“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.” He wanted to lay a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder, but wasn’t sure it would be read as reassuring.
Nestor wiped quickly, ashamedly, at his eyes, and lifted his head, offered a smile. “And now I’m here.”
“And now you’re here,” Val echoed. “I’m sorry for that too.”
The other recruits, a few of them sitting or lying on the grass, stretching their muscles, suddenly all snapped to attention. They got to their feet and lined up, ramrod-straight and correct.
The sultan had arrived at the practice field.
“Wait here,” Val instructed Nestor, and went to meet his lover.
Mehmet was flanked, as usual, by a pair of janissary guards. He’d left Halil Pasha behind, thankfully. He stood with his arms tucked behind his back, head tilted back, testing the air with his nose.
“What is that fascinating smell?” he asked. “I smell a lot of sweaty humans, and…something else.” He cocked a brow, inviting an explanation.
Val had to phrase this very carefully. “Will you walk with me a moment?” he asked, smoothing his face into something pleasant and inviting.
Mehmet nodded, and motioned for his guards to stay put. They set off across the practice yard, side-by-side.
“Is it a familiar smell?” Val asked.
“No. Well…not exactly.”
“Remember when my brother was here? Briefly? And he brought his household?” And you threatened to kill my mother in the garden.
“No, that…Wait.” He ground to a halt, and turned to face Val fully. “It’s a wolf, isn’t it?” His eyes sparkled with excitement. “Did my people manage to accidently capture one of the beasts?”
“Now. Darling.” Val held up a staying hand that Mehmet’s gaze went right to, an immediate questioning of Val’s boldness. He pressed on anyway. “It would be helpful to adjust the way you think of wolves in general. And perhaps this one in particular. They’re not beasts – they’re immortals just like you and I.”
Mehmet snorted. “They’re nothing like you and I. What is it they’re called?”
Val withheld a sigh. “Familiars.”
“They’re servants for beings like us. That’s the very definition of a beast.”
Val let his displeasure show.
“Are you lecturing me?”
“Never.” He inclined his head. “Though I might advise a bit more subtlety in situations such as this.”
“You.” Mehmet pointed at him. “Have grown spoiled.” There was no threat to his words, though. “Alright, show me this wolf,” he said, walking again. “I suspect he’ll make one of our better warriors.”
Val fell into step beside him with a wince. “Actually, I’m not so sure. This one appears to be more of a scholar.”
“What?”
“He was abysmal with the weapons.” Val decided to leave off the bit about artillery training. Mehmet had plenty of foot soldiers to blow up with his fragile canons, and his plan required Nestor to be very much in one piece. “And he says that he was training to be a monk in Russia, before joining your troops. He’s literate, and speaks several languages. I think he might be of better use off the battlefield.”
Mehmet was silent a moment as they walked, dry winter grass crunching beneath their boots. Finally, he said, “Wolves can read?”
“As I said: they’re not beasts. Being a Familiar doesn’t mean they have any less capacity for the arts, or research, or higher levels of reasoning.”
His expression grew thoughtful.
“Did my uncle not tell you any of this?” Val asked, exasperated. “He’s traveled the world. He’s had innumerable encounters with wolves.” And, according to Mother, had sent three of his own to their deaths at Tîrgovişte, along with a mage whose neck Vlad had broken personally. He still shuddered, overcome with wonder, when he thought about the fact that his brother could somehow resist a mage’s powers of compulsion. He’d reached through her fire, and killed her with his bare hand.
“He didn’t exactly stick around to mentor me,” Mehmet said, defensive. “And Father would never…” He faltered.
“Buy you any pet wolves?”
“You’ve just insisted they aren’t beasts!”
“They’re not. That was a test. Now, here he is. He’s very nervous, so don’t try to frighten him.”
“I’ll do what I like,” Mehmet said, but lightly, which meant he was most likely to obey Val’s wishes for the moment.
They arrived at the bench, and Nestor looked up at the two of them like a cornered pup, bristling with dread, eyes wide, pupils tiny pinpricks.
“It’s alright,” Val said. “This is Sultan Mehmet, and–”
Nestor slid off the bench and went to his knees. And prostrated himself before the sultan.
“Oh, dear,” Val sighed.
Mehmet chuckled. “You should try this sometime, Radu. It pleases me.”
“I please you plenty,” Val muttered. To the boy: “Nestor-Iskander, please sit up.”
The boy did so, hands braced on his thighs, terrified.
“I’ve been telling the sultan about your skills and recommending that he employ you as a scribe rather than a soldier.”
“Have you now?” Mehmet said.
“He’d be wasted as a soldier,” Val said. “And you could use a scribe who wasn’t so mired in the muck of court intrigue.” He lifted a single brow, inviting Mehmet to think otherwise.
The sultan’s frown melted slowly from disapproving…to thoughtful. “An unbiased scribe.”
“Yes.”
“The idea has merit.” His gaze slid to Nestor. “But what of him being a wolf?”
The boy’s shoulders slumped as he tried to burrow down into his shirt collar. “I – I’m sorry, Your Majesty–”
“A rather meek wolf, as you can plainly see,” Val said. “Nestor, you can tell that the sultan is also unique, can’t you?”
He nodded.
“It would be an honor to be of service to him.”
“A tremendous honor, your grace.”
Val turned away from the young wolf, catching Mehmet’s elbow, towing him away a step. He was the only one who dared touch him so casually, and Val suspected that was one of the reasons the Turkish nobles at court hated him so.
“Something for you to consider,” he said with a shrug, feigning casual. “A trusted scribe. A way to keep the only wolf in the palace close.”
A furrow had formed between Mehmet’s brows. He really was considering. “Yes,” he mused. “It’s not a bad idea.”
“Until then,” Val said lightly, moving on, “I thought I’d have the best candidates demonstrate for you.”
It was true what the Grand Vizier had said: Val was an excellent marksman. And he was a decent swordsman at this point, his vampiric strength making up for his lack of the sheer mass needed by the most fearsome of armored warriors.
But his greatest weapon, Val was coming to learn, was his ability to manipulate those more powerful than him.
29
PRINCE WITHOUT A PALACE
Brasov, Transylvania
1452
The sun set early in the mountains, the peaks throwing jagged shadows over the close-set Baroque style buildings around the cobbled city square, the February chill creeping in through the cracks in shutters and the gaps under doors.
In the great room of a second-floor apartment, Vlad Dracula sat slumped down in a chair before the fire, staring unseeing into the flames. A fur had been draped across his shoulders; it carried Cicero’s scent in the places where his skin had touched it. The wolf sat at the table several paces away, studying maps by candlelight with his one eye. The others were all downstairs, in the apartment below, the occasional rising swell of a voice coming up through the floorboards. Vlad could have made out the words if he’d wanted to – he didn’t.
“We’ll have to move again soon,” Cicero said with obvious regret. “There were men watching you in the market today.”<
br />
Always someone watching. They were always moving – fleeing. He was the Cowardly Prince Who Fled.
It had been his mother’s idea to seek asylum with Prince Bogdan II, ruler of Moldavia. “If anyone asks,” Eira had said, “Bogdan is your uncle.” A truly baffling explanation; almost as baffling as the way Mother and Bogdan had greeted one another like old friends.
It had taken a long time to settle in the palace there. To accept the idea that he wasn’t on the run. That he was neither a puppet nor a prisoner. He woke each morning in a sumptuous bed, was brought a breakfast tray by a servant, and took his morning meal while Cicero looked on like a stern matron, ensuring he ate everything on his plate. The wolf offered his vein afterward, and Vlad would drink until his belly was warm, and full, and then doze some more, in that hazy, aroused post-drink state, sun falling in through the window, Cicero resting a comforting hand on his head.
Then it was time to dress and be off for his lessons.
That had been the strangest part: being a student again.
He wasn’t responsible for anything save learning, and training, and those things he did beneath the watchful eyes of quiet-voiced monks and Moldavian sword masters. No one struck him with a crop, nor reminded him of his place. No one cuffed him, or denied him food, and no vengeful heirs challenged him to unfair duels with sharp blades. He learned of the Ottoman Empire not as its ally, but as a Romanian – as someone studying the enemy. It was a proper Romanian education he had now, the one that had been cut short when he’d been taken from his father in Gallipoli.
And Vlad flourished.
His family, his pack, was safe, and he didn’t allow himself to think for now. It was selfish, he knew, but he didn’t worry about the future. About what would happen if Bogdan grew weary of him, or no longer wished to harbor a fugitive. He threw himself at his studies and his training – at being a young prince, being a boy. Just a boy. One who cracked the occasional smile.
A boy with a friend.
~*~
Vlad handed his blade off to one of the squires in attendance and accepted a cup of water from one of the others. The summer sun beat down on the practice grounds, reflecting off the white sand with glaring brightness. The water was cool, straight from the well, and he gulped it down greedily, short of breath afterward.
His body ached in a good way, tired and sore from rigorous exercise. He’d always been a competent duelist, and a brutal fighter, but he could feel himself improving day by day; quicker, stronger, more patient when he needed to be, more confident as his skills sharpened.
Stephen slumped back against the wall beside him, accepting a cup from the squire and pressing its cool side to his forehead. “Christ, man,” he said with a breathless laugh. “If that’s how the Ottomans teach all their boys how to fight, no wonder they’re in charge of half of Europe these days.”
Slowly, over time, Vlad was finding that mentions of his former captors didn’t fill him with an immediate, blinding rage. He merely grimaced now, and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “Don’t give them all the credit. Some of it’s just natural talent.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Stephen laughed again. He was always laughing.
The Moldavian heir was of a height with Vlad, and a ferocious swordsman in his own right, but that was where the similarities ended. He was broad, and more obviously, heavily muscled than Vlad. Square-jawed, and golden-skinned, his hair fell past in his shoulders in a bright mane of riotous bronze curls. A young lion, confident, proud, but friendly, his smiles easy. The energy that propelled him through his days was a happy one; it radiated out of him, in every joke, or tease, or gallant bow to a passing maid that had her blushing and giggling.
Vlad had wanted to hate him for that at the beginning. What kind of a prince smiled so much? What reason did he have to do so? And, petty though it was of him, he’d felt skinny, and sallow, and ugly beside the other boy. He’d never cared about his looks – how could he when his own little brother looked like an actual angel, and had always drawn the stares of every man, woman, and child?
But Stephen had drawn him out of his black depression, relentlessly cheerful. One night, Mother said, “You’re so handsome when you smile,” and he’d blushed, and grumbled, and turned his back to her quiet, pleased laughter.
The squires refilled their water cups and then retreated across the yard. Vlad could sense Stephen’s anticipation before the boy spoke; it raised the fine hairs on the back of his own neck.
“So,” Stephen whispered when they were alone, “I know about the strength, and the speed, and the healing, but – does it actually help you learn faster?”
Vlad sent him a narrow-eyed glance. Bogdan and his son both knew about immortals. Had already known – at least, Bogdan had, thanks to a friendship with Father. By the time Stephen had finally asked Vlad outright, only a month ago, they’d been such friends that Vlad hadn’t been able to lie.
He regretted sharing the knowledge, though.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Stephen rolled his eyes. “I think anyone with magical powers is, technically, cheating.”
That startled a laugh out of Vlad. “Shall I tie one hand behind my back and have us go again?”
Stephen lifted his head in a theatrical display of mock-haughtiness. Vlad had told him once that he looked French when he did that, and so he kept doing it, just to get a chuckle out of him. “No,” he said loftily, “I think you should share.”
Vlad’s laughter died away. They’d had this conversation several times now, and each time, Stephen grew less teasing, and more sincere. “It’s not the gift you think it is,” he said quietly. The squires were a distance away, at the well, but he didn’t want anyone overhearing.
Stephen let his head thump softly back against the wall. “Or is it just that you want to be special?” he said, and all hints of teasing melted off his face, leaving him curious – hurt.
Anger flared: quick, hot, immediate. He’d been trying hard to control those sorts of reactions. The people here weren’t his enemies. He couldn’t use violence to solve all his problems – his failure at Tîrgovişte had proved that.
He took a steadying breath and said, “I can’t believe you would actually want my life. It’s anything but special.”
Stephen’s gaze dropped, and his lips pursed, chagrined.
“My kind can die,” Vlad continued, managing to keep his tone soft, almost apologetic. “We might be harder to kill, but that just means we have longer to feel pain. It hurts when someone cracks open your ribcage to get to your heart, Stephen.”
“I know.”
“The way they did to my father.”
“I know!” Not a shout, but loud enough to have the squires glancing over, startled.
Stephen huffed a breath and shook his head. “Forgive me, cousin.” It was a lie they’d slid into easily, a blood relation. Oftentimes, Vlad wished it was the truth, that he was just a mortal boy, unencumbered by the legacy of a long-since-fallen kingdom. “I don’t envy your trials. You know this.” He offered a small smile. “It’s just that it sounds like a fantasy sometimes.”
Vlad sighed. “That’s what everyone who doesn’t have to live forever thinks.”
A figure approached from across the courtyard. Malik Bey, dressed now as a Romanian at court, though he still favored scarlet – it was Vlad’s family color, after all, and Malik had gone down on one knee and pledged himself to House Dracula.
“Your grace,” he said now, pulling to a halt in front of Vlad. He’d always stood tall and correct, but there was a lightness in his posture now that hadn’t been there when he’d been a janissary. Stealing him away the night they left Edirne had been a risk, but one Vlad was glad of. The man got on well with Cicero, and had become something of Vlad’s left hand – the position a mage would have occupied if he’d had one. Or been able to stomach the thought of one.
“Your graces,” he amended, including Stephen in his address. “The prince wishes
to see you in his study. He’s had word from his brother.”
~*~
That had been June. The June before, in 1450, Vlad and Stephen had fought beneath Prince Bogdan’s banner together, crushing the invading Polish army at Crasna. Two triumphant young princes hailed as heroes by the Moldavians. Cheers, and flower garlands.
Followed by a cozy winter reading by firelight. And a lazy summer rich with horseback riding, and hunting, and training, and growing into his own skin.
In October of 1451, Prince Bogdan was murdered by his own brother.
It had been four months since that horrible day. Four months of fleeing. Hunyadi had their scent, and they couldn’t stop anywhere for long; no one wanted to take them in; betrayal was a constant worry.
A prince without a palace. Without an ally. Without anything.
Vlad stared into the flames. They were dying, the last flickering tongues, deep orange. The firewood basket sat empty by the hearth. Someone would have to venture out and buy more; another chance to be recognized, to be reported, targeted.
The stairs creaked, and he heard the weight of footfalls. Vlad didn’t turn; Cicero was on guard.
And, truthfully, he didn’t care anymore. Let a villain come. Let them try to kill him. He relished the thought of a real fight, rather than all this damned fleeing.
But it was only Stephen. Vlad caught his scent, and the other prince walked past Cicero unimpeded, coming to kneel down beside Vlad’s chair and grip his arm with shaking fingers.
He stank of fear. His voice came out desperate. “Vlad.” His hand tightened on Vlad’s arm until Vlad turned his head to meet his panicked gaze.
“Vlad. There’s men in the alley. Five of them, all dressed in black. I saw a flash – they have knives.” His voice wobbled, but didn’t break. He was working hard to sound brave, but the months of flight and hiding and the assassination attempts were getting to him.
“Vlad!”
Oh. He’d just been sitting there.
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