Chapter 14

Cairns—carefully stacked stone towers ranging in size from a blade of grass to as tall as man—began to appear as the distance between them and the next relic lessened. The narrow dirt road they followed seemed unused, an out-of-the-way path that few people followed. They wove through a sparse wood—huge trees reaching overhead with open glades and stretches of fields between them. This forest didn’t have the same feel as the Silvas. There was no watchfulness here, only a quiet, peaceful calm that Sorcha relished.

But the cairns unsettled her as they became a forest of their own. There were small and large stacks, some as tall as a man and others reaching well above ten feet. Others were one or two, a handful of stones gathered together—the beginning of something or the end.

“Don’t touch them,” Domenico warned. “There’s something about them?—”

“Magic?” Thompson interrupted.

Adrian glanced from one to the other, his eyes sliding over Sorcha as he turned in the saddle—a dark gaze, flaring as it touched her. But he didn’t speak, and Domenico only nodded in response.

Sorcha didn’t need his warning. They were strange and gave off an air of otherworldliness, as if they might come together to stand and stride away from this place. Or reach out with rocky fists to pummel them from their horses. Not watchfulness like the Silvas, but something that could become awareness if it was disturbed.

Eventually, the dirt track brought them to the lake. On the map, it was small, but reality was much different. It stretched in either direction, the opposite shore a distant hazy line of old-growth trees. The shores were alternating stretches of rocky and sandy areas, the water a clear blue, the bottom magnified and visible. Beneath the surface, the stones were a myriad of colors—bright as gems—worn into smooth, irregular shapes.

The men set up camp near a crescent stretch of rocky beach near the tree line, with Adrian’s tent set apart from the others. These shelters were much smaller than the ones they’d used while traveling with the Horde. Sorcha was grateful they weren’t sleeping out in the open, subject to the elements. But since these tents were much smaller. Adrian and Sorcha were now sleeping beside each other—separated by furs and nothing else.

As they traveled, she had ridden beside him—Epona the only horse Nox let get close—while the rest of the men fanned in every direction. There had been more empty villages and towns—smoke curling up from burned homesteads, livestock roaming freely. Along the way, the men had hunted, returning with small game and once a goat. Sorcha tried not to think about who had taken care of the animals, who had lived in those ruins.

Each night, Sorcha turned her back to Adrian, and each night, she felt his hot gaze between her shoulder blades. She lay awake and listened to him breathe, wondering what she would find if she rolled in his direction. She hadn’t turned, not yet, but soon she would—it was inevitable. The tension between them thrummed and shimmered, practically visible in the air. She’d wake in the mornings to find the tent empty, the flap button tight to keep the cold out, and her gloves laid carefully on her boots. Adrian set them out for her each morning.

After the Silvas, there had been a hundred small things like this. A piece of fruit that had survived the war and cold seasons, extra attention paid to Epona at the end of a hard ride. Things that she never would have thought twice about with anyone else. But Adrian? What kind of man killed so easily and yet brought her fruit and set her gloves out for her each day?

She hadn’t had the courage to ask yet.

The others had noticed. Well before she’d been fully aware of it herself. Revenant was the only one in the group she truly feared. Toren had warned her that these men would kill her the moment they had the chance. It wasn’t that Sorcha had disbelieved her; she knew they would. But she hadn’t expected any of them to go against the man they served with such devotion.

But each time she felt Revenant’s gaze on her, she knew. If he had his chance, he’d put a blade in her gut without blinking. And the others? They would follow his lead. Adrian—the Wolf, the monster—was the only reason she was alive.

Magnus started a fire while Soren and Ivo went hunting. The other men tended to their horses and went about their personal business. Adrian was going over a set of maps with Revenant and Thompson. Domenico was with them, but he never spoke much. Even now, he stood with a finger to his lips, listening as the three compared maps and debated routes to the next relic.

But first, they would need to find this one.

What would the prince do when he discovered there had been no relic in the Silvas? That ruined temple still tended by the cursed, where blood flowed so freely? He would be angry. But who would he blame? Her or Adrian? But that was a stupid question.

Sorcha wrapped her fur-lined cloak around herself, tucking her hands into the pockets. The wind coming off the water was cold—bringing the scent of sap and a hint of smoke—though the surface remained calm. She’d never seen water so clear before, and part of her wanted to jump in—discover how far the bottom really was. But she’d never been a good swimmer, learning in the Aevum River by the Citadel as a child but never swimming much in her adulthood.

Instead, she picked her way down the rocky beach, pausing to pick up stones—deep red, slate blue, black with veins of transparent quartz. She tucked them in her pockets as she went, moving toward a familiar line of boulders that stretched out into the water—a stone arm reaching for the other shore. It was a landmark on the map, an indication that a relic waited in this seemingly anonymous location.

Reaching the edge of the water, she stopped and rubbed a hand over the tattoo on her arm—a skeletal hand cupping water, the surface rippling out, an eel twisted around an outcropping of stone. She’d seen no eels and doubted that the prince and his men had interpreted the map correctly. They’d already failed to collect one relic. But what did that matter? The prince already had so many, and it was only a matter of time before he obtained the rest.

And then? She would fulfill her destiny. A shiver passed through her as a cold breeze came across the water and rustled her hair, pressing the skirt of her dress against her legs and sneaking down the neckline.

She felt his gaze then, warm on her skin as if he’d reached out to touch her. An emotion rushed through her—excitement or fear, a thread of desire. Don’t think about it! Fumbling with the stones in her pocket, she tossed one into the water. There was no splash, barely even a noise, as it hit the surface and sank. In the distance, thunder rumbled, though no clouds were on the horizon.

* * *

Adrian watched Sorcha pace along the shore, the hem of the red riding dress damp and half tangled around her ankles. He could see Ivo at a distance, watching her, honoring his duties as a guard. The others had moved off to find something to eat or take care of the horses.

Revenant and Thompson had gone over the maps again, and Domenico had given his very brief opinion. The relic must be here; it was on the map—on Sorcha’s skin. They had only to find it. They’d chosen a spot near an outcropping of rock that looked similar to the one in her tattoo. But the lake had others. They could spend days here, searching along the shore, trying to find the exact spot.

Days wasted while death slunk toward the empress. But he couldn’t think about that or the prince’s anger when the inevitable arrived. Finding the relic here would take as long as it took. It must be beneath the water. If they’d had a boat, he would have sent her out to find it, but they would need to construct a raft, and that would take time. Until then, they could do nothing but wait.

Sorcha made her way back toward camp, head down—moving slowly along the rocky beach. The scent of water and citrus came with her, fresh and bright. How close would those scents be on her skin if he pressed his face into the place where her neck curved into her shoulder, if he tilted her head back to run his lips along her jawline as he wove his fingers into her hair?

Adrian closed his eyes, turning away from Sorcha. He could not forget she was the oracle and vessel. She could be nothing more than that. But the intoxicating vision of her pliant in his hands would not leave.

“Food is ready,” Wes called out from the cooking fire.

The men drifted in, gathering around the central point and exchanging words in low voices. Wes and Bran portioned out roasted bird and bread—ignoring the complaints that the bread was slightly burnt in places.

They’d filled their waterskins at a sweet spring they’d come across, and Adrian was relieved they wouldn’t be drinking lake water. The idea that they might consume something touched by the Saint gave him an uneasy feeling.

Sorcha came into the circle, accepting the meal from Wes with soft thanks. She sat on a canvas stool and began to eat slowly, watching the fire. The light glistened in her pale eyes, flushing across her cheeks, catching a strand of lighter hair in her dark curls.

“A raft will be done in the morning,” Revenant said.

“Good,” Adrian said, looking away from Sorcha and feeling his second-in-command’s gaze. “We’ll begin the search at dawn.”

“And if it isn’t at the bottom of the lake?”

“Then we move on to the next relic.”

“And that one?”

“Are you having doubts?” Adrian asked, turning his full attention to Revenant, searching his expressionless face for a hint at what might be working in his mind.

“There are no guarantees. This could all be a diversion, a chase with no end or reward.”

“Then we follow the map to the end and tell Prince Eine exactly what we didn’t find.”

“How do you know the witch isn’t lying?”

“I’ve seen the map.”

“We’ve all seen the map.” Revenant pressed. “How do we know it’s correct?”

“I’ve seen the tattoos.”

Revenant was silent. In the quiet, Adrian could hear his heart pounding. He stood, turning away from his trusted companion, a man who had been beside him for so many bloody years.

What Revenant implied was death. They could kill the woman and be done with the whole thing. Revenant didn’t believe in the Saint—none of them did—and each man here would rather be with the Horde, taking the next city.

Sorcha met his gaze, and he wondered how much of that she’d heard. She knew what these men thought of her. And he was sure she thought she knew what he thought of her. If she knew what he wanted from her, it would be the end of everything for him. It was dangerous—a show of weakness.

“I’m not going to wait for a raft,” Sorcha said, standing abruptly. “Dusk is hours away. There’s time to search now.”

“How far do you think you’ll get if you swim? You don’t even know where the bone is,” Adrian said, stomach clenching at the idea of her swimming out alone, slipping beneath the surface to never be seen again.

“Why do you care?” she snapped, standing and setting the remainder of her meal on the stool and turning away from the group,

Why do you care?The question came and went, and Adrian refused to acknowledge it.

It was too late to examine why her fate mattered to him. If he didn’t admit it aloud—if he was able to keep these things hidden—then things would go back to the way they’d been before Sorcha had arrived. But he needed her alive, and drowning in a lake would irritate the prince.

That was the only reason he followed her to the shore.

* * *

Water lapped gently against the rocks, barely moving, the surface farther out completely still. Nothing but sky and lake for miles. The trees on the opposite shore were shrouded in a rising fog. The sounds of camp had faded—the murmuring of the men, the whickering of the horses, the cooking fire popping.

Sorcha scrambled out onto the rocks jutting into the lake, noticing the cairns stacked beneath the surface now—as many as there had been along the road. Who had built them here? Or had the water risen over time, drowning them?

“Sorcha!” Adrian called, the sound of his boots on the rocks following her.

But she didn’t wait. Reaching the last boulder extending out into the water, she removed her cloak and sat to take off her boots and stockings. She dipped a foot into the water. It was warm, not the jolting cold she’d been expecting. She stepped down, holding onto the rocks, and slipped into the water, up to her shins, then her waist. Her dress floated around her, billowing up, drinking in the water.

“Sorcha,” Adrian said, nearer now and getting closer.

There was no emotion in his voice; it was simply her name.

Looking back, she met Adrian’s gaze. Unreadable—face impassive—hiding whatever emotion might be beneath the surface. If there were any. Even now she wasn’t sure if he had a heart.

The others remained in camp; a few faces turned to them—out of earshot but within sight. If he gestured, they would come. If he wanted to stop her, he could. But she knew he wouldn’t. They needed the relic.

Sorcha turned away, back to the water, skimming her hands through it. There was no way to know how deep it was—feet, inches, over her head, or just up to her chin. Reaching the last of the submerged boulders, where the cairns began, she stepped down, and the water immediately engulfed her.

A startled cry escaped her, mouth filling with water, the cry becoming bubbles and pure terror. For a moment, she thought there was a cry from the shore, answering her own. But with water in her ears—deafening her—there was no way to know. She kicked, weighted down by the dress. It had been stupid to jump in the water wearing everything, assuming she would be able to feel the relic and find it quickly in a shallow area.

Stupid! she thought. You’re an idiot! And now you’re going to drown. Deeper down, buried so far in her mind that she could almost ignore it, another thought uncoiled like a snake. Wouldn’t that be better?

Something huge and rough wrapped around her ankle, jerking her down and dragging her farther beneath the surface. She fought against it, kicking out, but the grip tightened. Sorcha looked down and met a pair of strange eyes, wide and flat and dark, the face and body thin and rocky. A collection of stones brought to life—a cairn taken human form.

Its grip moved from her ankles to her knees, then her thighs, hips, and finally to her waist. It brought her closer, their faces almost touching. She struggled, inhaling water in a gasp, and terrible pressure built in her chest. Then the creature moved, propelling them deeper down, farther into the lake. Sorcha choked and inhaled more water, fighting the creature, desperate for air and the surface. But it held tight as the world went dark.