Page 89 of Dragon Slayer

Mircea jumped a little anyway, but recovered quickly, smiling tiredly when he laid eyes on Val. “Little brother,” he greeted.

“Hello, Mircea.” Val noted the lines on his brother’s face, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve…” He faltered; it seemed cruel to lay more at his feet, when the desk was piled high with ledgers and correspondence.

“What, Radu? What is it?”

By the door, a shadow moved; Cicero, shifting his weight. Val was glad to see the wolves were watching after the new prince, even if he was only half-vampire.

Val didn’t know what his face was doing, but when he looked at Cicero, made contact with his glinting golden eyes, the wolf stepped away from his post and came forward.

“What?” he asked, tone gentler than Val was used to from him. A grave sadness lay etched in his face; his bound master had been taken, and he struggled with the itch and pull of instinct.

Val took a deep breath and looked back and forth between them. “I have to tell you something. I told you the heir was a vampire? Well, Vlad got a taste of his blood–”

Cicero made a low noise that Val could have sworn was proud.

Mircea groaned and put a hand to his forehead. “Oh,Vlad…”

“We know who turned him now,” Val continued. “It was Romulus.”

Both of them froze. The only movement in the room was the dance of candle flames.

Then Cicero growled.

“Are you certain?” Mircea asked, but his white-rimmed eyes and his shaking hand proved that he already believed.

“Vlad’s always certain.”

Mircea sat back, hands braced on the desk. “This changes things,” he muttered. “This…this is…”

Cicero crossed to the window in three long strides and peered out into the night, growling low, figurative hackles raised.

“Has Uncle been back here?” Val asked. “Since we were taken?”

Mircea shook his head and seemed to gather his wits. “No, not since then. He sent a note via courier, asking if I needed anything, saying I should call on him if–” He shuddered. “Damn it, Father should never have let him in the palace! He should have turned him away the second he dared to show his face. Once a brother-killer, always a brother-killer. He hasn’t changed at all!”

Cicero latched the shutters and came back to the desk, shaking his head. “Your father has a forgiving spirit.” He didn’t say what he truly meant, but Val could read his tone well enough:your father is a sentimental fool.

“But I just don’t understand –why,” Mircea said. His eyes had glazed over. When he ran his hands through his sable hair, he tugged at it, hard; it had to hurt, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Cicero glanced at Val, and then at Mircea, gaze knowing, sympathetic. He also looked like he thought they were stupid boys. He sighed. “Romulus has never been able to have an heir.” He waited, expecting them to pick up the story. When they didn’t: “Your father didn’t tell you? Of course not.” A sigh. “He’s sterile. He can’t breed an heir. But he wanted one – or he used to, back in the Roman days. He was obsessed, Remus says.”

Val stared at him. “You think Mehmet is – is hisheir?”

Mircea’s mouth fell open. “If – if he wanted an heir–” he spluttered. “Why not name one of the three of us?”

“You misunderstand me, your grace,” Cicero said, bowing his head in deference. “Romulus doesn’t have any property or riches – he has no legacy. But I think…” He hesitated. Wolves – especially bound wolves – took subservience seriously.

“Go on,” Mircea said, gently, “I want to hear your thoughts, Cicero.”

The wolf lifted his head, expression steely. “It isn’t my place to say so, your grace, because I don’t know it for a fact. But I think that Romulus wants to gain some property. A seat of power. He could fight someone for it…or he could appoint an already powerful boy as his heir and then take it from him, when the time is right.”

Slowly, Mircea reached for the cup at his elbow – the rosy glow of wine – and brought it to his lips. Drained it dry in one long gulp, head thrown back. “God,” he breathed after, hand clenched tight around the cup. “My God, I think you’re right. This is – this is disturbing. It’suntenable.”

“Does he hate us?” Val asked Cicero. His heart throbbed in his chest, uneven, lurching beats. “Does he really?”

Cicero sent him an apologetic look. “I don’t know. He might. Then again, it might just be his nature. He’s the son of a god, and I’m just a wolf. I won’t pretend to understand.”

A dark thought occurred. “Father’s gone,” Val said. He breathed so quick and unsteady that his voice fluttered. “Father’s gone, and maybe that’s – maybe Uncle means to march on Wallachia, maybe he already has his army, maybe this is just–”

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