Page 91 of The Dead Saint

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At the farthest point from the gates, nestled in an alcove of a sheer cliff, sat the Androphagoi. It had been carved hundreds of years ago into the dark gray stone—veins of white quartz ran through it, threads of gold twinkling within those pale lines. Pillars lay tumbled down the stairs, singed by fire and pockmarked with age. Huge, wide steps led up to arched doors, six of them across the front of the building. The metal embossed doors had been melted with some forgotten but intense flame.

The distorted story they told was familiar, and a pang of unexpected homesickness sank through Sorcha, from head to toe. A benevolent Saint, bestowing blessings, the sacrifice he made for his followers, the promise to return.And the ruins of the world without him.

The group dismounted, the men murmuring to each other as Sorcha patted first Epona and then Nox. The horse nuzzled her hand, searching for some small bit of food.

“Not so scary after all, are you?” Sorcha whispered, running a hand over his nose before turning to Epona to do the same.

The mare’s ears pricked forward and then back, listening to Adrian and Revenant as their voices grew louder for a moment before returning to whispers.

Sorcha went to her saddlebag, digging down past a second cloak and her gloves. There were a handful of small, wizened apples at the bottom—the remains of the fresh rations they’d taken from the Traveling City when they’d departed. Sorcha gave one to Nox and one to Epona, waiting for the men to decide their route.

“It’s time,” Adrian said, getting Sorcha’s attention and jerking his chin toward the temple.

He paused, twisting the sword in his hand. She came to stand beside him, part of her wanting to turn away, to run back through the deserted streets and out into a world where she was no one and nothing. Another part—the child raised and loved in the temple, with mothers and sisters who surrounded her and filled her with safety and security—wanted to go inside and see if anyone was there. And even now, knowing what would come, how it all would end, a small part of her wanted to meet the Saint.

Sorcha glanced at Adrian. He’d broken all his rules for her—bent his world around her. He had no idea how much blood there would be at the end. And it would all be hers.

“I’ll go first,” she said, moving past him and going up the stairs.

He let her go, falling into step behind her, becoming her shadow. The men behind followed at a distance. At the top of the steps, they paused, the weak light of the overcast day barely penetrating the gloom beyond. The space reminded her of home. It hit her, a swell of homesickness for something that could never be. And it had never truly been what she’d thought it was.

“There.” Revenant pointed at a far corner. “See it?”

A faint, glimmering glow reflected on a corridor wall leading deeper into the temple.

Adrian nodded, motioning for Thompson to stay behind as the three crept forward. Revenant lit the small lantern they’d brought, leading the way inside.

No one spoke as the light led them through the ruins of the sanctuary and deep within the twisting corridor. There were no stairs or diverging paths, only the corridor with brick walls that curved in on itself, spiraling in, around some hidden destination. From behind the walls came sounds—tapping or faint scratching. A smell of death and decay permeated the air, coming from deeper within the building.

“What happened here? Has the Horde been here?” Sorcha asked, pausing to listen to a knocking coming from the other side of the brick wall to her right.

“If they’d been here, the relic would have been brought back,” Adrian said, motioning for her to continue with them. Revenant nodded. Adrian continued, irritation beneath the words. “It could have been any number of smaller kingdoms or warlords. Bandits. Temples are wealthy. I haven’t seen anything of any worth left in this city.”

“Bandits? Warlords?” Sorcha’s brow furrowed. “You make it sound like ancient times. We don’t have those anymore. The only army who could have been capable of this is yours.”

“Prince Eine’s army,” Revenant cut in.

“Why do you think the Horde marches south?” Adrian asked.

“Because you’re power-hungry monsters.” The words were out before Sorcha could stop them. Not you, Adrian. You aren’t a monster, she thought, unable to say it aloud. But that was a lie. They both knew it.

A bark of laughter escaped from Revenant. “Or could it be that no one south of the Summer Palace is fit to rule and keep their people protected and prosperous?”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Sorcha snapped.

“The kingdoms south of your citadel have been fighting among themselves for centuries. What do you know of world history?” Adrian asked, gesturing that they should continue walking.

Sorcha lifted one shoulder, refusing to admit how little she knew. She’d paid no attention to the world beyond her small sphere. Never questioned the decisions royals made or the trade deals that were brokered. Of course, there were alliances and marriages and treaties and there had been other small wars. But none of it had impacted her life. Until now.

“Prince Eine will unite the entire continent,” Revenant said.

“And then?” she asked softly.

As a new section of the corridor came into view, they stopped, staring at the destruction ahead. Sections of the walls had come down, revealing dark expanses of nothingness, and bricks littered the floor. Emaciated bodies lay on top of the rubble. The smell here was worse than it had been, and Sorcha covered her mouth and nose. It reminded her of the Citadel—the way it had stunk before the city began to burn, when everyone was hungry and sick.

A scrabbling came from up ahead, around the next curve, and Adrian stepped to the front of the small group. Adjusting the grip on his sword, he waited. Revenant crossed to one of the bodies and knelt, moving a piece of fabric away from a shoulder.

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