Stephen rolled his eyes. “I think anyone with magical powers is, technically, cheating.”
That startled a laugh out of Vlad. “Shall I tie one hand behind my back and have us go again?”
Stephen lifted his head in a theatrical display of mock-haughtiness. Vlad had told him once that he looked French when he did that, and so he kept doing it, just to get a chuckle out of him. “No,” he said loftily, “I think you should share.”
Vlad’s laughter died away. They’d had this conversation several times now, and each time, Stephen grew less teasing, and more sincere. “It’s not the gift you think it is,” he said quietly. The squires were a distance away, at the well, but he didn’t want anyone overhearing.
Stephen let his head thump softly back against the wall. “Or is it just that you want to be special?” he said, and all hints of teasing melted off his face, leaving him curious – hurt.
Anger flared: quick, hot, immediate. He’d been trying hard to control those sorts of reactions. The people here weren’t his enemies. He couldn’t use violence to solve all his problems – his failure at Tîrgoviste had proved that.
He took a steadying breath and said, “I can’t believe you would actually want my life. It’s anything but special.”
Stephen’s gaze dropped, and his lips pursed, chagrined.
“My kind can die,” Vlad continued, managing to keep his tone soft, almost apologetic. “We might be harder to kill, but that just means we have longer to feel pain. It hurts when someone cracks open your ribcage to get to your heart, Stephen.”
“I know.”
“The way they did to my father.”
“I know!” Not a shout, but loud enough to have the squires glancing over, startled.
Stephen huffed a breath and shook his head. “Forgive me, cousin.” It was a lie they’d slid into easily, a blood relation. Oftentimes, Vlad wished it was the truth, that he was just a mortal boy, unencumbered by the legacy of a long-since-fallen kingdom. “I don’t envy your trials. You know this.” He offered a small smile. “It’s just that it sounds like a fantasy sometimes.”
Vlad sighed. “That’s what everyone who doesn’t have to live forever thinks.”
A figure approached from across the courtyard. Malik Bey, dressed now as a Romanian at court, though he still favored scarlet – it was Vlad’s family color, after all, and Malik had gone down on one knee and pledged himself to House Dracula.
“Your grace,” he said now, pulling to a halt in front of Vlad. He’d always stood tall and correct, but there was a lightness in his posture now that hadn’t been there when he’d been a janissary. Stealing him away the night they left Edirne had been a risk, but one Vlad was glad of. The man got on well with Cicero, and had become something of Vlad’s left hand – the position a mage would have occupied if he’d had one. Or been able to stomach the thought of one.
“Your graces,” he amended, including Stephen in his address. “The prince wishes to see you in his study. He’s had word from his brother.”
~*~
That had been June. The June before, in 1450, Vlad and Stephen had fought beneath Prince Bogdan’s banner together, crushing the invading Polish army at Crasna. Two triumphant young princes hailed as heroes by the Moldavians. Cheers, and flower garlands.
Followed by a cozy winter reading by firelight. And a lazy summer rich with horseback riding, and hunting, and training, and growing into his own skin.
In October of 1451, Prince Bogdan was murdered by his own brother.
It had been four months since that horrible day. Four months of fleeing. Hunyadi had their scent, and they couldn’t stop anywhere for long; no one wanted to take them in; betrayal was a constant worry.
A prince without a palace. Without an ally. Without anything.
Vlad stared into the flames. They were dying, the last flickering tongues, deep orange. The firewood basket sat empty by the hearth. Someone would have to venture out and buy more; another chance to be recognized, to be reported, targeted.
The stairs creaked, and he heard the weight of footfalls. Vlad didn’t turn; Cicero was on guard.
And, truthfully, he didn’t care anymore. Let a villain come. Let them try to kill him. He relished the thought of a real fight, rather than all this damnedfleeing.
But it was only Stephen. Vlad caught his scent, and the other prince walked past Cicero unimpeded, coming to kneel down beside Vlad’s chair and grip his arm with shaking fingers.
He stank of fear. His voice came out desperate. “Vlad.” His hand tightened on Vlad’s arm until Vlad turned his head to meet his panicked gaze.
“Vlad. There’s men in the alley. Five of them, all dressed in black. I saw a flash – they have knives.” His voice wobbled, but didn’t break. He was working hard to sound brave, but the months of flight and hiding and the assassination attempts were getting to him.
“Vlad!”