Chapter 6

The Wolf rode behind her on the way back to the army. Sorcha kept her spine straight, wanting to avoid any contact with him, but it was impossible. Awareness coursed through her, the contact inevitable, as his arm brushed her or when he leaned forward. His thighs were on either side of her, and even as she leaned forward, it was impossible to escape the contact.

Briefly, she wondered if he was leaning into her on purpose, keeping the contact even as she tried to wriggle away as far as possible.

“Can you not sit so close?” she asked finally, wriggling forward in the saddle for the hundredth time.

Behind her, the Wolf snorted, switching the reins from one hand to the other, brushing her leg as he did.

Sorcha shivered at the delicate contact, stomach twisting. She didn’t like the way it made her feel, the way his warmth at her back was somehow comforting.

Sorcha wanted comfort, needed to be held and told that everything was going to be okay. It felt as if nothing would ever be the same, and she knew it wouldn’t. For a little while, she wanted to pretend, to forget. But the blood beneath her nails and dried on the hem of her dress was a constant reminder. And the hole in the middle of her chest would never be filled, the grief never relieved.

Bring us back.

But how? How was she going to find all the relics on her own with an army searching as well? How would she find them if the Wolf was on her heels? She needed to escape. Rohan had promised there would be help in the other temples, that she would never be alone.

There would be an opportunity to escape, and she would take it.

* * *

The Wolf’s men were waiting for him as they reached the outskirts of the main encampment of the army of the White Snake. The man she’d heard called Revenant had ridden ahead to ensure hot water would be waiting and to dispatch a messenger to the Traveling City.

As they approached, a group came forward, men she recognized from the small camp from the night before. Then, their teeth had been blackened, tongues dark, but now their mouths were pink and clean. Sorcha wondered if it were a ritual of sorts, a superstition.

Revenant stood at the head of the group, and she felt his yellow-eyed stare boring into her. She shivered, not liking the sensation, feeling his dislike as if it were a physical force.

When Nox reached them, Sorcha slid off the horse before the Wolf could dismount and help her down. As she’d come to expect, the horse turned to nip at her, and she darted out of the way, his teeth barely missing the sleeve of her dress.

“You’re a mean horse,” Sorcha whispered, glancing up to catch the barest curve of the Wolf’s lips as he dismounted.

“The general is here and wants to speak with you,” Revenant said.

The Wolf nodded. “Take her to my tent. Don’t let her leave.”

Revenant stepped forward, reaching for Sorcha, an unpleasant gleam in his eyes.

She shook her head, leaning out of his reach, not wanting his hands on her again.

“Don’t touch me,” she said.

The hatred in Revenant’s gaze intensified as he kept coming, the intention on his face clear. He would do what the Wolf said, but he would make it as painful an experience for her as possible.

The Wolf held up a hand, stopping Revenant in his tracks.

The man nodded, accepting the silent rebuke, and turned back to Sorcha. “Follow me.”

Sorcha looked from one to the other, the Wolf’s face promising force if she refused. She fell into step behind Revenant. Walking through the camp was like walking in a dream where you’ve forgotten your clothes and you’re on display for everyone to see. Faces turned to track her progress, curiosity and distaste on their features.

She’d never been in a war camp, surrounded by thousands of men, smoke from fires curling into the sky. Campfires and blood, ash and death. In the distance, she could hear horses and people calling to each other, and farther away, the sounds of steel grinding against stones, being sharpened and honed for the next fight.

The camp around her was as big as a city, but without the stone walls, slate tiles, and thatched roofs. Here, the round tents were heavy shades of gray and black, colorful banners limp on long poles stuck into the ground beside entrances. Some of the tent flaps were open, revealing low-lit interiors, shadows moving, a woman laughing.

She turned at the sound, wondering who it could be. What woman would want to be here? A shiver touched her. She wouldn’t be here if she had a choice.

The noises died down a little as they entered an area with smaller tents, a circle with a large fire in the middle, and one large tent. Benches circled the fire, and cooking pots and other clutter—a spit for roasting—gathered round.

She looked around, the quiet unnatural compared to the way she’d come. All the banners here were black, solid, and as if each had been cut from the darkest of skies. No moon or stars, no light. Only the blackness of a dead heart.

“In here,” Revenant said, his accent running the words together.

He held the tent flap back, revealing a dim interior, a brazier burning at the center.

She glanced at him, but he was looking away, back the way they’d come. His expression was carefully kept in check—smooth and unbothered. Whatever he might think of her, he kept it to himself. Still, he radiated animosity.

She stepped inside, and the tent flap fell behind her with a heavy thump, cutting her off from the noise of the camp. Hesitating, wrapping her arms around herself, she remained at the entrance, looking around the tent.

Dim light filled the space, flowing from a round opening at the center of the tent. A brazier flickered below it, smoke rising and disappearing through the hole. There were minimal furnishings in the large space. Two folding chairs made out of tan canvas and sleek polished wood and a lightweight desk covered in maps, letters, and sheaves of parchment. It all looked easy to pack up and travel with.

On the far side of the tent sat a cot covered in furs and blankets. A stand with an oval mirror and water basin was beside it. Steam curled up from the basin, calling to her—cajoling and tempting. More than anything, she wanted to be clean. There was a low bench beside it with bandages and soap, a collection of what looked like medicine bottles, and a rack to hold the Wolf’s armor. Two chests completed the room’s contents, one open and full of clothing, the other closed with a book resting on top of it.

Sorcha removed her filthy slippers, leaving them beside the tent door, stepping on the woven grasses that made the smooth floor. It felt like a house, more permanent than she’d expected it to be.

Slowly, she moved around the space, looking over the papers on his desk but not touching them. There was a map of the Citadel, the familiar lines jarring in this place, the roads and landmarks named, and the temple of the Saint circled in red ink.

They’d come for her. They’d known she would be there.

But who had told them? The Wolf had said a priest, but what priest? From where?

The other maps on the desk were of the continent—the Black Stone Mountains to the north with a pass marked, the ruins to the south and the volcanoes that rumbled constantly there. There were maps of cities and forests, maps of small cities and even smaller villages. Some were well-worn, the edges frayed, the ink faded. Others were newer, the colors brighter, with flourishes and other details.

Places the Wolf had been, places he had yet to see.

Places to which he would bring death.

Sorcha’s stomach twisted at the thought, and she fought to clear her mind—Ines’s face going pale, the feel of her life leaving her body, the warmth of blood on her hands.

Turning to the steaming water, she began to wash the blood from her hands.

* * *

The tent flap lifted, the scent of cooking food drifting in, roasting meat and the earthy richness of root vegetables. Men chattered around the fire, and someone laughed. The last vestiges of light from the setting sun touched her face, shocking her with warmth. She held a hand up to shade her eyes, pulling in a startled breath.

The Wolf stood there, taking in the interior at a glance—Sorcha curled by the brazier in two of the folding chairs, a book on the history of the Empire of the White Snake in her hand. He moved to the washstand and peeled his cloak away. After hanging it on the stand, he sat on the oak bench beside it to work his heavy boots free.

Sorcha sat up, stiff in his presence. The energy he brought to the space crackled through the air, settling to buzz beneath her breastbone.

She watched him, her hands clenched around the book. He didn’t look at her as he stood and began to strip. Layer after layer came off, the red leather armor shed like a second skin. She couldn’t look away as he removed the tunic, pulling the thin cotton shirt over his head to reveal his muscled torso covered in fading scars. When he reached for the waist of the pants, she sucked in a breath and turned away, cheeks heating.

“What’s your name?” he asked as clothing rustled.

“Don’t you know it?” Her question came out breathless, and she fought to keep her gaze on the book.

Water splashed, and he let out a breath, not a sigh exactly, but close.

“If I knew your name, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Then how did you find me?” she asked, turning to look at him.

The Wolf wore nothing but a thin pair short pants, his back to her, hands braced against the basin stand. Their gazes met in the mirror, and he arched an eyebrow at her. Dark eyes. Black in the light of the fire and in the shadows of the tent. Eyes so deep she could fall into them and lose herself. The muscles in his back rippled as he shifted, picking up the cloth from the basin and wringing it out. Sorcha swallowed.

“The vessel. A young woman with unusual tattoos. Dark hair, green eyes. On the run, looking for a way out of the city. Possibly guarded by a member of the Crimson Cult.” He spoke so easily, so matter of fact—her life reduced to a few words.

He looked away, going back to the water, and smoothed a wet cloth over his face and neck.

“Who gave you all that information?”

“A priest from the Summer Palace.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

She shivered. His tone was ice—so calm—as if death meant nothing. The temple had taught her that it was a brief moment, something to pass through to the other side, where the Saint waited. But this man? What did death mean to him when he meted it out so easily to others who didn’t have faith?

“Why am I here?” she whispered.

“The prince wants you here.”

“But why? I’m not important!” It was a lie, and she knew he saw through her protest.

“You aren’t the vessel for the Saint?” he asked in a low voice.

She froze, terror racing through each vein, the hair on the back of her neck standing. Warning bells jarred in her mind. There was nothing to hide. There was no playing dumb. This man was a killer, a monster, and he’d killed members of the Aureum Sanctus. He’d killed entire kingdoms, slaying city after city. Right now, she feared him more than the prince. More than death. More than what might be waiting on the other side of death for her.

“Aren’t you?” he asked again, setting the cloth down and crossing to her. He grasped her chin, tilting her face toward the firelight, studying her. “You’re the woman with the tattoos. Your eyes are green. Your hair is dark. You’re the woman I’ve heard so much about.”

Sorcha held her breath, keeping her eyes on his face, refusing to look away. His face was impassive, showing nothing, no hint or sign of his thoughts.

Slowly, she reached up, placing her hand on his. The contact was electric, somehow more intimate than his hand alone on her face. Something flashed in his eyes, like a ripple passing across a still body of water and made by something far beneath the surface.

What is this? Her thoughts raced, tension coiling in her stomach—a snake poised to strike.

She pushed the Wolf’s hand away, breaking his grip as easily as she would have a child’s. He let her go.

The Wolf nodded, stepping back, the air around them cooling.

His touch, the heat of his hand on her face, lingered. Sorcha wanted to wipe it away, erase the lingering sensation of a strong, callused hand on her face. But she remained motionless, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction beyond what she’d already shown him.

“Have you eaten?” the Wolf asked, moving to a chest and rummaging through it. A black shirt and a pair of pants appeared. He pulled them on without any sign of self-consciousness.

Sorcha shook her head.

“Yes or no,” he said.

“No,” she said, an edge of irritation slipping into her tone.

The Wolf stepped to the tent flap, pushing it back and calling to someone unseen beyond the opening.

“Food and more hot water.” He glanced back at her, going over her grubby clothes and torn slippers. “And a change of clothes for the woman.”

The person beyond the tent murmured something she couldn’t understand. A different language she hadn’t heard spoken among his men yet.

Then the tent flap fell back into the place and the Wolf moved past her to the desk.

“Food and water aren’t going to change my mind about you.”

He glanced at her, something like amusement flashing in his gaze. “I would never expect it to.”

“I refuse to eat,” she said, anger boiling, overriding the small amount of self-preservation she’d displayed so far. “Your prince won’t get the satisfaction.”

The Wolf was in front of her before she finished speaking, pulling her up and forcing her chin up until their eyes locked. When he spoke, it was in a whisper, the tone so at odds with the strength in his grip.

“You will eat.” His eyes roved over her face, dark gaze searching, and a line formed between his brows. “I will accept nothing else from you.”

“Compliance,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“Surrender.”

Sorcha opened her mouth, struggling to find words, caught in his eyes. A corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was enjoying her discomfort. She clamped her lips shut, biting the inside of her cheek. He released her, letting her stumble back into the folding chair. She sat down hard and remained there, more aware of where he’d touched her than her surroundings. She watched the fire as he added more oil and went back to his maps.

Soon, the water and food arrived—another jug placed on the stand by an old woman who shot Sorcha a curious look out of pale gray eyes. The food—flat bread and roasted meat—was placed on the desk by one of the men she’d seen around the camp the previous night. But he didn’t look at Sorcha. He didn’t need to for her to feel his hatred.

Without speaking to her, the Wolf took the rough wooden plate and held it out to her.

Surrender. But what kind?

She stood and reached out without taking another step toward him.

The Wolf moved the plate out of reach. “What’s your name?”

“I won’t?—”

“If you prefer to be only an object, I won’t refuse you that right. Vessel.”

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him that was fine. But her tongue betrayed her. “Sorcha.”

He extended the plate and waited as she took a piece of bread from it.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” he asked, black eyes on her face, watching as she put a piece of bread in her mouth.

“I don’t need to know anything more about you,” she said, half turning away, tearing the warm bread into chunks as she sat. “I know enough.”

“Do you?”

She left his question there, unanswered and ignored.