Page 161 of Dragon Slayer

That hadn’t been a kind thing to say. Kindness grew more and more difficult.

Today, the man said nothing, just stood and passed Val the freshly-strung bow. “Whenever you’re ready, your grace.”

“Thank you. I’m ready now.”

The lesson began.

He’d improved immensely in the last few weeks. Just three or four years ago, he’d finally gained the ability to properly draw and fire; his arrows even made it all the way to the targets. But the shots were always wide; a good many landed in the dirt beside the target. Anger, hatred, and resolve had steadied his hand in a way that love and careful instruction never had. He felt determined now; this was a way to reclaim his status as a prince, his masculinity. Becoming a warrior was the only way to ensure that, one day, when the time eventually came, he would possess the means to escape…and keep escaping.

When the target was bristling with arrows, his instructor said, grudgingly, “Well done.”

“Thank you.” Val lowered the bow, arms shaking from the effort of drawing it again and again.

The man got a speculative look, eyes cutting at him sideways. “I’ve noticed.” Oh no. “That you always shoot better when the sultan isn’t here.”

Val swallowed. That was true, and it was intentional. He didn’t want Mehmet knowing how skilled he’d become.

“He asks for reports after every lesson, you know.”

Damn.

Val nodded and handed the bow back. “Yes, well–”

A scent reached him; it moved through his senses with the force of a lightning strike. He turned in a circle, searching wildly, heart hammering.

There. In an upper window overlooking this courtyard, bright hair covered by a scarf, but her face unmistakable.

His mother.

“Your grace–” the instructor began, but Val was already sprinting away.

He knew the palace now, better than he remembered the palace of home, and he knew which door to go through, startling a pair of guards who knew better than to reprimand him. Up a set of cut stone stairs that spiraled around twice, and into a hallway set with wide, arched windows that let in white winter sunlight.

Eira waited there, hands clasped together in front of her, shaking, tears bright on her cheeks. She opened her arms and he barreled into them.

She wrapped him up tight, too tight to let him breathe properly, one hand on his back and one cupping his head. “Oh,” she murmured, voice full of cracks. “Oh, my precious boy. My Valerian. Darling.”

“Mama.” He pressed his face into her neck, sniffling, tears clouding his own eyes, seeking out her scent and warmth. “Mama, is it really you? You’re really here?”

“I’m here. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”

Her scent – or maybe the sprint up all those stairs – turned him dizzy and languid, the muscles in his legs weak. He swayed, and she swayed with him, turned it into a back-and-forth shift, like when he was small enough for her to hold, and she’d rock him in her lap after a nightmare.

“Howare you here?” he asked. “Father…”

She sighed. “It’s a very long story.”

“Yes,” said a too-loud male voice behind her, “and she hasn’t even told you the best part yet.”

When Val pulled back, Mama was smiling. He peeked over her shoulder and there was–

“Fen!”

The big Viking wolf laughed. “My little prince, all grown up!”

Val disentangled from his mother so he could throw himself at her Familiar, and Fenrir caught him with his same old effortless strength, swinging him up and around, so he felt like he was flying.

~*~

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