Page 167 of Dragon Slayer

“Er, no. The Norse ones.”

“Norse? Now there’s an idea. We’ll erect a great statue of – what’s the most important one?”

“Odin.”

“A great statue of Odin right in front of St. Sophia. Invite the pope to witness it.” He grinned. “The old codger would have an apoplexy on the spot.” When he laughed, Val joined him.

Then he sobered. “I’m sorry, son. I don’t mean to go on about my problems when…” He trailed off.

“You’re allowed to complain, and I like to listen, when I can. I’m your friend just as you are mine. It goes both ways.”

The emperor smiled. “Yes, I suppose it does. So I will now stop complaining, and allow you to do so.”

Val shook his head. He’d already done what he’d come here to do – warn of the new fortress, of Mehmet’s vigorous response to Constantine’s last letter claiming that Byzantium and the Roman people would no longer pay for Orhan the pretender to live in luxury within the city walls. His brother had threatened the same thing, once. But that was when Murat had been emperor; his son took such threats as calls to arms.

Instead of rehashing any of that, Val said, “I don’t think my brother believes in peace.”

Constantine frowned. “He was run out of Wallachia, wasn’t he?”

“And then Edirne.” Val had dream-walked to visit his mother in Moldavia, where Vlad was said to be thriving under Romanian tutelage, enjoying the friendship of Prince Stephen, a year younger and of a boisterous, fun-loving disposition. “But he’s always been serious, even as a very young boy. I think my earliest memory is of him frowning.” A fleeting smile, a flash of fond memory. “But after our capture, he became angry. Furious. He wants revenge.” Another smile, this one bitter. “He certainly wouldn’t be trying to find a peace between the Catholics and Orthodox worshippers.”

“He’s young yet.” Consoling. “And revenge is a young man’s game. He’ll mellow over time.”

“You’re optimistic.”

“I try to be.”

A tug on Val’s toe startled him upright. It was easy to forget, in friendly company like this, that he was here only in spirit, a vaporous projection. The tug came again, a pinch of slim fingers, insistent.

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I must leave you now.”

“I’m sorry you have to. You’re always thoughtful company, Val.”

He smiled, grateful for the man’s kindness and patience, his attention, when he’d never been obliged to give it.

“Until next time,” Val said, waved, and returned to his body.

He opened his eyes to the cream canvas ceiling of Mehmet’s campaign tent, head cushioned on a pile of furs.

Arslan’s face popped into view above his, narrow, finely-drawn, wide-eyed and worried.

“Your grace,” he hissed. The tug at Val’s toe had come from him. He reached now to gently shake Val’s shoulder. “He’s coming!”

Val blinked a few times and sat up. “Thank you, Arslan.” The room swayed around him, and he waved at the boy, who quickly scurried to the sideboard to grab a cup of wine mixed with blood.

Val shut his eyes a moment, and pressed a hand to the side of his head. He’d been gone longer this time; he was weaker, shaky, dizzy. The damned silver collar turned his magic into a physical weakness.

He heard the tent flap open; agitated, booted footsteps across the hard-packed ground. He cracked his eyes and saw Mehmet, fine clothes coated with a layer of dust from the road, face set in a scowl, striding toward the sideboard, where Arslan was already pouring a second cup of blood and wine for him.

Just as Val had grown tall, and willowy, and leanly muscled, the sultan had grown into a proper warrior: broad-shouldered, strong, imposing. His face had gone from pretty to handsome; he’d gained a greater degree of control over his expressions, so that he looked stern, and inscrutable, rather than angry all the time.

At least, in front of others. He let his guard down in his own private tent, around Val.

He drained his cup and reached to refill it himself, since Arslan was kneeling down on the pallet at Val’s hip, offering him his own cup.

“Thank you, my dear,” Val said with a tired smile. His hand shook, and he raised the drink to his mouth, fangs already long in anticipation.

“Don’t use pet names with the boy,” Mehmet said. He went to his desk and slumped down in the ornate folding chair in front of it; Mehmet the half-Greek had employed Greek furniture for this expedition. “You coddle him too much.”

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