Page 169 of Dragon Slayer

“Fixated?” His tone, edged with offense, carried a warning. Val could be bold, could speak his mind most of the time…but only because Mehmet allowed it. “You’re beautiful, but I know you’re not stupid. You know that the only way to rule effectively is through shows of strength. Giving your people an outside enemy to conquer so they don’t turn their malaise and dissatisfaction on their king. Taking Rum expands my empire, it rallies my people, and it hamstrings the Westerners who’d see me dead.”

Val swallowed – with difficulty, because his throat had gone dry. A cup set down at his elbow; Arslan, sensing his need, bringing him more wine. The boy was a blessing.

“Constantinople is un-sackable,” Val argued. “You know this. Those sea walls, the boom across the channel – no one’s breached its perimeter since the Fourth Crusade. And those were Crusaders themselves, who could at least claim the element of surprise. That’sone sackin the city’s history, Mehmet; only one since300 B.C.”

“Then I’ll go down in history, won’t I?”

Val threw up his hands. “How many times have we had this same conversation?”

“We have this conversation only because I allow it. You’re foolish to keep seeking it out.” He aimed a finger at Val, voice hard now. “Leave it, Radu.”

Val picked up his cup and drowned a sudden swell of rage with sweet red wine. In moments like this, he allowed himself a familiar fantasy: a blade in his hands, Mehmet’s blood on the carpet. At times, he managed to convince himself that they were friends of a sort. Almost equals. That, maybe, as he grew older, and the sultan’s touch began to kindle a physical desire beneath his skin, that he’d developed a softness for the man.

But then there were moments like now. When he knew an urge to violence so intense he thought it might choke him. Moments when he remembered that he was related to Vlad after all, and that he wanted to crack Mehmet’s skull against the edge of a table like a fresh egg.

He drained his cup and dabbed at his lips with his fingers. Arslan resumed brushing his hair, long, sure strokes to bring out its shine. “When do we break camp?” he asked, to change the subject, and quiet the rage inside him.

“An hour. Will that give you time to beautify yourself?”

“Barely.” Val turned his head to the side, glancing across the lavish tent. Mehmet loved it when he acted prissy. Easier to pretend he was a woman then, he supposed.

As expected, the sultan chuckled, and pushed to his feet. He moved around the desk, and Val tensed, hands balling into fists in his lap.

Mehmet cupped his chin and turned his head back and up, so they faced one another. Ran his thumb over Val’s wine-stained lower lip, expression cycling from admiration, to lust…to something harder.

“Don’t test me, Radu. That never ends well.”

Gently, Val took the tip of his thumb between his teeth.

Mehmet grinned, and leaned down to kiss him, quickly, before he withdrew. “Wear the blue coat I got you,” he said over his shoulder as he left the tent.

Val gave a little wave of his fingers to signal he’d heard.

Arslan began separating his hair into bunches for an elaborate braid.

Val sighed. “God. Ihateblue.”

~*~

Returning to Edirne didn’t feel like a homecoming – his heart didn’t fill with gladness, because this was the place where he lived, but not his home – but Val relaxed when he was within the familiar palace walls again. It would be nice to sleep in a real bed again, and not to march constantly, forever saddle-sore and covered in road dust.

It was morning, bitterly cold, steam rising off the thick crust of frost that coated the grass. Val wore his hair loose to cover his ears, a thick, dark brown fur made of bear pelt wrapped around his shoulders and neck. He felt well-rested and energized today; Mehmet had been paying visits to his wives since their return, taking them gifts, fulfilling his husbandly duties toward producing an heir. It had given Val time to himself, dinners eaten alone, long, uninterrupted baths; a bit of reading by candlelight before bed. Sleeping, blessed, all by his lonesome, stretching out his arms and legs to the far reaches of the mattress.

Today, he was to supervise a new batch of young janissaries, singling out the ones best suited for Mehmet’s personal corps of guards. Mehmet would of course have the final say-so, but Val felt something like pride to have been given this responsibility.

He felt pride where he could.

“Gentlemen,” he called as he paced along behind the tidy row of potential recruits. “Today you will demonstrate your proficiency with the bow, with the spear, and with the sword. You will–”

“A moment, your grace!” Grand Vizier Halil Pasha’s wheedling voice called across the practice grounds, and Val bit back an unhappy sound.

He turned to meet the man’s approach, already frowning, and froze.

Wolf.

He smelled a wolf.

The Grand Vizier walked toward him with his usual short strides, his gait impeded by the length, thickness, and weight of embroidery on his kaftan and overcoat. Behind him marched a line of able-bodied young janissary recruits.

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