Page 47 of The Dead Saint

“I should have been clear. Not everyone is privy to the prince’s desires.” Adrian stood, turning away from her, and moved to the medicine chest beside the washstand. There was a cream there for bruises. He found it and returned to her, holding the milky glass jar out to her. “Take this. It will help with the bruising.”

“And Revenant?” She took the jar and opened it to sniff the contents. “I thought he knew.”

“You saw him?” It was a stupid question, but he had no answer for her. He had no answer for himself. He went back to the maps—the country around them, with several detailing the layout of Cautes.

“I’m not deaf, Adrian.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a thread of humor weaving through his words. “Am I no longer a monster to you, then?”

“Would you prefer it?” she asked sharply.

His name in her mouth, her voice in his ear, was like finding a tender spot, a newly discovered section of bare skin, unprotected. He wanted to hear her say his name again.

“You can call me whatever you want.” He shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.”

Chapter Thirteen

There had been no king to kill in Cautes after all. Marius the Mad was dead in his throne room by the time Adrian passed through the city gates. Not by his own hand, nor that of his guards, but by someone else.

Finian.

A ghost from Adrian’s past had appeared in that courtyard. It was as if sharing the story of their youth with Sorcha had conjured him from memory. He hadn’t thought about Finian in years, not since Finian had left the Horde behind. Even now, Adrian wished he could forget him and everything that had happened before the world had changed.

They’d all seen Finian. And they’d all seen Adrian fail to keep his promise. The news would reach Prince Eine, and his old anger would flare. Eine had released Finian from the Black Tomeis because of Adrian’s request. No one else would have dared ask. The only way out of the Horde was death. But Adrian had made it possible for one person.

“What happened back there?” Revenant demanded.

The question rang in Adrian’s ears. What had happened back there? He’d never hesitated before, never broken his word. He’d promised Finian he’d kill him if they ever saw each other again. He’d promised to kill his brother. Not a brother by blood, unless you count other people’s blood, but a brother in the soul—in the heart.

The pair had grown up together in a strange court, prisoners who became sons, sons who became captains and generals, leaders of the Horde. Finian had wanted out and Adrian had let him go. But with a stipulation, a promise.

If I ever see you again, I will not hesitate to cut you down.

Adrian had failed to follow through. Revenant’s confusion and anger clouded the air, a stinking heavy fog that roiled around them—poisonous and deadly. The man was horrified. Adrian, someone Revenant had known and followed from a very young age, had proved to have a weakness. Adrian could sense his second-in-command’s churning emotions. Doubt. Distrust. Disgust.

He’d failed in an extraordinary way. The kind of failure that could change his past as well as his future. In the middle of that burning courtyard, he’d faced down an old friend, and Finian had been ready to die. Then, a woman had run to his side—small and pale, blood on her skirts, soot on her face, afraid but determined.

The sword had been heavy in Adrian’s hand at the sight of them, and he’d felt a sharp pain in his chest, his hands tingling. He’d failed to raise his sword and cut them down. Even while his men waited hungrily for their leader to do what he had always done.

“He betrayed you,” Revenant hissed. “He betrayed us all. He abandoned us. And you let him live. You swore to us—not just the prince.”

Adrian didn’t respond, mind whirling with questions of his own.

“He’s a traitor,” Revenant spat.

Adrian held up a hand, and Revenant fell silent, anger seething between them. Adrian let out a breath, warm air puffing out, steaming in the cold night. He could feel the chill in his fingers and toes, making his bones ache, even through his gloves and heavy boots. Clouds hung low, rolling in and concealing any stars that might be overhead—the face of the sky covered and unable to witness these two companions ripping themselves apart.

The fires of the encampment were distant specks in the darkness, flames small in the night. It wasn’t enough to hold off the siege of the relentless darkness. But dawn was only a few hours away—a promise that could be taken back.

Adrian had proved that all promises could be broken.

He wanted to get on his horse and ride out into the night—travel away from this place, this confrontation. He wanted to see the next relic and know they were that much closer to things going back to the way they had always been. The way they should be. Before they’d taken the Golden Citadel. Before he’d seen the oracle. The vessel. The child of the Saint.

Get it over with and be done. He wanted to be out of Sorcha’s presence. If they could finish the search quickly, it would be for the best. He resented each moment spent with her, each question he asked himself for the second or third time. It was all second-guessing, all past and present and future in danger of being rewritten because this woman had stumbled into his life.

From the moment he’d seen her in the Citadel, everything had changed. He didn’t know how to describe it. He’d found himself wanting to alter how she saw him—how she looked at him. For the first time in years, he wanted to remove the mask he wore with everyone else and expose what lay beneath. He wanted her to see beyond the name and reputation.

But even he didn’t know what might be found there.

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