Page 83 of The Dead Saint

A snort full of derision blew across her face. “They didn’t show you? Have they lost the gifts he gave them? Idiots. Worse than fools. Concentrate, what have you been raised for? Born for. Show me your memory.”

She knew the day that would mean something. A recent memory. The siege had just begun, raging beyond the walls, a constant background grinding. But the temple had been quiet, morning sunlight pooling on the marble floor, coming through high windows. The hand of the Saint on the altar, gilded and encrusted with jewels. They winked in the light, and for a moment, the hand appeared to move—a finger twitching in her direction, a shift in the thumb.

“Take it,” the voice hissed in her ear. “Touch him.”

In the past, she hadn’t touched him that day. She’d come to see the Saint, urged by the others to pray, to beg for mercy, for a way out of the besieged city. But she’d stood there—mind blank—listening to the sounds of violence beyond the walls.

“Touch him,” the voice demanded again.

Its breath caressed her neck, the scent of ages coming with it, preserved bones, bones that had long ago fossilized.

Sorcha reached out through her memory—what was now a vision—and brushed her fingers over the gold and jewels. They felt so cold.

A sudden fear overtook her, terror at the thought of the hand clenching her own, gripping so tight it hurt. Then the city was burning, the memory morphing into something else, blood and fire, the night in the woods when she’d cut Adrian with her blade. His face in the flickering firelight, his mouth in the dark.

The creature moved, arms coming around her, cradling her in a cage of bones. A skull rested against her own. She squeezed her eyes tighter.

“Temple girl. Vessel. You are more beautiful than you will ever understand. The bringer of life, mother of death. You lucky child, able to bring him back, to unleash him onto this world.”

She trembled, and her teeth began to chatter as a clawed hand covered her face, snapping her jaws tight.

“I know you now. It’s been so long I had lost hope. I began to think he would never come again. And I have waited for such a long time. Stay here. Don’t move. If you step away from this spot, the mud will swallow you.”

Then it was gone, releasing her, leaving her with weak knees and struggling to remain upright. She counted to ten, taking her time, letting the words stretch until they broke apart in her mind.

Temple girl. Vessel.

Sorcha opened her eyes. Huge, clawed footprints led deeper into the damp ground, mist shifting as something large came toward her.

* * *

Sorcha stumbled out of the mist, clutching the relic. A foot, oversized and heavy, bejeweled as the others had been. She’d expected Adrian to be there, waiting for her as he’d promised. But it was Revenant’s eyes she met.

“A messenger came. Adrian’s presence was requested in the Traveling City immediately. I’ll escort you there now. Prince Eine is waiting.”

Her heart sank, fear overtaking her. The Traveling City must be even closer than she’d thought. Sorcha opened her mouth, tempted to ask questions, but Revenant would not be the man to answer them.

When she closed her mouth, he must have seen her realization because his upper lip twitched with venomous derision. But he didn’t speak. He had no more words for her.

She stumbled toward Epona, who stood patiently beside him, as she clutched the golden bone. Revenant made no move to help her, and it took several tries to get up into the saddle and not lose hold of the relic. When she was seated, he clicked his tongue at his own horse, leading the way out of the bog.

“I will see you again, temple girl,” the voice called out of the fog—a promise and a threat. “Mother of death.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

A thousand torches and lanterns lit the Traveling City—tiny fires burning, the dark painted wood almost vanishing beneath the moonless sky. It rose above the trees, growing larger as they neared it—obscured, hinted at, until they left the forest. The city sat in a huge clearing. Trees for miles had been cut down around it, the earth trodden into mud. Snow clung to roofs and turrets—evidence of the weather farther to the north—and beneath the city, the oxen were penned up, out of the cold winds. Fires burned there as well, small campfires, the smoke curling up and sticking to the underside of the city, escaping in thin whisps around the edges.

It looked as if it had just begun to burn and soon flames would engulf it.

Sorcha rode between Domenico and Revenant, the latter’s eyes boring into her back. The pressure made her uncomfortable and dread began to fill her. Why was she being called back? She’d done as the prince asked. At one point, she’d considered drawing this out indefinitely—still aware of the tattoo she’d kept hidden from the Mapmaker. But it was inevitable that he would discover it. Was that why Revenant was escorting her here now? Had the prince discovered the hidden tattoo? But it wouldn’t matter. The story would end the same way.

Coming out of the bog, she’d expected to see Adrian. He might not have opened his arms for her to walk into, but at least he didn’t look at her the way the others did. But there had only been Revenant. And he had been watching her closely, waiting for her reaction at finding Adrian absent. He could see that Adrian’s feelings had changed. And he would tell the prince.

Adrian always aligned himself with the prince’s desires. But she’d changed him. He wanted her, she knew he did. Would it be enough for him to go against the prince? She wasn’t sure. Not when it came down to a hard and fast choice. She hadn’t asked, and she couldn’t force his hand.

Whatever might happen, she shouldn’t count on him once they were before the court.

Sorcha watched the Traveling City grow—otherworldly in the night. A single bell broke the silence, and another followed. The sentries had spotted them. The prince knew they were here.

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