Chapter 17

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.”

“Should I be worried you’ll try to stab me?”

No, I might try to kiss you instead. Heat fanned across her cheeks with the thought, and her breath caught as he motioned for her to come toward him. She went, thankful to be in the shelter of his body and blocked from the wind for a moment.

“Where will you keep the dagger?” he asked, running his gaze over the riding dress and thick tights she wore. Adrian twitched her skirt, the red fabric snapping out in the wind. “Do you want to remove this? It could get tangled.”

“It’s cold.” Sorcha lifted her skirt and tucked the sheathed blade into the right calf-high boot she wore. After stamping her feet to make sure it wouldn’t move, she let her skirt drop back into place. “See?”

“And if you lose it?”

“I won’t.”

“Are you so sure?” he asked, gesturing her to hold her arms up. “Come here, I’ll tie this around your waist.”

Adrian tied the rope around her waist, each movement quick and efficient, no trembling hands or furtive looks. He kept his eyes on the rope, checking the knot and nodding to Magnus and Ivo as they tested the wooden support arm that would ease her off the cliff edge. They promised it was sturdy, but even as Sorcha watched, it swayed in the wind, blurred by fog and mist that was quickly becoming rain.

“Lantern and flint. Do you know how to use these?” Adrian asked, holding them up.

“Yes.”

“Will you be able to if your hands are cold and shaking?”

Sorcha lifted one shoulder. “I won’t have a choice.”

Adrian nodded, handing them to her. Sorcha fumbled with the length of rope, her cold hands clumsy. Without a word, he stepped forward and took the lantern, then secured it to her body. He pressed the flint into her hand, his touch gentle and his gloved index finger making a small circle on her palm. Her hands looked so small in his, pale against the black leather.

“Where are your gloves?” he asked, voice soft, the wind whipping it away.

“What?” Sorcha was confused by the tone and needed a moment to digest the flurry of emotions and sensations his touch brought to the surface.

Any time he touched her, he wore gloves. There had been times—like when he’d dipped his hand into her bath—that he hadn’t been wearing them. But whenever there was a real chance of skin-to-skin contact, he touched her wearing gloves.

“For your hands. It will help with the rope.”

“Oh,” she said, handing the flint back to pat a lump in her pocket. She pulled the crimson leather gloves free, quickly slipping them on.

She glanced around, eyes briefly coming into contact with Revenant. Hate. Pure and burning, and evident in the fists clenched at his side. Sorcha shivered, bringing her gaze back to Adrian.

“Put this in your pocket,” Adrian said, holding the flint out until she took it. “We’re going to wrap another section around your thighs to take some of the pressure off your waist. It will be more like a harness that way. When you reach the cave, you can loosen it around your hips, but don’t remove it completely unless you are absolutely positive you can tie these knots again.”

“What if the rope isn’t long enough?”

“It will be.” Adrian adjusted the rope, accepting another length from Thompson, who glanced at her and away with an air of indifference.

Sorcha stood with her arms out as Adrian adjusted the harness.

“And it will be strong enough to pull both myself and the relic back up?”

“Yes.”

“You sound so sure.” Sorcha snorted. “What if you drop me?”

Adrian paused, eyes resting on her before moving back to the rope—continuing to test the knots. “I won’t let you fall, Sorcha.”

“I almost drowned in the lake,” Sorcha whispered, not sure if she was reminding him or herself.

“But you won’t here,” Adrian said.

Sorcha scoffed. “Only because the fall would kill me first.”

Even now, several days later, she wasn’t sure how she felt about Lacus and the lake. What she truly wanted was for things to return to how they’d been before the Empire of the White Snake had moved west and south. She wanted Ines to gossip with and Kahina Kira to help interpret dreams and Rohan to answer questions about the tattoos he had planned for her. She wanted to read all the books and scrolls in the library, wanted to read the most secret of them, and come to truly understand her place in the temple. As the oracle. The vessel. If she went on, collecting the relics at the behest of Prince Eine, then it was possible her friends and family would return.

But at what cost?

Sorcha followed Adrian to the cliff edge, holding her breath.

“Ready?” Adrian asked, ready to let her go, to drop her. “Hold on.”

Sorcha nodded, looking down and touching the rope around her waist and thighs with the lantern tied to it—checking and double-checking. She met his gaze and searched for the man who’d whispered shattering words into the wind, hoping they’d take them away, that they wouldn’t linger between them. She was sure now he hadn’t meant for her to hear him.

Heart pounding, stomach in her feet, she let them swing her out. Rain misted her hair and face, the wind blowing up her skirt as she hung over the rocks below. With a creak of wood and rope, the Black Tomeis began to lower her.

Adrian stood at the cliff edge and fed out one of the guiding ropes, eyes following her down. But his expression gave her nothing.

* * *

Sorcha bumped against the cliff face, scraping her shoulder, and small stones tumbled away into the waves below. It was a boiling pot she would never come out of if she was dropped into it. Wind whistled in her ears, drowning out everything else, even the churning water below. It cried and wailed against her, against this intrusion, warning her away.

But she had to go on. There was a cave, and within that cave lay a relic—the Saint. She would retrieve it, pull him out of his hiding place, and into the light of day.

Above, Adrian and his Black Tomeis waited, silent and suspicious, stony faces unreadable. They watched to see if she would succeed or fail, fall or rise triumphant from the sea. And what did Adrian watch for?

Adrian.

Sorcha felt the change between them in her gut. The path they were on was beginning to alter. It wasn’t the straight-and-narrow way Prince Eine had laid out before them any longer. But she wasn’t sure yet. All she knew was how she felt, the suspicion, an edge, a hint, a whisper. A soft murmur that, if she listened too closely, would vanish. Yet it was there, at the edge of her consciousness, this feeling that Adrian was tied to it all.

Sorcha bumped slowly down the cliff, jerking to a halt, the rope slipping. She cried out, the wind whipping her voice away. For a moment, she thought there was an answering cry from overhead. She lifted her face to the sky as the misting rain intensified. A bank of fog rolled over the cliff edge, gliding toward her in a wall of soft white. She gripped the rope with two red-gloved hands. It engulfed her, bringing a deafening silence and wrapping her in a cloud heavily scented with evergreen and a hint of dampened campfires.

One breath and then another passed while she twisted at the end of the rope, suspended in a world of white. It morphed and swirled around her, shapes forming and blurring, her mind turning the nothingness into faces.

The rope creaked, and she dropped several feet, her stomach free-falling. Then she saw the mouth of the cave below her—a narrow opening, barely large enough to squeeze into.

“Stop!” Sorcha called up, still falling. “Stop!”

The rope jerked to a halt, and she swung back and forth. The lantern was unlit. She would have to scramble in the darkness, light it, and hope it would stay lit. She had no idea what the cave might contain. There was a relic there, and that was all that mattered, but no hint of what might protect it. She hoped it was the remote location and nothing more; the ocean and the cliff and the waves and the incessant wail of the wind fighting to blow her away. This was dangerous enough.

And yet, in each place they’d gone, there had been something—man or creature, monster and myth. The Saint had never been left alone. Each piece cared for, cherished in these out-of-the-way places. And waiting for her.

Reaching the opening, she stretched out a foot, scrambling for it. The wind caught her, twirling her away, sending her in an arc that brought her out farther across the water and rocks beneath. The taut rope creaked with her weight.

She was grateful again for the gloves, for the protection and warmth they provided. For Adrian insisting she wear them.

That was another thing, another part of the unconscious whisper at the back of her mind. Adrian recalling her from bleak visions in the night and riding beside her in the day, the hint of emotion in his black eyes.

She pushed it away and reached for the cave opening again as she swung back, foot catching on the lip and landing one hand against the stone. She gripped the rope with the other, fingers aching, fumbling for a firm hold.

Panting with the effort, cold with fear, she managed to get inside and tugged the rope to let them know she’d made it. She took several steps into the darkness, bringing the rope with her—a lifeline to the top of the cliff, to Adrian, to the world beyond this secret place.

After opening the lantern hatch, she fumbled with the flint. Orange sparks fell before it caught; light jumped, pale yellow with a tinge of blue at the edges. The wind howled at the cave mouth, frustrated with her escape, leaving her ears aching. She was free for the moment, her body filled with her pounding heart and gasping lungs. She took a breath and then another, closing her eyes and picturing the silent temple, the quiet of sunbeams with dust motes, the muted city beyond the walls.

She waited until her heart calmed, until breathing was easier, until the fear receded from her mind, before beginning down the passage.

* * *

The lantern light shone across the painted walls—the stone beneath smoothed to perfection, the paint bright even after countless years. It had been a time of peace. Each new section that was illuminated depicted prosperity and happy people. But Sorcha knew the Saint’s life had also been filled with death and retribution. He’d brought vengeance with him, dealt out death to nonbelievers, and terrorized nations. But that had all been forgotten, his followers dwindling down to hundreds instead of thousands, his reach fading into history.

There were still believers, the faithful praying in temples, protecting his remains.

And she was one of them, wasn’t she?

Then the colors changed, darker now, the tones richer. This was a new chapter of the Saint’s life—a golden skeleton on a throne and riding into battle. A final battle filled a wall from floor to ceiling, an androgynous figure holding a burning sword high. The Saint fell and was broken apart, red-robed figures carrying away the pieces, disappearing into locations far and wide. She recognized the Golden Citadel and the sunken city right away, but there were other locations not tattooed on her skin.

Following the story, Sorcha held her breath as a line of worshippers came together. They carried the relics, moving in a single line across a barren landscape to an imposing stone tower.

The next section was an interior room with the relics laid out on an altar and a woman on the floor, a bright crimson flood flowing upward, converging on the relics.

Sorcha stopped, breathing heavily, with a hand to her chest—pressed flat to keep her heart in place. Stay, you don’t know for certain this is your future.

But, of course, it was. She’d known this. Seen it in the night, been woken from this moment again and again by Adrian. For the first time in her life, she understood the visions without Kahina Kira.

The knowledge—excruciating truth—hurt as she swallowed tears.

Whatever the future held, she must continue. There was no true choice. She was the vessel.

Behind her, the wind called, rushing across the mouth of the cave but unable to reach her. The air was motionless inside, stale, with nothing but dry stone and the oil from the lantern to change the texture. The floor was smooth, flat stone—no rocks, no dirt, nothing. It looked as if it had been swept every day for hundreds of years. Even the paintings seemed bright and refreshed.

She paused, holding her breath to listen. An intense, watchful silence greeted her.

All hope that it had been the natural barriers protecting the Saint vanished. There was something else here.

But she had to keep going. There would be no returning without this piece, unless she untied the rope and ran straight out into the sea, plummeting to whatever lay beyond this life. But if she did, could she be sure the Saint wouldn’t be there waiting for her?

The tunnel began to widen, easing open, the roof rising, the narrow path expanding. The lantern light fought to penetrate the darkness, the velvety pitch black that hadn’t seen a light in countless years.

* * *

The cavern around her was vast. Darkness lurked beyond her circle of light, a hunter barely kept at bay. It swallowed her steps, soaking up her noise. She took a step and then another into the room, eyes going everywhere at once; the floor could drop away, or something could fall from the ceiling. A glint of light caught her eye, a richness so at odds with the surroundings.

A single rib bone encased in gold and encrusted with rubies glittered on a plinth.

It called to her, pulled her forward. A invisible wire attached to her ribs, a tether, an unbreakable line—an inescapable bond. A part of her rejoiced at the sight, the reason for her existence, the way that she belonged to the Saint and the way he belonged to her.

But what if what Lacus promised was true? The Saint would bring destruction and death. How could her family come back if all he brought was bleak horror? But the call of the rib bone was strong—imploring and sweet—whispering to her. The halo of light moved with her, around her. Her hand trembled slightly as her heart raced. Each piece that came together reminded her how close she was—what the prince had collected and now what she’d found.

Soon she would meet him.

Sorcha took another step forward and reached out tentatively to stroke the bone, jewels cool and bumpy beneath her fingertips. The sensation was electric—skin to gold, skin to bone, heart tied to this relic. But she hesitated to pick it up.

How would she be able to get herself and the bone up the cliff face in that wind? What if the rain had worsened? Or the fog was too thick? What if the rope snapped?

Stop it, she thought. Don’t borrow trouble.

It made the most sense to tie the relic to the rope and have them pull it up first. If the relic slipped from her grip and fell into the sea—to the churning, angry waters beating relentlessly against the cliff—it would be gone forever. But if the bone went up first, there was a smaller chance of it being lost. Then the rope could be sent back down for her. They’d have to; they still needed her to find the other relics. The Black Tomeis wouldn’t be facing any of these trials for the relics. Not even for their prince.

Holding her breath, Sorcha lifted the relic from the plinth, ten times as large as a normal rib bone, as if it belonged to an ancient prehistoric creature. But it did, didn’t it? The Saint was an ancient creature.

A rustling sound broke the silence, and Sorcha froze.

It had only been her breathing and the sounds of boots on stone, the thrum of blood in her ears. There had been no other sounds. Even the wind had faded, abandoning her to the inner world of the cavern—lurking and sulky beyond its mouth.

In the dark, something rubbed against stone, a chink of pebbles falling. Almost not there, almost nonexistent. So faint for a moment, she wondered if her brain was playing tricks on her. If it was just her imagination wanting to fill the silence that pressed on her like slabs of ice.

But again, it came, the pattering fall of small rocks, a shift of sand.

Removing her hand from the rib bone, she stood breathless. Was this the moment she would meet whoever guarded the Saint?

She held the lantern higher and waited, counting heartbeats and wanting to speak but afraid to find out what might be there. Stepping away from the plinth, she moved toward the far wall, holding the lantern above her head. She walked until the light fell across the stone rising up and up, curving to where it must meet the unseen ceiling. But the light didn’t reach that far.

She’d expected painted walls, but these were bare. Dark and polished to a high shine. They looked as if they’d been polished for centuries, smoothed over and over until all imperfection was rubbed away. The stone was so black it absorbed her light, the lantern flame unable to penetrate, barely even reflecting on the surface. It seemed to suck it up—all-consuming—despite the mirrored finish.

But something about it was changing. She reached out tentatively, worried about what contact might mean but unable to stop as she pressed her hand flat against the surface. As soon as her fingers connected, the stone began to crack, a hairline fracture shooting up from her palm. Others joined it, cracks spreading, connecting and branching off from each other. The surface began to crumble.

Stepping back quickly, she watched in horror as it continued to break apart and revealed what lay beneath. Something jerked, twisting free of the rock. Shards of the wall broke away, tumbling down to shatter against the cavern floor. A skeletal hand emerged—pale and polished—catching the light as if it too were gilded. Bones carved from mother-of-pearl. More sections of the wall crumbled, and another hand appeared. Then another.

They reached outward, grasping at thin air, fighting to be free as if the stone were not solid but thick, clinging mud. It released them reluctantly. Around the cavern, she heard other places crumbling, other cracks widening. Sharp cracks filled her head, ringing through her body. They beat against her skin and poured cold, hard fear down her spine.

As she watched, a shoulder blade emerged and a skeletal foot stepped out, the leg following. Then, a six-foot skeleton was struggling to pull its other leg and arm free. It turned to her, sockets full of shadows, so dark her lantern could not penetrate the hollows. It grinned at her, snapping pointed, serrated teeth, lunging and fighting to break free.

* * *

Sorcha’s scream filled his ears, a piercing cry that seized his muscles, froze his blood.

“Pull me up! Pull me up!”

There was panic in her voice, so much fear the howling wind was incapable of sweeping it all away.

“Get her up!” he ordered Revenant and Thompson, and the others rushed to help.

They worked together, but he knew the moment he tugged the rope, it was too light. She wasn’t on it. Panic brushed him, a lingering touch, a whisper at the back of his mind.

Sorcha, he pleaded. But he couldn’t sort through the rest of his thoughts, the images flashing across his mind, her face, her hand on his chest, the feel of her quickening pulse against his fingertips. Sorcha.

“She’s not on the rope,” Thompson said.

“Keep pulling,” Adrian responded, motioning with his hand.

The end of the rope slipped over the edge, and a golden bone bumped across the stone, muted in the half-light, hinting at the richness. It was a huge rib bone, the curve pronounced.

Working quickly, he undid the knot, and Domenico came forward with a length of velvet.

“Adrian!” she screamed again, a hoarse edge in the tone—terror and desperation.

He dropped the rope back over the side, hoping she’d catch it. Several long seconds—years of tense anticipation—passed. Wind wailed in his ears, carrying a drawn-out snarling, cry.

The rope jerked, then went taut—her weight on the other end. They pulled on the rope again, but Sorcha swinging back and forth made it difficult for them to keep their grip. He pulled quickly, grunting with the speed and effort, while the men at his back took up the slack.

Finally, she crested the lip of the cliff, scrabbling for a handhold, searching for purchase on the bare stone.

“Hold on,” he said, and he didn’t know if it was to her or his men.

Moving quickly, he dropped the rope and reached for Sorcha, grabbing her wrists—fighting to get a better grip.

Her face was pale, with shallow scratches stretching from temple to ear. Blood was in her hair and snaking down her neck.

She trembled, and he pulled her into his arms, whispering against her hair. “I’ve got you.”

Her blood was on his hands, on his armor, and when she looked up at him, his heart twisted. Fear and pain colored her features, but when she looked at him, relief washed over her gaze. He ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and she winced. Her sleeves were damp with blood.

“What happened?” he asked, lifting her arms and inspecting them carefully.

They looked like bite wounds, ragged half-moons, but no flesh was missing, only punctures and nothing else. Pale sections of her skin could be glimpsed through ripped fabric; places he wanted to cover. He could smell the saltwater in her hair, and her cheeks were red with the biting cold rolling in from the water. The urge to pull her against him, hide her from the world swept through him.

“We need to leave this place,” she whispered. “I don’t know if they can climb.”

“Who?”

“The things that guarded the relic. Please.” She touched his chest. “We need to leave.”

The heat of her hand warmed his skin, sending a shudder down his spine. Her touch was like being branded by fire, each time, again and again. He wanted to make her feel safe. He wanted to find out what her touch felt like on his bare skin.

Adrian gestured to Revenant to pack up. Thompson and Ivo lingered, studying Sorcha’s wounds from a distance. Revenant, Ivo, Bran, and Domenico watched the edge of the cliff with their hands on their swords.

A mad chattering filled the air, rising above the crashing waves and punishing wind. Sorcha glanced behind her, wide eyed and poised to run.

“Now,” she whispered, clutching his arm. “We leave now or we die in this place.”