Page 163 of Dragon Slayer

He sighed. “I’m the way he keeps Vlad in check. Mehmet is…” Volatile. Vain. Spoiled. “Not stupid. He talks as if Vlad is beneath his notice, but hedoesfear him. He knows that Vlad is stronger than him in every way that counts. He knows that Vlad is smart, and angry, and that he can best him, man-to-man. Vlad may be here on his doorstep, begging asylum, but he knows that Vlad will someday be a threat. He can’t kill him, because they might need him. All that’s left is to manipulate him, and he needs me for that. Even if you stole me away in the middle of the night, Mehmet would send men to give chase. He has endless, endless waves of men to throw at the things that he wants.”

She blinked again, this time in an effort to push back fresh tears. Her smile trembled. “When did you get so clever?”

“Mama–”

“I know, I know. You’ve always been clever. You’re just growing up.” She slipped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close, urged his head down onto her shoulder, where she was warm, and smelled of home. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Gods, I…Valerian.Baby. I’m so sorry.”

“I know. But it’s alright. If I’m to live forever, then I supposed I’ll have to endure some unpleasantness.”

She breathed a hollow chuckle. “That’s one way of putting it.”

A growl split the peace of their garden nook, low and threatening.

Val straightened, and Eira’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

A familiar, richly-dressed figure stood just beyond the half-drawn curtain of winter ivy. Hands linked behind his back, posture deceptively casual; his head was cocked at an angle Val knew well by this point – a dangerous one.

A fresh kind of terror stirred in Val’s belly, one akin to the blood-chilling terror of that first night of Mehmet’s…attentions. After the feast, when he’d stabbed the sultan, and fled into the garden. Fear of the unknown. He’d grown used to Mehmet’s tempers, his slaps, his passions, his requests. He’d studied the man as he studied languages and arithmetic and politics; learned every gesture and slow blink, as he would with a difficult horse.

But Fenrir was massive, and angry, and growling. And Mother was…she was leverageagainst Val.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “Fen,” he said, levering as much authority into his voice as he could muster. “Stand down.”

The growl cut off; Fenrir stilled, poised on his toes. He was huge, yes, but he could be quick when he needed to be. Val felt that faint ripple of energy through the air, a subtle pulse, the kind that usually preceded a wolf shifting to his four-legged form.

“Fenrir!”

Mehmet laughed. “Oh, no. By all means – let’s see what he intends to do to me, hm?”

Eira’s hand tightened as she stood, the movement elegant, soundless; her fingertips biting through silk into Val’s skin. He had the sense she was trying to hold him in place, keep him at her side.

“Fenrir,” she said, quiet, authoritative. An inflection rarely heard from her, an unmistakable order as a master. “Come.”

Slowly, with great reluctance, Fenrir backed away from the sultan. Joined the two of them at the bench; sat on it, even, head bowed, ashamed, and leashed.

Val realized he was breathing rapidly through his mouth and pressed his lips together, forced his lungs to slow.

Mehmet took three steps forward, so he blocked the entrance to the alcove, booted feet splayed apart on the crushed-rock path. A sultan, but he stood like an indolent heir, still.

“Your instructor said you fled from your lesson,” he said. “I thought I might find you consorting with our guests.”

Val started to respond, but Eira dug her nails into the join of his neck and shoulder.

“Not consorting,” she said coolly. “Visiting with his mother.”

Mehmet’s brows lifted. “Mother? Pardon me, but…” His gave moved down her figure, bold and assessing, “you hardly look old enough to have sons. Tell me.” He prowled a few steps deeper, so he was only two arm lengths’ away from them. “Do the people of Wallachia know that you’re the boys’ mother? And not Vlad Dracul’s late wife?”

She snorted. “You think to intimidate me with old truths? Do your own people know that you yourself are immortal?”

Something passed across Mehmet’s face, a brief flash of an emotion that he quickly tamped down.

“You have no Familiars,” Eira continued. “No immortal allies. You were turned and not born – how sure are you that, should the truth slip out, your people will support you when they know that you drink blood to stay alive?”

Again, the sultan didn’t answer.

“Will they accept you for what you are? Or will they call you a demon? There’s a distinct history of mobs overtaking monarchs in this world. If they turn against you, will they cut you down? Theycankill you, you know, as my mate was killed.”

A faint, insincere smile finally touched his mouth. “Or perhaps I’ll just kill you now.”

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