Page 9 of The Dead Saint

The Traveling City wasn’t far now; it had covered hundreds of miles as the siege slowly wore down the Golden Citadel. It had taken longer than anyone had anticipated, and the prince would be displeased for months. But the blame fell on the generals and commanders. Adrian would watch each one die impassively and refused to acknowledge the spark of relief that flared in his heart.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“To a waypoint,” he replied after a moment.

“And then?”

Was that a tremor in her voice? “The main camp.”

“And the prince is there?”

“No.” Adrian shook his head. “We’ll go to the Traveling City.”

The woman didn’t speak again.

He glanced back once, curiosity getting the better of him, to find her staring off into the distance. She appeared calm outwardly, but a muscle jumped in her jaw, her inner thoughts clearly in turmoil.

Her eyes flicked down, meeting his flat gaze, and then she looked away again, searching the horizon.

There was an air of a cornered animal about her, the sense that at any moment, she would dart away.

She would learn soon enough that there would be no escape.

* * *

Sorcha turned in the saddle at the sound of approaching horses.

The man who took her from the Citadel was at the head of a small group. She recognized his strange yellow eyes even from a distance. They seemed to glow in the fading light. Others rode behind him, all armor similar to the Wolf’s.

Behind them, the Citadel smoked in the distance. She’d avoided looking back, even as a low rumble of collapse filled the air. She hadn’t wanted to see it fall, to witness the final death throes.

They weren’t as far as she’d expected to be. But they’d been moving slowly with her in the saddle and the man leading the horse. It wasn’t long before the group traveling behind them caught up.

They paused as the group joined them.

“The city is empty,” the man with the yellow eyes said, his gaze moving from the Wolf to Sorcha. “I expected to find you in camp.”

“Go ahead and make sure there’s food. Rest your horses. It will be a long day tomorrow to the main camp.”

The man nodded, gesturing to the others to follow him.

Sorcha kept her eyes down as they flowed past her. But she could feel their interest.

Soon they were small figures on the road ahead of them, and then gone as the sun sank in the sky.

It wasn’t long before they reached the small camp he’d spoken of. It was nothing more than a hastily dug fire pit and a circle of saddles and horses. There was room around the fire for people to sit, and someone had dragged a small log near the fire. Two men sat on it holding cards, a small pile of coins between them.

No one looked up when the Wolf entered camp leading the horse. There were maybe thirty men sitting or standing around the area they’d marked as their own. Some talked in small groups, and several were bundled in blankets with their heads resting on their saddles, sleeping on the muddy ground.

No eyes were on her. But Sorcha could feel them not looking. They were more than aware of her among them. Some of it was pure curiosity, but there was hostility in the air as well.

Sorcha slid from the saddle before the Wolf could offer any kind of help. She dodged the horse as he turned his head and tried to catch her with his teeth. Moving several steps away, she wrapped her arms around herself.

The Wolf glanced at her, looking from head to toe in a heartbeat, before turning to the group around the fire and gesturing to a man with blond hair. He came forward but didn’t look at Sorcha, one hand on the dagger at his hip and the other gripping a medallion on a thin leather cord around his neck.

“Hugh, find a blanket for the woman.”

The man nodded and turned away, hands dropping from his dagger and charm.

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