Page 45 of The Dead Saint

Adrian stood and set his bowl down, swallowing a lump in his throat—wanting to ignore the offer of kindness in her voice. Distrusting it as much as he distrusted his reaction to the woman who could be nothing more than a way to accomplish a goal.

“Make sure you have one of the men with you if you decide to leave the tent.”

He walked away, the heat of her gaze boring into his back.

* * *

Sorcha finished her dinner, listening to the sounds of the encampment. Going back inside the tent didn’t hold any appeal. There were too many hours between now and when full dark would arrive. She would be forced to retreat to its confines then. Adrian would have to return then as well.

Their conversation haunted her. The parallels between their lives were surprising. Taken by the temple and the empire at a young age, raised within a confined world, believing there was no other option available. She’d been the oracle, the Saint’s chosen. And Adrian was the empire’s most powerful monster.

He’d told her how the empire viewed everyone outside their close-knit world as animals, cattle to be driven before the Horde, to be made to serve a purpose.

Unless Prince Eine invited you into his circle and you accepted his terms. Then there would be grudging acceptance. It had happened. In the temple, they’d heard the stories of the wealthy or aristocrats accepting the prince’s offer to join his empire. He took the families into his court and split them up, divided and conquered even within his kingdom, and made sure they were always watched by his closest advisors.

To Sorcha, that didn’t sound like acceptance.

She hadn’t wanted it when it had been offered. Not when emissaries arrived with scrolls sealed with purple wax, and Kira read them aloud to the gathered temple. She hadn’t wanted it when another offer had been extended to King Roi, and the man had addressed the residents of the Golden Citadel.

But there had been those who had accepted—disappearing in the night, gone without any warning. There had been empty villas and businesses. The court had thinned rapidly. Many had remained, refusing to believe such a tyrant would keep his word. And Kira? Sorcha hated the feeling of betrayal that rose when she thought about the older oracle. Her teacher. Her confidant. Her mother.

Mother. Mother in every way that counted aside from birth. There had been no other woman in Sorcha’s life who was influential. Was she out there? Had she escaped the Horde, fled the prince? And if she was alive, why had she left Sorcha behind?

With a sigh, Sorcha left the circle of tents, wandering off into the encampment, wanting to think of anything other than Kira and the fall of the Citadel.

* * *

In the morning, there would be fire and death—screams and the stink of guts and blood.

No one in Cautes had accepted the prince’s offer. Join me or die. He’d extended it as always. But Marius put too much faith in thick walls. The people who had not fled were now trapped.

Death had arrived, and the reek of fear coming from the city was overwhelming.

What would follow would be anything but cold and calm. The prince demanded torture and fear. Terror was a weapon, one he wielded expertly. He needed the next city, and the next, to know the horrible things that happened when the Horde arrived. There was control in fear—the inability to resist. Adrian understood it and used it.

Expectations and eagerness buzzed throughout the camp. Some of the men were resigned and accepted what the day would bring without any joy for it. The men here had been through many cities. They were the survivors of countless battles. Most of them, if not all, would make it through the day and come back to their fires still smoldering in camp. They’d remove the armor and wash the blood away, then rest and wait for the next city they’d be ordered to kill.

Cautes was a small city compared to some. One that could have been easily handled by any general of the horde. But it was personal for the prince. A rumor had reached him: Marius was interested in collecting Saint relics in an effort to outmaneuver the empire. So, the prince sent Adrian personally to make sure Marius died.

He wondered if they might find the missing bone from the Silvas inside the Cautes. After the gates were destroyed and any resistance had been dealt with, he would bring Sorcha in to find it. He didn’t want to touch the bones. A year ago—a lifetime—he would have said he carried no superstitions. He was a cold and logical man. And while the world contained many things he couldn’t explain—magic and monsters—the Saint seemed different somehow.

The Saint could resurrect the dead and that they returned as they’d been in life.

Growing up, he’d believed with certainty no one could come back from the dead. He’d sent many people off to meet their end—to fall into that place with no way to return, often in bloody and terrible ways. He’d never considered they might come back.

But the way the prince had talked about the Saint had gotten under his skin.

As they traveled to uncover more bones, and finally found the woman, he’d seen the insides of the temples and encountered the believers who followed this creature. For centuries, they’d worshipped his bones and believed he would return to change the world. But none of them, not one, had been able to tell him in any detail what that change might be. They’d babbled about people rising from the dead, about the world being made new, and disbelievers being taught the error of their ways.

Prince Eine believed them.

And deep within the Traveling City, the empress lay dying. Poison. Death. Treason. It had been whispered about behind closed doors, in hallways when people thought there might be no one to overhear. The prince knew something of what ailed the empress, but he spoke to no one. Once, Adrian thought the prince would confide in him about such things. Hadn’t he earned his trust? And yet, the empress lay dying, and the prince remained silent.

The Saint had become an obsession for the prince. He was filled with ferocious determination. It was unlike anything else. Not his desire for the throne, his desire for power, to expand his empire, or to be the myth and leave the legacy he dreamed about. Nothing meant more than finding the Saint.

A woman’s cry broke through his thoughts—a familiar edge to it tickling across his brain. To the left, he could see a small group of men standing in a circle. He heard one of them laugh, and in the middle, he saw a face he knew. Without a second thought, he moved in their direction, a hand on the hilt of his sword.

Sorcha stood in the middle of the group, hands at her sides, cheeks red with embarrassment or anger. A blond man wearing a maroon leather jerkin smirked at her, then leaned in and reached out a hand. He was one of General Zlatko’s men—a face Adrian had seen in battle, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name. A tough soldier, skilled with a bow and arrow but better with a short blade.

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