Page 99 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad snorted. As Val drew alongside him, he could see his smirk in the glow of the candle flames. “Is that what you think I do in here? Pray?”

“Isn’t it?” Val held his breath as he waited. He wanted to believe that of his brother – that when he bowed his head it was to ask for heavenly guidance. He wanted to believe that, under this new cruel façade, Vlad was still a boy who doubted, and wished, and hoped. That they were the same in that way.

Slowly, Vlad’s expression relaxed into one of quiet surprise, eyebrows lifting. When he turned away, he shook his head, slightly. “What is it, Radu?”

He’d almost grown used to the name at this point. Its bite wasn’t as painful. “I went to see Constantine tonight.”

“Constantine Dragases,” Vlad said with a snort. “Him again?”

“We’re friends.”

“What are you hoping to gain from a widower Greek despot, eh?”

Val sighed. “We’refriends, I said.” It was quite possible his brother had no concept of friendship.

Vlad shrugged. “So? What of him?”

“He’d had news of home.”

“Oh?” Vlad’s tone was casual, bored even. But his spine stiffened, and Val sensed the acceleration of his pulse.

This was the part that hurt to say. That choked him. “The pope dissolved the treaty between the Turks and Hungary. Ladislas and Hunyadi are marching to war.”

“You’d think they’d get tired of doing that over and over.”

“Father sent Mircea and a cavalry unit with them.”

Vlad turned back to him. Even in the meager candlelight, Val could see the blood drain from his face. “No.” Not disbelief or fear, but a command.No, don’t tell me that.

“It’s true,” Val said, panic tightening around his throat like a vise. “George Sphrantzes read it aloud; the message had come from one of Ladislas’s generals. There’s a new crusade, and Father has helped with it.”

Vlad stared at him a long moment, expressionless, chest heaving as he breathed. His gaze finally shifted to the worn wooden cross hanging on the wall.

They’d been allowed to keep their god, to worship in the way that they chose. A kindness.

“He broke the treaty,” Vlad murmured. “He’s sentenced us to death.” His head snapped around. “Did you ask him why?”

“Why? No, I – I haven’t seen him yet. I–”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s made his choice.” He stood and dusted off his knees. “When you do see him next, don’t hassle him about it. A prince must protect his people. That’s what he’s doing. You and I aren’t of any consequence. He has Mircea – he has an heir. That’s what matters.” His voice was terrible: brittle, fragile in a way it never was.

Val reached for him. “Vlad–”

Vlad brushed past him, heading for the door.

Val watched him go. He wanted to call out, to try and offer some kind of comfort. But Vlad would never accept that.

He returned to his room instead, and stared at the stars beyond the window for a long time before sleep finally came.

~*~

In the days that followed, Val waited for a summons. He attended his lessons, tried valiantly to please his sword and archery masters; sparred with the other boys until he was dripping sweat, even in the autumn cool, and presented himself clean and tidy at all mealtimes. But worry lay over him like a funeral shroud.

He kept trying to make eye contact with Vlad, in the fleeting moments that they were together, wanting to offer support and commiseration. But Vlad never looked back.

And when he could, when he was in his bed at night, or when he stole an hour to himself in a quiet corner of the garden, he went dream-walking.

He found Mircea on a bloody hill. The screams of dying men and dying horses indistinguishable from one another. The air filled with the smoke from the crudely cast canon that had laid waste to the enemy. Val was glad he couldn’t smell the ash, and the blood, and the shit. He closed his eyes against the sight of it, all that death. And yet it wasn’t a victory. Mircea’s sword gleamed crimson, his face streaked with dirt. His horse was still under him, but he was blowing and lathered, and almost done.

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