on a stool, his plain clothes and downcast eyes lending him the air of a sculpture; a servant meant to be useful, but not seen.
Val yelped with fright, and tried to cover his nakedness, snatching the pants to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said, stupid with fear. His hands and his limbs and his breath trembled. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
The boy lifted his face, but did not meet Val’s gaze directly, his own downcast out of respect. “Forgive me, your grace.” Voice soft, unobtrusive. “His Imperial Majesty the sultan bid me offer you food and draw you a bath when you woke.”
“When I…” Val tried to catch his breath, his head spinning. “I should – my own quarters, I…”
“Shall I fetch you a tray from the kitchens?”
Val sagged back and let the bed hold his weight. What about his studies? His lessons with the other boys? His training and exercise and endless archery lessons?
Deep down, he knew the answers to these questions. Lessons and training were for hostages who would be sent home. Wards turned carefully to allies who could return to their kingdoms and principalities to rule as puppets of the empire.
Meals in bed and slave-drawn baths were the indulgences of mistresses.
Of a ruler’s favored pet.
He closed his eyes. His stomach growled. “A tray, please,” he whispered.
Val nibbled at fresh pita, still warm from the oven, with hummus, and olive oil, and sipped red wine craftily mixed with blood while the slave boy filled a copper tub set before the coal brazier with hot water. He had no appetite, but the few bites he managed, and the blood-wine, helped to settle his stomach and calm some of his shaking.
“It’s ready, your grace,” the boy said when he was done, moving to stand with a bowed head beside the tub, a cloth draped over one arm, cake of soap in-hand. A well-trained bath attendant.
“Alright. Thank you.” His legs were steadier now, when he stood and crossed the distance, but his fingers stilled on the laces of the shirt he’d pulled down over his head at first opportunity. His bruises from before – the dark shapes Mehmet’s hands had pressed into his skin – had all faded, but he didn’t want to be naked in front of anyone, not even a slave who wasn’t looking.
Why not? a mocking little inner voice asked. Everyone in the whole palace doubtless knew what had happened. Everyone at the feast last night had seen Mehmet single him out, reach for him, take him up to an honored seat
at the high table. Val had slept in the sultan’s own bed all day. How could anyone not know? And what shame was simple nakedness in the face of that?
He felt his face heat regardless, as he slipped the laces free and stepped out of the shirt. A flush that went all the way down his throat, and chest, and made it hard to breathe. He stepped quickly into the water, and then sat, even though it was too hot on the still-tender parts of his body that Mehmet had made use of.
He drew his knees up to his chest, and hugged them, teeth clenched against a pain that had little to do with his physical hurts. Every blink was a chance to replay it. Every distant sound in the hallway left him flinching; Mehmet would return, and when he did…
“Your grace,” the slave said, and Val started. “Shall – shall I wash your hair for you?”
“Oh.” His heart fluttered, a trapped bird. “Um. Yes, please.”
The boy moved slowly, deliberately. And his touch was soft as he moved to kneel beside the tub and urged Val to tip his head back. Val closed his eyes, and the warm water poured carefully along his scalp, the boy’s free hand coming up to shield his eyes. He was thorough: wetting, lathering, massaging the soap in and working the tangles free with deft fingers.
For a little while, Val allowed himself to pretend that he was back home in Wallachia; that the fingers in his hair belonged to his mother, or Helga. Someone who loved him, and who was fussing over the knots he’d gained from a day’s training and playing. Whatever shall we do with you? People who thought he was just a boy, rowdy and intractable like his brothers; people who touched him with love.
But all too soon he was clean, and the water was cold, and it was time to face reality again.
He dried with a length of toweling and the slave held up a blue silk robe that settled sweetly against his chilled skin.
But a robe, no matter how luxurious its gold trim and gold tasseled-ties, did not count as clothes. Not the kind you wore when you were out in the palace attending meals with other hostages. This was a robe for bedchambers. For intimacy.
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