Page 160 of Dragon Slayer

He’d picked Arslan, and doubtless the boy’s status as a eunuch was the only reason Mehmet had allowed it. His was the only company Val enjoyed; treasured, even, in this palace full of men who would rather pretend he was a bit of ornamentation in the corner than acknowledge their young sultan’s blasphemous proclivities. No one but Arslan spoke to him (Mehmet did, but, well…that was rarely a conversation). He’d enjoyed visiting the harem when he was younger, but he’d grown tall, willowy – starting to look like a proper little man now, and he was uncut; feminine company had been denied him.

“Arslan,” he said now, watching the boy’s face in the mirror. “What is happening in the palace? I can feel the energy; it’s a hum, like a beehive in spring.”

A notch formed between Arslan’s black brows, and he studiously continued brushing. “I don’t know. I’m only a slave, your grace.”

“Only a slave,” Val chided gently. “The slaves are the source of all the best gossip. Come. What do you know?”

Arslan pressed his lips together until they paled at the edges, holding his breath. Finally he let it out in a rush, with a defeated little groan. “I’m not supposed to tell you. The sultanforbadeit.” But his loyalty did not lie with the sultan. “But your brother is returned.”

“What?” Val leaped up from the low bench he was seated upon, whirling to face his slave. “Vlad’s here? When? Last night? Why? He was–”

“Please,” Arslan said, ducking his head, clutching the hairbrush to his chest. Anxiety coursed through him, made him shake. “Please, your grace–”

“Hush.” Val moved around the bench and knelt down before him, took his small, smooth hands into his own, setting the brush aside. “I won’t betray you, not to anyone, I promise. You know this.”

Arslan looked up through his lashes, dark eyes slick with tears.

“I need to know,” Val said. “Why is my brother back here again?”

“It’s – it’s only rumors, but, some of the other boys were saying, they overheard last night, that he – that he couldn’t hold Wallachia. He had to flee.”

“Flee?” Val felt his brows scale his forehead. “Vlad?Flee?” Nothing had ever sounded so preposterous.

He gripped Arslan’s shoulders. “What of the others? Were there survivors from the palace there? Our family?”

“I don’t know, your grace. I don’t know anything else, only that he’s here, and he brought a retinue.”

“A retinue? Maybe…” His pulse fluttered, fast and too-light, making him dizzy.

“Your grace, I don’t know.”

“I know, I know, it’s alright.” He rubbed the boy’s arms soothingly a moment and then stood. The room swayed as if he’d been drinking. “I have to go see him.” His belly clenched and nausea rolled within him, but he had to. He took a deep breath and imagined he could smell his brother in the palace, rooms and rooms away.

“But, your grace, you have archery practice.”

“You’re right. Damn it.” He put his hands on his hips and breathed through his mouth. He really thought he might pass out. “Alright then, braid my hair, let’s hurry.” He dropped back onto the bench and presented his back, and Arslan’s nimble fingers went right to work.

He braided Val’s long hair into a simple plait that hung straight down his back, and then laid out his clothes: finely-crafted, but muted kaftan and salvar, all of it in shades of blue, boots, belt, leather bracers, gloves. He was starting to have calluses on his hands again, signs of training. The fancy sword had been taken away, but a practice blade awaited him in the training yard, along with a bow, a quiver bristling with arrows, and an array of targets. An arms master that gave him private lessons in proper form and battle tactics.

A proper prince, Val had said, when he and Mehmet had bargained, and so far, the sultan had upheld his end of the agreement.

As had Val. His thighs still felt weak from this morning’s activities.

When he was ready, he paused, and looked to the mirror, trying to see himself through a stranger’s eyes – no, through a brother’s. A brother who knew his shame, and who hated him for it.

He’d grown taller; his legs longer, his face a little narrower; bone structure sharp like the facets of a cut gemstone. He looked like his mother. He looked, despite the plain colors of his clothes, like a kept thing, with soft skin, and long lashes, and a collar that looked more like jewelry than a restraint.

He sighed, and went out, Arslan trailing dutifully along behind him.

The whole long walk to the practice yard, Val tested the air, straining to catch a whiff. He thought he did, once, but it was a cold day, and the wind was blowing, and the smell was swept away from him.

His training yard was a private one, used by Mehmet himself. Once he became sultan, he refused to spar with the hostages at court, preferring instead to work with private archers and sword-masters, pitting himself against trusted janissary opponents when he needed to work with another.

The archery master waited for Val, seated on a bench, restringing a bow. He glanced up without much interest – but Val detected the man’s usual flare of tension. His shoulders rose and locked up; his fingers fumbled over their familiar task. No one on the grounds was frightened of Val – but they were frightened of what might happen to them if they mishandled him.

The first day, the man had said,“You’re late.”And he had been; Mehmet had been feeling…amorous that morning.

Val had kicked his chin up, looked the man in the face, and said,“I am not. Which one of us is the prince anyway?”

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