Then the colors changed, darker now, the tones richer. This was a new chapter of the Saint’s life—a golden skeleton on a throne and riding into battle. A final battle filled a wall from floor to ceiling, an androgynous figure holding a burning sword high. The Saint fell and was broken apart, red-robed figures carrying away the pieces, disappearing into locations far and wide. She recognized the Golden Citadel and the sunken city right away, but there were other locations not tattooed on her skin.
Following the story, Sorcha held her breath as a line of worshippers came together. They carried the relics, moving in a single line across a barren landscape to an imposing stone tower.
The next section was an interior room with the relics laid out on an altar and a woman on the floor, a bright crimson flood flowing upward, converging on the relics.
Sorcha stopped, breathing heavily, with a hand to her chest—pressed flat to keep her heart in place. Stay, you don’t know for certain this is your future.
But, of course, it was. She’d known this. Seen it in the night, been woken from this moment again and again by Adrian. For the first time in her life, she understood the visions without Kahina Kira.
The knowledge—excruciating truth—hurt as she swallowed tears.
Whatever the future held, she must continue. There was no true choice. She was the vessel.
Behind her, the wind called, rushing across the mouth of the cave but unable to reach her. The air was motionless inside, stale, with nothing but dry stone and the oil from the lantern to change the texture. The floor was smooth, flat stone—no rocks, no dirt, nothing. It looked as if it had been swept every day for hundreds of years. Even the paintings seemed bright and refreshed.
She paused, holding her breath to listen. An intense, watchful silence greeted her.
All hope that it had been the natural barriers protecting the Saint vanished. There was something else here.
But she had to keep going. There would be no returning without this piece, unless she untied the rope and ran straight out into the sea, plummeting to whatever lay beyond this life. But if she did, could she be sure the Saint wouldn’t be there waiting for her?
The tunnel began to widen, easing open, the roof rising, the narrow path expanding. The lantern light fought to penetrate the darkness, the velvety pitch black that hadn’t seen a light in countless years.
* * *
The cavern around her was vast. Darkness lurked beyond her circle of light, a hunter barely kept at bay. It swallowed her steps, soaking up her noise. She took a step and then another into the room, eyes going everywhere at once; the floor could drop away, or something could fall from the ceiling. A glint of light caught her eye, a richness so at odds with the surroundings.
A single rib bone encased in gold and encrusted with rubies glittered on a plinth.
It called to her, pulled her forward. A invisible wire attached to her ribs, a tether, an unbreakable line—an inescapable bond. A part of her rejoiced at the sight, the reason for her existence, the way that she belonged to the Saint and the way he belonged to her.
But what if what Lacus promised was true? The Saint would bring destruction and death. How could her family come back if all he brought was bleak horror? But the call of the rib bone was strong—imploring and sweet—whispering to her. The halo of light moved with her, around her. Her hand trembled slightly as her heart raced. Each piece that came together reminded her how close she was—what the prince had collected and now what she’d found.
Soon she would meet him.
Sorcha took another step forward and reached out tentatively to stroke the bone, jewels cool and bumpy beneath her fingertips. The sensation was electric—skin to gold, skin to bone, heart tied to this relic. But she hesitated to pick it up.
How would she be able to get herself and the bone up the cliff face in that wind? What if the rain had worsened? Or the fog was too thick? What if the rope snapped?
Stop it, she thought. Don’t borrow trouble.
It made the most sense to tie the relic to the rope and have them pull it up first. If the relic slipped from her grip and fell into the sea—to the churning, angry waters beating relentlessly against the cliff—it would be gone forever. But if the bone went up first, there was a smaller chance of it being lost. Then the rope could be sent back down for her. They’d have to; they still needed her to find the other relics. The Black Tomeis wouldn’t be facing any of these trials for the relics. Not even for their prince.
Holding her breath, Sorcha lifted the relic from the plinth, ten times as large as a normal rib bone, as if it belonged to an ancient prehistoric creature. But it did, didn’t it? The Saint was an ancient creature.
A rustling sound broke the silence, and Sorcha froze.
It had only been her breathing and the sounds of boots on stone, the thrum of blood in her ears. There had been no other sounds. Even the wind had faded, abandoning her to the inner world of the cavern—lurking and sulky beyond its mouth.
In the dark, something rubbed against stone, a chink of pebbles falling. Almost not there, almost nonexistent. So faint for a moment, she wondered if her brain was playing tricks on her. If it was just her imagination wanting to fill the silence that pressed on her like slabs of ice.
But again, it came, the pattering fall of small rocks, a shift of sand.
Removing her hand from the rib bone, she stood breathless. Was this the moment she would meet whoever guarded the Saint?
She held the lantern higher and waited, counting heartbeats and wanting to speak but afraid to find out what might be there. Stepping away from the plinth, she moved toward the far wall, holding the lantern above her head. She walked until the light fell across the stone rising up and up, curving to where it must meet the unseen ceiling. But the light didn’t reach that far.
She’d expected painted walls, but these were bare. Dark and polished to a high shine. They looked as if they’d been polished for centuries, smoothed over and over until all imperfection was rubbed away. The stone was so black it absorbed her light, the lantern flame unable to penetrate, barely even reflecting on the surface. It seemed to suck it up—all-consuming—despite the mirrored finish.