Chapter 22

Fog swirled around her, obscuring the surrounding bog and leaving her to wonder if this was the right path. Or had she wandered off it, stumbling in the wrong direction, headed for sucking mud and the endlessness of preserved death?

“Who are you?”

Sorcha froze, heart stuttering, threatening to stop entirely. The voice came from behind and above her, so close—almost in her ear.

“Sorcha,” she said, pushing her voice above a whisper, keeping the tremble out of it.

“You smell of dying cities.”

“I’ve come from a dying city.”

“Have you come here to die? The mud would have you. The fog would eat you. I could help you die.”

She was too afraid to turn around and see what stood behind her. A creature. Those words—the booming, slithering echo—did not come from a human chest.

“I’ve come for the relic.”

Silence. Consideration.

“It’s time,” Sorcha whispered. “I’m the vessel.”

“Show me.”

Sorcha sucked in a breath, fingers going to her bodice, turning slightly. The only proof she had was the tattoo—an inked map and curse in one. Her salvation and death wrapped tightly around her.

“Stop,” the creature hissed. “I do not want your flesh, temple girl. I want your mind.”

“How?”

“Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”

She trembled, couldn’t stop it or help it, grateful for the darkness behind her eyes as the creature loomed over her. The mud shuddered, threatening to turn into quicksand and swallow her whole.

When Sorcha did not lift her hand, the creature took it. She gasped. Bones. Naked and bare. Stripped down to nothing. And claws, long and curved, sharp and pricking her skin, taking her gently by the hand, hovering at her side.

“Show me.”

“I don’t know how.”

A snort full of derision blew across her face. “They didn’t show you? Have they lost the gifts he gave them? Idiots. Worse than fools. Concentrate, what have you been raised for? Born for. Show me your memory.”

She knew the day that would mean something. A recent memory. The siege had just begun, raging beyond the walls, a constant background grinding. But the temple had been quiet, morning sunlight pooling on the marble floor, coming through high windows. The hand of the Saint on the altar, gilded and encrusted with jewels. They winked in the light, and for a moment, the hand appeared to move—a finger twitching in her direction, a shift in the thumb.

“Take it,” the voice hissed in her ear. “Touch him.”

In the past, she hadn’t touched him that day. She’d come to see the Saint, urged by the others to pray, to beg for mercy, for a way out of the besieged city. But she’d stood there—mind blank—listening to the sounds of violence beyond the walls.

“Touch him,” the voice demanded again.

Its breath caressed her neck, the scent of ages coming with it, preserved bones, bones that had long ago fossilized.

Sorcha reached out through her memory—what was now a vision—and brushed her fingers over the gold and jewels. They felt so cold.

A sudden fear overtook her, terror at the thought of the hand clenching her own, gripping so tight it hurt. Then the city was burning, the memory morphing into something else, blood and fire, the night in the woods when she’d cut Adrian with her blade. His face in the flickering firelight, his mouth in the dark.

The creature moved, arms coming around her, cradling her in a cage of bones. A skull rested against her own. She squeezed her eyes tighter.

“Temple girl. Vessel. You are more beautiful than you will ever understand. The bringer of life, mother of death. You lucky child, able to bring him back, to unleash him onto this world.”

She trembled, and her teeth began to chatter as a clawed hand covered her face, snapping her jaws tight.

“I know you now. It’s been so long I had lost hope. I began to think he would never come again. And I have waited for such a long time. Stay here. Don’t move. If you step away from this spot, the mud will swallow you.”

Then it was gone, releasing her, leaving her with weak knees and struggling to remain upright. She counted to ten, taking her time, letting the words stretch until they broke apart in her mind.

Temple girl. Vessel.

Sorcha opened her eyes. Huge, clawed footprints led deeper into the damp ground, mist shifting as something large came toward her.

* * *

Sorcha stumbled out of the mist, clutching the relic. A foot, oversized and heavy, bejeweled as the others had been. She’d expected Adrian to be there, waiting for her as he’d promised. But it was Revenant’s eyes she met.

“A messenger came. Adrian’s presence was requested in the Traveling City immediately. I’ll escort you there now. Prince Eine is waiting.”

Her heart sank, fear overtaking her. The Traveling City must be even closer than she’d thought. Sorcha opened her mouth, tempted to ask questions, but Revenant would not be the man to answer them.

When she closed her mouth, he must have seen her realization because his upper lip twitched with venomous derision. But he didn’t speak. He had no more words for her.

She stumbled toward Epona, who stood patiently beside him, as she clutched the golden bone. Revenant made no move to help her, and it took several tries to get up into the saddle and not lose hold of the relic. When she was seated, he clicked his tongue at his own horse, leading the way out of the bog.

“I will see you again, temple girl,” the voice called out of the fog—a promise and a threat. “Mother of death.”