~*~
Word of Mircea arrived a few hours later in the form of a Wallachian messenger on a blown horse. The heir was dead. Tortured. Mutilated. And buried alive, face-down in a deep, deep hole.
Vlad was, in fact, the Prince of Wallachia.
Vladislav II of the Dânesti clan had claimed the title as well.
~*~
A bitter evening, wind sighing through the open sides of the folly that was the palace chapel, candle flames wavering, guttering, but staying, stubborn as the man who knelt in front of them. Vlad held the gold collar, running his thumb over the dragon emblem again and again, tracing its sinuous body with his thumbnail.
The man who’d been Remus, a pagan, the son of a god, had, in the end, been a member of a holy Christian order. Vlad Dracul. Alive for over two thousand years…dead at last. At the hands of a petty Romanian clansman.
He closed his hands around the collar until his knuckles went white; he felt the soft metal start to give; he could break it, if he wished.
A soft step behind him. A whiff of perfumed vampire. “Vlad,” Val said, and his voice was a wreck.
Vlad didn’t turn around; he didn’t trust himself not to reach for his brother. He laid the collar on the altar in front of him, lest he snap it in half.
“Vlad,” Val repeated, and walked up the aisle. He knelt down beside him, an arm’s length away. He was shaking. Under his perfume, and the unwelcome taint of Mehmet, he smelled also of tangible grief. A sharp odor, like fear sweat. “Mehmet said – is it true? Father? And Mircea?”
Vlad nodded toward the collar, candlelight making the dragon seem alive, writhing. His voice was flat when he spoke. “I had it from Cazan. Dânesti men cut Father down, and then took his heart. Burned it.”
Val whimpered.
“They had a wolf. That must be how they…” Subdued him. Long enough to deliver a fatal blow. Father hadn’t seen any fighting in a long time, grown soft and comfortable at home in the palace. “Vladislav is staking his claim.”
“Mircea…” Val breathed through his mouth, quick, hitched little breaths that rattled in his throat. “He was…buried alive? Maybe he’s…”
“I don’t know. I have no idea how resilient a half-breed is.”
It was silent a moment, save the whistling of the wind in the eaves. Vlad was painfully aware of his brother beside him; distress poured off him in waves and Vlad’s fingers curled against his thighs.
Val started to cry, quietly.
And Vlad turned to him, finally.
Val wasn’t dressed for the weather. In stark contrast to Vlad’s wool breeches and tunic and oilskin, he was wore deep blue silk, a kaftan left open halfway down to his navel, bare skin blue-tinged in the cold. His hair had been left down, wavy over his shoulders, a cold circlet on his head to match the gold rings on his fingers and the fine chain around his neck. White silk salvar and soft slippers. Indoor clothes. The clothes of an expensive royal plaything…not those of a warrior prince.
Tears ran unchecked down his face, glistening like crystal. A bite mark on his neck peeked out from behind gilt hair.
Vlad could envision it all too distinctly: Mehmet holding him down, sinking his fangs into a tender patch of skin, using him.
He thought he might be sick again.
Instead, he swallowed hard and said, “Valerian.”
His brother’s head snatched up, red-rimmed eyes flying wide.
“There may no longer be love between us.” Val’s mouth opened on a silent, anguished sound of protest, his chin quivering. “But I promise you this, brother. Iwillreclaim our home. I will find out if Mircea is truly dead, and I will have revenge on everyone who did this.”
Val wiped his eyes with delicate fingertips. “How?”
“I don’t know yet.” He faced the candles again. One stuttered and went out in the next draft. He sighed. “Somehow. I’ll appeal to Murat, I don’t…I don’t know.” He dug his hands into his legs, felt the bite of his own nails through his breeches. If it weren’t for the fabric, he would have drawn blood.
Val shifted closer, silk rustling. “Vlad…”
Vlad didn’t know what he meant to say, only that he could no longer keep his distance. Not now. Not with half their family dead.