Cicero growled quietly.
Vlad folded the letter and tucked it into his belt. The messenger had arrived while he was inspecting the palace grounds, his Familiar at his side, and he’d read it as they strolled between the barracks and the stable, headed back for the study to inform the others.
Fall had descended in earnest and it was a cold day, with clouds building up over the peaks, pushed along by a sharp wind. It would rain by nightfall.
Vlad found the weather bracing. The heat made men languid and slow; the cold kept them sharp and alert. And right now, Vlad needed every one of his too-few men to be at his best.
For his own part, he felt jittery. At night, Cicero had taken to bedding down with him, most often in his wolf shape, spread lengthwise across the foot of the bed, or tucked into a deceptively small knot at the small of Vlad’s back. Sometimes in his man shape, his deep, even breaths and the familiar smell of him lulling Vlad to sleep. He never stayed asleep, though; woke often in the small hours, drenched in sweat, launched from a nightmare. The dreams were always different, but one theme carried throughout: he wasn’t the one in danger, and was instead made to watch, helpless, as his family was killed, tortured, raped. Mircea screaming through a mouthful of grave dirt. Father watching his own heart cut from his body. And Val, always Val, with his pretty blue eyes burned to gaping holes, or hanged by a heavy gold chain studded with sapphires, or with Mehmet looming behind him, taking him, grinning at Vlad with a bloody mouth over the boy’s shoulder.
Last night he’d awakened to the light of the full moon spilling through the window, through the shutters he’d left open. Shirt glued to his skin, hair clinging to his damp face, covers twisted around his waist. Cicero, in human form, had rolled toward him, and flung an arm across his chest at some point, doubtless trying to keep him still. He was awake, eyes wide and dark in the moonlight, watching, wolfish.
Vlad had rolled away and climbed out of bed; gone to the window and leaned on the ledge, letting the chill night breeze rush across his skin, and cool it. Behind him, he heard Cicero slip from beneath the covers and come to stand a pace behind him. He didn’t press, and his scent was calm; he let Vlad mull it over, ready to come closer if it was asked of him, or away, too, if that was what Vlad wanted. He knew that; he’d known it before, watching Cicero with Father, but now he knew it with certainty, bone-deep.
The moon-gilded hills of home glowed silver below, the city’s tile rooftops gleaming. One of those clear, crystalline nights, cold enough that, had they been mortal, they would have already caught their death sleeping without a fire and with the window open like this.
Vlad had admitted, quietly, “It was never supposed to be me here. I was the second son. I was supposed to be the warrior, not the leader. And now I have to be both.”
Cicero was silent a moment, then said, “I bore great affection for your half-brother, and he was both brave and intelligent. But truth told, I think you’re better suited for the job, Vlad.” It was always your grace in the daylight, in front of the others. He liked hearing his name in the dark, when he felt uncertain.
“But I’m so angry.” He folded his hands into fists and rested his chin on them. “I’m furious. All the time.”
A little quaver in Cicero’s breathing. A show of nerves. “Your father was kind, and tried always, even when it was difficult, to be cheerful. And now he is dead. I think – I think maybe anger is the right way to feel now.”
Vlad glanced back over his shoulder; Cicero looked almost a ghost, in his white shirt, skin washed pale by the moon. “And you. You’re angry?”
“I am enraged.”
“Good. Now we just have to keep our wits about us.”
Now, their boots crunching over stone and winter-ready grass, Vlad chewed at his lip and thought over the contents of Brankovic’s letter.
Cicero touched him on the arm, and he lifted his head to find Malik Bey striding toward them, expression one of subdued determination. Too soft for the mortal to hear, Cicero said, “Do you trust this man, your grace?”
“Do you?” Vlad asked.
“He seems earnest,” Cicero said. “He doesn’t smell nervous, the way treacherous men always do. But he is human.”
“Yes,” Vlad sighed. “But he’s all we have, I’m afraid.” Malik was near, and Vlad drew to a halt to wait, letting the janissary take the last steps to close the distance. “Captain,” he greeted.
Malik bowed. “Your grace. I saw that a messenger had come.”
“And you, what, rushed over here to interrogate me about it?”
The man blinked, and looked almost startled. “I thought there might be important news.”
“As it happens, there is.” Then he waited.
A long moment.
“Your grace. If I am to be of service to you in your fight to hold Wallachia, then keeping me informed can only be helpful to you.”
Vlad showed his teeth; it wasn’t a smile. “Yes, well. That would be helpful, wouldn’t it?”
The breeze stirred up a handful of errant leaves, and dust.
Malik’s brows lowered, a sign of real emotion. He’d been so calm, so unflappable throughout, and Vlad had to know what lay beneath that façade. Murat might have sent him here, and he might have the empire’s goodwill for the moment, but Vlad had seen curiosity in Malik; the curiosity of a traitor? Or someone who wanted to get out from under the sultan’s thumb just as badly as Vlad?
“Is that what you want?” he pressed. “To be of service to me?”
Malik frowned. “That is my duty, your grace.”
“Yes. Duty. Always important.”
Cicero cleared his throat, a polite, get on with it, your grace.
Vlad sighed, but it was just as well. Malik plainly wasn’t going to step wrong now, here, and for a moment there, he’d been – almost – having fun. He wasn’t sure he was ready to examine that.
“The message,” he said in a normal tone, resuming his walk. Both men fell into step on either side of him. “Came from the prince of Serbia. His sons, the princes at court alongside my brother and myself, you know.”
A stolen glance revealed that Malik raised his brows. Doubtless he’d never laid eyes upon the boys; who knew if he’d even heard of them.
“He managed to surprise Hunyadi, and the Albanian prince, the one they call Skanderbeg as well, and has taken them captive.”
Skanderbeg. George Castrioti. The name had leapt off the page, and Vlad’s pulse had stuttered. He remembered a kind smile when there were none, an exposed throat, an offer of freely given blood. A hand extended, and an offer of an alliance. He remembered a lesson on patience. And hope. George Castrioti had offered him hope.
He understood wanting vengeance for lost sons – he understood. But Castrioti was a force for Slavic Europe. A force for resistance to the mighty empire, and Vlad could have cheerfully strangled Brankovic.
“Why has he done such a thing?”
“Apparently, he’s displeased with Hunyadi’s seeking of personal glory, and the way he’s been using the rest of Eastern Europe for his own gain, casting us aside when it profits him, bullying us. He refenced my father. Hunyadi’s support of Vladislav after my father risked our lives to support him.” He found that he had to take a steadying breath. “So he wants to coerce a marriage. Hunyadi’s son Matthias will wed Brankovic’s daughter. Or else he shall remain in irons.”
Malik ground to a halt, and Vlad stopped as well, as the men turned to face him, brows raised up to the edge of his turban. “For a marriage?”
Vlad felt a smile tug at his lips. “Apparently. Brankovic’s family has suffered greatly during the course of Hunyadi’s ill-advised crusades. Revenge is understandable, though I suppose, all things given, he lacks the will to kill the man and go to war over it. More’s the pity.
“But.” He resumed walking and the others followed. “I should like to see Geor – Skanderbeg,” he corrected, “freed. I’ll draft a letter to Brankovic, promising cooperation and a
lliance in exchange for the Albanian’s release.”
“Will he honor that request?” Cicero asked.
“Not likely. But I have to make it anyway.” For the sake of the boy who’d befriended him in enemy hands.
“This doesn’t solve the issue of the vice governor,” Cicero said.
Vlad sighed. “Yes, I know. I’ve already written to him. I will not leave here. That way lies a trap, and I don’t intend to fall into it.”
“Where is Vladislav?” Malik asked.
“Off warmongering somewhere. We’re lucky, in that.”
They passed the practice yard, where foot soldiers practiced with spears, their friends and fellow soldiers watching, encouraging them with shouts and jeers.
Cicero and Malik drew breath at the same time, and Vlad silenced them with a wave. He knew what they were going to say. “If Hunyadi agrees to the marriage, and is freed, doubtless he will join up with Vladislav and they will march here. And yes, I already know that, as good as these Turkish troops are, we lack the numbers to defend ourselves.” He frowned into the middle distance, imagination taking hold, showing him a palace with walls tumbled by sappers, black smoke billowing from the towers. “This place isn’t home to either of them,” he said, quietly. “They won’t think twice about razing it to get me out. We can’t face them,” he admitted, shame a terrible lump in his throat.
His men were silent a moment, and then Cicero touched his arm, two fingers hooked into the crook of his elbow, and pulled him to a halt so they faced one another. Vlad spared a moment to think that Malik must be surprised by the gesture. Subjects, even captains and confidantes, didn’t assume such familiarity with their princes. And only a Familiar dared touched a vampire in this way. Had Malik understood the existence of immortals, this would have served as all the proof he needed.
Cicero’s eye sparkled amber in the sunlight, a smile threatening. He looked so different than he had in those first days; happy again, hopeful, and it had little to do with a shave and a bath and clean clothes.
“You’re right, your grace,” he said, “we can’t hold the palace with just your men. But what if it was more than that? What if it was the whole city?”
“What?”
“You haven’t addressed your people yet.” Cicero waved toward the wall, toward Tîrgovişte beyond it. “You are their prince’s son; they would be on your side. They would help!”
For a moment, he thought–
But no. Practicality won out. “They are farmers and tailors. Wives and children. They can’t fight for me.”
“There are sons, too, plenty of them.”
“Your grace.” Malik stepped around to stand beside the wolf. “That woman in the square on your first day. He’s right: the people do remember you, and they want you leading them.”
“Go into the city,” Cicero said. “Address your subjects. Tell them what’s happening, and make an appeal to them.”
“I…” He wanted to kick himself. For faltering. Princes didn’t falter. Didn’t utter half-sentences. Not savage ones, anyway.
He took a breath and started again. “I should address them. Yes. That’s what a leader does. But. A battle needs weapons. Needs money, and trained men. A battle needs the support of boyars, and I have no nobles on my side; not after they cut my father’s heart from his body.”
Both of them looked chastened.
Vlad put a hand on Cicero’s shoulder. “It’s a good idea, though, old friend. We’ll see it done.”
The wolf flicked him a small smile.
~*~
They cheered him.
A messenger had been sent ahead, to cut down the desiccated corpses from the gibbet and to stand atop the platform, shouting in Romanian. Vlad had sent Cicero to do this, a figure the people would recognize from Dracul’s retinue; one of their own, a friend. Vlad Dracula, the Son of the Dragon, is your prince now, come to protect his people from Vladislav’s unsavory forces. Make ready, because the prince rides in an hour to address you all in the town square.
And even with only an hour’s preparation, they did make ready. They came out in droves, waving streamers made from old quilts and cleaning cloths. They lined the streets, and cheered when he approached on his roan charger, children jumping and waving their arms, fathers putting them up on shoulders so that they could see him better.
He wore red. A cobbled-together ensemble that was half-Turkish, half-Romanian, and wholly his own. Not a boy dressed up in his father’s shadow, nor a conquering foreigner from the east.
His cavalry, turned out in gleaming mail and polished helms, cleared a path to the square, to the freshly cleared gibbet, and his people called to him the whole way. Vlad lifted a gloved hand in greeting, unable to smile or even to call back, stunned stupid by this reaction. He’d never anticipated it, not in his wildest dreams.
When he reached the gibbet, Cicero stepped forward to take his horse, and Vlad slid down to the ground breathing heavily through his mouth. He might be panicking.
The nearness and scent of his wolf helped. As did the hand Cicero laid on his shoulder, the two of them tucked out of sight behind the horse. “They already love you,” he said with an encouraging smile, and a little shake. “All you have to do is love them back.”
Vlad nodded. Swallowed a swell of nausea. “Right.”
Then he climbed up on the platform and faced his people.
He could have done this other ways. Could have held an audience in the great hall at the palace, asked the citizens to walk and ride up the long hill to the gate, and file across the bridge. Could have sent messengers around to each and every house. Could have sent Cicero or Malik to speak in his stead. But this, addressing them directly, on their turf – this had been the right choice; he knew that now, looking at the sea of smiling, hopeful faces, listening to the shouts of his name. Young women batted lashes and waggled fingertips at him. Young men threw back their shoulders and stood at attention, proud, wanting to impress in a different way. Old women wrung their hands and turned their eyes heavenward, murmuring prayers of thanks.
For a moment, he was frozen, terrified in a way that he’d never been. No enemy had ever frightened him; but this, making people rally behind him, cheer for him – he’d never been the lovable brother. That was Val, miles away in a sultan’s bed.
They already love you. Cicero’s words echoed through his mind. All you have to do is love them back.
He took a deep breath, and willed the fear away. Savage. He must be savage, even in his love and defense of his people.
“Tîrgovişte,” he called. Loud, authoritative. His voice bounced off the building walls around him.
All fell silent as one.
He continued, and the words formed one after the next, until they were effortless, and he knew this was what he needed to say. “I shall not introduce myself, because you all know who I am. My father, Vlad Dracul, a distinguished knight, a man of battle – and of learning – loved this city better than any in the world. He raised my brothers and me here. He died here, deep in these forests, cut down by the knives of a usurper and a pretender. And by the very nobles who claim themselves to be loyal Wallachians.”
Boos, hisses, jeers.
“They robbed you of a prince and an heir, and for what? For the goodwill of John Hunyadi, a Hungarian who doesn’t know you, or care for you. Who doesn’t understand what it’s like to live on the borderlands. To give your wealth and your young boys to the Ottomans. Hunyadi would use this place as a pathway to the east, never caring if war comes here, to your doorstep.
“It’s Hunyadi’s wish to consolidate all of Romania, and absorb it into Hungary. To drag you into his kingdom. To take you from one master, and force you to be subjugated by another.”
Raucous sounds of disapproval.
Below him, Malik pressed his shoulder back against the edge of the platform, and tipped a questioning look up to Vlad. Yes, Vlad was prince, but under Murat’s authority, wielding an army of Turkish soldiers.
> Vlad didn’t care. The words became a tide inside him, and he couldn’t stop them.
“But I grew up here,” he continued. “I bought bread from you, and watched traveling performers in these streets. I played and hunted with your boys. And I sat beside my father each time a new treaty came to his desk, and the Ottomans twisted his arm for just a few more sons, and just a few more gold ducats. More raids, more taking.
“That’s what Hunyadi wants to do: take. Someone is always taking from us.”
A collective shout. He saw red faces, open mouths, feverish eyes. He had them.
And he was one of them.
“Well I say it’s time to end that,” he said.
A roar. A din of overlapping voices like waves slapping at rocks. Is this what drowning sailors heard? This rushing in their ears?
“We are Wallachia,” he said, shouted. “And we will no longer belong to anyone but ourselves! Join with me. Help me hold our lands, and I shall be the prince you deserve!”
They loved him, Cicero had said, and their love was deafening.
~*~
Vlad couldn’t stop shaking.
“Darling, it will be alright,” Eira said. She hovered a few paces away, a cup of wine mixed with blood ready to offer, should he want it. She hadn’t tried to approach him again since he’d growled at her.
He felt bad for doing so, but it had been a reflex. Night had fallen, and still he reeled.
He’d spoken today of a free Wallachia, and here he was, granted leadership of this land by the very empire he’d sworn today to shake off. He’d said impossible, stupid things today. He supposed all kinds of love had the potential to make fools of men.
“Vlad,” Cicero said, low and soothing. “You should come to bed. Rest. It will seem easier in the morning.”
Vlad stopped in his pacing before the fireplace, and thrust a hand toward the shuttered window. “What will seem easier? The fact that I just scorned the very people guarding this palace? Or the fact that, the moment he’s free, Hunyadi’s going to march down here and kill us all?”
Cicero, stripped down to breeches and a simple shirt, hair unbound, folded his arms and sent him a very unimpressed look with his good eye. “You should talk to your men. Most of them aren’t even Turkish by birth. Who’s to say they won’t support you?”
Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3) Page 37