Page 21 of The Dead Saint

Anger bubbled up, furious sorrow, and she glanced behind her to the man on the floor.

“No,” the prince whispered, leaning into her. “Don’t look back.”

The jewel-encrusted and gilded bones drew her gaze—the call of the Saint, the way they weighted the room and seemed to suck in all the light. She’d never seen this bone before. She’d only ever seen the hand that her temple had housed. Once upon a time, there had been talk of a tour to visit all the relics, a pilgrimage to cement her faith. But that was something else the head priestess had promised there would be time for.

Her fingers itched to touch the new bone, what must be an arm bone but was ten times larger than any human bone. It was proportional to the hand, the bones of a giant, a myth.

“You want to touch them,” the prince said, keeping his voice low, the courtiers around them leaning forward. “I can see it on your face. Go on.”

He let go of her arm, and she took a step forward, the crowd around her fading into the background as the bones called to her. She knelt and placed her hands on the forearm bone. It was warm, as if it had been held recently, as if it were still a part of the Saint and had never cooled in death.

Somewhere, deep inside, something shifted in her soul.

Behind her, the prince was speaking again, loud enough for the whole room to hear, loud enough so that there would be no doubt of his intent.

“I know more than you might expect. I know about you. I know about the map. I’ve shown you what waits if you refuse.” He paused, studying the bones and the way she touched them, how her hands caressed them lovingly. “But how could you refuse? Your one and only purpose is to bring him back. It’s the only reason you exist.”

Sorcha paused, pulling back. He was right. There was no denying that. And she wanted to find the Saint, she needed to resurrect her people. They depended on her. But inside, another voice began to whisper, pulsing, growing stronger. What if what she brought back was worse than anything they’d yet seen? What if the Saint refused to perform the resurrections? What if all the people she loved remained dead?

Doubt. Fear. These things sat beside her desire to fulfill her purpose.

“What if I choose not to help you?” she asked softly.

“Tell me, priestess.” The prince crouched down in front of her, studying her face, the dagger held loosely in one hand while blood dripped onto the polished floor. “What choice do you think you have?”

The threat of death colored his words, unsaid but present. She was afraid to die. And that was a betrayal of all she’d been taught—all she believed. Death was nothing. The Saint would be there—he would welcome her with open arms, his devoted follower, his most beloved oracle. But faced with death, she’d chosen life, time and again. Following first the Wolf’s—Adrian’s—commands and now the prince’s.

But maybe if she survived long enough and pretended to give the conqueror what he wanted, she could find another way through. A way to keep her promises and keep her life.

Her gaze drifted back to the golden bones and then to the prince and his triumphant expression.

“I’ll take your silence as acceptance.”

Chapter Nine

“Take her to the Mapmaker.” The prince turned to Adrian, indicating Sorcha with a wave of his hand. “Find the other relics.”

Adrian nodded, moving to the edge of the velvet blanket, giving the woman a moment to collect herself and rise on her own. But she remained there, hands on the bone, focused on some inner thought.

“Come,” Adrian said, waiting for her to look up, to stand and come with him. When she didn’t respond, a strange glaze over her eyes, he said, “Sorcha.”

The court ladies tittered, and the men chuckled. He kept the disgust off his face, shoving down the desire to turn to them all and tell them exactly how worthless and pointless their lives were. How he could cut them down and the prince wouldn’t stop him. Not the Wolf. He hated that he’d said her name so they could have it, stood here with her name in his mouth, when he could have just grabbed her and avoided the whole scene.

She looked up, her eyes full of tears, her face pale. But she stood on her own, seemingly unaware of the gossip being whispered and the malicious curiosity on display. Her hands were shaking. Adrian led her from the throne room, the voices growing louder and the sweet incense doing nothing to mask the scent of fresh blood.

“Clothes have been arranged by His Highness.” The steward met them at the doors, everything from his expression to his tone sour. “There is a meal and bath waiting in the Cerulean Wing. You have an hour before the Mapmaker will be ready.”

Adrian nodded.

“There is a meal there for you as well.” The steward smiled nastily. “And clothes.”

“He’s not—” Sorcha began, anger and disgust in her voice.

The steward’s smile widened, venom surfacing in his gaze.

Adrian took a step forward, and the steward’s smile vanished as he stepped back. Without a word, Adrian led Sorcha from the receiving antechamber and through the maze that was the Traveling City.

It had been built over time, hundreds of years, room after room being added—banquet halls and private suites, towers and kitchens and armories. It wasn’t only the men and oxen that helped it move. Hundreds of years ago, the Empire of the White Snake had been full of magic, and there’d been a sorcerer capable of making even cities walk.

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