Page 86 of The Dead Saint

Adrian found an alcove and pushed her into it, shielding her nakedness with his body. With a snap, he pulled the cloak from his shoulders, the broach popping free and bouncing on the floor. He swirled it around her, wrapping it tightly around her.

He was angry, his face white with it, and she realized, with shock, that his fingers were trembling.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He’s reminded us both of our places.” he whispered as he pushed her against the wall, his leather armor creaking, his full weight pressing her into the carved wood at her back. His hands were on her throat, shaking, his voice low and strangely calm. He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in. “You shouldn’t care what happens to me. You made a mistake showing it in that room.”

Sorcha shook her head and reached up to touch him, to wrap her arms around him.

But he grabbed her wrists and pushed her arms out, pinning her to the wall. “He’ll use it against you.”

“And you won’t?”

He let her go and stepped back, leaving her cold. It had gone, the softness in his tone, the warmth of his body against her. She wanted it back, wanted the man who had been in the dark tent with her, desperate for the comfort he’d offered her then. But he was cold again—distant. A wall brought into place so quickly she was left reeling, struggling to understand.

Years ago—a lifetime—he’d made a choice, and now he was struggling to stand by it. But it had been the wrong decision. She knew it was. He did too.

“We need to go.” Adrian took her by the arm and walked her down corridor after corridor. “The horses are ready, and we’ll recover the last relic as quickly as possible.”

* * *

The prince stared down at his mother’s face—the smoothness of her pale features. The pain was gone. Behind him, her ladies were wailing, tearing at their clothes, scratching their faces—leaving bloody trails. Beyond the room, horns blared, vibrating through the city, echoing down halls and into rooms, searching for the source of their meaning, searching until they found her.

It all seemed unrelated to the woman before him. Cold, furious anger filled him. He wasn’t sad. He would see her again. The anger was all for the temple woman. He’d given her enough time, and she’d failed to bring together all the pieces of the Saint.

Only the Saint could bring back his mother.

He whirled away, leaving mourners behind, walking until the fresh air of her private courtyard blew the scent of death from him. He was aware of a single advisor who had followed—silent and ready, ever watchful. The man waited—face impassive—for orders he knew would come.

Eine looked up at the blue winter sky. It was so cold outside. The magicians of his court promised that snow would fall soon. The empress had wanted to see the snow one more time—feel it on her lashes, let it melt on her cheeks. He’d promised to give her that. But it hadn’t snowed.

Now she was dead.

But winter was just beginning. Before it had passed them by, she would experience the joy of a fresh snowfall. She would again be among the living. He would make sure of it.

“My prince, what would you like me to do?” the advisor asked.

“Have they gone?” Eine didn’t look away from the sky, contemplating the stretching hour of dusk.

“Yes, Prince Eine.”

“I want the fastest messenger sent to the Wolf’s second-in-command.” Eine crossed his arms over his chest as the cold settled in his hands. “What’s his name?”

“Revenant, my prince.”

“Send a message for his eyes only, and make sure the messenger is discreet.”

“What message would you like to impart?”

“If it comes down to it, he needs to make sure the task is completed at all costs.”

Behind him was death. His mother. His father. His brother. But ahead, shining like the golden star on the horizon, was life. It beckoned to him, sang a siren song he could never ignore. Soon, the death that filled his life would be driven away. And his mother would sit beside him in court. Eine nodded to himself and turned to the advisor, raising a finger in warning.

“But he cannot harm the woman. She must make it to the Wastes alive.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sorcha split the small apple in one slice, contemplating the two pieces. It was bruised on one side but edible—a luxury after all the miles between the Traveling City and the foot of the mountains where they’d find another relic. Slowly, she sectioned the slightly wrinkled apple with the paring knife, cutting it into bite-sized pieces. Concentrating on the feel of the blade slipping through it, Sorcha inhaled the hints of late summer apple released.

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