Page 174 of Dragon Slayer

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.”

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 thinkfor 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 wasalwayslaughing.

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.

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