Page 94 of Dragon Slayer

Tears pricked Val’s eyes and he blinked them away. “Good,” he said unsteadily. “That’s good.” He didn’t dare ask about their own circumstances; he knew better than to hope. It was an almost-crushing relief just to hear that Father was well. In the past two years, Val had tried to visit him, but they’d cuffed Dracul with silver, and so Val had never been able to get within sight of him when he dream-walked. An old trick, Mother had said, and sworn under her breath. A dirty one.

“Father will be negotiating for our release soon. I thought you should know,” Vlad said.

“Thank you.”

He stayed a moment, and Val thought he might – but then he nodded and turned his back.

No, it wasn’t hate. It was worse than that; an absence of feeling altogether.

~*~

Val didn’t find Father in his study. That room was empty, so he passed through the hall and made his way to Dracul’s bedchamber. He hesitated a moment on the other side of the closed door, listening for voices, and then he passed through.

It was early, just after dark, but his father was already in bed. He sat upright, covers puddled in his lap, staring down at his hands. The silver cuffs had left pink marks on his wrists; they would probably scar.

A single lantern burned on the dresser. Cicero sat in a chair against the wall, statue-still, just beyond the light’s reach. If he’d been there physically, Val thought he’d be able to smell the wolf’s blended satisfaction and worry. His master was home; but his master was not yet himself.

“Father?” Val said.

Dracul’s head lifted. There were new lines on his face. Immortals didn’t age the way that humans did, but stress could still carve fissures in their smooth facades. Like rain eating slowly at marble.

A smile broke crooked across his face. “My son. You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you.” Tears glittered unshed in his eyes.

Val walked forward to the bed, projected hands suspended over the edge of the feather mattress, useless. “Father – Papa. Are you – you aren’t hurt, are you?”

He smiled. “No, no. Only tired. It was a long journey.”

Cicero gave a quiet chuff over against the wall, an animal sound of displeasure.

“What about you, my Radu?” He tilted his head. “You’ve grown.”

“I have?” Val looked down at himself with surprise. He knew his hair had grown, and his boots had grown too tight and been replaced. His face was perhaps narrower. But grown? He was still just a slip of a thing. Still Helga’s bouquet of flowers. He thought he always would be.

Dracul chuckled. “Of course. That’s what boys do.” When Val looked at him again, his face fell. “How have they been treating you boys?”

Val swallowed. “We are well-fed. Well-exercised. We can speak Turkish, and we’ve learned much of geography, and art, and warfare. We’ve studied Machiavelli, and the Quran. I can use a bow now, Papa. I’m even good at it.”

“That’s wonderful…but it’s not what I asked.” His face was pained.

Val took a breath. “We’re alright. We are.” Though he couldn’t keep the despair from his voice. “Vlad. He – sometimes he’s willful. They use the crop on him.”

“Nothing he can’t handle, then.” But that wasn’t the point.

“He’s angry, Father,” he admitted. “Blisteringly angry. But he hides it deep, and is cold on the outside.”

Dracul sighed. “That’s how he is.” He shook his head. “I wish I could bring you home. I–” His voice broke, and he cleared his throat.

Cicero stood and went to the pitcher waiting on the dresser to pour a cup of water.

Val’s breath lodged in his throat. “Do you mean…” But he knew. Heknew.

“Radu. I can’t rework the negotiations. The treaty only works so long as you’re hostages. I have to obey it, or else they’ll…”

Kill them.

“We can’t come home,” Val said, numb.

“I’m sorry, son. But no. Not yet.”

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