A chill cut through Nadya hard enough to frost her skin. A shard of ice digging into her stomach. His end goal, some theory Malachiasz had provided to him. Power.
“The veil isn’t the problem,” Malachiasz muttered.
Pelageya ignored him. “But, you see, your world has taught you there are only two things,” Pelageya said. She slid off the armrest until she was lounging sideways in the chair Malachiasz had previously been sitting in.
He leaned against the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest.
“There is your magic, which is good, of course. And then their magic. Blood magic. Heresy.”
“It’s just magic,” Malachiasz said.
“I don’t think she wants to hear this from you,” Pelageya sang.
Nadya glanced at him. Hadn’t that been what he had tried to show her from the day they met? Hadn’t that been his entire point when they were at the wayside shrine? He had been trying to give her some form of freedom—his form of freedom—and until this point she had been considering it, wavering.
“But then there is my magic, except a witch is just a girl who has realized her power is her own. Then, perhaps, there is something else yet.”
Nadya forced her hands still before they reached for the prayer beads she did not have. “What are you saying?” she whispered. But she didn’t want to know. She wasn’t ready to indulge, she wasn’t ready to step away from her gods. She didn’t want this.
She held her hand out in front of herself and small flames lit around her fingertips. “That’s wrong.”
“That’s magic.”
Nadya shook her head.
“You’re here to kill a king and change the world,” Pelageya said. “One will, of course, follow the other. How did you think you were going to do that? How were you going to get around the fact that your Chelvyanik Sterevyani doesn’t have the control over his cult that he used to?”
Malachiasz’s jaw tightened. Nadya felt almost relieved. The witch had said it to sow more discord, but if he didn’t have full control of the Vultures, maybe that meant he actually was helping them? She shouldn’t give in to hope. She hated that she was so damn hopeful.
“Did you drag this out just to taunt us that our goal is impossible?” Malachiasz asked.
Us. Our. She looked at him just as he glanced down at her. She was in a thousand broken pieces and she didn’t know what to do.
No, she did. His was a game she could play perfectly. She would keep her distance, let him think he had gotten away with it, and then she would get her answers.
“Of course. A bit. But also to help, because you do need help.”
A sudden insistent knock on the door made all three of them pause. Then a voice, terrifyingly familiar, came from outside.
“Pelageya? I need to speak with you.”
Of course it would be the prince.
27
SEREFIN
MELESKI
Svoyatovi Klavdiy Gusin: A cleric of Bozetjeh, Svoyatovi Klavdiy Gusin was a master of time, bending it to his will. Until, one day he disappeared and was never heard from again, his body never found.
—Vasiliev’s Book of Saints
There was a rattling from inside the room as Serefin waited with Ostyia and Kacper. He could hear hushed voices snapping at each other before the door opened.
“If this is a bad time I can—” He cut himself off. Firstly, because he realized even if it was a bad time, he would not wait or come back. There was no time. Secondly, because when the door was opened it was by someone he thought he would never see again.
“Malachiasz?”
The boy on the other side of the door blinked in surprise, something undefinable flickering over his features. Serefin realized immediately that Malachiasz didn’t recognize him the same way.
His cousin had disappeared when they were children. He never thought he would see him again; his aunt acted like he was dead, so Serefin assumed some accident had befallen him that the family didn’t speak of. But the lanky boy leaning in the doorway to the witch’s chambers was the eighteen-year-old version of the wild boy Serefin had played with as a child.
“Your … Excellency?” Ostyia said, obviously trying to fill in the awkward space that had arisen between the boys.
Malachiasz lifted his eyebrows. “Yes?”
“This is unexpected.”
Serefin felt his stomach drop as Malachiasz responded to the Black Vulture’s honorific with a sharp-toothed smile. How can it be him?
Malachiasz pushed away from the doorframe and winked at Serefin. “My second informed me you were asking after my health. Truly, I’m touched.”
“What a plot this is turning out to be!” Serefin recognized Pelageya’s voice. “Get out of the way, sterevyani bolen, let your prince inside.”
“Can he be my prince if his father isn’t my king?” Malachiasz asked. “Since that was so important to you a moment ago.”
But he opened the door wider, cutting Serefin another odd look as he took a step back. Józefina was sitting on a chaise by the fire. Blood stained her hands and face.
A sick feeling settled in Serefin’s stomach. He should have walked her to her chambers; he shouldn’t have left her alone. The Vultures must have taken her the minute he had his back turned.
Malachiasz stepped toward her, but received an icy glare that made him veer off, and he ended up leaning against the fireplace. She drew her knees up to her chin, finally meeting Serefin’s gaze. She shot him a tentative smile.
“Józefina, I thought…” Serefin trailed off. “I’m glad to see you well.”
“She was in a sorry state when I found her, do you know something about that?” Malachiasz asked. He tilted his head, waiting for Serefin’s answer.
Is he goading me? Serefin thought, confused. He doesn’t know me. Something knotted in his chest. It bothered him, that this boy—his cousin—didn’t know him, that he only knew him as the petulant High Prince.
Serefin could feel a headache starting to form behind his eyes. He was so tired. He collapsed in an empty chair, indifferent to the broken image of himself he was showing to the Vulture. He could pick a fight at a later date if he survived this.
“Your Highness looks unwell,” Pelageya noted.
“His Highness has been in a perpetual state of ‘unwell’ since he returned to Tranavia,” Serefin muttered. “What is he doing here?” He pointed to Malachiasz.
“You know I was wondering that myself. Unfortunately, for all of us, he’s as woven into this mess as the rest of you,” Pelageya said. “I think you’re all even working for the same goal, which would be novel, now, wouldn’t it?”
Pelageya stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, as she slowly scanned the group. She frowned at Ostyia and Kacper.
“Stumbling in a dark so thick you cannot see your hand in front of your face. I know, I know. I’ve been watching you all as you stagger toward a similar end, but none of you seem to know where you’re going. You’re close, you’ve planned well, but the king has eyes, the king has ears, the king knows.”
Serefin straightened. Józefina appeared troubled.
“What are you talking about, witch?” Ostyia asked.