Page 224 of Dragon Slayer

He took a breath. “I think,” he said evenly, “that there have always been two sides to everything. Always battles, always men set against each other. So it is now, with us, and the man who holds my brother. You chose the wrong side, Vladislav.”

Then he raised his sword, and took the man’s head off with one clean stroke.

It toppled to the dirt, and rolled a ways. The body fell over, and landed with a soft thump.

Silence, save the rippling of the banners along the bailey walls above them.

Vlad lifted his head, and met stare after stare after stare. He turned to Malik. “Seize his men. Kill them all. I have no place in my household for traitors.”

He went inside to inspect his palace.

~*~

His first night back in his father’s palace, in the home where he’d studied, and slept, and played as a boy, it seemed somehow fitting that his little brother came to visit.

Once the last of Vladislav’s ilk had been put to the sword, and a messenger had been dispatched to John Hunyadi with the news of victory, Vlad inspected the larders and allotted enough meat, bread, wine, and summer fruit to feast the brave men who’d helped him reclaim his rightful seat. He sat through the merriment for a while, but slipped away while the festivities were still in full swing. He went up to his father’s old study, and promptly shoved a stack of books and parchments off the desk and to the floor. The room was as cluttered and dusty and haphazard as it had been the last time he’d taken it over from Vladislav. Servants had scurried to light the candles, dozens of them, in iron candelabras and on silver sticks, their light flickering against the walls, and over the floor. But no one had attempted to set the place to rights. To clear up the signs of its last tenant. Perhaps that was expecting too much.

“His things?” Cicero asked, coming in behind him.

Vlad reached for a candle. “Help me get them into the fireplace. I’m going to burn them.”

Cicero came up beside him, and plucked the candlestick from his hand with careful gentleness. “You should feed, first, and get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and this can wait until tomorrow.”

“I–” Vlad began, chest suddenly tight.

And a silky-smooth voice sounded behind them. “As delicate as ever, I see.”

Vlad whirled.

Val quirked one eyebrow and offered a small smile. “Hello, brother.”

He’d grown up since Vlad saw him last. A man, now, one much prettier than Vlad himself, their father’s strong bone structure softened by their mother’s golden hair, and freshwater eyes. He wore silk, gold, and red, and blue, with white salvar, and gilt-edged slippers, his hair braided elaborately, a jewel-studded silver collar on his throat, tight enough that it couldn’t be lifted off over his head.

He looked like a spoiled court brat, but Vlad saw the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, and the way the fabric shifted over a honed warrior’s body when he tipped his hips to the side. Notonlya spoiled brat, then.

Cicero gasped. “Valerian.” A hushed whisper; wonder, or dread, or perhaps both.

Val’s gaze shifted to the wolf, and his smile deepened, though was somehow sadder for it. “Cicero,” he greeted softly, voice going boyish. “I was afraid that–” He cut off and swallowed with obvious effort. “You’ve bound yourself to a new master, I see.”

Cicero lifted his head, proud. “And gladly.”

Val glanced back to Vlad. “Father’s wolf, and Father’s blade, and now Father’s palace.” Vlad opened his mouth, a scathing retort ready on his tongue, but Val said, “As it should be.” He tipped his head, and the candlelight caught a glimmer of wetness in his eyes. “It’s good to see you again, Vlad.” And even if he wasn’t really here in body, he was in spirit, and those were real tears forming.

For a moment, Vlad felt exactly as he had upon walking into this room, but for an entirely different reason. His chest squeezed, and his breath came short, and he wanted to sit down; to take the burden off his weary feet, and maybe rest his head on something for a while. Tired, and rattled, and as full of rage as ever, but so weighted down by it that he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to strangle his little brother, though, or burn anything.

But whatever he felt, he had no idea how to channel it.

So he said, “What are you doing here, Radu?”

Val’s expression shattered.

But then he smoothed it over, put on a face that was bland, bored almost. He cleared his throat, and then his voice came out prim, and sharp, and arrogant. “I’ve come to give you a warning, if you’re not too stubborn to hear it. Sultan Mehmet is furious after his defeat at Belgrade. And now that you and Stephen have managed to roust princes who were deferential to the Ottoman cause, he will be incandescent with rage. He’ll come for you, brother. He means to have your seat.”

Vlad snorted. “The ‘Ottoman cause.’ He wants only to rape, and pillage, and cast his shadow over everything.”

“Yes.” Val smiled tightly and humorlessly. “He’s very ambitious.”

“So am I. Run tell your master that I will be ready for him, when he’s done licking his wounds. I mean to be the last thing he sees before he departs this earth forever.”

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