Page 137 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad shook his head. “No. Finish your meal.” He felt a smile tug at his mouth. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” The wolf resumed eating, this time with something like enthusiasm.

~*~

The study was still the study, only now the hearths were heaped with old ashes, and the desk was cluttered with sticky wine cups, greasy half-eaten bits of trencher, and a clutter of messages, maps, and melted candle stumps. The paperwork Vlad pushed aside to sort through later, on the off chance he might glean something useful. The rest of the clutter he dumped out the window once he’d opened the shutters.

He stood a long moment behind his father’s chair, his hand on the back of it. The only times he’d ever sat here as a boy had been in Father’s lap. He drummed his fingertips on the smooth leather, and little metal studs that bordered the wooden frame. It was just a chair, but it had brought him up short and rendered him momentarily stupid, awash with memory, with useless emotion.

“He would be proud of you,” Cicero spoke, voice hushed. Reverent.

Vlad found that he couldn’t have possibly been here, in his father’s sacred space, with anyone beside the centuries-faithful wolf. He had to be strong for Mother; had to be forceful for Fen and Helga. But Cicero had known and loved Remus Vlad Dracul better than anyone, and Vlad felt his foundations waver; felt tears burn his sinuses, and clog his throat.

He gripped the chair back until his knuckles popped, and swallowed hard, swallowed it all down. He lifted his head and saw Cicero looking thin and frail in the chair on the other side of the desk, his black, tangled beard and his wild hair. He’d always been upright, and clean-shaven, impeccably turned out in house colors and fine jewels and furs. A proud, proud, beloved Familiar. Reduced to a wretch, a shivering prisoner. But he gazed at Vlad with his one remaining eye as if he was a savior. As if this trembling boy of seventeen was his whole hope for the future.

Vlad wet his lips. “If I sit here, then…” His voice shook, all his doubt and grief bleeding through. “Then that’s it. He’s really dead.” He’d never shown such emotion in all his days as a hostage; he’d thought he’d lost the ability to.

“Oh, son,” Cicero said, achingly. “He’s already dead. And he wouldn’t want anyone else to sit there but you.”

Vlad pulled the chair back and all but fell into it. “Tell me what happened.”

Cicero didn’t need to ask for clarification. He linked his hands together in his lap and took a deep breath. “There had been rumblings. Some of the boyars came for audiences, asking your father to align with Vladislav. He said, and was correct, that he himself was not the enemy of Hunyadi and the rest of Romania. What did they hope to achieve by appealing to him? But we knew.” He shook his head. “There was unrest. They wanted a war with the Turks. And they didn’t – forgive me, your grace, they weren’t worried about you or your brother, not the way Dracul was.” His look was entreating. “He was your father, and he loved you, and he wanted to bring you home.”

“But he couldn’t. He caved to pressure.”

Cicero bowed his head. “We prepared. But. It was an ambush on the road. Vladislav’s troops…there were many. And five wolves. And amage.”

Five wolves, he’d started to exclaim, but was brought up short onmage. The word hit his brain like a spiked mace, scattering all other thoughts.

“A mage? You’re sure?”

“A woman,” Cicero said, nodding. “With pale hair. She held fire the way a man holds a weapon.” He cupped his hand around an imaginary flame. “I…have never seen anything like it.”

Neither had Vlad, though his parents had described mage powers to him in detail. They’d spoken of them with shudders, and head shakes.Not natural, Mother always said.They’re not like wolves or vampires – we rely on our sight, and sense of smell, our strength and speed and our wits. But mages manipulate the natural world; they are not a part of it. They’re not predators…they’re tricksters.She’d thrown a joke about Loki in there somewhere, but her eyes had been distant and fearful.

“She was powerful,” Cicero said, and in those simple words Vlad could see what had happened: the leaping flames, the wolves crashing out of the woods, the screaming humans armed with swords and spears. “And we fought. We tried to get your father and brother inside the gates, but.” He drew a shuddering breath, head bowing. “I was struck a blow in the face, and I was knocked unconscious. When I came to…” His hands tightened to fists in his lap, and Vlad had the impression it was an effort not to reach for his ruined eye. “They had captured Fen,” he said. “The others, Caesar…” He shrank down into himself, shoulders slumping.

“I’m sorry,” Vlad murmured.

“As am I.”

“Only the two of you survived? No others?”

“Fen says Vali got away. But he hasn’t come back. Perhaps just a father’s hope.”

“Perhaps.” Vlad would ride out and try to find him, though; see if there was a scent trail to follow. Locate the body, if nothing else, for a proper Norse pyre – if there was anything left to burn.

He took a deep breath, hands braced on the desk. The words he needed to say now scraped at his throat like broken glass, but he had to get them out. “Cicero, there’s something I have to do. When Vladislav receives word, he’ll march back, and we’ll have a battle on our hands. But before then, I have to…” Another breath; his lungs were tight. “I won’t ask this of you, not after all you’ve been through–”

“Ask me.” The wolf lifted his head, sorrow giving way to resolve, gaze hardening. “Ask me anything, your grace.”

Vlad hesitated. It didn’t seem fair – even if life wasn’t, if nothing was, it seemed that a prince should offer what fairness he could, when he was able.

“Anything,” Cicero repeated. “I am yours.”

He knew then, the sunlight catching in Cicero’s dark eye, that his father was dead, but he intended to go and see for himself anyway.

~*~

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