The boy shook his head, lower lip trembling. “No. Only you.”
“Good.” And he fell back into a deep, unrestful sleep.
Arslan woke him again, later, and managed to get him to his feet, and to wrap him up in his robe. The cuffs and chains and collar made it too difficult to dress properly, but Arslan persisted, fidgeting with the heavy silk until Val was at least covered, sitting barefoot at the table with tea and honey-drizzled flatbread. “Eat,” he said, and Val did eat. He drank the horse blood brought to him in a cup.
Once some of his strength had returned, Val finally became aware of a low roar. Like the ceaseless crashing of the ocean, but louder. The din of battle, he realized.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
As if summoned, the tent flap lifted, and in walked Nestor-Iskander, his scribe’s satchel draped over one shoulder, his boots dusty from his walk through camp.
“Nestor,” Val said, when Arslan didn’t answer, “what’s happening out there?” His heart lurched in his chest, and began a painful gait.
He dumped his gear out onto the table, and without looking up, said, “Battle.”
“I know that. What’s happening in the battle?”
He shook his head, and bit his lip, and began sorting out his quills.
Val got unsteadily to his feet. “Nestor,” he said sharply, voice cracking. “What is happening?”
He finally stilled, and lifted his head, lip still caught between his teeth. He whined softly, in the back of his throat, a wolfish noise. “I think – I don’t know, we’re too far away, and no one would say – but I think they’ve finally breached the wall. Theinnerwall,” he stressed, when Val began to protest.
“They’re inside the city,” he said, and his lips went numb.
His whole everything was numb. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He didn’t care, didn’t feel it. He was numb.
Except that wasn’t true at all.
He turned away from the table, and his legs nearly gave out. So he turned back, and snatched up the cup, drained the last few drops of blood. “I need–”
“Here.” Nestor held out his hand, and Val put the cup into it. He set it on the table, and pulled a sharp little blade from his kit; cut his wrist, clean and quick, and let the blood run down into the cup. “Is that enough?”
“Yes, thank you, that’s plenty.” Val wanted to stammer out his thanks, as intense and true as it was, but the scent of fresh wolf blood hit him like a slap, and he could only take the cup and drain it down.
The burst of strength it gave him was immediate. His shaking eased, and his head cleared, and his legs straightened.
He went to the center of the rug, and sat down on it cross-legged, his chains clinking together.
“Your grace?” Arslan asked, worry in his voice.
“I won’t be gone long,” Val said, folding his hands in his lap and closing his eyes. “But I have to see…”
He pushed himself down, and up, and dream-walked into Constantinople.
Into chaos and blood.
A beam of sunlight pierced the patchy cloud cover, and fell, like a spotlight from heaven, on the armored figure atop the white charger, his blade glinting as he drew it. Ornate armor, and a rippling golden cloak emblazoned with the two-headed eagle of Byzantium.
Constantine. And all around him, Ottoman soldiers, weapons raised, screaming, energized by the impossible gap in the wall; fevered with impending victory.
The walls were breached, at long last. Constantinople could not stand.
Val didn’t care. His astral projection took off at a run, flowing through Ottomans, leaping over fallen bodies and great chunks of blasted wall, quick as smoke. He had only one goal, now – now that all his good intentions had failed so spectacularly: save the emperor.
Save his friend.
He burst through the last line of soldiers with a great smoky surge, spiraling and coalescing with a dramatic curl of mist. He heard startled shouts, and cries of alarm. Someone screamed that he was a demon.
