Page 79 of Dragon Slayer

“Vlad!” Val shouted. Iskander caught him by the back of the collar as he tried to rush toward his brother.

Mehmet brought his sword up, a vicious swing. Val heard his brother’s ribs break, the awful faintsnapof bone breaking under clothes and flesh.

Vlad staggered back a step.

“Mehmet,” the janissary warned.

The heir surged to his feet, smiling again, face sweat- and dirt-streaked. “Don’t ever take your eyes off me, hostage,” he panted. “That’s a grave mistake.” And his next swing was aimed at Vlad’s head.

~*~

Val was aware of darkness, and a sense that the floor was falling out from under him. When he opened his eyes, he was in a shaded, sweet-smelling place, and he saw a familiar curly-headed figure bent over a table, quill in-hand as he composed a letter.

He’d fainted, he realized, and in that faint, he’d wound up dream-walking.

He scrambled upright with a gasp.

Constantine turned toward him, the quill falling from his hand and rolling across the desk. “Valerian. What are you–” He stood, and moved forward, hands outstretched as if to offer help. He pulled up, though, when he remembered.

Val knew he looked a fright: sweaty, dust-smeared, hair falling down around his face. He tugged at his shirt and tried to sniff back his impending tears. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

Constantine made a sound that was half laugh, and half sigh. “I’m still not the emperor, Val. I’m not even emperorpro temanymore; John’s back from Rome.”

“He…” Val was too distraught and tired to make much sense of that.

Constantine spread his arms wide, inviting a look around the room…which proved not to be the palace solar in which Val had visited him before. This room was lavish, yes, but it was much smaller, cozy even, and the incoming golden sunlight fell across piles of books, and a dusty mantlepiece, and a half-dozen mismatched chairs.

“John is back from Rome,” Constantine repeated, gentler this time, as if speaking to a frightened child – which hewas. “We’re at Mistra, son. I’m the despot here now.”

It shouldn’t have been possible – given that he wasn’t physically here – for Val’s legs to give out. But give out they did, and he sat down hard on the stone floor, elbows landing on his thighs. “I…”

“Are you alright? You don’t look well. What’s happened?”

Val wasn’t really listening; he was marveling. “I found you,” he said, and looked down at his hands, at the floor, at the rich Turkish rugs laid out across it.

Constantine crouched down in front of him so they were on eye level, concerned. “Yes, you did.”

“No, don’t you see – I thought I had to walk to a place, but it’s people! I dream-walked to you, even though you weren’t in the palace anymore! I–” His excitement caught, like a sleeve snagging on a door handle, and the blooming joy dissolved like the dust that layered his boots. “Your Majesty,” he said, fresh tears burning his eyes. “It’s so terrible!”

“What is?”

Val took a hitched breath and then told him everything. The meeting that was a trap in Gallipoli, their capture, their trek to Edirne. In too-fast, unsteady pulses between breaths, Val spilled the whole story, right down to today’s sparring lesson gone horribly wrong.

“He struck Vlad, and I – I think I fainted, I…” He clenched his hands into fists, and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. “I fainted just like the baby I am. Because I’museless. And now my brother might be dead, and I’m lying in the sawdust like anidiot.”

“Val. Valerian,” Constantine said, and shifted forward, catching Val’s attention. “Can you look at me?” His handsome features were twisted with sympathy, a grave sadness etched into the lines around his eyes. “I’m very sorry,” he said, and Val knew that he meant it. “I’m sorry you’ve been taken hostage, and your father and brother as well. And I’m sorry that I can’t be of any help to you.”

“Oh, well, I understand. I don’t need you to – to – to do anything, I just–” He bit his lip again, mouth full of blood-taste, on the verge of sobbing. “I only – I – I was scared, and…”

“It’s alright.” Constantine hugged him. Did his best to, anyway. He put his arms in a circle around Val’s shaking shoulders, close enough to block the room from sight, but not so close that Val’s projection dissipated into smoke. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, so gently, and that made Val cry even harder. “It’s alright. You can cry. I’m sorry.”

Val wanted, instinctually, desperately, to put his arms around a friendly neck, press his face into a kind chest, and feel an embrace. To feel the warmth and caring of a person who didn’t mean him any harm. But all he could do now was band his arms around his middle and let the sobs shake him to pieces.

Softly, Constantine said, “You can always come to visit me when you need to see a friendly face.”

Val closed his eyes because it was too much, too much–

And his body called him back.

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