Page 48 of The Dead Saint

It had been a long time since he’d wanted a woman. It was the first time he’d been unable to control the emotion. He’d never given in to desire before. He’d never broken or bent his own private rules. He’d kept himself apart from everyone—the whole seething Horde, the glittering spoiled court, even the White Snake Prince himself.

He’d kept them all at a distance.

Especially his men after Finian had gone. That’s what it took to survive the prince’s ravenous empire. But the walls he’d nurtured were trembling and threatening to fall when Sorcha stood before him. Somehow, she’d slipped through the cracks, stepped inside the inner circle, and touched his heart. His mind. His soul.

He would never be the same.

He turned to face Revenant, trying to make out his expression in the dark. How long had they been together? They’d fought side by side, following orders for years. But Revenant hadn’t been a boy with Adrian and Finian, he’d arrived much later in their lives. He’d never been part of their inner circle of two. Adrian had kept him at a distance even then. There had been too much darkness in Revenant’s heart.

Adrian killed as Prince Eine commanded. Revenant killed for the joy of it.

The title of City Killer and Monster belonged to Revenant as much as Adrian. Revenant had never spared a life, never hesitated when he raised his sword. He never had the desire to do so. But Adrian had never reined him in, never stopped him.

How long had he been detached from it all? He’d pulled so tight in on himself, looked no further than the second, minute, and hour of each day. Never looking toward the future. There hadn’t been a future. Not until Sorcha.

Adrian met Revenant’s gaze, just a glitter of the distant firelight reflected in his eyes, overlaid with an animal sheen. A predator. A killer.

“Do you remember our first meeting in the Traveling City?” Adrian asked.

“It was a long time ago.” Revenant nodded. “Lifetimes. We’ve changed.”

It was Adrian’s turn to nod. They had changed. Back in those early days, Revenant had controlled his darkness. He hadn’t been so quick to kill. Now, the darkness controlled him,

“Our past changes nothing,” Revenant continued. “Finian is still a traitor. You are a leader. Your weakness is infectious. Why should we follow you when you can’t keep your word?”

Adrian’s fingers itched to draw his sword, the sensation so intense he almost gave into it. The blade could solve this problem. And it was a problem, one that would only grow as the days passed, as Sorcha moved among them like a ghost—a siege weapon, a trickster goddess intent on ruining them all. This growing venom poisoned the air. Their relationship was souring right before his eyes. But Finian was a symptom. They both understood the cause was Sorcha.

“If you wish to leave, do it,” Adrian said.

“No.” The word was harsh, a stone thrown at Adrian, meant to wound. “I will not abandon my position.”

Implication and accusation colored the words—threat and promise all in one. The prince would know of all this. He would be told everything in a loud, clear voice, loud enough for the whole empire to hear and understand the truth if Adrian did not make a correction now.

“I would not disobey the prince.” Adrian spoke softly.

Doing so was a death sentence. And Revenant loved death.

“It’s hard for me to separate the past from the present at times,” Adrian continued, disgusted with himself for showing any kind of weakness, for exposing his throat to Revenant. He continued slowly, careful with each word. “And seeing Finian was a reminder. One of when things weren’t so hard. When life was easier.”

Revenant said nothing, stepping back into the night, and Adrian let him go. There were no footsteps, no trace that the man had been there at all. But from the darkness came a whisper.

“The man I knew would have kept his promise.”

* * *

The Red Priestess, Kira, studied him with a gaze that reminded him of a cat watching a mouse—predatory and calculating. Prince Eine needed her knowledge. He’d thought he could do it without her help before, with his own mystics and sorcerers, but now he knew better. When it was over—when the empress recovered—he would make sure she would never see with those suspicious eyes ever again.

“What is it you want?” Kira asked.

He leaned back in the chair, arms resting on the armrests, hands limp at the wrists, feet stretched out before him. He tipped his head back until the painted ceiling came into view—a summer sky with clouds, colorful birds, and, in the corners of the room, hints of flowering trees. His mother had it painted long ago. She’d made the Traveling City what it was—a grand creation, the talk of the empire, an unbelievable reality.

The empress had ensured its safe travel over the mountains, overseeing the careful dismantling of it—piece by painted piece—to move through narrow passes. How many men had died in that process? How many oxen had succumbed to the cold and crushing burdens of turrets and polished floors? But she’d seen to it all, observing with a cool, steady gaze. She’d taken the city over the mountains and into the plains so that as the empire expanded, the city could follow.

It moved from place to place, across kingdoms, swallowing the worthy from the cities they razed. She oversaw the conquering, collecting artists and philosophers, astronomers and seers, and anyone and everyone who could add beauty and culture to her city. They had filled the blank walls and turned a house full of shadows into one of light. If the oxen and men could have borne the weight of tile and stone, she would have covered it in every manner of precious thing, but it needed to remain movable, as light as possible, so she had it painted to reflect all the finest things the world held.

Every day, he moved within the world his mother had created, the thing she loved, a small part of her heart. It could not go on without her.

“My mother will be dead soon.”

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