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and three made kills of bustard, including Vlad’s. But Hamza had a shungar, a falcon as white as the snows from which it came. He flew it at fowl, at rabbit, and it killed again and again, yet always returned to the fist to nuzzle the hand for flesh. It was then Vlad had noticed his agha ’s worn glove. That night, he’d begun his task while the others slept.
    Mockery interrupted his memories. “‘And I live with you…for now!’” mimicked Ion in a whisper, as they marched toward the sunlight. “Do you seek to be a mystery to them?”
    “I seek to keep my enemy guessing about me, yes.”
    “Is Hamza your enemy?”
    “Of course. He’s a Turk. But I like him anyway.”
    Vlad stepped from the hall into the inner court. The noonday sun cast his shadow behind him, onto his other shadow. He could sense all the questions roiling inside Ion and he smiled, wondering which one would burst to the surface first. He glanced back, then up. Had his friend gotten taller overnight? They had both grown in their five years as hostage to the Turk but Ion’s growth had nearly all been upwards and only recently out. He still walked with the stumbling gait of a colt unused to his long limbs. Whereas he…he would never look down upon many men. Most men would have to step to the side to look past him but…he’d have liked some more height!
    He stopped suddenly. Ion, trying to sort his questions, stumbled into him. “Heh,” he said, surprised, instantly wary, stepping back, looking at Vlad’s hands.
    “Where are you, Ion?”
    “Where?” Ion glanced around then realized what was meant. “The glove? When did you…why did you…?”
    Vlad recommenced walking, both shadows following. “When did I make the glove? When you were in the tavern, drooling over Brown-Browed Aisha. Why?” He slowed. “I wonder that myself.”
    “Tell me, Vlad,” Ion chuckled, “for you do nothing without a reason.”
    “Do I not?” Vlad sighed. “Maybe you are right. Maybe I do think too much. Well then…” He blew out his lips. “I made it because I can, and because I delighted in the making. I gave it to Hamza because I like him.” He glanced up. “Is that reason enough?”
    “No, Vlad. Because you like me. And you’ve never made me a glove, or anything else.”
    “True.”
    “So tell me.”
    “Well then.” Vlad took a breath. “If you must know there are two reasons apart from the liking. One obvious to any but a simpleton. One less so.”
    Ion ignored the jibe. “The obvious?”
    “Hamza is a power in this land. He was Murad’s cupbearer, has kept rising through the court. Not bad for a cobbler’s son from Laz. This is a man to know. To respect and to earn his respect. We may have to deal with him one day.”
    “We?”
    “The Draculesti. My father, my brothers, and me. The Princes of Wallachia.”
    “Hmm! And the other reason?”
    “Does he not remind you of the Dragon?”
    Ion stopped, open-mouthed. “Your father? Hah!” He grinned. “Vlad Dracul is squat, like you…”
    “Squat? Have a care!”
    “Devil-dark, green-eyed, brown-skinned, excessively hairy, like you…”
    “Are these men you describe or monkeys?”
    “While Hamza”—Ion circled a wrist before his face—“is tall, slim, fair and nearly as handsome as me.” He ran his hand through his long, golden hair, shook it. “He and I are from a race of angels, while the Draculesti…”
    He shouldn’t have looked away while insulting his friend. Vlad took an arm, put hip to hip, and had him on his back in the dust in a moment. His face was a hand’s breadth from Ion’s. “What you say of my father is true. But it’s the interior I refer to. They each love life, every facet of it. And yet each would give up all of it—every pleasure, every vice—for what they believe to be right.”
    A stone dug into Ion’s back. Where Vlad pinned his arm, it hurt. Provoked, he spat, “I thought you hated your father?”
    Vlad’s face changed. Mockery died. He