Page 51 of The Dead Saint

“Then we move on to the next relic.”

“And that one?”

“Are you having doubts?” Adrian asked, turning his full attention to Revenant, searching his expressionless face for a hint at what might be working in his mind.

“There are no guarantees. This could all be a diversion, a chase with no end or reward.”

“Then we follow the map to the end and tell Prince Eine exactly what we didn’t find.”

“How do you know the witch isn’t lying?”

“I’ve seen the map.”

“We’ve all seen the map.” Revenant pressed. “How do we know it’s correct?”

“I’ve seen the tattoos.”

Revenant was silent. In the quiet, Adrian could hear his heart pounding. He stood, turning away from his trusted companion, a man who had been beside him for so many bloody years.

What Revenant implied was death. They could kill the woman and be done with the whole thing. Revenant didn’t believe in the Saint—none of them did—and each man here would rather be with the Horde, taking the next city.

Sorcha met his gaze, and he wondered how much of that she’d heard. She knew what these men thought of her. And he was sure she thought she knew what he thought of her. If she knew what he wanted from her, it would be the end of everything for him. It was dangerous—a show of weakness.

“I’m not going to wait for a raft,” Sorcha said, standing abruptly. “Dusk is hours away. There’s time to search now.”

“How far do you think you’ll get if you swim? You don’t even know where the bone is,” Adrian said, stomach clenching at the idea of her swimming out alone, slipping beneath the surface to never be seen again.

“Why do you care?” she snapped, standing and setting the remainder of her meal on the stool and turning away from the group,

Why do you care? The question came and went, and Adrian refused to acknowledge it.

It was too late to examine why her fate mattered to him. If he didn’t admit it aloud—if he was able to keep these things hidden—then things would go back to the way they’d been before Sorcha had arrived. But he needed her alive, and drowning in a lake would irritate the prince.

That was the only reason he followed her to the shore.

* * *

Water lapped gently against the rocks, barely moving, the surface farther out completely still. Nothing but sky and lake for miles. The trees on the opposite shore were shrouded in a rising fog. The sounds of camp had faded—the murmuring of the men, the whickering of the horses, the cooking fire popping.

Sorcha scrambled out onto the rocks jutting into the lake, noticing the cairns stacked beneath the surface now—as many as there had been along the road. Who had built them here? Or had the water risen over time, drowning them?

“Sorcha!” Adrian called, the sound of his boots on the rocks following her.

But she didn’t wait. Reaching the last boulder extending out into the water, she removed her cloak and sat to take off her boots and stockings. She dipped a foot into the water. It was warm, not the jolting cold she’d been expecting. She stepped down, holding onto the rocks, and slipped into the water, up to her shins, then her waist. Her dress floated around her, billowing up, drinking in the water.

“Sorcha,” Adrian said, nearer now and getting closer.

There was no emotion in his voice; it was simply her name.

Looking back, she met Adrian’s gaze. Unreadable—face impassive—hiding whatever emotion might be beneath the surface. If there were any. Even now she wasn’t sure if he had a heart.

The others remained in camp; a few faces turned to them—out of earshot but within sight. If he gestured, they would come. If he wanted to stop her, he could. But she knew he wouldn’t. They needed the relic.

Sorcha turned away, back to the water, skimming her hands through it. There was no way to know how deep it was—feet, inches, over her head, or just up to her chin. Reaching the last of the submerged boulders, where the cairns began, she stepped down, and the water immediately engulfed her.

A startled cry escaped her, mouth filling with water, the cry becoming bubbles and pure terror. For a moment, she thought there was a cry from the shore, answering her own. But with water in her ears—deafening her—there was no way to know. She kicked, weighted down by the dress. It had been stupid to jump in the water wearing everything, assuming she would be able to feel the relic and find it quickly in a shallow area.

Stupid! she thought. You’re an idiot! And now you’re going to drown. Deeper down, buried so far in her mind that she could almost ignore it, another thought uncoiled like a snake. Wouldn’t that be better?

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