Page 1 of The Dead Saint

Prologue

The knife in her hand was cold and sharp, the blade reflecting the fire in the braziers nearby. Thick incense filled the air, overpowering the stink of humanity and the fires burning in the lower levels of the Golden Citadel. Soon, those fires would reach them. If the Horde didn’t take the city first.

The constant sound of a battering ram beating at the gates grated on Sorcha’s nerves. It had gone on for three days now, through the morning and night. It was incessant and methodical. The invading army had not paused once for rest, launching volley after volley of flaming arrows, vicious fire spreading as each one found a flammable target. Beyond the high walls, siege engines were rolling toward them, bridges half lowered, grappling hooks poised for flight.

Ines and Sorcha had stood on the temple roof and watched them being built. It had taken no time at all, the structures growing out of the earth as easily as wheat and just as prolific.

She had accepted what was coming, knowing there was no escape. But the ghost of hope, that faint trace she’d hidden and fostered, was now gone. In its place, a terrible numbness grew, expanding and consuming all other emotions.

The blade in her hand had chased the last vestiges of it away.

“I trust you,” Ines said, gripping Sorcha tightly, staring into her eyes. “You will bring him back. You will bring us all back.”

Sorcha shook her head, refusing to let the tears in her eyes fall.

Below them, deep within the city, the gates groaned—a long, drawn-out sound that vibrated through the air. Then a splintering crash reached her—an explosion of wood and iron, followed by triumphant shouts.

They’d done it then. The gates had been breached.

Now, it was only a matter of time.

Her hands shook, adrenaline flowing through her.

“I can’t do this for you,” Sorcha said, fighting the tremble in her voice.

“You don’t have to,” Ines said, taking the dagger with a tight smile. It was not an expression of happiness or joy, but one of acceptance for a task that would be unpleasant.

“Please, Ines.” Sorcha reached for her friend, taking her by the shoulders. “Come with me. This isn’t a choice you have to make right now.”

Ines shook her head. “It will be easier for one person to escape the city rather than two. The Saint will protect you, Sorcha. You have nothing to fear.”

“It’s time,” Rohan called out. “The Golden Citadel has fallen.”

The others in the sanctuary turned to embrace each other with his words. Kisses were exchanged, their eyes wide with terror and conviction. A murmur traveled through the group of men and women, high and low priests and priestesses of the Saint. True believers each and every one. But a few familiar faces were missing. Kahina Kira—the most senior oracle and her mentor—was not here and had not been seen for several days.

Sorcha covered her mouth, waiting for the unstoppable horror.

“Sorcha, Oracle and Priestess of the Saint,” Rohan, the high priest, called out to her from his place on the dais across the room, commanding everyone’s attention. Their eyes met and Sorcha shivered. “You are his vessel. You are his chosen. Our faith now lies with you. Go south, over the Eversor mountains, to Androphagoi.”

The high priest held a dagger to his neck, his gaze locked on her. The others echoed his words, repeating them until it was a jumble of voices, nothing but noise.

“Do not fail us.”

“You will bring us all back.”

“Find him.”

“Resurrect him.”

Rohan sat and performed his death ritual. Others followed, until the room was full of terrible quiet and concentration.

Sorcha turned to Ines, shaking her head, her hand out to stop what was coming.

Ines cut herself, eyes going wide as the blade parted flesh, a bubbling gurgle escaping. A flash, blood pouring, and the woman sagged to her knees.

Sorcha dropped beside her, placing trembling hands over the wound in her friend’s throat. But it was too late. The damage was irreparable, the spark of humor and determination that Sorcha loved so much about Ines gone in a few breathes. Sorcha swallowed a choked sob, leaning back on her heels and taking in the devastation.

With effort she stood, every muscle aching and bones weighing her down. Her lungs were full of incense and smoke, her nose full of the coppery scent of blood. She looked down at her gore covered hands—slick with death—and began to shake.

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