Page 65 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad realized where they must be, and his heart sank.

The ropes on his ankles loosened, and he was dragged off the horse. Val let out a yelp as he was dragged along too, and then fell to their knees on a bed of sharp gravel stones, Val’s arms tightening around Vlad’s waist.

Vlad’s hood was ripped off, and dappled sunlight assaulted his eyes.

They were in a tree-lined courtyard. Vlad saw benches, and reflecting pools edged with spills of bright flowers. A group of stable boys moved forward to take the horses. A set of doors shaped like a keyhole waited at the top of a shallow flight of stairs, and in front of them stood a man in elaborate robes, hair covered by a snow-white turban. He spoke to the captors in Turkish, quick and dismissive. The blond one came to drag them up to their feet, but he left the cuffs attached – a wise move on his part, an infuriating one from Vlad’s perspective.

Then the man turned his gaze to Vlad and said, in Slavic, “Welcome to Edirne, your graces.”

They’d been brought to the Ottoman capital, then.

In the heart of enemy territory.

~*~

In 1437, Vlad Dracul sighed a treaty with the Ottoman Sultan, Murat, that made Wallachia a vassal state of the empire. In exchange for their promise of peace, the Wallachians were assured trade and diplomatic relations, and some semblance of autonomy. In addition to cooperation, Dracul would provide a yearly monetary tribute, as well as a selection of able-bodied boys destined for the sultan’s Janissary Corps.

Vlad knew this, had been briefed on it as both a student and a prince. And he also knew that his father – turning John Hunyadi away despite his own personal sympathies – had upheld the treaty, and never broken it.

And yet here they were.

The sultan received them in an audience chamber with soaring, painted ceilings, and brightly-colored tiles on the floors, tapestries on the walls. Multiple fountains filled the vast space with the musical splash of water. Massive, glazed urns boasted flowers and ferns. The plants nearly disguised the armored janissaries that lined the walls, spears propped against their shoulders.

Mama would love this, Vlad thought, faintly. Though she wouldn’t love the circumstances. Then he pushed all such soft thoughts aside. He was a hostage – and he didn’t plan on being one for long.

He and Val had been separated, their hands re-cuffed in front of them. The walked side-by-side. Val stared at his dusty boots, still sniffling occasionally; he trembled like a new foal and reeked of fear.

For his part, Vlad held his head high, his shoulders thrown as far back as the cuffs would allow, and faced the puppet master behind their abduction as they were marched forward to a low dais where a gathering of men awaited them.

They were advisors and scribes; a messenger boy, bare-chested under an embroidered vest. All wore jewel tones, rich fabrics, and elaborate turbans, each unique, displaying the wearer’s individual aesthetic.

Sultan Murat II was seated. That was the only thing that distinguished him from his viziers. A compact, tidy man, he was even handsome, though unremarkably so; he wore the usual neatly trimmed beard and white muslin turban. His dress was that of royalty: an indigo kaftan with gold embroidery and buttons, gold silk salvar, a kusak of bright teal around his waist.

One of the soldiers stopped Vlad with a hand on his shoulder, the other on Val’s. Then he pushed them down to their knees on the tiles, so they knelt before the sultan and his retinue.

Vlad growled – he couldn’t help it, and these men already knew what he was. Why hide it? Why not show them that he was well aware he was a monster, and ready to make use of that fact?

A flat palm struck himhard, right in the ear. For a moment, his vision whited out and the pain of the strike was a burst of light, and then a sharp sting, and then a faded red roar that echoed through his entire head.

Vlad gritted his teeth and breathed through it. He wouldn’t give any of them the satisfaction of crying out.

Val did, though, a soft little exclamation. “Vlad!”

Shut up, Vlad thought, wildly, even as his own head rang.Shut up, shut up, or they’ll hit you, too!

His vision cleared, spots receding off to the edges, and he saw that the man who’d first welcomed them stood before him now, frowning. A vizier, or a mullah. Something.

“Do not speak to the sultan,” the man said in Slavic, voice vibrating with contained fury. “And don’t you dare growl, you immortal, amoral dog. You are no creature of God. Do not sully our sultan with your profanity. You should be grateful to even be in his presence. You should kiss the floor and–”

“Ali,” a voice called out, low and commanding.

The man’s teeth clicked together with an audible snap. He stepped back, and revealed that it was the sultan who’d spoken, his unreadable gaze pinned on Vlad.

“I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself,” Murat said in flawless Romanian. Then, to Vlad: “I welcome you to Edirne, Vlad Dracula.” He looked at Val. “Radu Dracula. The sons of the prince of Wallachia.” Back to Vlad: “Trust that you are here in a gesture of goodwill. Your father has been, up to now, quite agreeable in our negotiations. Your presence here ensures that such agreeable conduct will continue. You will be fed, and cared for, and educated, as befits any prince. In exchange for such luxuries, I expect your cooperation and good behavior.” He tilted his head to the side. “Do we understand one another?”

Hostages, Vlad thought. They were political hostages, here to ensure that Father never betrayed his Ottoman masters.

Vlad took a deep breath and said, “Understanding doesn’t automatically lead to cooperation.”

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