lying down and he could throw something at Malachiasz. His cousin sat up and grinned at him.
“I’m hungry,” he announced and got up. “Come on. You’re not doing anything better.”
“If you hadn’t missed breakfast and lunch this wouldn’t be a problem,” Serefin said, but got to his feet and followed after Malachiasz. “Where were you, anyway?”
“Around,” Malachiasz said.
“My mother is going to kill you.”
He was unconcerned on his quest to the palace kitchens. He wouldn’t get in trouble, he never did. It was frustrating. Everything Serefin did earned him a disapproving glare from his father, and a scolding from his mother.
But he was a prince and Malachiasz was not.
They darted around the legs of servants and slavhki until Malachiasz knocked into a tall figure wearing an iron mask. He stopped dead still as the figure slowly turned, the plain iron mask revealing nothing but the Vulture’s green eyes.
“Careful,” she said, her voice laced with something that made Serefin immediately want to flee.
Malachiasz took a step back, running into Serefin. He was going to run, but froze once more as the Vulture dropped into a crouch in front of him, her movements loose, and took his hand.
“Practicing?” she asked. “You’re Czechowicz’s boy, yes?”
Malachiasz nodded.
“Show me what you can do.”
His expression was terrified as he confirmed Serefin was still behind him. “I don’t have a spell book,” he said.
“I do,” she said, unclipping a thick book bound in black leather from her hip.
Malachiasz shook his head. “I’m not supposed to use magic.” A beseeching entreaty to Serefin, pleading for him to step in.
But Malachiasz was very good at magic, and Serefin didn’t want to tell a Vulture no. He nodded encouragingly as the Vulture tore a page out of her spell book.
“I don’t—”
There were iron claws suddenly tipping her fingers and she slashed one down Malachiasz’s forearm. He jumped, eyes filling with tears, but his expression quickly went glassy and he reached for the spell book page.
For a terrible second it was like time stopped. The air went white and hazy and Serefin was slammed back into the wall. The Vulture straightened, inscrutable behind her iron mask.
“Interesting,” she said, voice soft, and without another word, she swept away.
Malachiasz stood there, blood dripping from his fingers and tears running down his cheeks, before he noticed Serefin wasn’t beside him any longer.
He whimpered, flinching back when Serefin stumbled to his feet.
“I’m fine,” Serefin said, trying to be reassuring until blood dripped down his face. His head did hurt.
“Don’t tell,” Malachiasz whispered.
It wouldn’t matter if he told or not if someone saw. Serefin grabbed Malachiasz’s arm and dragged him into a servants’ hall.
“You just overpowered a Vulture’s spell,” he said.
Malachiasz nodded, eyes wide.
“Where am I bleeding?”
“It’s only a cut on your forehead. I’m sorry, Serefin. I could have killed you.” He was panicking.
They needed to let Andrzej know what Malachiasz had done. The mage would know what to do about a boy who had blown so far past the spell a Vulture had given him that it had backfired. Usually the Vultures trained the royal children in magic, but they weren’t old enough yet. They were still learning from a mortal mage, and after that Serefin didn’t particularly ever want to train with a Vulture.
But Malachiasz was trembling and trying bravely to rub away the tears streaking down his cheeks. Serefin sighed.
“Let’s get cleaned up,” he said. “Then we’ll get something to eat.”
“You won’t tell?”
“No one has to know.”
20
NADEZHDA LAPTEVA
Marzenya and Velyos have a bitter rivalry, one a goddess of death, the other a god of the dead.
—The Letters of W?odzimierz
Nadya sat cross-legged with her prayer beads in her lap, Parijahan asleep in the bed beside her. Prayer used to bring her comfort, but there had been a return on her prayers before. It was foolish of her to ever think of the gods as anything resembling her friends, but when Nadya was at her lowest they had always been there, her one constant.
She pressed her thumb over Marzenya’s bead, flexing her corrupted hand. What if this was the root of all her problems? What if Marzenya could take this away and things could go back to the way they were supposed to be?
A naive and foolish thought. There was no going back. And what if the answer was killing Malachiasz? Serefin? Destroying two strangely vibrant boys whom she found fascinating because they were so very very different from everything she had ever known? As much as she hated in her core the horrors that