Chapter 9

“Take her to the Mapmaker.” The prince turned to Adrian, indicating Sorcha with a wave of his hand. “Find the other relics.”

Adrian nodded, moving to the edge of the velvet blanket, giving the woman a moment to collect herself and rise on her own. But she remained there, hands on the bone, focused on some inner thought.

“Come,” Adrian said, waiting for her to look up, to stand and come with him. When she didn’t respond, a strange glaze over her eyes, he said, “Sorcha.”

The court ladies tittered, and the men chuckled. He kept the disgust off his face, shoving down the desire to turn to them all and tell them exactly how worthless and pointless their lives were. How he could cut them down and the prince wouldn’t stop him. Not the Wolf. He hated that he’d said her name so they could have it, stood here with her name in his mouth, when he could have just grabbed her and avoided the whole scene.

She looked up, her eyes full of tears, her face pale. But she stood on her own, seemingly unaware of the gossip being whispered and the malicious curiosity on display. Her hands were shaking. Adrian led her from the throne room, the voices growing louder and the sweet incense doing nothing to mask the scent of fresh blood.

“Clothes have been arranged by His Highness.” The steward met them at the doors, everything from his expression to his tone sour. “There is a meal and bath waiting in the Cerulean Wing. You have an hour before the Mapmaker will be ready.”

Adrian nodded.

“There is a meal there for you as well.” The steward smiled nastily. “And clothes.”

“He’s not—” Sorcha began, anger and disgust in her voice.

The steward’s smile widened, venom surfacing in his gaze.

Adrian took a step forward, and the steward’s smile vanished as he stepped back. Without a word, Adrian led Sorcha from the receiving antechamber and through the maze that was the Traveling City.

It had been built over time, hundreds of years, room after room being added—banquet halls and private suites, towers and kitchens and armories. It wasn’t only the men and oxen that helped it move. Hundreds of years ago, the Empire of the White Snake had been full of magic, and there’d been a sorcerer capable of making even cities walk.

Once, he’d had a set of rooms here. Close to the bottom levels, where you could hear the wheels rumbling as it moved, oxen bleating, and the men shouting. The prince had offered others, but it was pointless when he knew he’d never stay. He’d never loved this city. He’d been here because the prince had ordered him to be. Being sent to war was better than being surrounded by memories of the past.

The Cerulean Wing was higher up, away from the noise of the lower levels. It was reserved for courtiers who were in favor with the prince at the moment. Which meant that the rooms’ occupants were in constant rotation. Whoever had been there before Sorcha arrived had either been moved or executed.

Adrian wasn’t surprised the prince was treating Sorcha as an honored guest. The man had learned long ago that a show of kindness with a sheathed sword worked better than a naked blade. The prince only killed these days to make a point. For all other things, Adrian was his weapon of choice.

There were no guards or waiting maids when they reached the rooms. Adrian stepped inside, glancing around. They appeared unchanged, identical to the last time he’d seen them.

Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the plain, brass fittings polished to a shine. Thick carpets covered the floors, and there were a handful of simple wooden chairs and a low carved table between them. The walls were painted the intense blue of a late summer sky—before fall arrives and while insects sing in the tall grass.

“There are rooms through the doors to your right and a bathing chamber to your left.” Adrian indicated either door, inset into the walls and painted the same color. At first, they were invisible, but after he pointed them out, they were impossible to miss.

“Bathing chamber?” Sorcha asked, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around herself.

She stared beyond the glass windows, a view so high up above the plains that it was possible to see over the thick forest in the distance to the west.

“Rainwater is collected and heated. You’ll figure it out.” He took a step back, leaving the woman in the overly bright and airy room, tired and dirty from the road and so out of place. “I’ll return in an hour.”

* * *

Adrian stood outside the door to her rooms, a guard and deterrent to anyone who might arrive full of curiosity and determined to see the oracle of a famous death cult. He wanted to plan for what would come next, needed to know what it was he would be conquering. But it was impossible to plan for a future with zero knowledge.

He would take the woman to the Mapmaker, and from her skin, they would learn where the relics were hidden. From what he’d learned, her skin only carried locations for less than half. How those would be enough to perform the resurrection, he had no idea. But that wasn’t a question he needed to answer. He only needed to collect them and get the woman to the Red Tower.

Only the prince knew each detail, how they fit together and how it would all end.

When a series of bells chimed throughout the city—announcing the time and keeping the complicated motions it took to keep the city moving on time—he turned and knocked on the door.

“Sorcha.”

It opened before he could knock again, though she didn’t say a word. She stood in a crimson dress, layers of sheer fabric from her throat to her feet, with long sleeves kept close to her skin. Gold flashed in her ears and at her wrists, and a ring with a faceted ruby adorned one hand, all gifts from the prince. Adrian could see an open trunk behind her with more clothes scattered around the room—all the same crimson she wore.

The color of her crimson cult.

She’d worked the tangles out of her hair and brushed it smooth, her skin now completely clean with no hint of dirt or horsehair. Even though she’d cleaned up before they’d arrived, it had been with the very basics. Not the hot water from the taps and soap scented with lemon.

Adrian breathed in—breathed Sorcha in—the scent of sugared lemons filling his lungs.

The woman before him was completely different from the one who’d been found wandering in the Golden Citadel or the one in the woods who had held a knife and thought it might protect her. Not even the woman who had finally bathed in the tent and come out of the water looking more like a person.

Now Sorcha looked like the woman Prince Eine had originally described. A powerful figure in her community, an oracle of supposed great talents, and a vessel for a dead god. He believed in none of those things. But he knew his lack of personal faith didn’t mean they weren’t a reality. He’d seen more of the strange and unusual to know it couldn’t be denied.

“What do you want?” she asked, pulling her sleeves down to hide more of her wrists.

“It’s time to see the Mapmaker,” he said, watching her pale hands against the sheer crimson, the way her tattoos were still visible beneath the thin fabric. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

* * *

The Wolf led her through a maze of rooms and corridors, some wide enough for four or more people to walk shoulder-to-shoulder, others so narrow they reminded her of the alleys in the lower levels of the Golden Citadel. Lanterns were spaced at intervals, with mesh screens to prevent the fire from spreading if they dropped. But even with those, there were long intervals of deep shadows. The walls were carved here as well, polished to a high shine, but not painted. Not the way her rooms had been.

And always, he led her up.

Soon skylights began to appear overhead, sunlight pouring through stained glass, falling on the polished, carved wooden walls and bringing color to it all. Sorcha watched the Wolf walk ahead of her, the patches of blue and green light touching his black hair and the armor he still wore.

Why hadn’t he changed when she had? He’d had the same hour, yet he looked the same as he had when they’d walked up the stairs of the Traveling City. She refused to think about the throne room and what had happened there. Even now her mind shied away from it, blurring it all out. Even what had happened in the Citadel seemed to have happened months ago.

Had it only been days? It was too easy to lose track of time. To forget if she wanted to.

The Wolf stopped beside an arched set of double doors.

Adrian, she reminded herself. Hearing his name in the throne room, saying it to herself now, felt strange and unnatural. This was the man who had toppled her city, had been the driving force behind her friends and family?—

Stop it. We’re not thinking about that right now.

“In here,” he said, gesturing to the closed door.

“What’s in there?”

“The Mapmaker.”

Sorcha buried her fingers in the dress, taking up big fistfuls of the luxurious skirts—soft, warm, and delicate all at once. How much would she have to remove? How much would she have to reveal? How much would Adrian see?

“How many people are in there?”

Nudity had never bothered her. Life in the temple had been open, with shared time in the hot springs, getting ready for feasts together, and sharing clothes. But she’d never been nude in front of strangers, never in front of someone whom she would have preferred to have been clothed in their presence.

“The Mapmaker.”

“And?” she pressed, knowing there was more.

“Me,” he replied.

“Why are you coming?”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Don’t tell me you actually care about my safety?” Sorcha shook her head.

He sounded so matter-of-fact. A muscle jumped in the Wolf’s jaw, his gaze focused farther down the hall.

He spoke softly, reaching around her to open the door they’d stopped in front of.“The prince cares, so I care.”

“I don’t want you in there,” Sorcha said, crossing her arms.

“Would you rather be left alone with the vampire?”

Before she could respond, he pushed the door open. More light filled the corridor, and Sorcha had to shade her eyes. The room beyond was huge, lined with shelves, the center lit but the perimeter shadowed.

She hesitated on the threshold, the room seemingly empty, and Adrian gestured for her to go forward.

“Are you the map?”

The speaker was unseen, the voice dry, the question posed without inflection.

“Yes,” Sorcha whispered.

“I am the Mapmaker.”

A man stepped out of the shadows with a rattle. Sorcha’s eyes were immediately drawn to the delicate silver chain attached to his ankle with a manacle. He wore a simple set of clothes, a deep green—the color of spruce in winter—and his feet were bare and so pale they were almost white. His hands were the same pale shade, his fingers long, and his hair bright and lustrous as a pearl. His beauty was monochrome, parched for color.

Sorcha opened her mouth and then closed it, not wanting to be rude—if he might feel that it was being rude—and ask.

“Yes,” the man said, acknowledging her unspoken question.

Vampire.

She’d never met one and wasn’t sure they even existed anymore. There had been stories, there were always stories, but no one like that had ever come to visit the Golden Citadel and King Roi.

“Come,” the vampire said, gesturing to a small platform in the center of the room. “Let us begin.”

* * *

Sorcha stood in the middle of the cold room, crimson dress clasped to her chest, skin prickling under the Mapmaker’s gaze. But he didn’t look at her with desire, simply the flat calm of someone paying meticulous attention to the task before them. He hadn’t even touched her. She had the distinct impression that she was merely an object to be studied for a brief time before being cast aside.

She glanced at Adrian. He stood with his back to her, moving slowly along the line of shelves, pulling down books at random and flipping through the pages. She found herself wondering what his gaze would hold if he turned it on her now. What would it tell her?

When the Mapmaker had instructed her to undress, Sorcha had refused. To her surprise, the Wolf—Adrian—had insisted her wishes be honored as much as they could be. Prince Eine wanted her to be treated with dignity. The Mapmaker had agreed to let her keep the dress partially on, revealing sections of her body—and the map—a little at a time.

“Turn.”

The Mapmaker gestured with his brush, indicating the direction he wanted her to move. She turned, exposing more of her shoulder and part of her back. The tattoo told the story of her youth and adulthood, the Saint’s story interconnected with her own, the Saint and Sorcha in one being. The Mapmaker’s brush created a perfect copy on the paper, connecting the lines on her skin in smooth, patient strokes. He took his time as Sorcha watched, memorized by his progress.

She had never seen the tattoos as a whole. This would be the first time, in this place. She shivered, pressing the dress tight to her body, wishing she could be done. Ignoring the men, she looked round the room, taking it all in.

Overhead, a skylight exposed a perfect square of the wintry world. It was a lightwell, the low stool she stood on directly in the center. Around her, the room was deep, the sunlight penetrating only so far, leaving the walls and the men in shadow. The shelves contained leather-bound books and scrolls, jars of inks, parchment, and loose pages. A workbench was in the far corner, covered with the detritus of bookbinding.

The Mapmaker sat in the only chair, knees hidden by a lap desk, a pot of black ink strapped to his right hand, a brush in his left. His glasses hid his eyes as he sat perfectly motionless, never looking down as his brush moved across the paper.

What would happen if she stepped down and walked past him, went through the door, found a way out of the city, and then across the plain? How far would she get? The smooth sound of the brush on paper filled the room as her life was translated onto paper, her past and future, all of it written down and decided. According to the map, she wouldn’t walk out of this room. Her destiny lay in another direction.

“Do you have tattoos anywhere else?” the Mapmaker asked.

Sorcha twitched the dress to reveal part of her left hip and thigh, a swirl of clawed hands and femur bone, bare trees, and decorative scrollwork. He copied it in a few swift brushstrokes, accomplishing what had taken the temple artist careful weeks with ink and needle, hours on the table with the book of Saint open beside her, each line careful and methodical. Rohan had made sure each line was as it should be.

But she’d never seen them all together, on one piece of paper or even one book. She hadn’t seen how they connected, what tied them together, because the map wasn’t done. That would have come later. There were still more tattoos to get. There would have been a ceremony. Privately, the head priestess would have held up a mirror and explained each one, how they all connected. But that wouldn’t happen now. That part of her life was over.

Now her skin was mapped for someone else’s eyes.

“Anywhere else?” the Mapmaker asked.

Would it be worth keeping one small piece to herself? Would hiding it be worth it? Even knowing the map wasn’t complete, that there would be no other way for the prince to discover the other pieces, would it be worth risking?

The prince knew how many locations there were. Adrian had told her a priest in the temple near the Summer Palace—the prince’s mother’s private city—had given him that much information. She didn’t blame him. She would have done the same. No one could be expected to withstand torture. And she hoped that once the priest had told the prince everything, his death had been swift.

She would keep one piece hidden. A small piece.

“Anywhere else?” the Mapmaker asked again.

Sorcha shook her head, meeting the Mapmaker’s flat gaze. They stared at each other, the rustle of pages in the corner of the room pausing, and Adrian turned for the first time since entering the room. Her gaze flicked to him, and her breath caught as their eyes met. Heat and fear clashed, stomach dropping as she made her choice.

“No,” she said, her voice firm in the quiet of the room.

As soon as the map was complete, the Mapmaker lost interest in Sorcha, reflective eyes fixed on the parchment before him. The landscape was incomplete. But the promise that certain relics could be found in those locations had been taught to her as the needles had penetrated her skin over and over. She’d read sacred texts. The Red Priestess had tested her again and again, prodding for the weak spots in Sorcha’s understanding.

Sorcha’s knowledge, though incomplete, was solid. But would these pieces, barely more than a handful, be enough to resurrect the Saint and give the prince what he wanted? She had never come across any passages that laid out how complete the skeleton needed to be. But she hadn’t finished her training. Her knowledge only extended to those on her body.

Adrian moved to look over the Mapmaker’s shoulder.

“Here is the closest relic,” the Mapmaker said, pointing to a spot on the parchment. They’d both forgotten the half-naked woman standing in the center of the room. “There is a temple. Or was. It might be ruins now.”

“How far is it?” Adrian asked.

“Distance means nothing on this map,” the vampire responded, tone flat and without inflection. “It is incomplete, but I’ve done what I can, knowing the landscape as it is. There is no way to know if the tattoos and locations have been updated to these modern times. These locations could be two hundred years old by now.”

Adrian’s eyes flicked up, his gaze lingering on her face despite her still clutching the dress to her chest, the rest of her still exposed. “Do you know?” he asked.

Shaking her head, she stepped down from the platform and moved to a darker corner away from the two men. Adrian’s eyes were on her, burning a hole into her back as she fumbled with the dress, adjusting the sleeves and then the neckline.

“I must make a copy,” the Mapmaker said, the silver chain clinking as he stood and moved toward his desk. “One for the prince and one for yourself. As soon as I finish, I’m sure you will want to leave.”

“Yes,” Adrian said.

“I will complete it as quickly as possible,” the vampire said.

It was then Sorcha felt the vampire’s gaze on her—cool, fleeting curiosity.

“The woman?” the Mapmaker asked.

“She goes with me,” Adrian said.

“Then take her and leave,” the vampire said, curiosity gone, the monotone returned. “The copy will be done soon.”

Sorcha kept her back to the two as she finished adjusting her gown, grateful there were no buttons or ties to fight with. Her fingers trembled, fear hovering at the edges of her mind. The woman? The vampire’s question had held the hint of hunger.

Vampire. Her mind swirled with the word.

“Come,” the Wolf said, gesturing at the door when she turned. “You will need to choose what you bring with you.”

“I have a choice?” She didn’t bother to hide her surprise.

The clothes and jewelry the prince had given her were beautiful. Red velvet and silk, swaths of sheer chiffon. Everything that deep familiar color. The color of the temple, the red and gold that marked the devout. The color of blood and wealth.

“You will need to pack light,” the Wolf said. “Your horse can only carry so much, and we will be moving fast. Bring only what you can’t live without.”

All of it. None of it. Some of it.

Sorcha had no idea how to pack for a journey she had never been prepared to take. But she knew, whatever she brought with her, she’d need to be able to run in. No matter what happened, she’d escape the Wolf somehow.