Chapter 10

The empress’s eyes fluttered as she came out of a deep sleep, cheeks washed of all color, hands withered and clawed. They reminded him of bird’s feet—of twisted tree roots—the way spiders curled in on themselves when they died. His mother was doing the same thing. Slowly pulling in, tightening, curling.

Soon she would be dead.

The healers had warned him. But he didn’t need their assertions to know that the light in his mother’s eyes—once a shade of blue so piercing that men had come from all over the empire to see them, her beauty renowned, talked about in every court, every kingdom—was gone. Now they were milky, and her vision was gone. Rags and tatters of her beauty remained—a sharp cheekbone, the way her lip curled into a faint smile even now. But what had made her a true beauty had been the kindness she’d extended to everyone who climbed the stairs of the Traveling City.

In the end, it was her generosity that would kill her. She’d invited a snake into her sanctuary, into her home, into her life. Soon he would know who it had been. And he would kill that person—man, woman, or child.

But a more pressing matter was the Saint.

The mystics claimed there was no other way to resurrect someone. No magic. No other guarantee to return, to preserve her life, and with her death fast approaching, there was no other way to bring her back.

Eine was determined. It didn’t matter how long it took, how far they would have to go, to reach each piece. He would have them all, and when his mother died, he would bring her back.

Before the city had burned, Kira, the famous Kahina of the Golden Citadel, had come to him. She’d slipped past her own city guards, through the Horde gathered around the thick walls, past the guards around the Traveling City, and into his court.

He’d refused to hear the witch speak at first. Waving his hand, the unspoken command to kill her given and understood, before she could even set foot before him. But she’d broken free of the guards in the outer chamber and fallen to her knees before him, hands smacking the hardwood as she prostrated herself, pressing her forehead to the floor and whispering.

I can help you.

Of course, he’d let her live. He would take any help he could get. But he didn’t trust her. A red witch, the leader of a death cult, untrustworthy in every way. But he needed her.

He reached down and took his mother’s hand—dry and soft, brittle as dying hope—and gently squeezed it. But he could not bring himself to speak. Her eyes closed again, hiding the milky, unseeing gaze, her breathing ragged. Part of him was relieved and wanted the unseeing gaze gone forever, wanted his clever-eyed mother to look back at him and smile.

But she couldn’t.

He would rather she sleep if she could not be who she had always been.

The physician—a middle-aged bald man—in the corner feared the moment the empress would die. His life would end the moment hers did. The prince had promised him that months ago. If she dies, you die. And though he knew the man continued to do everything he could, he would not hesitate to keep his word.

He turned away abruptly and left them all behind, the serving women and physician at the edges of the room, and his gasping mother. He moved through her quarters, past the guards stationed at the inner doors, through a connecting hall, and into his own rooms.

No servants lingered here, no averted gazes, no one to ask if he needed anything. He embraced the silence as he passed through a small receiving area, through a bedroom, a study, and finally to a staircase leading up.

His shoulders brushed the walls as he climbed, the way narrow and cramped. The risers were half lengths, wide enough for his toes and nothing more. He climbed up the turret, spiraling ever upward, the way lit by thin glazed windows. Wind blew down from the top, the trap door open, and he knew she would be there.

Kira stood on the platform, gripping the iron railing. She faced the window, her hair and dress blowing out in a stream of black and red. She turned dark eyes on him, this woman made of secrets and lies.

“The empress is worse,” he said, coming to stand beside her and looking out over the plain.

The woman didn’t respond, her gaze going to the small figures leaving the shadow of the Traveling City. The group was small, the rider leading the party wrapped in a black cloak, his black horse larger than the others around him. In the middle of the party, a woman rode a stocky buttermilk mare, the horse’s flanks dappled with gray.

“Your temple girl has gone to search for relics,” Prince Eine said, closing his eyes and welcoming the breeze that brought a hint of snow and ash. “How long will it take her to find them all?”

“Who can say,” the woman replied softly.

“You can,” Prince Eine said, a warning, a promise, in his tone. “Your life continues or ends with her ability to accomplish this task.”

“She won’t fail.” There was nothing but confidence in Kira’s voice. “I’ve trained her well. The empress isn’t the only person she needs to resurrect.”

“The empress is the only one who matters.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

He turned away, leaving Kira standing on the turret to watch the small party of travelers until they were out of sight.