Page 115 of Dragon Slayer

~*~

The young sultan loved Alexander, yes, and Greece. But he talked of Rome, too. Rum, he called it in his own language. Val had been raised as both Roman and Romanian, with Spartan warrior and equestrian training, and lessons in Hellenistic culture from his father’s homeland. Mehmet had read widely, and knew much, but when he drank and dreamed aloud, he combined the city of Rome, seat of the ancient empire, and the city of Constantinople, the new, eastern seat of an empire that had been winnowed down to one fortified city; one last bastion of the old ways, ruled by a Greek emperor. John, elder brother of Constantine Dragases, whom Val called friend.

It was six months after becoming the sultan’s concubine that Val realized Mehmet meant to sack Byzantium.

He stood at the washbasin, braiding his hair over one shoulder in the mirror there. “Get the slave boy to do that,” Mehmet had said, but Val was enjoying doing this one small thing for himself. It felt almost like having a bit of control.

He’d reached the last inch of braidable hair and set about tying it with a strip of leather. His reflection stared back at him, sleepy-eyed, disinterested. Mehmet had been talking for nearly an hour about Rome as he leafed through his own notes on the subject, spread out on the table amid a platter of grapes and a cup and pitcher of wine.

“I mean to take it,” he said, and Val turned to him, flicking his completed braid over his shoulder.

“What?” He’d found that, slowly, some of his deference was wearing thin at the edges. When he was tired, or feeling especially desperate, he slipped; addressed the sultan in a more familiar way – a familiarity he loathed, truth told.

Sometimes Mehmet noticed it, but he didn’t tonight, his gaze nothing but proud. “Constantinople. I’m going to take it. This” – he gestured to the room around them, the palace – “is my father’s palace. I mean to have my own, and I’ll build it on top of the last remaining jewel of Greece.”

Val had grown so numb in the past few months, inured to his new daily routines, that the sudden swell of panic surprised him. The wash of heat and cold, the prickling of his skin, the tightness in his chest. He worked hard to breathe normally, and to keep his face blank. “That – that’s your goal?”

“No. That’s myplan.” He cocked his head to the side, expression almost fond. “Have you even been listening to me, Radu? Or did I tire you too thoroughly for that? Come.” He cleared a space on the table, in front of the chair that faced his own. “Sit.”

Val obeyed. He always did.

“You see,” Mehmet said, voice laced with excitement, eyes fever-bright, “I am, essentially, the heir to Rum.”

Val stared at him.

“You are, undoubtedly, a descendent of the original founders. And therefore Mars,” he added, resigned. “But! Your father was never king. Your uncle was. AndI’myour uncle’s designated heir.” He held his arms out to the side.Behold, it is I.

“But…” Val said carefully. “Uncle isn’t the king of anything anymore. He hasn’t been for centuries.”

Mehmet flapped a dismissive hand. “No matter–”

“But–” Val bit his tongue. Too far; he’d gone too far.

Mehmet drew upright in his chair, jaw clenching. “Romulus choseme.” He thumped his palm to his own chest. “Two vampire nephews right in front of him, and a half-breed, no less, and he came to my father to ask forme.” Pride, yes, but also: desperation. Val was seeing it more and more, the way it peeked through the cracks when Mehmet was tired, or drunk, lulled by the sense of safety and acceptance his bed, and obedient bedmate, provided.

He was very young. It was easy to forget, sometimes, but Val could see it now, youth spurring cruelty. He ducked down low, trying to look even smaller, more defenseless.

Mehmet put both hands on the table and leaned forward. His fangs descended a fraction, far enough to catch the candlelight. “Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why? Why your uncle would rather turn a human than leave his riches to his own flesh and blood?”

What riches?Val wondered. Romulus held no titles, or lands. He didn’t even have any Familiars, to Val’s knowledge.

“Maybe,” the sultan continued, voice knife-edged, “he knew there was no hope for greatness from a violent idiot and a little whore. He wanted an heir who could reclaim his old empire. Well.” A harsh laugh. “That’s me, little prince. I will take back the empire. It will bemine. And it starts with the Red Apple of Byzantium.”

~*~

Val had been afraid to dream-walk purposefully, afraid that if Mehmet stirred in the night he might find Val’s lifeless body somehow suspicious; that Val himself might murmur in his sleep, betraying the conversation he was having in his astral shape. Mehmet knew that he was a vampire; knew the texture of every patch of his skin; knew the sounds he made when he was entered, when he pressed his face into the mattress and tried to pass pain off as pleasure. He knew his family, knew more about them than anyone outside of it ever had.

But he didn’t know that Val could dream-walk, and that was a secret he would guard with his life. It was his lone hope in a sea of unending despondency. He hadn’t risked revealing it, but tonight…tonight he had to.

When the room was dark, and Mehmet was snoring, Val rolled over so his back was to the sultan, closed his eyes, and went walking.

He found Constantine in the darkened bedchamber of his quiet palace at Mistra, moonlight filtering through an open window. The despot lay on his back, one arm flung aside on the empty pillow beside him; the place where a wife would lie if he could find one. Dark curly hair framed his head on the pillow, a halo of shadow.

Val stood a long, indecisive moment, not wanting to wake him. He himself could no longer sleep peacefully, but he didn’t want to take such a gift from another, knowing its worth.

In the end, he didn’t have to. Constantine shifted, the bedclothes rustling, and cracked his eyes open. When his sleepy gaze landed on Val, he bolted upright with a gasp, reaching with one hand to dash the grit from his eyes, and with the other toward a sheathed dagger that lay on the night table.

That was new.

---