Page 178 of Dragon Slayer

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AN ACCORD

The estate belonged to a man who was an ally – but grudgingly so. Someone loyal to Stephen’s father, but who knew better than to share such opinions publicly. He had given them momentary shelter, a chance to rest a moment behind the safety of his high estate walls and screens of planted cypress trees. But Vlad had never seen him wear an expression like the one he wore now, as he rushed across the pebbled courtyard where he and Stephen sparred.

Vlad stepped back, lowering his blade. Stephen did likewise, but slowly. Sweat streamed down his face, cheeks flushed from exertion. Vlad had been pushing him harder lately, using more of his real strength, pressing his advantages. It was no time for gentle lessons; time for learning how to be brutal and unforgiving.

Stephen lifted his brows in question, and Vlad nodded toward the boyar rushing toward him, the graying man puffing from the effort. Why hadn’t he sent a servant after them? Why did he look chalk-pale with obvious nerves?

“Your grace,” the man said breathlessly when he finally reached them. He addressed Vlad. He winced and grabbed at his side, panting. “Your grace – John Hunyadi is here.”

Vlad lifted his sword with a snarl.

The boyar’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back a step. “No, no. He wants to talk to you. Your grace, he wantspeace.”

~*~

“Your grace,” the boyar puffed beside him, jogging in his attempt to keep up with the long walking strides Vlad took down the gallery toward the man’s study. “Perhaps – perhaps you would like – to freshen up?”

He’d gone charging off straight from the practice field, Stephen right at his heels. He wore only the sweat-damp, open-throated shirt, breeches, and boots he’d taken to wearing while sparring. He still carried his sword – though, that wasn’t an accident.

“No,” he snapped. He wanted to meet Hunyadi while his blood was up, while his muscles were warm and primed for fighting. He didn’t want to have a civil breaking of bread with this man. He wanted his head.

As they neared the closed door of the study, Cicero peeled away from the wall and fell in at Vlad’s side, jaw locked, brow furrowed.

“You’ve seen him?” Vlad asked.

“Yes. He doesn’t look it, but he’s nervous.”

Vlad growled softly under his breath. “He should be.”

“Your grace,” the boyar pleaded behind him. “Please don’t do anything rash. Peace for Romania would be a blessing from God himself.”

Vlad whirled on the man, and he stumbled to a halt, nearly cowering. “God isn’t here though, is he? Only me. And the man who killed my family. I shall do with him as I like.”

Stephen looked shocked, but said nothing.

Vlad turned back to the door. Cicero opened it for him, and he stepped inside.

The study, like the entirety of the estate, was practical, but comfortable, and crafted of fine materials. A large room, with a polished desk positioned in front of the mullioned windows, natural light spilling in diamonds across its surface, and the Turkish rugs that covered the floor.

The governor of Transylvania sat in a padded leather chair with a high back like a throne, a place for a guest of honor directly across from the desk. He held a cup of wine, and several of his own servants stood ranged behind him, two soldiers, and one a steward, his clothes rich, his air scholarly.

Hunyadi himself looked to have changed little since Vlad had last seen him, as a boy. Thick through the shoulders and middle, but strong, solid. A warrior’s body, even if not a very tall one. He wore his hair long and curled on his shoulders, the points of his thick mustache tipped up at the ends with a smoothing of oil. He held his cup carelessly, his appearance casual. Unconcerned.

But Vlad could sense the restless nerves buzzing under his skin. It tainted the air; human skin smelled different when its wearer was afraid of something, and that scent filled the study now.

Vlad stood a moment, once he was inside the room, breathing in that odor, feeling the weight of its advantage.

Hunyadi’s gaze moved down him and then back up, catching on the sword. He lifted his brows. “Did my arrival interrupt your training?” he asked mildly.

Vlad moved to the desk and sat down behind it, laid his sword on its polished surface, right hand still curled around the grip. Stephen and Cicero moved to stand to either side of him, flanking him. “No,” he said, and met the man’s stare with a relentless one of his own. “But it seemed wasteful to bathe before subjecting myself to the company of pigs.”

A grin tugged at Hunyadi’s mouth. “I heard you had a temper. It seems the rumors were true.”

“This is not my temper.”

“That’s true,” Stephen chimed in. Vlad could sense his anxiety, but his voice came calm and airy. “This is Vlad in a happy mood, your grace.”

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