The blood drained from her face.
Serefin collapsed into a chair, dropping his head into his hands.
“Pelageya told you?” Klarysa said bleakly, the thread of tension between them threatening to snap.
He nodded, not lifting his head.
“He was supposed to stay with Sylwia,” she whispered. “A bastard has no place at court and there were too many who were suspicious.”
“He was never my cousin,” Serefin said. “And you let the Vultures have him.”
“Don’t be sentimental, Serefin, it’s a terrible look on you. He was too powerful to go anywhere else.”
“Well, now he’s the Black Vulture and conspired with my father to kill me, so congratulations, I suppose you’re right.”
Klarysa looked dizzy, her skin very pale. “You’re mistaken.”
“I assure you, Mother, I am not. My little brother has committed treason and I can do nothing because he holds the one other high office in Tranavia. We have no official legislature in place for this because no Vulture has ever dared to overreach like this.”
Some had ventured close; not every Black Vulture had been content to remain in their cathedral and their mines. But none so far as Malachiasz.
Her hand went to her mouth and Serefin had the fleeting notion that she was going to descend into one of her frequent fits. To be frank he was surprised she had stayed this long in Grazyk; the magic residue in the air did not sit well with her.
“The rumors…”
“The rumors are wrong. What happened was worse.” Serefin sighed, leaning his head back against the chair. The ceiling of his mother’s sitting room was painted with bright flowers and magic symbols for health were scrawled across the plaster. No Vultures in sight. “I thought he was dead for years. I almost wish he was.”
Because his fate rests in my hands.
“Serefin—”
“I don’t want your excuses, Mother, it was all for propriety’s sake, after all. How were you to know your bastard son would grow up depraved and soulless? Oh, right, wait, that is the fate of every Vulture, isn’t it?”
She jerked back as if struck. Serefin wilted.
It wouldn’t change anything, this revelation. Malachiasz had to answer for his actions.
“Two thrones and a pair of ruined brothers to sit them,” he murmured. “Though, soon, I suppose not.” He slid the crown off his head and ran his thumb around the cool iron.
His mother relaxed, relieved to grasp onto a topic of conversation that was not Malachiasz. She had tucked her shaking hands down into her lap in an attempt to still them.
“There is a collective of slavhki who wish to see me off the throne,” Serefin said. “And I don’t know what to do.”
Klarysa stood. She clipped her spell book to her waist and moved briskly across the room, placing her hands on Serefin’s shoulders.
“You know exactly what to do. You make them regret that their tepid whispers reached your ears.” She tilted his chin up. “You are the king. Do you think your father didn’t have enemies whispering for his removal from the throne every night?”
“I was one of those enemies,” he said wearily.
She kissed the top of his head. “You did what you had to.”
“Is that how you justify what happened to Malachiasz?”
She sighed. “If I could have kept him close, I would have. You two were the only thing that made this palace bearable.”
“Then why did you send him away? Why did you never tell me?”
“The Vultures came for him, there was nothing we could do.” She smoothed Serefin’s hair as she pulled him to her. “I did not tell you because you would’ve tried to pull him from the order. You are so stubborn, Serefin, and we are not to concern ourselves with the affairs of Vultures.”
He shivered, her nails lightly scratching his scalp.
“Treason is another matter,” she continued thoughtfully. “As poetic as my sons wielding the two thrones of Tranavia might be, we can’t have treason. But let’s see to those slavhki first, yes?”
* * *
Serefin’s panic had cooled to frustration when he found Ostyia in the hallway. He grabbed her arm, ignoring her yelp of surprise as he dragged her into his rooms and slammed the door closed.
“You knew about Malachiasz,” he said, tone more accusatory than intended.
“What?”
“You knew. You knew he was the Black Vulture the whole time.”
She rolled her eye. “Why does this matter to you now? I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it mattered.”
“I thought he was dead. For years. You let me think it.”
“He may as well been!” she said incredulously. “What is this about, Serefin?”
For a brief instant, he considered telling her the truth. Or did she know that, too? What else had she kept from him for his own supposed good?
Ostyia groaned. “It was a few years ago. I saw him without his mask. I know you were close but he was…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Poisonous. I didn’t want to break your heart when you had finally moved on.”
“It wasn’t for you to keep from me,” he said.
She shrugged, clearly nonplussed. “Why are you bringing this up?”
Serefin shook his head, waving her off. This was a growing point of contention between them and he was willing to let it fester.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, hating that everyone hid the truth from him. “Nothing matters. I need to go to dinner.”
“Not like that, you’re not.” She grabbed his wrist and yanked him back. “Clean up first. Don’t give them more ammunition against you.”
He gritted his teeth, brushing a hand over his jaw. He needed to shave.
If word got out about Malachiasz … Serefin was already treading on dangerous ground. He couldn’t very well pin his father’s death on the Vulture, though ultimately he liked to think it was his fault—the common folk and the slavhki idolized the Vultures to a point risking civil war if he threatened their rule.
Malachiasz must have known he would have immunity granted to no one else by sheer lack of precedence. But treason was treason.
Ostyia flagged down a servant, then waited while Serefin did his very best to be halfway presentable.
“We need to find Żaneta,” he said, moving to take a razor and getting his hand slapped away by Cyryl, his manservant. He sighed and let Cyryl shove him onto a stool.
Ostyia perched on his desk. She looked thoughtful.
“She’s likely in Kyętri…”
Serefin shuddered, earning him a scowl from Cyryl. He had to play the game in a way the slavhki understood, with power. Żaneta was a piece he held that those who wanted him out of power desired. The problem was his mother wanted him to deal with this issue first, and to leave Malachiasz be until the time came to deal with him as well.
To Serefin, it was killing two birds with one stone.
“May I cut your hair, Kowesz Tawość?” Cyryl asked. “While we’re here…”
Serefin waved a noncommittal hand.
“Finally,” Ostyia muttered.
She was one to talk, she’d hacked off her bangs herself and they were crooked.