Page 14 of The Dead Saint

Revenant stepped forward, reaching for Sorcha, an unpleasant gleam in his eyes.

She shook her head, leaning out of his reach, not wanting his hands on her again.

“Don’t touch me,” she said.

The hatred in Revenant’s gaze intensified as he kept coming, the intention on his face clear. He would do what the Wolf said, but he would make it as painful an experience for her as possible.

The Wolf held up a hand, stopping Revenant in his tracks.

The man nodded, accepting the silent rebuke, and turned back to Sorcha. “Follow me.”

Sorcha looked from one to the other, the Wolf’s face promising force if she refused. She fell into step behind Revenant. Walking through the camp was like walking in a dream where you’ve forgotten your clothes and you’re on display for everyone to see. Faces turned to track her progress, curiosity and distaste on their features.

She’d never been in a war camp, surrounded by thousands of men, smoke from fires curling into the sky. Campfires and blood, ash and death. In the distance, she could hear horses and people calling to each other, and farther away, the sounds of steel grinding against stones, being sharpened and honed for the next fight.

The camp around her was as big as a city, but without the stone walls, slate tiles, and thatched roofs. Here, the round tents were heavy shades of gray and black, colorful banners limp on long poles stuck into the ground beside entrances. Some of the tent flaps were open, revealing low-lit interiors, shadows moving, a woman laughing.

She turned at the sound, wondering who it could be. What woman would want to be here? A shiver touched her. She wouldn’t be here if she had a choice.

The noises died down a little as they entered an area with smaller tents, a circle with a large fire in the middle, and one large tent. Benches circled the fire, and cooking pots and other clutter—a spit for roasting—gathered round.

She looked around, the quiet unnatural compared to the way she’d come. All the banners here were black, solid, and as if each had been cut from the darkest of skies. No moon or stars, no light. Only the blackness of a dead heart.

“In here,” Revenant said, his accent running the words together.

He held the tent flap back, revealing a dim interior, a brazier burning at the center.

She glanced at him, but he was looking away, back the way they’d come. His expression was carefully kept in check—smooth and unbothered. Whatever he might think of her, he kept it to himself. Still, he radiated animosity.

She stepped inside, and the tent flap fell behind her with a heavy thump, cutting her off from the noise of the camp. Hesitating, wrapping her arms around herself, she remained at the entrance, looking around the tent.

Dim light filled the space, flowing from a round opening at the center of the tent. A brazier flickered below it, smoke rising and disappearing through the hole. There were minimal furnishings in the large space. Two folding chairs made out of tan canvas and sleek polished wood and a lightweight desk covered in maps, letters, and sheaves of parchment. It all looked easy to pack up and travel with.

On the far side of the tent sat a cot covered in furs and blankets. A stand with an oval mirror and water basin was beside it. Steam curled up from the basin, calling to her—cajoling and tempting. More than anything, she wanted to be clean. There was a low bench beside it with bandages and soap, a collection of what looked like medicine bottles, and a rack to hold the Wolf’s armor. Two chests completed the room’s contents, one open and full of clothing, the other closed with a book resting on top of it.

Sorcha removed her filthy slippers, leaving them beside the tent door, stepping on the woven grasses that made the smooth floor. It felt like a house, more permanent than she’d expected it to be.

Slowly, she moved around the space, looking over the papers on his desk but not touching them. There was a map of the Citadel, the familiar lines jarring in this place, the roads and landmarks named, and the temple of the Saint circled in red ink.

They’d come for her. They’d known she would be there.

But who had told them? The Wolf had said a priest, but what priest? From where?

The other maps on the desk were of the continent—the Black Stone Mountains to the north with a pass marked, the ruins to the south and the volcanoes that rumbled constantly there. There were maps of cities and forests, maps of small cities and even smaller villages. Some were well-worn, the edges frayed, the ink faded. Others were newer, the colors brighter, with flourishes and other details.

Places the Wolf had been, places he had yet to see.

Places to which he would bring death.

Sorcha’s stomach twisted at the thought, and she fought to clear her mind—Ines’s face going pale, the feel of her life leaving her body, the warmth of blood on her hands.

Turning to the steaming water, she began to wash the blood from her hands.

* * *

The tent flap lifted, the scent of cooking food drifting in, roasting meat and the earthy richness of root vegetables. Men chattered around the fire, and someone laughed. The last vestiges of light from the setting sun touched her face, shocking her with warmth. She held a hand up to shade her eyes, pulling in a startled breath.

The Wolf stood there, taking in the interior at a glance—Sorcha curled by the brazier in two of the folding chairs, a book on the history of the Empire of the White Snake in her hand. He moved to the washstand and peeled his cloak away. After hanging it on the stand, he sat on the oak bench beside it to work his heavy boots free.

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