Page 59 of The Dead Saint

“But you won’t let anything hurt me.” Her words were flat and matter of fact. “The prince doesn’t want me dead yet.”

It was a statement, not a question. Her tone was soft, and he would have missed it if she’d not turned toward him ever so slightly.

No, he wouldn’t let anything hurt her. But not because the prince wished it to be so.

Chapter Seventeen

The relic was wrapped in layer after layer of black velvet and heavy wool blankets. It was then tied to a riderless horse that Domenico led. Sorcha could feel him—the Saint. He was there, traveling with them, awareness tickling behind her eyes and gathering in the hollow places in her body—between her ribs, in the chambers of her heart, in the emptiness of her stomach.

When they stopped to rest, she was drawn to him, unable to keep away—not wanting to keep away. At night, the relic was placed in its own shelter, a smaller tent erected in the center of their little camp. But as much as she was compelled to be near the Saint, she was thankful the relic was not in the tent she shared with Adrian.

If he’d offered—which he hadn’t done—she still would have chosen to keep it elsewhere.

* * *

The clean, salty scent of the ocean reached them first. Sorcha had never seen the Prates Ocean. It was another of those things Kahina Kira had promised would happen. Before war had overrun the continent and the pilgrimage to visit each relic had been postponed.

Now she leaned forward into the salty wind, body thrumming with the relentless energy of the waves beating and wearing away the cliffs, calling to her, singing an endless song. She’d had the urge to leap forward into it, longing for cold water and pressure. Would she be dashed against the rocks? Or would the wind carry her away? A surprising thought, coming from the dark space in her mind where the suspicion of how this all would end lurked.

“Don’t,” Adrian said, grabbing her arm.

“What if I jumped?”

Sorcha hadn’t heard him come to stand beside her—at the edge of it all. She didn’t look at him at first, but when he didn’t respond right away, she glanced at him. He was watching her, something without a name crossing his face, then he looked down at the churning water.

“I would have to follow you.”

“Because you need the Saint,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips—bittersweet and hinting at deeper emotion.

Adrian didn’t respond, and she took a few steps away, walking along the cliff, searching the horizon for ships and the hint of Biser Islands the maps promised would be there. She couldn’t see either, and the wind whipped her hair around her face, obscuring her vision and whistling in her ears.

Was it desire or desperation that brought his voice to her? The words punched a hole in her chest, leaving a space for the wind to sing through, leaving her breathless. Sorcha didn’t turn, couldn’t, but continued forward because she had no idea how she might react if she saw Adrian’s expression.

Because I can’t go on without you.

* * *

Sea caves dotted all along the shore. A handful were on the map Thompson held, but the map copied from her skin only showed one. Slowly, they matched landmark to landmark and followed the changing cliffs, hesitating if a section had fallen into the sea, trying to decipher how the change affected what they were searching for.

Finally, they found the location—after a heated debate between Thompson and Domenico over the spot. In the end, Domenico’s certainty that he could feel magic in the rocks won out. Ivo, Bran, and Cas had then disappeared into the scrubby, wind-whipped woods to cut down small trees and fashion a rough support system to lower her down.

Sorcha watched them from a camp stool with her hood pulled up around her face—buffeted by the wind, low gray clouds, and the thick fog rolling in from the sea. The horses were staked to a line much farther back, sheltered in a little copse of trees. Right now, Sorcha wished she was with them, wrapped in her sleeping furs and not about to be dropped down the side of an enormous cliff.

The men talked as they worked, and she caught a word here and there. Witch. Monster. Saint. Wolf. Oracle. Crimson Cult. White Snake. Black Tomeis. No one spoke to her directly. But they never did, and Sorcha didn’t expect them to start now. She wondered, not for the first time, why they feared her so much. There was no magic in her heart or body, or rather, she’d never considered the visions to be magical. The Black Tomeis felt differently.

Adrian sat closer to the tree line with Magnus and Thompson, the three studying a map she hadn’t seen before. Would it be the southernmost section of the continent? In her studies, she’d learned about the civilizations that had once thrived there—ancient and now diminished. There had been rich lands and powerful kings, tyrannical queens and legends about creatures that lived beneath the sands of the great deserts and in the water off the shores.

Now those places were mostly abandoned, a home to a few who wished to live their lives without a king or empress leading them. Sorcha wondered what they would find there. She had no doubt they’d continue south—her skin carried indications of mountains and deserts yet to be discovered.

Cas whistled, getting Adrian’s attention and waving him over. The wooden frame that would lower her down was complete. They’d used every rope they carried to lash it together or create a makeshift harness to hold her. It didn’t appear to be very sturdy. But Sorcha would need to trust them.

Trepidation built inside her, gaining momentum and threatening to overtake everything. Sorcha both feared and wanted to find this next relic. To bring more pieces of him together, to see the Saint as the illuminated pages and mosaics had depicted him. What would she find in the cave? What piece of him would she uncover? And what would she have to face?

“Take this,” Adrian said, holding out a sheathed dagger.

Sorcha took it, recognizing the blade. It was the one she’d taken from his tent and used to defend herself in the forest that night so many weeks ago. She hadn’t seen it since. It was impossible to hide much when they traveled with so little—speed was more important than comfort. Holding the weapon now felt so right, as if it were tied to her with invisible threads.

“Thank you,” she said, unsheathing it and turning the blade so it caught the light. “I’m surprised you’re letting me have this.”

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