28
THROAT-CUTTER
Winter of 1451-2
The March Home
Prince Radu Dracula of Wallachia currently carried his title because he was the son of a prince, and had been told that he would someday rule as one, when the appropriate time came to place him on the throne in his homeland, a dutiful ally to the Ottoman Empire.
This was his official title. To the slaves and guards and janissary captains, he was Prince Radu. They accepted small orders from him, so long as they did not conflict with orders given by their sultan, and they bowed and saluted him as was proper for his station. He was, officially, no longer a hostage, but an advisor and confidante of their sultan, Mehmet.
Everyone had to know that he was also the sultan’s lover, though none made mention of it in his presence. Sometimes, his vampiric senses pricked, he could pick out bits of gossip. Mehmet was possessive, outwardly affectionate, and did not try to conceal their relationship. For his own part, Prince Radu had learned that he rather liked…messing with the men around him. If he could make them uncomfortable, petty though it was, it brought him a small, guilty sort of joy.
In his own mind, however, he was still Valerian. Val. His true name was his most closely guarded secret outside his immortality. He carried it close in his heart, letting it warm him on the coldest of nights, when the Greek wind whipped at the sides of the tent, and bent the flames in the braziers double.
He wasn’t proud of any of the things that he’d done, but he was proud that he’d survived. That he’d learned to be a real prince, and a knight; learned how to manipulate, and succeed, even.
He was sixteen, and he figured that, if he could stay alive, he had the rest of forever to try and heal the scars on his soul; to carve himself out a life that was good, and gentle.
Until then, he was clever, and beautiful, and he would use those things to his advantage.
He still wore silver: a thin, solid band around his throat that rested along his collarbones. Too tight to pull off over his head, studded with three small sapphire chips so that it looked like a decoration, and not a dog collar to keep him obedient. It sapped a little of his preternatural strength, enough that he was more dependent on blood, and it was a tether he could not break should Mehmet see fit to lock him away for some infraction. For a time, when he was younger, the silver had dulled his psychic abilities as well. But he’d practiced. And practiced, and practiced, and he’d learned how to dream-walk while wearing it.
Which was why he sat now in the private study of Constantine Dragases Palaiologos, Emperor of the Romans, at the Palace of Blachernae.
The emperor himself, sworn in after his brother John’s death in 1448, wore a few more sun lines around his eyes, and streaks of silver in his black curly hair, but his face was still kind. That of a friend.
“I appreciate your concern, Val. And your attempts to warn me. But I feel I made the right decision. And, honestly, this city has stood – and resisted most siege attempts – for seventeen-hundred years. I’m not too worried about young Mehmet accomplishing the impossible.”
Val, cross-legged on a tabletop, tossed his long braid over his shoulder. Impatience bled through in his voice. “But he’s building a palace – a fortress! A massive one, just on the other side of the Bosphorus. He’s already clearing the forest and hauling lumber. Do you know what he’s calling it? The Throat-Cutter.”
Constantine shrugged. “I don’t own the land on the other side of the Strait. He can build as many fortresses there as he likes.”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“On the contrary. But, forgive me, I’m a bit older and more experienced than you. I don’t think it’s time to panic just yet.”
Val bit back a frustrated growl.
“Besides,” Constantine continued. “I’m up to my neck in this thrice-damned religious war.”
Val took a breath and resettled – he wasn’t going to convince the emperor of anything today. He found a smile. “Which side is winning at the moment?”
“Certainly not me. I’ve been declared a heretic by the Orthodox and Catholic leaders. That’s what I get for trying to broker an accord between them – I’m a bloody heretic! Those fools. Our economy is in crisis, your sultan’s building fortresses called Throat-Cutter across the Strait, but oh no, the Schism between one faction of Christianity and another is our greatest problem. God.” He slumped back in his chair and massaged his forehead, smoothing the furrow between his brows. “I hate them all. What idiots.”
“Civil wars can topple entire empires,” Val observed.
“So I’ve told them. But rather than listen to reason – they both worship the same God, carry the same cross, share the same enemies beyond our walls – they would just as soon paint me a villain and bicker with one another endlessly until our entire religious system breaks down into chaos. Why is there no tolerance? Why can’t people just let things go?” He threw up his arms in supplication.
Val shook his head.
Constantine aimed a forefinger at him. “Men are categorically allergic to peace,” he said. “They ought to be content with happy wives, and healthy children, and enough coin to eat their fill, but they aren’t. They never have been, and they never will be, and I willneverunderstand it.” He raked both hands through his hair, curls springing up in the wake of his fingers. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped beneath his burdens. He was a widower, and childless, and though he had close friends and advisors, Val knew him to be a lonely man. He could relate.
The emperor said, “I don’t even have a preference myself. If I thought it would help, I would gladly convert and order the whole city to observe the Catholic faith. But this is an Orthodox city. I might very well be dragged from this palace and stoned to death in the street.” He chuckled hollowly. “You don’t know of any peaceful religions, do you?”
“My mother still worships the old gods.”
“The Roman ones? Jupiter? And Mars?”
