“Well.” Horvathy licked his cracked lips. “That we have yet to hear.”
Petru looked up, to the arrow slit, to dawn’s earliest light there. “Shall we recess? We have talked a day and night through. Perhaps the last could be heard after a little sleep?”
Horvathy looked at the Cardinal. “No, I agree with His Eminence. Let us hear the last of it. It will not be long till you are nestled in beside that pretty young wife of yours again. And we will be gone, to trouble your sleep no more.” He raised a hand. “But let me, at least, speed the process. I know something of what happened next. For I sat in Corvinus’s court, and heard the tales we have just heard re-shaped. Read the pamphlets”—he gestured to the pile on the table—“that damned the name of Dracula throughout the world. And, may God forgive me, I furthered my damnation, and that of my brotherhood, by helping to spread some of the stories.” He rubbed at his forehead. “But time passed. Soon enough we had other ogres to focus on. Christian took on Christian again, while the Infidel sat back and laughed.”
“As it ever was,” murmured the Cardinal. “And then?”
“Then, about four years later,” continued the Count, “with eyes everywhere else, Dracula was quietly brought from Visegrad to Pest, across the river from the King’s palace at Buda. He was given a house. More, he was given a cousin of the King as wife.”
“What?” Petru gasped. “Why?”
“He was still on a leash, but a loose one now. For Corvinus fought Dracula’s cousin Stephen of Moldavia—whom, you remember, betrayed the prince at the very height of his crusade, forcing him to divide his tiny army. So Dracula was once again a threat…to be unleashed perhaps. Then, when the two Christian monarchs settled their grievances and looked again at the Infidel, it suited them to keep Dracula as just that: a threat.”
The Cardinal leaned forward. “Did you see him?”
Horvathy shook his head. “No. The King spared me his rare visits to court. He was paraded sometimes, usually when an embassy came from the Sultan. It amused the King to see the Grand Turk’s emissaries spot him, and hasten to remove their turbans.” Horvathy laughed, but there was little humor in the sound. He continued. “But you can only make a threat for so long before you must use it.”
“Indeed.”
“So what happened?” Petru leaned forward.
“What happened?” the Count echoed. “The world shifted again.” He looked at the confessionals. “Which of you would like to tell us how?”
– FORTY-FIVE –
Sleeping Dragon
Pest, Hungary, February 1475,
thirteen years after Dracula’s arrest
It was dusk when Ion reached the villa on the outskirts of the town. He had meant to be there much earlier, so he would be able to deliver his message and return to the King’s palace in Buda before dark. No one traveled alone at night anywhere near a city.
The frustrations of the journey, which had begun a month before with blocked passes in the Transylvanian Alps, had continued to its end. The bridge across the river that divided Buda from Pest had recently burned down. This would not have been a problem for the ice was usually thick enough to support man and horse across. But a sudden early thaw had rendered it thin and dangerous, yet still too thick for boats to push through. He’d had to go downstream, to a narrower section where a passage had been cut, pay twice as much for the ferry, ride up the opposite bank. This last delay meant it would be necessary to spend the night in a Pest inn, for he would not spend a night beneath the roof of the man he’d come to see.
That roof was identical to those to its left and right, gray slate rising sharply to sturdy timber gables. The houses were solid, square; an arched entranceway in each that was wide enough to admit a small coach; shutters rising two levels up the ocher-daubed walls, all shut firmly against the winter air. The dwellings were unremarkable. No doubt some merchant or town burgher lived in the two on either side.
A month it had taken him to get here and now Ion sat on his horse, unwilling to dismount, despite the mist that thrust chilled fingers under his furs and poked his myriad scars and re-set bones. Each winter was harder, stiffening him, graying the hair that still hung thick over his brow, still concealed the brand Mehmet had given him nearly thirty years before, its edges purpled now, blurring into the wrinkles of his face.
He reached up, ran his fingers over the flesh that stood slightly proud. Why was he hesitating now, when he had not paused, except when forced to, in the entire journey that had begun four weeks previously in Stephen cel Mare’s court at Suceava?
He dropped his hand. He knew why. He had not seen the man who dwelt within these dull walls in thirteen years. Since a very different day, one of terrible heat, in Targoviste. If he’d had his choice, he would never have seen him again. But a king and a prince wished it otherwise. And God, too, he believed. Had to believe. Otherwise he would not be able to walk his horse to the wooden doors, dismount before them, raise one hand to the great iron hoop, lift it…
He never let it fall. Because, beyond the door, he heard familiar sounds: metal striking metal; men crying out. Someone was fighting inside, fighting hard. With a soldier’s instinct, Ion had his horse hitched and his own sword drawn in a moment. Pressing his ear to the grille, he heard running footsteps, a yelp of terror.
Ion had not ridden all that way to speak to a dead man, however much he hated him. Perhaps one of his many enemies had found him out. Turning the iron ring of the handle, he was surprised when the door gave. Opening it wide, for he did not know how fast he might have to come out, he stepped into the darkness of a short tunnel. Shouts came down it and at its end light dazzled him, for the courtyard beyond was brightly lit by torches. Shielding his eyes against the glare, Ion saw two shapes run across. Both held hand-and-a-half swords. One was desperately parrying; the other striking high, low, wide, close.
Ion advanced cautiously, letting his eyes adjust, sword held before him. The men were fighting now in some other part of the courtyard, their blows and cries echoing off the stones. He wrapped his hand around the archway’s inner edge, took a breath, leaned in…
As Ion watched, one of the men stepped under an overhead cut, his own sword high. Blade screeched on blade, the pair locked, grappled, almost still now as they wrestled for dominance, and Ion was able to see them. One was clad in a black leather jerkin, a full helmet obscuring his face. The opponent, turned away from Ion, was naked to the waist, long black hair flowing down a thickly-muscled back that steamed in the chill night air.
He did not know what to do. Who was fighting, and why? He was about to call out, step in, distract…when the grapple ended, the visored man bending at his knees, straightening fast, throwing the other one back. The bare-chested one stumbled around the table, then turned, his sword rising…
The man who turned was Dracula.
Ion gasped. It could not be! For this was the prince he remembered. The bull’s body, the midnight-black hair and moustache. Each scar was livid in the torchlight, and Ion could have named the weapon that made them, the alley or field where it had cut. Yet the man before him was no older than the one he’d last seen in Targoviste. Worse! If anything, he was younger!
Ion began crossing himself, again and again, mumbling a warding prayer. There were many who had said that his prince was kin to another, that the Devil’s son was more than a name. He had not believed it…until now. The proof was clear before his eyes. Dracula had made a pact with Satan. He had exchanged his soul for immortality.
“Holy Father, protect me!” Ion cried.
The fighters, who had charged like bulls into another grapple, heard. Still holding each other’s blades high they turned, as one. Then Dracula released his opponent’s hand, disengaged his blade, began to step away. And the other, whose faceless helmet had turned also, now turned back. Dropping his blade, he cocked his wrist and stepped past the naked chest, moving between Ion and Dracula, who shrieked now in agony. Then Ion saw why—across the taut, muscled s
tomach a thin red line had opened and immediately pulsed blood.
With another yelp, Dracula dropped his sword, clutched his stomach and staggered backwards, falling onto a wooden bench. The hel-metted one leaned down to him, reaching up to the straps at his chin, beginning to untie them. He spoke softly, but in a voice that carried, “Will you never learn? You do not stop fighting, whatever the distraction, while a man has a blade near your throat.”
“You’ve cut me,” Dracula screamed.
“I have,” said the other man, beginning to lift off his helmet, “and the scar it leaves will remind you and perhaps save your life one day.”
The helmet came off…and Ion plunged deeper into his nightmare. For the head that emerged was identical to the one beside it…but only if it had suddenly been lit by lightning on a dark night. All that was black in the one man was white in the other—the moustache, the eyebrows, the thick hair shaken loose, now tumbling down the back, all as white as a bleached skull. And then, as Ion gasped again and looked closer, he saw that they were not identical; that the features of this older man were a corruption of the younger’s; the eyes sunken, the nose thinner, the flesh looser. And he recognized him, even before the elder man turned and spoke.
“Welcome, Ion,” said the true Dracula. “I have been expecting you.”
—
After brief introductions, the younger man was dispatched to the housekeeper. The cut, as both could see, was nothing to men who had had metal stuck into them. It was as if finely-cropped parchment had been run across the skin.
The two men watched him go.
“I wanted him to be a priest,” Vlad said, “but he insists on being a warrior. So I train him to fight—and remind him always of the cost.”
“Your son,” said Ion. It was not a question. “I didn’t know you had one that age. How old is he?”
“Twenty-six. A gift from Arefu. Came to me the night I left the castle. When you missed me with your arrow, Ion.”
Ion stiffened. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Indeed?” Vlad studied him a moment, looked away. “I have other sons, two of them. Small.” He looked back. “And you? How many sons have you?”
“None. Five daughters.”
“Five? Your house must be noisy.”
“As yours is quiet.”
Vlad nodded. “The boys are around. My wife hides them when we train. There’s usually blood. Sometimes even mine, for I am getting slow.” He took Ion’s arm. “You’ll stay for supper?”
Ion looked down at the hand that held him. Three fingers and a stump. “No. I am ordered to deliver a message. But I eat where I choose. With whom I choose…my lord.”
The crippled grip tightened. “My lord? I am still a prince, Ion Tremblac.”
“Not mine,” Ion said. “I serve another now.”
Vlad did not move. But his face flushed with color, startling in the whiteness of the surround. “I heard. My cousin, Stephen of Moldavia. ‘The Great’ they call him now, because of his victories over the Turk and the Hungarian. Stephen cel Mare,” he whispered. “While my victories are forgotten and I am called Vlad Tepes—the Impaler. Remembered only for a tool of justice I once employed.”
“Oh, you are remembered for many things, my lord,” Ion said, jerking his arm from the other’s grip.
Vlad stared, taking in the bitterness in the taller man’s voice, in his eyes. Then he nodded, spoke briskly. “Well, I do not receive embassies with sweat still on my body and my throat a desert. So you’ll stay and eat, or return another day…Spatar.”
Ion paused. “I will stay.”
“Good.” Vlad clapped his hands. “You remember Stoica?”
A man emerged from under the balcony. Unlike his master, the small, bald servant did not appear to have aged much. Only when he stepped a little closer into a pool of torchlight did Ion see the fine lines around his eyes. “Of course. How are you?”
The mute shrugged, waited.
Vlad continued, “You’ll recognize more faces in Pest. Half a dozen of my vitesji live nearby. Black Ilie lives here, still my bodyguard, though he has a wife and family in the town.” He turned to Stoica. “Take his horse to the stable, his things to a spare room.”
“I said I would eat with you,” Ion protested, “I said nothing about staying here.”
“You won’t want to walk the streets alone at night. This is not Targoviste in 1462. Still, that choice can be made after supper.” He nodded; Stoica bowed, withdrew. Vlad was already walking away, slipping into the shadows. “You’ll be fetched when eight bells toll,” he called, and was gone.
Another servant came, beckoned. Finally sheathing his sword—he had forgotten he still held it—Ion shivered and followed.
– FORTY-SIX –
Persuasion
Dracula was alone. He sat at one end of a short, rectangular table. As Ion came in he didn’t look up, just continued to stare into candlelight. Only when Ion sat in the chair held for him at the opposite end of the table were those green eyes lifted to fix on him, though there was no recognition in them, no acknowledgement, nothing. Unnerved, Ion accepted the goblet of hot wine the servant handed him before he withdrew; but he did not drink.
To escape the stare, he looked at the table. It was uncluttered. There were two pots, both steaming; one held the wine, heady with the scent of juniper; the other gave off a whiff of stew, game probably, the hint of rot that went with a hare or rabbit properly hung. There were metal bowls, knives, spoons, two candelabra and a languier. The metal tree was an oak in winter, the fissured bark and barren branches skillfully crafted. Flame-light flickered on the snake tongues that hung there.
Finally Ion looked up, met those expressionless eyes. He pointed at the languier and spoke, over-loudly, to end the silence. “You still fear poisoning then?”
Dracula stirred. “I fear nothing,” he replied, his voice low, “but I do not believe it is my fate to be murdered thus. So I call upon the snake to detect any poisons for me. And the unicorn.” He raised his goblet, turning one side towards Ion and the light. “I have a piece of its horn here. As do you.”
Ion looked down, saw the striations of the horn embedded in the silver mug. “Expensive,” he said.
“My wife’s.”
“Does she not join us? She and your son?”
“My son has gone into Pest to carouse with his friends and show off his latest scar. I hear he has not bought a flagon in years, for all pay to see the Dragon’s claw marks on his skin. That is a lot of wine, for the boy is easily distracted, as you saw.” Dracula lifted his goblet, drank. “And my wife will visit but not eat. One of the other boys is sick and she will not leave him long…and here she is.” Vlad stood, smiling. “Come in, my dear, and meet an old…friend, Ion Tremblac. Ion…this is Ilona.”
That name! It had hardly been out of his mind since he first set out; as if he felt her beside him every step, her wounds crying out for a vengeance he could not take. So he couldn’t help the slight stagger as he rose, as he turned towards the impossible.
Yet no ghost stood there, just a woman. Her face was as white as the snow beyond her walls, dark eyes bright within it, her nose long, her cheekbones sharp. She had no eyebrows, as was the custom in the court at Buda, and her forehead was high under a coif where a hint of her black hair was held. The contrast to the other Ilona, the one forever in Ion’s mind, was marked. Yet if she was not beautiful, as she came forward into the candle-light, Ion could see the kindness in her eyes.
She stretched a hand before her. He bent, kissed. “You are welcome, sir,” she said, Hungarian words in a warm voice, “I have heard much of you.”
Ion, rising from the kiss, was disconcerted. What had her husband said of him? Ion had told his own wife little of the man he’d once loved, and it was often shouted out after too much wine, or from the depths of sleep, hate-wracked and vile. “I…I wish I could make your better acquaintance, lady.”
“I hoped it, too. Soon pe
rhaps. But I have one sick child and one…” She reached behind her and suddenly there was a face at her hip, with hair and huge eyes the color of hers, of night, a boy of about four. He peeped around her, staring up at the stranger, before his glance darted to the table, the snake tongues upon it, and then onto his father.
“May I touch them, Papa?” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Dracula. “But mind! They may still bite.”
His son crept around, reached up, flicked a tongue, laughed. His father stretched a hand past him. “Aiee!” he yelled, jerking his hand back. “Look! It has taken a finger!”
He thrust one hand out, stump foremost. The boy squealed delightedly, as his father mussed his hair, then ran behind his mother once more.
She clutched him, smiled. “You will come and see Mircea?”
Vlad nodded. “I will come. Later. When my business here is done.”
“Business,” she echoed, a frown coming. “Do not…” She broke off, turned to Ion. “Do not keep my husband too long, sir.”
“I will not, at your request, lady.” He bowed.
She inclined her head, and left the room, shooing her reluctant son before her.
Vlad, still standing, looked after her. When he spoke, he reverted to the language of their land. “She is a wise woman. Her words, the ones she does not speak, caution me.”
He gestured to the soup pot and a servant came and filled the two bowls, handing one to each man. Dracula pointed to the door and the man left. Then he sat and immediately began to eat.
Ion sat. “Caution you against what?”
“Against you. And what you would persuade me to do.”
Ion had picked up his spoon. Still, he did not eat. “And how would she know what that was?”
Dracula snorted, took another mouthful. “She is the King’s cousin. A Szilagy of Corvinus’s own family. So she is my wife and a Crow, too. And she knows what crows do—let someone else do their killing for them, then show up to feast on the scraps.” He looked over a full spoon, paused before his mouth. “And are you not here to ask me to provide Corvinus with a supper?”
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