Page 162 of Dragon Slayer

Val found them a secluded bench tucked away in a hedge-lined corner of the garden, beneath a trellis loaded with winter grapes. Eira sat near to him, hip-to-hip, one of his hands held between both of hers, fingertips tracing the soft skin on his knuckles.

She didn’t bring up the obvious: the fact that he must smell like another man’s pleasure.

Fen stood guard, arms folded, his back to them, but Val knew he was listening intently. The idea of Fen hearing any of his shame, big, hulking, hyper-masculine man that he was, put a knot in his belly. So, when Eira looked up at him, eyes full of questions, he spoke first.

“Mama, tell me what happened.”

Somehow, it was worse than he’d expected.

Until the part of the story when Vlad showed up. Excitement fluttered in his chest like a bird as he listened to her describe Vlad’s assault on the palace guards, how he’d cut down Vladislav’s men. How he’d ridden into the city to the cheers of the people of Tîrgoviste.

But as was always the case, good things couldn’t last.

“We were too few,” she lamented. “Our enemies too powerful.” She shook her head. “And he is still just a boy, after all.”

“Like me.”

She squeezed his hand, and he lifted his head to see her small, sad smile. “No. Not like you.”

“But–”

“Vlad is exceedingly intelligent. A natural born leader. But he doesn’t know how to bend – and in that way, he is still very much a boy. You, though, know how to give ground.”

“Tobend,” he said, self-mocking. “Yes, I’m very flexible.”

She reached with one hand to touch his face, gentle fingertips along his cheek. “Oh, darling. I’m so–”

“Please don’t say you’re sorry. It isn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.” He tried to smile; it wobbled.

Her touched firmed, palm cupped around his jaw. “I’m your mother, which means I can apologize for whatever I want to whenever I want to. And…gods, I can’t – it breaks my heart, Val.”

“I’m sorry.” He tried to turn away.

“Don’tyouapologize. It isn’t your fault either,” she said fiercely. “The world should be a better place.”

“But it isn’t.”

“Parts of it are.” She smoothed a wisp of hair behind his ear. “We’re going to take you with us.” This she said like a declaration, firmly.

He turned back to her. “What?”

“We can’t stay. We’re not welcome here, not really. Now that Vlad has failed to hold Wallachia, and given the way he and the sultan hate one another, it simply isn’t possible. Not that we’d want to anyway,” she tacked on, expression souring. “We can’t stay in this place. And neither can you.”

How long had he dreamed of leaving? Dream-walking was made nearly impossible by the silver on his wrists and throat, but he still dreamed regularly, as mortals did. Dreams in which he managed to scale the smooth palace walls and drop down, undetected, into the fragrant pine forests around it. Dreams in which he stole a horse from the stables, and rode past guards too shocked to bar the gates. Dreams in which Father, and Mircea, very much alive, laid siege to Edirne, eyes blazing, swords flashing, rescuing him in a feat of valor not seen since the old days.

But that was all fantasy.

“Mama, Ican’tleave.”

A spark flared in her eyes, wild, beyond reason. A glimmer of the true fear and desperation she kept so well hidden. “Val, you have to. I don’t know what he’s told you, or promised you.” She clasped his shoulders, fingertips digging in hard. “But it’s all lies. He’s manipulating you, he–”

“Mama,” he said again, gentler this time. “I know. I’m not a little boy anymore. I know exactly what’s happening, and why it’s wrong.”

“Then–”

“I’m leverage.”

She blinked at him.

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