Page 2 of The Dead Saint

Do not fail us.

Sorcha took a step back, away from the sanctuary—away from the ruin of her life.

Chapter One

The city screamed as fire ate it alive.

Overhead, a gray sky swirled, large flakes of snow liquefying and then evaporating before the moisture could reach the burning buildings. Flames crackled and danced, sending joyous greedy tendrils over stone and wood—hungry and murmuring, expanding as it ate. Places once so familiar—the villas and temples Sorcha saw every day—were destroyed.

A thousand tiny fires converged to consume and transform, revealing the bones of a fallen civilization. Ash drifted around Sorcha, dancing on updrafts and settling between cobblestones and on window ledges, a flurrying storm of destruction and despair. The high castle at the center of Golden Citadel was a column of fierce fire, the huge stones at the base buckling under the weight of the sagging upper towers.

The gold on the minarets was melting, rivers of molten metal coursing over the stones. It would run down the streets. There was enough gold to encase the whole city and soon it would flow down until it reached the outer walls.

There were no other noises beyond the fire. No one screamed or spoke, no one cried or whispered. There was no one left to do those things. They were all dead.

The gates had shattered, then the walls had been breached, and once inside, the Horde had killed anyone who survived the siege. There hadn’t been so many of them left. Not at the end. Half the city had gone to the White Snake—the child of an assassinated emperor, son of a revered empress—a ruling prince and merciless tyrant. He’d offered favorable terms: come willingly, be under his rule, and live.

Living was all that mattered.

The rest had been slaughtered.

Sorcha hurried down the center of Ruby Road. There were no shadows to hide in, no place to find cover. The only way to avoid the flames was to walk down the middle of the main road that spiraled from the Citadel gates to the high castle. The other roads were narrow, villas only a few feet apart in places, with footbridges built to connect buildings, potted plants and grapevines trained over wooden arches to bring much needed green to the city. People lived as much in the streets of the Golden Citadel as in their homes here.

Had. She corrected herself. Had lived.

The stink of singed hair clung to her, the strands of golden thread and pearls hopelessly tangled in her messy dark braids. Her left shoulder throbbed painfully, relentlessly, as a result of a falling ornament in the temple. The gown clung to her, wet with the blood of the final ritual, the bodies of those she’d come across in the streets, and one bloody knee. She’d tripped and landed hard in the courtyard before the temple gates. Each breath pulled in fine drifting ash, leaving her eyes and lips gritty and the back of her throat coated.

Sorcha wanted a cool drink of water and shade, the comfort of a plush sofa with downy feather cushions and fresh silk against her skin. Already, her last meal haunted her—the uneaten rubbery chicken, a bruised pear with only a single bite taken from it, and a goblet of wine left half-full. There was nothing like that behind her anymore and nothing like it ahead.

Run, Rohan had said. Make your way out of the city. Find the Androphagoi dedicated to the Saint. Always go south, keep the golden star burning on the horizon to your right—keep to it faithfully—it is a symbol, a sign that the Saint will return soon.

Then everyone, even the White Snake, would know the true power of the god.

The star would lead her to safety. It meant hope. Beneath it, she would find someone to guide her. Sorcha was going to need their help to find all the scattered relics, to do what she’d been born to do, and resurrect the Saint.

But it would take time.

Time was an enemy as great as the Horde.

Both waited for Sorcha beyond the city gates.

* * *

A soldier found her before she reached the fourth switchback on Ruby Road.

The street had been empty, and the growl of the fire rumbled around her, beams crashing in a shower of sparks and splinters, roofs collapsing in waves. A street away, a temple to a minor god shivered and came crashing down, stones exploding outward, toppling into the surrounding buildings and sending out a dark cloud that reached her.

A distraction, only a second of distraction, and in that moment, a man appeared in front of her. She froze, hand going to her mouth in surprise, smothering the exclamation of fear. She cursed herself for hesitating, cursed the fear coursing through her veins while her legs refused to move.

He smiled, his pale eyes glittering with hunger. He had rough features, with hair shaved close to his skull and a fresh scar running from temple to ear. When he spoke, the words were harsh, coming from deep in his chest, but she couldn’t understand the language.

Shaking her head, she took a step back, mouth dry and unable to speak. She took another step, and for a brief moment, she wondered if she might be able to outrun him.

But he moved swiftly, darting forward and blocking her path, closing the distance between them in a blink. He leaned in, his face inches from her own. Foul breath washed over her face, metallic and sharp, and with a shudder, she realized his mouth was dark with a mix of blood and ash.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispered, clearing her throat and repeating the words with more strength.

The man laughed, throwing back his head, eyes squinting.

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