Page 87 of The Dead Saint

There was more than enough to share. She popped a piece in her mouth and pressed it flat against the roof of her mouth with her tongue, cheeks tingling. She slid the plate in Adrian’s direction with a scrape of metal on wood.

The brazier crackling in the corner lit his face—shadows clinging to him like smoke. He was absorbed by the map spread out before him on the cot. There were several of varying sizes and details, but none were the one they’d used to find the missing relics. These were for some other place. Maybe the places he would be sent to next. Sorcha slid the plate a little closer into the edge of his vision, and his dark eyes flicked up to her face.

“It’s for you.” He spoke softly, a reminder and remonstration.

“I know.” Sorcha nodded. “I’ve decided to share.”

An eyebrow went up, a question crossing his face—there and gone. But Adrian ignored the plate, which disappointed her. She shrugged, not wanting it to show, and took the plate back. She popped another piece in her mouth, savoring the sweet and tangy flavor. It was on the verge of being overripe. Another hour or day and it would have been too far gone. But here at the edge, it was perfect. She considered that thought: here at the edge.

Here at the edge of the world, at the edge of her sanity, at the edge of her soul, at the very edges of her heart. She stood at the edge of this man, poised for a coming change, poised to fly or fall.

She ate her portion of the fruit, leaving the rest for him. Sweetness lingered on her tongue, collecting in her belly. It was the ghost of past meals, afternoons in the market, late-night feasts. She stood and stretched, stiff from sitting cross-legged for too long.

Turning away from him, Sorcha worked to smooth her expression, not wanting him to see the turmoil racing across her features. From the night in the tent to discovering the empress was dead to the audience with Prince Eine, it had all been so much.

She crossed to the brazier and held her hands out, warming them, facing the light—ignoring the shadows cast behind her. If she had turned, she would have seen how her shadow fell across the desk, fell across him.

Waiting.

Waiting for him. Waiting for the map to vanish from her skin. Waiting to see how he might act in the daylight, when the sun was high, and they would be forced to face this thing between them in the light.

The mark of the Saint was slowly disappearing. Her body was being returned piece by piece. But it was an exchange, not a release. With each relic collected, she could feel him growing in her mind.

Still. Even then. A piece of her wanted to believe she would have a life of her own after this. That Adrian would change his mind about returning to the empire. That the whole damn world would change for them. But he could make no promises, and she could never keep them. All choice had been taken from her. The only thing she wanted for herself was Adrian.

What had they been before the audience with Prince Eine? Nothing. And after? Even less than nothing. They’d continued to share a tent, and Adrian rode beside her. But the strange, fierce thing that had grown between them had been driven back. Sorcha had no illusions. Though the details of the future remained uncertain, she knew in her heart what the ultimate outcome would be.

The Saint visited in her nightmares. His voice was growing at the back of her mind. No words, only intention. Vessel.

She shivered and shook the images of rubies and a burning sword away.

Sorcha wanted to go outside and stand in the cold until her fingers and toes numbed. She wanted a distraction from the way being near Adrian made her feel. They were connected by a tenuous thread, their eyes locked, hands reaching but never touching.

Without looking back, she stepped out of the tent. Adrian didn’t stop her. He knew she had nowhere else to go. That fact was still a wound. The home she’d been torn from, letting go of the temple and her previous life—her connection to it all—by force or personal will. She’d divested herself of that other Sorcha. A woman who had smiled easily and made friends quickly. Ines’s death had killed that Sorcha. The deaths in the Golden Citadel had ensured that version of herself would never return.

Not even the Saint himself would have been able to resurrect her.

Overhead, lights flowed and shifted across the sky. A blue and green aurora danced across the sky tonight—blue like sapphires and green as new mint in spring. The golden star in stark contrast to the rippling colors. Low as ever on the horizon, a constant reminder.

Sorcha wove past the campfire and the men gathered there, not stopping to see who they might be or who lingered at the edges on guard. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t stop her from roaming. She was positive that most, if not all, wanted her dead despite the prince’s edict. If she wandered out of camp and got lost in the wilderness, it would only make it easier for them. The horses were tied on the other side of camp, but she heard them rustling together in the dark.

A cold wind blew down from the mountains here, searching for travelers, seeking out the thin places in their clothes and getting close. She crossed her arms, trying to keep her body heat in and wishing she’d put the fur-lined cloak on instead of this one. If she had, she would have been able to avoid going back to the tent sooner. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Adrian. Not when he avoided her eyes and refused to acknowledge her in any meaningful way.

I will never leave you alone.

The Saint. His words or pure emotion. It was hard to be sure.

A scuff of boots made her turn. Adrian came out of the dark, carrying the fur-lined cloak she’d been wishing for. Without speaking, he draped it over her shoulders and stepped away, turning his face to the sky.

They stood together, but Sorcha felt more alone than before.

“Are you really going to pretend it didn’t happen?” Sorcha turned on him suddenly, throwing her hands in the air. “Really?”

“I swore an oath,” Adrian said, keeping his eyes on the sky.

“Why does that matter? Right now? I’m not asking for anything beyond this.” Sorcha spread her hands, taking in the landscape and golden star. “If the end result is the same, who cares how we got there?”

“Some would care.”

---