Wicked Saints (Something Dark and Holy #1) - Emily A. Duncan Page 0,91

did like his kind.”

Malachiasz made an affronted sound.

Nadya rubbed at her eyes. “How long was I out?”

“Not long, not long at all.”

The witch looked to be in her seventies. Her eyes sparked onyx bright in the dim light of the room. Her face was lined, her curls white but threaded with black.

Nadya met Malachiasz’s eyes from where he was sitting across the room. He smiled faintly, but seemed preoccupied.

“Do you know my name, child?” the witch said. “Because I know yours and that doesn’t seem fair.”

Nadya stiffened. “H-how do you know my name?”

She waved a hand. “My name is Pelageya, in case you weren’t aware. I know his name, too,” she said, hooking a thumb in Malachiasz’s direction. “Which is the true feat.”

Malachiasz tensed, but he didn’t move from his seemingly relaxed posture. His gaze grew wary as he eyed the witch.

Nadya frowned, puzzled.

“It’s been a long time since I was in Kalyazin, but I recognize a girl of snow and forest well enough even with dark magic’s touch upon her. And this palace has been without any blessing of the divine for so long that you were practically shining when you stepped inside. But…” she trailed off, peering closely at Nadya. “Not enough light to guide you now.”

Pelageya grinned. “What if I provide some illumination for this dark path? You came to the right place, though I’m surprised your Vulture brought you here. I’ll tell you a story.” The witch promptly sat down on the floor. “A story about our king and a young prodigy Vulture.”

Nadya looked up in time to see Malachiasz’s fingers curl into a fist.

“Though,” she considered, tugging at a spiral curl, “he’s not your king. Not mine, either. He’s not even sterevyani bolen’s king, now, is he? Is it treason if we all here swear to different crowns? Except…” Her gaze narrowed on Malachiasz. “You can’t really swear to your own crown, now can you?”

“Careful…” he murmured. He flexed his hand over the arm of his chair, nails flashing iron in the dim candlelight.

Pelageya smiled.

“You see, our Tranavian king has become a paranoid man, certain that because his son is a more powerful mage, it will spell his doom. So he needs more power, always more power.

“And amidst the Vultures was one who rose through the ranks at such a very young age. More clever than most and more dangerous by far, he spent his time with ancient books and old tomes and discovered the very secret the king was looking for.”

Nadya felt a chill of dread settle in the pit of her stomach. Malachiasz leaned his chin on his hand, listening intently.

“So, he offered it to the king. It was theoretical, of course, nothing that could ever actually be done. But the idea was there and this talented Vulture wanted his cult to be on better terms with the Tranavian king. The Vulture queen who ruled before him did a poor job, you see. She ground the order down to near insignificance and this talented Vulture wanted his order to have power again. He wanted a partnership of equals between the crowns. Perhaps he even wanted something in return for this gift, but who could say? But then the king asked him to perform this theoretical ceremony. Surely, he could do it. He was the ultimate success of his cult, the one whose power had been tortured into him to a higher point than even the oldest Vultures ever reached. If anyone could do this, he could.”

Pelageya giggled. “Can one have a crisis of conscience if one has no conscience to begin with?”

Malachiasz leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking to Nadya and away again.

“The Vulture disappeared. Poof! There one night, gone the next, leaving his cult to scramble in his absence. Because the Vultures need direction, they need their Black Vulture to lead them, and he had vanished.”

Nadya was listening at a distance, refusing to let the witch’s words catch up to her, to connect all that she was hearing, but she knew, she knew. Would that it had been so simple, that Malachiasz were just a Vulture recruit who got scared and fled. The world was falling out from underneath her and she had no anchor, she had nothing, because nothing was even real.

It was Malachiasz. It had always been Malachiasz. The leader of the cult, the one who had spun all of this into motion, the one who had smiled and charmed his way into Nadya’s trust because he could do