Page 28 of The Dead Saint

Thompson pulled the parchment from a spot beside his knee and unrolled it carefully, studying it in silence. They all knew what the map looked like at this point. The Wolf involved his men in planning their routes and places to stop.

Thompson sighed.“There are no doors marked on this map, but the temple should be in there.” He gestured at the forest. “Near a path that crosses the length of the forest. It’s the only way in and out. The temple is a few yards off the path.”

“And we enter here?” the Wolf pointed directly ahead, glancing at Domenico.

“Yes,” Domenico said, accent thick. “Through those two trees. It is a door.”

A door.

Sorcha peered at the two trees. A door. How could that be? The forest was thick, trees growing so close together that it appeared impossible to weave through them on foot, let alone on horseback. The forest swallowed the light, sucking it in, pushing it down. It seemed as if nothing but the night survived beneath those branches.

“The witch should go first,” someone whispered.

A flush crept up Sorcha’s cheeks, heat spreading beneath her skin, burning her ears. She couldn’t be sure which man spoke and she refused to twist around in the saddle to check. If the Wolf heard, he ignored it, motioning Domenico forward. Though it pained her to be grateful to that monster for anything, she was grateful she wouldn’t be leading them into the trees.

Domenico mounted his horse and urged it toward the spot he’d indicated. One moment there he was moving forward, and the next he’d vanished between two tree trunks as if he’d never been. Nox went next, urged on by a silent command from his rider, and Sorcha’s docile Epona followed. The rest of the men followed after them, their whispers dying down, each one quiet and listening for whatever would come next.

* * *

It was warmer beneath the trees and not at all what she’d been expecting. It was summer here, not late fall or early winter. It was as if crossing the border had transported them through time as well as space.

They rode single file down the narrow track. Overhead, trees stretched toward each other, limbs tangling in the canopy, the underlayer and ground cover thick in the shadows. Everything appeared peaceful and quiet, but she felt watched from all directions.

There was something in the woods. They’d all felt it as soon as they had crossed the border. The men behind had exchanged a few words before going silent again. She could feel the intention of whatever was out there building as the sun slipped lower and the shadows lengthened.

The night was waiting, the moon ready to rise, and a sense of impending doom filled her. The others must have felt it too. They were quiet and watchful observers. Around the last campfire, the men had talked about this forest, but she hadn’t caught more than a handful of words at the time. Now, she wished she’d paid more attention.

To them, this was simply a stopping point along the way, just a temple—one of many. They would recover a relic of the Saint here and then move on to the next one. Epona balked, snorting and thrashing her head. Sorcha patted her neck and made a low, soothing sound. But the animal sensed something, aware of more than Sorcha’s human eyes could discern.

Maybe Epona was aware of the temple. Sorcha could only guess how they might find it in all this tangled growth. The forest on either side of the track was a solid wall of greenery. Every now and then, a low-hanging branch caught at her hair or sleeve, a sharp tug catching her attention, and she would have to free herself before they could move on.

Ahead, Nox took bites of leaves or latched on to branches, holding on as long as possible until they snapped back, stripped of all their greenery. But the Wolf didn’t seem bothered by it. He kept the grip on his reins loose, letting the horse take the lead. The man appeared relaxed in the saddle, and if he felt any tension, it didn’t show.

A large branch snapped off the path to the left, invisible but only paces away. Sorcha jerked in that direction, scanning the trees and searching for movement. Behind her, Thompson rustled the map, the sound of the scroll unfurling as familiar to her as her own breathing—the places they’d gone and the places they had yet to be. It was all laid out, bit by bit, and her skin tingled with the thought.

“It should be up ahead,” Thompson said.

“How far?” asked the Wolf.

Thompson snorted, speculation and uncertainty clear. “I’m guessing this isn’t the most accurate of maps. There’s no scale for distance.”

“Take a guess.”

“A hundred yards, maybe?” Thompson rattled the map again. “It’s hard to tell where we started, the markers could have changed. I have no idea how far we’ve come.”

The Wolf glanced back, his gaze sweeping over Sorcha before moving on.

Thompson held up the map and pointed to a spot. “I believe we came in here, but the markers on the map don’t correspond to anything we’ve passed. I think ‘map’ is stretching the word when it comes to actual locations. It’s more about ideas than places.”

Ahead, a huge tree stretched over the path. It was larger than those around it, with nothing beneath it but bare dirt and the collected leaves from years past. The wide trunk twisted upward, the pale bark peeling to reveal crimson beneath. The leaves were narrow and a vibrant red. It reminded Sorcha of the trees in the inner courtyards of the temple. In the Golden Citadel. Where she’d lived. Where Ines had last breathed.

Don’t think about it!

“That tree!” Thompson waved the map. “It’s on the map.”

The Wolf turned in his saddle until he caught Sorcha’s eye. “Did you learn about this place?”

She shook her head.

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