Page 26 of The Dead Saint

The physician—a middle-aged bald man—in the corner feared the moment the empress would die. His life would end the moment hers did. The prince had promised him that months ago. If she dies, you die. And though he knew the man continued to do everything he could, he would not hesitate to keep his word.

He turned away abruptly and left them all behind, the serving women and physician at the edges of the room, and his gasping mother. He moved through her quarters, past the guards stationed at the inner doors, through a connecting hall, and into his own rooms.

No servants lingered here, no averted gazes, no one to ask if he needed anything. He embraced the silence as he passed through a small receiving area, through a bedroom, a study, and finally to a staircase leading up.

His shoulders brushed the walls as he climbed, the way narrow and cramped. The risers were half lengths, wide enough for his toes and nothing more. He climbed up the turret, spiraling ever upward, the way lit by thin glazed windows. Wind blew down from the top, the trap door open, and he knew she would be there.

Kira stood on the platform, gripping the iron railing. She faced the window, her hair and dress blowing out in a stream of black and red. She turned dark eyes on him, this woman made of secrets and lies.

“The empress is worse,” he said, coming to stand beside her and looking out over the plain.

The woman didn’t respond, her gaze going to the small figures leaving the shadow of the Traveling City. The group was small, the rider leading the party wrapped in a black cloak, his black horse larger than the others around him. In the middle of the party, a woman rode a stocky buttermilk mare, the horse’s flanks dappled with gray.

“Your temple girl has gone to search for relics,” Prince Eine said, closing his eyes and welcoming the breeze that brought a hint of snow and ash. “How long will it take her to find them all?”

“Who can say,” the woman replied softly.

“You can,” Prince Eine said, a warning, a promise, in his tone. “Your life continues or ends with her ability to accomplish this task.”

“She won’t fail.” There was nothing but confidence in Kira’s voice. “I’ve trained her well. The empress isn’t the only person she needs to resurrect.”

“The empress is the only one who matters.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

He turned away, leaving Kira standing on the turret to watch the small party of travelers until they were out of sight.

Chapter Eleven

There were several days of hard travel—nights spent half-frozen, rolled into a tight ball of fur-lined cloak and blankets. Each day, Sorcha woke exhausted despite the all-consuming sleep, the way it pulled her under, deep beneath the waking world.

One night, the Wolf shook her awake, night heavy around them, his touch on her shoulder lingering. She sat up and pulled the furs to her chest, blinking and trying to see the Wolf’s face clearly. He was nothing but an outline, a black shadow within the dim tent—a monster in the dark.

When he spoke, his voice was flat.“You were screaming.”

Sorcha sucked in a breath and let it out shakily. Sweat glossed her face, the back of her throat raspy and dry. Without speaking, he handed her a waterskin, waiting as she drank. She was grateful for the coolness of the water and the way it soothed her throat. The Wolf didn’t ask what she’d been dreaming about. He merely took the waterskin back when she held it out and returned to his bedroll.

From then on, he would nudge her awake in the early hours without speaking, sending her heart racing into a fuzzy awareness. They didn’t speak in those moments, alone together without witnesses, when the world could have been a different place.

What place? What world? Sorcha wondered. Why would a monster take pity on her?

Finally, the blackness she found herself in each night began to take shape. Beneath the bloody memories of Ines and Rohan in the Golden Citadel—sinking into the glittering swirl of prophecies—were half-clear visions of the Saint. Armies met on a barren plain. A woman in red walked across a black marble floor. A man with a wolf skull mask held out a hand for her to accept.

The dreams were impossible to decipher without Kahina Kira. The priestess’s knowledge and understanding of the Saint was complete, her word final. She was the center of their religious knowledge—the ultimate voice and word—and the only person Sorcha had been completely honest with when it came to her visions.

Sorcha and the Wolf found a rhythm with their nights, falling asleep within a few feet of each other, his proximity something she was unable to ignore. He never asked about her dreams, and said nothing when he shook her awake, forcing the vision to release her.

In the mornings, she dressed in the beautiful items Prince Eine had sent with them. Boots lined with black fur, the outer leather soft and supple, the color as deep and rich as the crimson dress she wore. There were several cloaks with deep hoods, and thick leggings to wear beneath the simple split dresses made for riding—all crimson. The riders around her all wore the same black as the Wolf in various shades of wear. The Wolf’s was the darkest, the others washed-out shadows of the leader they followed.

As they’d ridden closer to the Black Stone Mountains, the cold had turned biting, snow filling the air and collecting on the shoulders of the men and backs of the horses. But the Wolf led them through a narrow pass, a path Sorcha would have overlooked had she come this way alone.

It wound through the mountains; the way so narrow they had to ride single file. But the pass was removed from the bitter cold and sheltered from forces of nature. Always, she rode behind the Wolf. He kept her close to him at all times, sleeping or waking.

In the evenings, she listened to the soldiers’ conversations, picking out the words she knew and working to understand the rest. Not all the men spoke the same languages though they communicated easily enough with one another. Several spoke more than one and translated for the others and everyone understood the tongue of the Empire of the White Snake. As the empire grew, conquering new lands and kingdoms, Prince Eine let the people keep their mother tongue as long as they understood his order to bend at the knee.

She’d watched and listened until she understood enough, picking up on most of their names and replacing the silly titles she’d given them in her mind. Holder of maps was Thompson. Yellow-eyes was Revenant. The Wolf’s magician was Domenico. The bad cook was Wes. The good cook was Juri. The one who always complained was Lev. The one who never spoke was Till. Then there was calm Magnus, the too tall Soren, round Lev, bald Cas, broken nose Rui, scared hands Imre, and scowling Bran.

It wasn’t long before she felt she knew them well enough, though she never tried to make herself understood.

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