Page 44 of Dragon Slayer

“Princely duties?” Constantine asked, teasing, lifting his head.

“Archery.”

“Ah. Have fun, then, little prince.”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Val said with a little bow, and then let go of the projection.

He always came back to his body as if physically across the distance; a sense of rushing wind, and mountains and rivers flashing beneath his feet. A dizzy spin. And then he cracked his eyes and was looking at the cold grate, feeling the softness of carpet beneath his cheek, the stickiness of drool at the corner of his mouth.

He pushed himself upright on trembling arms and heard the brisk footfalls that heralded Vasile’s arrival. A cursory knock sounded at the door before it creaked open.

“Your grace,” Vasile started, and Val could sense the bristling of his figurative hackles when he spotted Val on the floor, unsteady and no-doubt pale. “Are you unwell?”

Val forced himself upright, blinking back the black spots that crowded his vision, and turned to face the concerned wolf. “Fine,” he said, “only walking.”

~*~

To no one’s surprise, Vlad made a mockery of everyone else’s archery attempts.

The targets were set up on the palace lawns, thick wooden planks secured to a frame, backfilled with tightly-packed hay. Someone, probably Ioan, had painted crude human torsos and heads over the bullseyes, pretend Ottomans at which to aim. The three princes were staggered; Vlad’s target was the farthest, and Val’s was the shortest distance, with Mircea in the middle.

“That’s just embarrassing,” Mircea said with a deep, tired sigh, lowering his bow and staring glumly at his target. It bristled with arrows, none of which were close to the center.

Val didn’t look at his own target – all of his arrows were in the grass, none of them having reached their destination – and instead glanced toward Vlad. Watched his serious expression; watched the wind toy with loose wisps of his shoulder-length dark hair; watched him draw his arm back in one fluid movement, hold, breathe, and release. A faint whistle, and then a thunk and a twang as the arrow found its mark. Dead center.

“A natural, your grace,” Vasile said with quiet pride.

Val snapped his head around to see that Father had joined them. Dracul, Cicero beside him, his constant shadow, stood in the shade cast by the stable behind them, arms folded, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His gaze rested on Vlad as his middle son lowered his bow and turned to face his audience.

“Well done,” Father said.

Vlad nodded, once, and tucked loose hair behind his ear with a quick movement. “Thank you, Father.” His expression was careful, but his eyes shone. Pleased, proud.

Val wanted to be just like him in four years. Wanted it the way he wanted fresh fruit, or Mother’s hugs, or to see the first cherry blossoms in the spring. A want so sweet it ached.

Nicolae had said once that Val was jealous, but he wasn’t, oh no, he wasn’t.

Father’s gaze shifted, then, to Val, and his smile softened. “How’ve you been faring, Radu?”

Val ducked his head, cheeks heating. “Not well. Sir,” he mumbled.

“He’s doing fine,” Mircea piped up. “He’s just got to grow into his bow a little more, and then he’ll be Wallachia’s own Robin Hood, wait and see.”

Val lifted his face and found his brother smiling at him with warm encouragement. He smiled back, grateful.

“I’ll bet you’re right,” Father said.

Hands landed on Val’s shoulders, starling him; a warm body pressed up against his back. Vlad: he recognized the scent of his skin and sweat and hair, the same scents pressed into the pillows of their shared bed.

“Here,” he said, breath warm across Val’s ear. “We’ll do it together.”

Val clumsily nocked another arrow; his brother’s arms came around him, hands closing over his smaller ones, adjusting his grip. Val went through the motions, but it was really Vlad, his strength, his surety, that drew the bow and aimed the shot.

“Ready?” Vlad whispered in his ear.

Val nodded.

They let go together, and the arrow flew straight to the target, landing on the bullseye like a lover’s smacking kiss.

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