16
A PROPER EDUCATION
The first day they were tutored, and took their meals in private, just the two of them, and their guards, and the stone-faced mullahs. It was a good thing they didn’t have to eat with utensils, Vlad thought savagely, because he couldn’t have worked a knife with his hands cuffed together.
But tomorrow, Sinan told them like a warning, they would begin their education in earnest, alongside the court’s other “political guests.” A “proper education,” he said.
Vlad barely managed to suppress his snort.
When they were finally alone, dressed in linen nightshirts, cuddled up together on one pallet because Val still couldn’t bear to sleep alone, Vlad allowed himself a moment of weakness. The door was locked, and a cool evening breeze sifted through the bars on the window, and it had never been more obvious that they were a long, long way from home.
Vlad shut his eyes, pressed his face down into his brother’s hair, and breathed deep. Under the floral notes of unfamiliar soap, he sought the smell of Val’s skin, and with it the sense memory of home fires, and Mother’s singing, and Mircea’s patient smiles.
“Vlad?” Val whispered.
Vlad tightened his arms around him in answer, and knew that it was a bad idea. He had to put some distance between them, to show Val that it was best he learn to stand on his own two small feet, and be strong, learn to be a man instead of a boy. But right now, all Vlad could be was weak.
Val’s voice trembled when he said, “Why did you do that today?”
Vlad didn’t need to ask for clarification. He swallowed, and felt something stick in his throat. “They’re not my masters, and I will not go quietly.”
“But, Vlad…” His hands tightened in Vlad’s shirt, shaking, bony knuckles digging into Vlad’s ribs. “Theyhurtyou.”
“No, they didn’t.” His neck and his knees stung, but that was already healing; he felt the faint itch of fading bruises already. “Not in any way that matters.”
~*~
The next morning, they were marched to the same schoolroom, but this time they weren’t alone with the mullahs.
The rugs were occupied with boys today. Some looked Val’s age, and others were clearly in their early teens, gangly, with prominent apples in their throats and awkward patches of stubble on their chins. These were the Ottoman hostages, the children of important Eastern European leaders.
One boy, Vlad noted as they were ushered in, was older than the others. Twenty, maybe, already a man, tall and strongly built, with European features and wheat-colored hair. He stood against a column of the pavilion, arms folded, casual and negligent. His gaze betrayed nothing as it followed them into the room.
And then–
Vlad came to an abrupt halt and felt Val do the same beside him. Over the perfume of blooming flowers that wafted in through the open archways, over the fear, anxiety, and boredom of the other boys, a very distinct, very unexpected scent reached Vlad’s nose. If he’d been searching for it, he would have detected it halfway across the garden. As it was, it hit him now, like a physical blow, and raised all the fine hairs on the back of his neck and arms.
There was a vampire in this room.
Male. Young. And a whiff of…of something…familiar.
Val made a soft whimpering sound beside him, an inhuman, questioning sound.
“Hush,” Vlad whispered.
“Move,” the janissary behind them said, and pushed them down onto rugs.
At a rug at the front of the assemblage, two rows ahead, an auburn-haired Turkish boy twisted lazily around and sent Vlad a look from beneath his shiny black lashes. Vlad’s age, but handsome, fine featured. His kaftan was an extravagant affair.
He smiled, sideways and sly, showing just enough teeth to flash one sharp fang.
“Brother,” Val murmured beside him, fearful. “Who is that?”
He was the reason the people here knew to cuff them with solid silver and bring them blood with breakfast. The reason boys who growled like tigers weren’t anything to scream about. And Vlad had a feeling–
Sinan slapped a riding crop into his palm in front of the Ottoman boy. “Mehmet,” he snapped.
Vlad swallowed. “I think,” he whispered back, “that’s the heir.”
