Page 22 of The Dead Saint

Once, he’d had a set of rooms here. Close to the bottom levels, where you could hear the wheels rumbling as it moved, oxen bleating, and the men shouting. The prince had offered others, but it was pointless when he knew he’d never stay. He’d never loved this city. He’d been here because the prince had ordered him to be. Being sent to war was better than being surrounded by memories of the past.

The Cerulean Wing was higher up, away from the noise of the lower levels. It was reserved for courtiers who were in favor with the prince at the moment. Which meant that the rooms’ occupants were in constant rotation. Whoever had been there before Sorcha arrived had either been moved or executed.

Adrian wasn’t surprised the prince was treating Sorcha as an honored guest. The man had learned long ago that a show of kindness with a sheathed sword worked better than a naked blade. The prince only killed these days to make a point. For all other things, Adrian was his weapon of choice.

There were no guards or waiting maids when they reached the rooms. Adrian stepped inside, glancing around. They appeared unchanged, identical to the last time he’d seen them.

Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the plain, brass fittings polished to a shine. Thick carpets covered the floors, and there were a handful of simple wooden chairs and a low carved table between them. The walls were painted the intense blue of a late summer sky—before fall arrives and while insects sing in the tall grass.

“There are rooms through the doors to your right and a bathing chamber to your left.” Adrian indicated either door, inset into the walls and painted the same color. At first, they were invisible, but after he pointed them out, they were impossible to miss.

“Bathing chamber?” Sorcha asked, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around herself.

She stared beyond the glass windows, a view so high up above the plains that it was possible to see over the thick forest in the distance to the west.

“Rainwater is collected and heated. You’ll figure it out.” He took a step back, leaving the woman in the overly bright and airy room, tired and dirty from the road and so out of place. “I’ll return in an hour.”

* * *

Adrian stood outside the door to her rooms, a guard and deterrent to anyone who might arrive full of curiosity and determined to see the oracle of a famous death cult. He wanted to plan for what would come next, needed to know what it was he would be conquering. But it was impossible to plan for a future with zero knowledge.

He would take the woman to the Mapmaker, and from her skin, they would learn where the relics were hidden. From what he’d learned, her skin only carried locations for less than half. How those would be enough to perform the resurrection, he had no idea. But that wasn’t a question he needed to answer. He only needed to collect them and get the woman to the Red Tower.

Only the prince knew each detail, how they fit together and how it would all end.

When a series of bells chimed throughout the city—announcing the time and keeping the complicated motions it took to keep the city moving on time—he turned and knocked on the door.

“Sorcha.”

It opened before he could knock again, though she didn’t say a word. She stood in a crimson dress, layers of sheer fabric from her throat to her feet, with long sleeves kept close to her skin. Gold flashed in her ears and at her wrists, and a ring with a faceted ruby adorned one hand, all gifts from the prince. Adrian could see an open trunk behind her with more clothes scattered around the room—all the same crimson she wore.

The color of her crimson cult.

She’d worked the tangles out of her hair and brushed it smooth, her skin now completely clean with no hint of dirt or horsehair. Even though she’d cleaned up before they’d arrived, it had been with the very basics. Not the hot water from the taps and soap scented with lemon.

Adrian breathed in—breathed Sorcha in—the scent of sugared lemons filling his lungs.

The woman before him was completely different from the one who’d been found wandering in the Golden Citadel or the one in the woods who had held a knife and thought it might protect her. Not even the woman who had finally bathed in the tent and come out of the water looking more like a person.

Now Sorcha looked like the woman Prince Eine had originally described. A powerful figure in her community, an oracle of supposed great talents, and a vessel for a dead god. He believed in none of those things. But he knew his lack of personal faith didn’t mean they weren’t a reality. He’d seen more of the strange and unusual to know it couldn’t be denied.

“What do you want?” she asked, pulling her sleeves down to hide more of her wrists.

“It’s time to see the Mapmaker,” he said, watching her pale hands against the sheer crimson, the way her tattoos were still visible beneath the thin fabric. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

* * *

The Wolf led her through a maze of rooms and corridors, some wide enough for four or more people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, others so narrow they reminded her of the alleys in the lower levels of the Golden Citadel. Lanterns were spaced at intervals, with mesh screens to prevent the fire from spreading if they dropped. But even with those, there were long intervals of deep shadows. The walls were carved here as well, polished to a high shine, but not painted. Not the way her rooms had been.

And always, he led her up.

Soon skylights began to appear overhead, sunlight pouring through stained glass, falling on the polished, carved wooden walls and bringing color to it all. Sorcha watched the Wolf walk ahead of her, the patches of blue and green light touching his black hair and the armor he still wore.

Why hadn’t he changed when she had? He’d had the same hour, yet he looked the same as he had when they’d walked up the stairs of the Traveling City. She refused to think about the throne room and what had happened there. Even now her mind shied away from it, blurring it all out. Even what had happened in the Citadel seemed to have happened months ago.

Had it only been days? It was too easy to lose track of time. To forget if she wanted to.

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