Vlad: The Last Confession (33 page)

He looked around at his chosen ones, at the shepherds who would lead them; lastly at his son. The boy’s eyes glowed within the mirror of that face. And in it Vlad saw himself as a boy—proudly riding beside his father to meet a Sultan. Like his son before him, Vlad had not been fleeing then, but riding towards an unknown fate. Towards his
kismet
. And in that mirror he realized he still was.

To the fall of axes, and the bark of ravens, men and boy slipped and slid down the slope. The worst steepness ended in a cave and from there a ribbon of a path descended to the river. On its banks, horses were tethered. Not warhorses but tough tarpans from the mountains. Their hooves were wrapped in cloth, so they did not clatter on the pebbles of the river’s bed as they were led along it by the men of Arefu.

There was a point where the river began to bend. Before them, other mountains shrouded the valley in black. Behind was a last view of the castle. Vlad reined over, letting the others go ahead, then looked up. The moon was a Turkish bow, resting its tip on the battlements. When he’d been not much older than the boy who had just passed him, he had first held the throne, first lost it. He had sworn an oath of return, then. A young man’s oath. Now that he was older, he promised himself and God precisely nothing.

With a jab of spurs—the horse was not Kalafat—he followed the others into the darkness.

Betrayal

Brasov, Transylvania, six weeks later

“How do I look?”

Stoica and Ilie shrugged. One could not speak, one dared not. But the shrugs told their thoughts clearly. That the Voivode of Wallachia should meet the emissaries of King Matthias and the Council of Brasov dressed splendidly, as befitted a prince. Both men knew he had a beautiful suit made of black silk, ordered the day he arrived in Brasov five weeks earlier, delivered a week later, paid for by the Brasovians. They had not dared deny him, considering what he’d visited upon them only three years before, in fire and wood.

But this day the suit hung in the wardrobe. Their prince had donned his armor. He had not even allowed Stoica to hammer out the dents, nor wash away the mud, the traces of blood that looked like rust.

Vlad smiled at the eloquence of the two shrugs. Yet he knew what they did not—the workings of men’s minds. If he went before the Council and Hungary’s ambassadors dressed for the court he would appear as just another pretender, begging arms and gold to take back a throne. Dressed in well-used armor he was a warrior still; most importantly, a warrior with a war still ongoing, merely paused.

It also reminded them of something else. What he did best. Kill.

He turned, stared at the door. Remembered another time, another door, the one that led down into the Great Hall at Targoviste. He’d stood before it that Easter when he’d been about to descend and overthrow the
boyars
. He’d asked Ion how he’d looked. Ion had told him, and would now, sparing him neither praise nor insult.

His smile died. Ion was not there. Vlad was alone, save for these two, loyal, disapproving. All the others had gone. Yet in a few hours, he should have the beginnings of an army and the gold to pay for it, for the war that was merely paused.

“Sword,” he commanded.

Stoica brought the Dragon’s Talon, went to fasten the belt across his prince’s shoulder. Vlad delayed him with a raised hand, his maimed left one, lifting it to run his three fingers over the emblem in the pommel, over the Dragon that flew there. Thinking of the other Dragon that waited, in the Goldsmiths’ Hall, among the Council of Brasov.

Janos Horvathy
. He had known him a little, when Vlad had been an exile at Corvinus’s court. One of dozens of “new men” around the new king—for Matthias distrusted the old nobility, wanted men loyal only to him, lesser nobles who sought to rise. Horvathy, to have been sent on such an important embassy as this, must have begun that rise.

Yet it was not the oath Horvathy had sworn to his king that made Vlad smile now. It was another oath—sworn to the brotherhood to which they both belonged.

“Brother Dragon,” Horvathy had said a week before when first he’d greeted Vlad. There had been warmth in the special handshake the Count of Pecs had given him, in the kiss of welcome, in the smile. He had negotiated hard in the following days, on behalf of his sovereign. But Vlad knew that behind the Hungarian’s insistence on Hungarian terms lay a loyalty as deep. Deeper in many ways and bound by the most sacred of oaths.

“Brother Dragon,” murmured Vlad.

Stoica, not hearing or not understanding, thought he was commanded and lifted the sword-belt again. This time Vlad let him fasten it over his shoulders, across his chest. The great weapon’s tip reached almost to the floor.

Vlad touched the grip at his shoulder. He could have it drawn in a moment. But it was there only to complete the impression of ready warrior. He would not need it. Not when a Dragon waited for him in the Goldsmiths’ Hall.

“Let us go,” he said.

—

Janos Horvathy rubbed his eyes. It did nothing to clear the blurriness. Only sleep would and he’d had little enough of that during the week he’d been negotiating with Dracula; and none at all, in the three days since his master, Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, had decided that the negotiations were over. However, it wasn’t the further arrangements, detailed though they had to be, that had kept his eyes open at night. It was the memory of an oath.

“Count? Did you hear me?”

Horvathy started at the voice. He’d forgotten that Jiskra was there. Now his eyes began to focus at last, on the details of the old warrior’s face: the nose, skewed by some long-forgotten blow, trailing left; the pink-hued skin, flaking, so he was spotted as if with flour; the thick, unkempt gray beard; the small, shoved-together eyes. Detail cleared the blurriness at last. “What did you say?”

“I said that it was time, Horvathy. All is ready.”

“The Council?”

“The members have taken their seats in the chamber.”

“Your men?”

“In their places.”

“You are sure you have enough?”

Jiskra snorted. “Why, by the bleeding Christ, is everyone so frightened of this Wallachian? Because he has had some success against the Turk and has used some…harsh methods?” He laughed. “Well, I was killing Turks—harshly!—when Dracula was sucking his wet nurse’s tit. Besides, he only has those two with him always. And I know my job.”

“I am sure you do. It is only…” The Count paused. “Do you not regret the necessity?”

“Regret necessity? What stupidity is that?” the older warrior spat. “A man acts on what is decided. Our king has decided that this Dracula is an embarrassment. He is! And a fool! Demanding that the Crow honors his promises?” He jeered. “Kings don’t honor promises, not unless it suits them. They act on expedience. It is not expedient to go to war against the Turk, and the Crow never truly intended it. He has other uses for his soldiers, to the north. And better ways to spend his gold. He will not sit safely on the throne of Hungary until the crown of St. Stephen sits on his head. The not-so Holy Roman Emperor demands eighty thousand crowns for its return. The Crow could buy a small war with that, with all its risks. Or he could get his crown out of pawn.” He turned, cleared his throat noisily, spat into the fireplace. “Furthermore—”

“I know! I know!” Horvathy raised a hand to halt the flow of words. Jiskra, once started, would talk for days about the “realities of politics” if he was allowed. “I only truly regret that it has to be this way.” He gestured to the three rolled parchments on the table.

Jiskra shrugged. “What are a few more lies amongst the many? This Wallachian is causing a fuss, with his appeals to the Pope, to other sovereigns. He must be proved to have betrayed the cause, so we can dispose of him.”

“Betrayed? Who is the betrayer here?” Horvathy murmured.

“Man!” Jiskra shouted, looking up at the ceiling. “You are meant to be one of the coming men, whom Corvinus is raising up.
His
men. Isn’t he going to get your castle out of pawn, like his crown, when you do this? Well, I tell you—you will not last a week in the snake’s nest of Buda’s court if you try to keep your conscience clean.”

“But it is not just to the King that I owe loyalty,” the Count replied, angered now. “For Dracula and I are both members of the same brotherhood—the Order of the Dragon. Formed to fight the Infidel. Sworn to aid each other. I took an oath—”

“Fuck your oath,” Jiskra bellowed. “I belong to no orders. I serve one God and one man and take oaths only to them. It keeps it simple.” He straightened. “So it’s them I obey now. Their enemy must be accused and arrested publicly, so all may witness his treason, know of his disgrace.” He leaned forward. “Are you ready to do what must be done? Or would you rather hide up here with your oaths and your conscience while I do the dirty stuff?”

Horvathy stood, reached for his sword. “No, Jiskra. I will do what I must. I have no choice.”

“You do not.” The door opened. A soldier appeared, nodded. Jiskra turned back. “And Dracula’s here.”

—

The door to the Goldsmiths’ Hall opened. Instantly, the members of the Council of Brasov, seated in ranks on either side of the main floor, hushed, turned to it. Horvathy, on a dais at the hall’s end, looked, his sight blurred again, this time by sunlight. Then the dark figure stepped
beyond it and the Count was able to see the man clearly, to note the battered armor and the stained cloak. He smiled for a moment as he realized what Dracula was saying, then remembered that what Dracula said there that day meant nothing.

He shifted his gaze, looked to either side of the hall at the members of the Council, their rich cloaks and rounded forms a contrast to the lean, stained warrior now striding to the central table, flanked by his two guards. Most stared at him in disgust, in fear, for he had forced them to a settlement three years before, with flame and the stake. Now he was there as supplicant. Horvathy could see, on the faces of those few it had been necessary to tell, a scarcely concealed triumph.

Vlad did not look to either side. He strode to the middle of the chamber, halted at the table there that bore the Council records in heavy, leather-bound tomes. Beside these, symbols of the Guild’s wealth as well as samples of their prowess, stood two gold objects. One was a golden moon, wreathed in vine leaves. The other was a hawk, its wingspan as wide as a hand, stooping on a hare, both beasts rendered in exquisite detail.

Vlad studied the craftsmanship for a moment, the expression of hunter and prey. Then he looked up at the councillors who had caused them to be made, saw the smiles on some faces that men did not bother to hide; looked across the table, to the raised dais, the man sitting there; saw the sadness in the Count’s gray eyes. Watched as Horvathy glanced left, followed the glance. To Jan Jiskra, beckoning. And he knew.

The dozen men came fast through the sunshine, some with swords, some with cudgels. Black Ilie saw steel, tried to draw his own. Clubs fell—on hand, to stomach—and he was down. Stoica had a blade to his throat, his own dagger swiftly removed. Only Dracula was untouched, though blades were levelled at him. Probably because his arms were raised high in the air in the unmistakable gesture of surrender.

He let the hubbub settle before he spoke. “Why?” he said clearly.

The Council had risen but Vlad was not addressing them. His question was for the Hungarian, standing ten paces away at the other end of the long table.

Horvathy took a breath, made sure his voice was steady before he replied. He intoned, speaking slowly, for scribes were placed around the room and needed to note down all that was said. “Vlad Dracula, former Voivode of Wallachia, it is with great sadness that we have learned of your treachery. That you, who claimed to be a warrior for Christ, and a loyal vassal of our good King Matthias, have proved a traitor to both.”

Vlad’s voice, when it came, was calm contrast to the quaver in the Hungarian’s. “Proved? How have I proved so, when my entire life has proved the opposite?”

“We have the letters, Dracula.”

“What letters?”

“These.” The Count gestured to the three rolls of parchment before him on the table. “One you wrote to your equally traitorous cousin, Stephen, Voivode of Moldavia. A second to the Grand Vizier of the Turk, Mamoud. The last to the Sultan himself, the man you claimed as mortal enemy. All three testify to your treasonous plans. That you would take the forces my mighty sovereign was going to lend you and turn them against His Majesty. That you would use the gold offered by Brasov to corrupt loyal men. And finally, and most heinously”—Horvathy reached forward and picked up one of the papers—“that you planned on kidnapping King Matthias and delivering him, naked and bound, to the Turk.”

The councillors had started to murmur under the Hungarian’s words. At this last many shouted, cursed the traitor. Brave now, some even leaned in to spit. Vlad stood still, ignoring them, looking at one man.

That man raised his hand to halt the noise, then continued. “It is all written here, signed with your name, sealed with your seal. This will be entered into the records of the Council of Brasov. And pamphlets will be printed and distributed so that the world knows of your infamy.” Horvathy lowered the paper he held when he noticed that his hand was shaking. In a quieter voice, he said, “Do you have anything to say?”

“Only this.” Vlad leaned down, placing his hands on the table before him. Though his movements were slow, soldiers still stepped a little closer, swords raised. “I know why the men of Brasov would do this, for they have long hated me. I also know why Hungary’s King would do this, for his throne is not steady beneath him and he needs the Pope’s gold, which he took for crusade, to shore it up.” He raised his eyes. “Yet I do not know why
you
would do this. Or allow it to be done. For you must know,
Brother Dragon
, the disgrace these forgeries will bring upon the brotherhood. That is the real betrayal, and it will damn all Dragons and blunt, perhaps forever, the lance-tip of Christ, just when it is needed most.”

Horvathy felt his knees weaken. He bent, held the table, too, stared down it at the man opposite, joined to him by wood. “I do what must be done, Dracula. For the realm. For my king…”

“And for yourself. I am certain that by delivering me in this manner, you will rise higher, faster, in the court of the Crow. But I also tell you this, Janos Horvathy…” And then Vlad straightened, thrusting his maimed hand out before him, three fingers and thumb spread in a warding gesture. “…You will never find contentment in your rise. For my curse will be ever with you. I curse you. I curse you and your family—for eternity! And you will learn, soon enough, that my curse is as real as these lies are false. That I am not called the Devil’s son for nothing!”