Page 208 of Dragon Slayer

“You can tell me. Nothing will happen to you – so long as you’re honest.”

Arslan sniffled.

Val looked to him then, and let his growl fall away. Tears glimmered on the boy’s lashes, and Val’s chest ached.

Val took a deep breath, and looked back to Mehmet, kicking his chin up. He braced his feet, one on the edge of the bed, the other on the ground; gathered his uneven, post-walking strength. “Alright, yes, fine: I’m a dream-walker. I have been since I was four-years-old.”

Mehmet patted Arslan’s shoulder. “That’ll be all, boy. Go on now.” He folded his arms, and a triumphant glow flared to life in his eyes. “I knew it.”

“You didn’t even know such a thing existed until someone told you. Since when, tonight?”

“I have always known there was something suspicious about you,” Mehmet snapped. “Always tired, always sleeping. I’ve never entered a campaign tent that you weren’t dragging yourself up from bed, haggard as a crone. That collar is not the only reason.” He stepped forward, reaching for Val’s throat again.

And Val slapped his hand away.

The slap of skin-against-skin cracked like the meeting of blades.

Neither moved, after. Val didn’t breathe.

And then he leapt off the bed and paced a wide circle around the edge of the rug, putting distance between them, growling a warning.

Mehmet spun, facing him. “You’ve been visiting the emperor, haven’t you? Constantine Dragases. You’ve been speaking with him, plotting with him. Telling him of me? That’s what you said. That’s what you were muttering in your sleep.” The last he spit, words coming faster and faster, as fury took hold of him. His eyes blazed. “You’ve been conspiring this whole time, haven’t you, you little whore? Telling him of our plans, helping him.Helping my enemy!”

He lunged, swiping out with one hand like an enraged bear.

Val danced back out of reach.

“I met him when I was four,” Val growled in return. “He’s been my friend for most of my life. Long before your father wrapped me in chains and gave me over to you as a plaything.”

Mehmet lunged again, a contained roar tumbling from his open mouth, his fangs descending. “You witch! You fucking traitor!”

“Traitor?” Val backed up until his shoulder collided with the bed post. Trapped. “Traitor?” he repeated, and barked a laugh. “Do you think I was ever on your side?Ever? After everything?” His heart beat so fast he thought he’d faint, but he couldn’t, not now, and he lifted his hands, felt his own fangs prick his lower lip. Furious. Ready. “Yes, I helped Constantine when I could, when he would let me. “I’m aRoman, you stupid fucker. The only true Roman in this tent. And I would give my life to see the Emperor of Rome drive his sword through your tainted heart.”

He’d never said anything like that before. Never spoken the truth that lived in his soul, as dark as any of Vlad’s mutterings, tended like a campfire deep in his heart. After, there was a moment of utter, stunned silence.

And then Mehmet struck.

Val ducked beneath his arms, lunged forward, and caught the sultan by the throat. He dug in with his fingertips, and smelled blood, as his momentum toppled them backward onto the rug.

Val landed on top, a knee in Mehmet’s ribs, and all the air rushed out of Mehmet’s lungs on a gusty exhale as his back landed against the floor. The look of him, eyes white-rimmed in momentary panic, thin lines of blood on his neck where Val’s nails had scored him, ignited something predatory in Val. Words abandoned him. He snarled. He lifted a hand, intent on clawing open the sultan’s face with it. He wanted to ruin him, to kill him, to bend his head and feast on the blood that poured out of him.

And then something caught Val in the temple, and white stars bloomed across his field of vision. He crumpled, boneless, and through a terrible ringing in his head he realized that someone had struck him, and that he’d toppled off to the side, where he now lay, stunned.

He blinked past the pain and whirling starbursts, and saw that the janissaries had returned; two helped Mehmet to his feet, and the rest aimed their spearpoints at Val.

Mehmet pressed a shaking hand to the marks on his neck, expression dazed. “Fetch – fetch chains,” he said. “The heavy silver ones. The blacksmith has them.” He heaved a deep breath. “Prince Radu has taken leave of his senses.”

This was planned, then. Confront Val, work him to violence – and then take command from him, chain him.

One of the janissaries went running to do as bid.

Another stepped forward, reversed his spear, and brought the butt down toward Val’s face.

Pain, and then darkness.

When he woke, he was choking.

His eyes flew wide, and he spluttered. A familiar weight on his tongue, heat and salt and musk, something pressing at the back of his throat.

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