Page 43 of Dragon Slayer

10

ECHOES OF AN EMPIRE

Romulus purchased a two-story white stone house in Tîrgoviste and, for all intents and purposes, seemed eager to reacquaint himself with his brother. He began visiting the palace regularly, though he never stayed long, and Mother was always hovering nearby, displeasure writ clear on her face.

“He brings us presents,” Val said one afternoon, sitting cross-legged in a puddle of sunshine in the center of Constantine Palaiologos’s solar while the emperor pored over a document at the table. “He brought me a little wooden horse.” He didn’t have it now, because he couldn’t carry things with him when he dream-walked, not even the images of them. At least not yet. He was still basking in the joy that came with being able to pick a destination and send himself there, across rivers, and lakes, and sharp mountain peaks.

“That’s thoughtful of him,” Constantine murmured, distracted. He read with one fingertip skimming down the page in front of him, chewing at his lip in thought.

Val climbed up from the floor and walked over to stand beside his chair, look over his shoulder and squint at the Greek letters.

It had taken a matter of months, but slowly the emperor had stopped startling like he’d seen a ghost every time Val appeared in his chambers. Maybe other boys would have found it amusing, to see the Roman Emperor shout and fling his papers and stumble over his own feet; he’d pulled down a tapestry once. But it saddened Val. Once, to his great shame, he’d burst into tears. That was the visit in which the emperor had gathered his composure and approached him, face going soft.

“Oh dear. Well. Don’t cry.” He’d patted the air above Val’s shoulders, awkward. “Hell. I don’t know anything about children. Can you stop crying?” He’d tried to touch Val’s shoulder, and his hand had passed right through. “Christ, you’re aghost.”

Val had wiped his face – his not-real face and his not-real tears – and choked down the rest of his childish sobs, peering up at Constantine’s shocked countenance. “I’m not a ghost,” he’d said. “And I’m not a demon.” He’d felt a burst of frustration, then. “I’m a real boy. I’m a prince. Son of Vlad Dracul of Wallachia, and I’m not here, I’m dream-walking.”

Val still wasn’t sure if Constantine actually believed him, but the man had stopped startling out of his chair when Val appeared, and he was always kind and conciliatory. Val enjoyed visiting him; he’d begun treating him as a sort of confessional. Father was always talking about outside third-party opinions, and Val supposed that’s what Constantine was for him.

“I’m glad I’m not an emperor,” Val said now, as Constantine read. “You’re always busy.”

“Yes, well, I’m not really emperor. Only until my brother gets back from Rome, remember?”

Val wrinkled his nose. “Willyou be emperor one day?” He didn’t want to have to think of him aspro tempore. As of this moment, Constantine was ruling Constantinople, a symmetry that Val found pleasing. To his mind, the title wasn’t as meaningful as the actions; if Constantine’s brother John was so great, why wasn’t he here now?

“I suppose I might be,” Constantine said with a shrug. “John doesn’t have any children. And.” Here he looked up from his reading, finally, grinning, and shot Val a wink. “Iamthe favorite brother.”

Val smiled back in response. “That’s what Mircea always says: that I’m his favorite brother.”

“Always a good thing.” His expression grew serious again, gaze narrowing. “There’s three of you, right? Three brothers?”

Val smiled, pleased that he’d remembered. Once they’d finally gotten past the I’m-not-a-ghost-or-a-demon stage, Constantine had admitted that he knew little of Wallachian politics or the royal family.

“Yes,” he said. “Mircea’s the oldest, and the heir. He’s always busy doing heir things. And then there’s Vlad, and I’m the youngest.” He felt his smile tug a little sideways. “I won’t ever be an emperor, or even a real prince. If anything happens to Mircea…” A lump formed in his throat, suddenly, and he swallowed, blinking against the prickle of tears. He heard the wolves whispering sometimes, muttered, angry stories about the Ottoman raids into Transylvania, the gold demanded, the janissaries taken, the pretty young women and beautiful boys stolen in the night. It was a dangerous time for princes; he worried for his oldest brother. “Then Vlad would be heir,” he said, hollow and afraid now.

“Well,” Constantine said gently, drawing his gaze back. “It’s not much fun being in charge of things. So really, you’re lucky. You get to enjoy all the fun parts of being a prince without any of the hassle. Right?”

A ghost of his former smile tugged at Val’s mouth. “Right.”

He stepped away from Constantine’s chair and moved to sit on the edge of the table, legs swinging. It was a trick he’d been working to perfect: he couldn’t lift anything, or touch anyone, but if he concentrated, and stretched his magic, he could sit on solid surfaces…or at least project his image on top of them, so that he looked like he was really present in the room, and no longer had to stand in the center of the floor.

When he was settled, and sure that he wasn’t about to flicker out of existence and wake up on the rug in front of the hearth back home, he glanced up, expecting to see Constantine poring over his reading again. Instead, the emperorpro temwas studying Val, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Your Majesty ?” Val asked.

That earned him a tiny smile. “Valerian, your father has a treaty with the Ottomans, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, sir. Monetary tribute, additions to the Janissary Corps, and raiding rights,” he rattled off from memory.

“Is there…” Constantine started, and then sighed and cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Forgive me. You’re only a child.”

Val frowned. Folded his arms. “I’m not a baby.”

“I said ‘child,’ not ‘baby.’ And I shouldn’t be bothering you with this anyway.” He went back to his ledger with an air of finality.

Val lingered a while longer, until he began to feel stretched-thin and shaky. It took an immense amount of energy to maintain a projection like this. His body, lying prone in the palace back home, began to recall his conscience, reminding him that he needed to eat. Soon Vasile would come collect him for archery practice, where Vlad would no doubt show him up.

“I need to leave now,” he said, the first time he’d spoken in long minutes.

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