Page 249 of Dragon Slayer

When a soldier took his mare by the bridle, he slid gratefully to the pebbled ground of the palace courtyard, and his knees nearly buckled. A cloudy day, rain rolling in from the west, and it cast his childhood home – the palace at Tîrgoviste – in a sinister light. Her towers and crenels stood proud, casting no shadows, the color of dirty teeth against the gray of the sky. He shivered, and attempted to look princely.

Three weeks ago, Mehmet had come to Val’s bed in an unusually good mood. Val had paused in the act of unbraiding his hair, and really scrutinized the sultan. “What are you smiling about?”

Mehmet had climbed up onto the bed, grinning with all his teeth, revealing the one in the back that was beginning to rot. Val had been so busy thinking that vampires shouldn’t have rotten teeth, and wondering what would fail Mehmet next, that he hadn’t heard him at first.

Mehmet had sighed. “Are you listening? I said you’re going to be a prince.”

“I already am a prince.” But his pulse had picked up, and worry had blossomed like a flower.

“A prince with athrone. Your brother’s been deposed.”

The story went like this: in the aftermath of Mehmet’s unprecedented retreat, the other lords of Eastern Europe had put their heads together and discussed what was to be done with Vlad. Because, fearless though his resistance had been, it had also been reckless. Vlad had killed hundreds of prisoners, those impaled along the roadside, in what had become known as his “forest.” To do such a thing, to execute so many, without a hostage negotiation, without consulting with anyone…smacked, some said, of dishonor. And now, in the wake of his defeat, Mehmet was far less reasonable than he had been, and less willing to allow his vassal states any sort of leeway.

The choice, as the princes saw it, was simple: make peace with Mehmet, or face invasion and subjugation. What was Vlad’s pride, and Vlad’s throne, worth in the face of impending destruction?

It was Matthias Corvinus, old John Hunyadi’s son, who’d invited Vlad to his castle, and sprung a trap upon him. But Stephen the Great had helped. All of Vlad’s allies had agreed to this imprisonment, and so now Vlad was shut up in a tower, like a princess in a children’s story.

And Val was to be Prince of Wallachia in his stead. Mehmet’s faithful puppet.

According to Corvinus, who’d already arranged a journey to Tîrgoviste to congratulate Val on his ascension, he held only two prisoners: Vlad, and his faithful servant, the one-eyed man named Cicero. Val found some comfort in knowing that his brother had his bonded wolf by his side. But it begged the question: where had Mother, and Fen, and Helga gone?

Were they here, still?

“Gather up the household,” Val said when the steward greeted him in the throne room. “I wish to inspect them, and introduce myself.”

“At once, your grace.” The man spoke politely, and hurried to do as bid, but Val didn’t miss the contempt in his gaze. Val might be Vlad’s little brother, and a true Wallachian, but he had a reputation as a sultan’s bedwarmer. Vlad was the hero who’d turned away Mehmet, and Val was his pet.

He would find no love here. Unless Mother…

But he wouldn’t hope.

A servant brought him a cup of wine, which he thanked him kindly for, trying to be warm, smiling; not that it mattered – the boy scurried away again. Val sighed, and took a sip, and contemplated his father’s, and most recently, brother’s throne.

It was spare, straight-backed. Just a heavy chair, really, with a bit of gold embellishment at the edges. The seat itself was dark in the center, from the rubbing of backsides, a shallow little depression worn into the wood.

He didn’t want to sit there. Not for anything.

“Your grace?” The steward was back with the household.

Val turned to inspect them. Cooks, maids, household guards, runners and page boys. But not his mother nor her wolves.

The loss of them hit him like a blow. But he drew himself upright, pasted on a smile, and gave them his best, most solicitous welcome speech, thanking them in advance for their loyal service and hard work, sparing some words for Father and Vlad, offering condolences for the loss of previous masters.

One of the cooks took one of the runner boys by the shoulder – her son, no doubt – and pulled him close to her skirt. Away from their new prince, most notorious for lying with a man.

Val dismissed them with a barely held-together smile, and then dismissed the steward, who looked concerned to see him striding for the stairwell unattended. Let him be concerned; this was his palace now.

He breathed deep, and caught the faint flickers of scent on his way up. A place where Vlad had pressed his hand, here; a corner where Cicero’s cloak had brushed, there. He detected Eira, and Helga, and Fenrir. But they were old scents, little more than memories.

He went to her bedchamber, anyway, the one with the prime view of the gardens. The bed was there, neatly made, its drapes tied back to the posts. But any signs of habitation were gone. Her jewelry box, her hairbrush, and bottles of imported scent; the wardrobe stood empty.

His heart sank.

The windows were open, letting in a fresh breeze, and the light falling through caught on something on the desk, small and bright. Val crossed the chamber slowly, and when he reached for the thing, his heart didn’t sink, but clench, tight and painful. It was his bell. Small, unremarkable, and dented, threaded onto a silver chain. Warm from the sun, he imagined it had been in her hand; that she’d placed it in his palm and folded his fingers around it, like she had when he was a boy.

He put the chain around his neck, dropped the bell down beneath his shirt, and left the room. Nothing waited for him here.

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