Page 77 of Dragon Slayer

Whirling stars, and orange flames, and oh, he was traveling, dream-walking, heading for home, for Mother, and Mircea, and he was–

“Radu,” Iskander said, and Val opened his eyes, and anger boiled up inside him, and hestruck.

The return to this plane, and the bright afternoon sun after the dark, was dizzying, but his footwork was sure as he advanced on Iskander – the interloper who’d pulled him from his trip home – with a sure swing that would have startled him at another time. He couldn’t wield a sword like that; at least, he hadn’t been able to before. But now…

Iskander stepped back –dancedback – and laughed, smile delighted as he brought his own sword up to parry Val’s attack. “Good. Come on, yes!”

The bright sound of metal meeting metal, the sharp cry of steel crashing together. The shock of impact up his arms, just as Iskander had said… Val pressed his attack a few minutes before he realized that through his haze of sweat and adrenaline and flying dust…he was smiling. This was exhilarating. Was this the way it felt for Vlad? This rush of delight and aggression?

Iskander retreated in a circle around the yard, letting Val hack at him with passionate, if amateurish determination. Then he braced his feet and held his ground, began to push back a little bit.

At home, Val would have retreated then, but now, with his blood up, he gritted his teeth and tightened his sweaty palms on the hilt of his sword, and met the older boy strike for strike.

“Good,” Iskander said again, and he sounded winded. “Left leg back – there, yes, good.”

It was only a training exercise, and the first in which Val hadn’t had his sword knocked out of his hand within the first minute, but when Iskander finally lowered his blade and stepped back, grinning at him, he felt triumphant.

Val smiled, and laughed, and tasted sawdust on his lips when he wet them. He forgot himself a moment, so high on this brief success. “Vlad, did you see? Did you see me?” he asked, turning to his brother.

Vlad’s face was like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. Closed-off, his mouth twisted, a displeased notch between his brows.

Oh, that was right. Vlad hated him now.

Val felt his smile falling, his stomach lurching, the joy fading.

And then someone began to clap behind him. A slow clap, too loud in the momentary quiet of the training yard.

On Val’s next deep breath, he caught a whiff of blood – of vampire – and tension stole over him once more as he turned to face the heir.

Mehmet Çelebi, heir of the Ottoman Empire, was rumored to have been born of a Greek mother. His braided hair gleamed red-brown in the sunlight, his eyes the pale, bright green of glass. Val hadn’t been able to see much of his father in him, with his aquiline nose, and his narrow, winged brows, his elegant, long-fingered hands.

He never tried to hide his fangs; they were always a little too prevalent, like now, as he continued to clap and walked into the center of the circle to join them. Smiling. He smiled like he knew a secret that others would kill to learn.

“Well done, little one,” he said in Slavic. “You’re finally learning how to handle a sword.” His smile stretched, fangs winking in the sunlight, and Val wanted to take a step back.

“Radu is improving every lesson,” Iskander said, tone gone cold and flat. “Everyone is.”

“Yes, yes,” Mehmet said with a dismissive little wave. His green gaze stayed pinned on Val. “Butthisone. He wasn’t made for fighting. Much too pretty.” He tilted his head, and the movement held none of the soft concession it had when Iskander had done it earlier. This was all calculation, gaze sweeping down to Val’s boots and then slowly back up to his face. “Look at that hair. Like spun gold.”

“If you’d like to spar,” Iskander said, “just give me a moment to catch my breath, and I’ll–”

“No. I want to spar with this one.”

Val hadn’t ever seen Iskander look startled, but he did now. “You can’t–” He caught himself. “Your grace…”

Mehmet turned his head slowly, gaze low-lidded, almost lazy. But flashing like fire. “Are you arguing with me, Iskander Bey?” he asked mildly.

Iskander’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, and Val smelled a spike of aggression in his sweat. But he shook his head and said, “No, your grace.”

Wait, Val wanted to tell him.Stay here with me!

But Iskander was a hostage after all, and he withdrew, going to hang up his sword and accept water from a slave.

Val wanted to look at his brother, but Vlad hated him now…

“Don’t worry, little one,” Mehmet said as he went to select a practice sword of his own. “I wouldn’t dare put a mark on your pretty face.”

Val choked on his next breath.

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