Page 76 of Dragon Slayer

Vlad still lay on his side, facing away, and Val sighed.Hurry, Mama,he thought.I don’t know how long we have.

~*~

“Radu,” Gregor said with his usual soft-voiced hesitance. A gentle prompt.

“Oh. Right, sorry.” Val forced his gaze away from the scene unfolding in the training yard – Vlad and Iskander Bey sparring with blunted practice swords, the clang of the metal ringing off the stone walls – and turned his attention back to the book he held in his lap. It was a collection of Turkish stories for children, and at another time he might have been enjoying it – might have reveled in his ability to read a new language so fluently – but dread was pooled low in his belly. This was their training time, and he knew that, sooner or later, he would be forced to give up his role as reader and pick up a practice sword of his own.

He began to read again, and beside him on the bench, the eyeless boy relaxed a fraction and leaned in so their shoulders touched. Propped together. His brother didn’t want him anymore, but there were others who appreciated him. A small comfort in a sea of anticipated hurts.

He read until a shadow fell across him. Then his tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth and he looked up to see Iskander standing over him, sandy hair glued to his neck with sweat, smile wide and straight.

“Your turn, Radu,” he said. “Up you go and pick out a sword.”

Val set the book aside slowly, stealing a glance at his brother.

Vlad stood in the center of the yard, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, sword held in his other hand. His hair had been braided before, but was sliding loose after his exercise, clinging to his temples, and jaw, and throat.

Separated for the past few weeks – even just figuratively – Val now realized that he was able to see his brother with fresh eyes, and that Vlad was changed. Taller, more muscular. His neck thicker, his jaw squarer. Not a man, but no longer a child. His shirt clung to his arms, his shoulders and biceps taut with new muscle.

A slave brought him a water cup and he drank half of it, and poured the rest over his head, fangs visible when he opened his mouth and panted.

“Radu,” Iskander said, snatching his attention. He frowned now, concerned. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Yes, sorry. Here.” He set the book gently in Gregor’s hands. “I’ll be back in a little while. Okay?”

“O-okay,” the boy said, hands clenching tight around the book.

Val stood and made his way to the wooden rack where the blunted practice swords waited, already dreading his lesson…and eyes trained on his brother.

If Vlad felt his gaze, he didn’t show it, retreating to another bench and sitting on it heavily, accepting a second cup of water, gaze trained on the packed dirt and sawdust of the ground.

He didn’t look at Val once.

Disheartened, Val picked a sword – the lightest one of the bunch, one that hopefully wouldn’t pull on his arms and shoulders much. Unlike Vlad, he wasn’t getting broader or more muscular, was instead growing lean and more graceful, if that was even possible. Not the ideal dimensions of a warrior who hoped to work his way free of enemy territory.

When he turned, Iskander waited for him, smile slight, but encouraging, tone warm. “Are you ready?”

Val hitched up his drooping shirtsleeves and nodded. He brought his sword up to the correct angle and approached the center of the yard warily, already braced for an attack.

The sword master, a grizzled janissary, watched from a post leaning against the wall, unconcerned. Iskander had taken over the lessons before the brothers’ arrival, one of the other boys had said, and the sword master rarely intervened in the lessons anymore.

This was an improvement, in Val’s eyes, because Iskander was kind, and a patient teacher. But he was still much older, larger, and stronger, and Val still didn’t have the hang of swordplay.

As if he could sense this – and he was oddly perceptive for a mortal – Iskander tilted his head to the side and gave Val a considering look. “Let’s try something new today.”

“Oh…okay…”

Iskander’s smile widened, and softened. “It’s alright, I promise. I want you to close your eyes, and try to relax for me. Can you do that? Take deep breaths. In and out, nice and slow, yes, like that.”

When he registered the praise, Val realized he had in fact closed his eyes, and that his breaths were deep and regular, and that some of the awful tension bracketing his spine had begun to ease. Iskander ’s voice was low and smooth, his Turkish spoken with a slight Slavic accent.I’m like you, that accent said.Here against my will, but see how well I’ve adjusted?

Val took a breath in, and let it out. In and out.

“Now,” Iskander said, “I want you to envision yourself. Envision me, and the yard, and your sword. Imagine the dance. Because that’s what it is, sword-fighting – it’s a dance. Imagine that I strike, and that you parry. Think about your foot placement; the weight of the blade in your hand. Think about the shock up your arms when the blades meet. Imagine yourself doing itwell. This isn’t a battle, Radu. It’s only a dance. And you’re a good dancer, yes?”

“Yes,” Val murmured, because he was, and because he couldseeit suddenly: dodging, and spinning, and parrying, and slicing, his small feet quick across the ground, sawdust swirling around his ankles, clinging to his sweaty shins.

And then…

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