Chapter 8

They traveled for two days before Sorcha saw the Traveling City.

The Wolf kept her close, sharing the saddle with her, leaving Nox irritated at carrying the extra weight. The horse tried to bite her every chance he got. When she wasn’t sharing the horse with the Wolf, he was sleeping beside her when they camped, and when she needed some privacy to take care of things, he stood with his back a few feet away.

By the time they reached the prince’s city, she was almost glad. But as they neared, her heart dropped, filling her stomach with acid and stress, sinking until it could sink no further.

The Traveling City rose from the plains—a dark wooden mass—floating above the dead grass and trampled snow. White banners with an emblem of a black snake flapped from the highest towers, easily several stories tall, though it was hard to know the exact height.

Sorcha would have called it a village if it hadn’t been so extravagant. A traveling city, a moving palace, slowly overtaking a stationary world. It moved forward constantly on a grinding journey without end.

No, that wasn’t right. It would end with the Saint. It would end in blood.

As they neared, the carvings on the wooden walls and towers became clear. Spring trees, flowing branches laden with blossoms covered the outer walls. Animals peeked around the trunks, gathered in small groups beneath the flowering boughs. Even the towers were covered in carvings of the sky—constellations and fluffy clouds, a lightning storm striking. It was strange and beautiful, and unlike any place she’d ever seen or heard of.

Curiosity got the better of her.

“How does it move?” she asked, searching the gloom beneath the city.

It was a forest of piers and giant wheels of wood banded in iron.

“Oxen.” The Wolf nodded at the herds that had come into view behind the city.

Long lines of animals were tethered together with mounds of hay before them. There were thousands. Hundreds of thousands. She’d never seen animals quite like them, huge and broad with dark hides and long curved horns that weighed heavy on their heads.

The Wolf pointed to a village of gray canvas tents beyond the animals where cooking fires were lit and torches burned. “And men.”

Sorcha nodded, wondering how it had all come to be. Who could have dreamed of such a place? A city plodding across the landscape, crossing rivers and mountains piece by piece. It was something from a dream.

As they reached the city, a wide set of stairs lowered from a hidden location beneath the large main doors. Metal gears grated and wood creaked as the stairs dropped the last few feet in a rush, thudding onto the ground and sending chunks of dirt flying.

The Wolf’s hands slid around her waist, his chest warm against her back for only a few seconds before he lifted her up and dropped her from the horse without warning. Nox snorted, swinging his head in her direction, a glint of malicious intent in his eye.

“Stop.” Sorcha held up a finger, and the horse’s ears pricked forward, listening intently to her hard tone. “No more. No biting. No stomping at me. You’re done.”

One ear twitched backward and then forward again, and she took that as an acknowledgement.

“Are you a horse witch now?”

Sorcha turned, meeting Revenant’s gaze—her irritation flaring. Witch. As if it were an insult. The man watched her with more malice than she would have thought possible for a stranger. More hatred than she’d ever encountered. But he averted his gaze, eyes shifting down and away, when the Wolf dismounted behind her.

“Inside,” the Wolf said, drawing her attention and gesturing toward the stairs. “Now.”

He began to climb the stairs, expecting her to follow without more prompting. They knew who’d won in the woods that night after all. She didn’t have the backbone to kill him, but if she ran from him now, she wouldn’t get far, and he might kill her despite the prince’s orders.

* * *

“Does she speak?” The man looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her torn sleeve and knotted hair—likely finding her unexceptional. His lip curled in a sneer, the heavy gold loops in his ears trembling and catching the light thrown by the torches. “Will you need to translate?”

“She understands,” Adrian replied.

“Good. Speak when you are spoken to. Keep your answers short. Use ‘Your Highness’ when addressing the prince. Keep your eyes on the ground.” The steward stepped forward, grasping her arm and squeezed until her knees bent. “Kneel, temple girl. Honor the prince who keeps you alive.”

“Remove your hand.”

Sorcha and Adrian spoke at the same time, his voice overshadowing hers. She glanced at him with a quick, furtive look, and he could see the surprise in her face.

“You forget yourself, steward,” Adrian said.

The man released her at once, eyes glittering with malice. “I’m an extension of His Highness.”

“As am I.”

A gong sounded in the next room, deep and ominous, calling the courtiers to the throne room. The prince was ready for them. The steward gave her a tight smile, malice becoming pleasure.

Adrian kept his face impassive, a mask of nothing. It would be a mistake to let the steward, let alone the prince, see anything of his emotions. Even the anger could hurt him.

“This way,” the steward said, gesturing to the doors.

They were tall and skinny—from polished floor to high painted ceiling—overlaid with gold and set with precious stones. Incense burned nearby, a sweet, heavy scent that reminded him of childhood. Despite the torches and the lit braziers that flickered beyond the opening doors, shadows clung to the corners of the room, hiding in the carved rafters of the ceiling.

Adrian took her elbow, guiding her through the door, ready to feed her to the wolves.

* * *

The court glittered in the dim light—exquisite fabric rustling, gold chains clinking. The people moved, restless as a flock of birds pinned to the floor. The opulence was beyond anything Sorcha could have imagined.

The Golden Citadel had been wealthy, full of rich and powerful people, and the temple she’d grown up in had been one of the richest in the city. But here, each person wore velvet, silk, and lace, each covered in gold and faceted gems. The women wore elaborate headdresses. Some had veils covering their faces and lustrous pearls woven into their hair, while diamonds glinted on fingers, and others wore dark eye makeup accented with tiny, delicate beauty marks in the shape of a snake. Faces turned toward her, sharp and hungry. The room was full of staring eyes.

Sorcha hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to move forward, unsure about being presented here. The Wolf grabbed her upper arm and pulled her inside, marching her across the polished wooden floor. They were as smooth and reflective as marble, deep green in color with flecks of gold gleaming down the aisle. The Wolf’s boots clicked against the surface, her own soft shuffle following, as the court began to whisper.

Jeweled hands covered mouths; painted fans snapped open to hide the lower half of faces. Several different languages were being spoken, some she recognized, others completely foreign. She kept her eyes on the floor, refusing to acknowledge the whispered insults. At the end of the long room, the dark prince waited on a dais. There were two chairs, and he occupied the smaller of the two off to the side.

She wondered who was missing, who would have been in the place of honor.

The Wolf stopped her a few feet from the prince and kneeled, his leather creaking, head bowed. When she did not bend her knee, he pulled her sharply down beside him. She hit the floor with a thud, and sharp pain shot up her thighs.

“My prince?—”

From behind them, the steward spoke, but the prince held up a hand and the man went silent. His eyes—ravenous and rabid—were fixed on Sorcha, but he spoke to the Wolf.

“Adrian, thank you for bringing me the woman.”

Adrian. Sorcha wondered how such a monster could have a name at all.

“Your wish is my command, Prince.” The Wolf kept his eyes on the floor.

Silence followed his words—expectant and heavy.

Sorcha gritted her teeth against the impending questions, jaw clenching against the answers she might have to give. The rustling, whispering, and quiet seething of the room faded.

When the prince spoke again, there was no mistaking that he was speaking to her.“Tell me about the Saint.”

Sorcha closed her eyes and swallowed. She didn’t respond and wasn’t sure how to. She wanted to deny him a response but was afraid. The court whispered, voices low and distant. She opened her eyes slowly, keeping her gaze on the floor, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Your Highness,” the steward began.

The prince made a gesture, and the steward took several steps back. The door opened slowly, and his footsteps disappeared from the room.

She could feel the heat of the prince’s gaze burning though her clothes and into her skin.

Her mind raced. What could she tell him? What did he already know?

From behind her came a low groan, the sound of something heavy being dragged. Then two guards deposited a priest in front of her. The man sagged without their support, on his knees and leaning forward. She studied his face, what wasn’t bruised and bloody. He was familiar but still a stranger. His clothes however, were unmistakable.

A priest of the Saint.

He wasn’t from her temple; she’d known each person by name. He must be from another city, some other temple, another stronghold like her own. Half his face was horribly swollen, and a bandage covered one eye, blood seeping beneath it and crusting around his nose and ears. Dried blood coated his hair and clothes, cuts visible on his neck and what she could see of his skin beneath the ripped robes. She was afraid to look any closer. His one good eye was closed, and he was humming softly to himself, not even a song, just a gentle self-soothing hum.

“This priest has been helpful.”

The prince’s voice came from a distance, the man groaning with his words.

“He has given me information I sought.” There was a pause. “But I require more from you.”

The priest’s one good eyelid began to flutter.

“I will make sure your life is unchanged. You will be able to worship and live as you always have. And when the time comes, I will ensure the temple you preside over is as beautiful and grand as any that can be built across the continent.”

The priest opened his eye, the pupil constricted, rolling as he eased into consciousness.

“But if you don’t help me,” the prince continued, “your fate will be his. I have no time or mercy for those who don’t serve me.”

Sorcha watched the priest, heart pounding, as the man finally focused and saw her. A horrible hope filled his face, recognition dawning, and he began to babble excitedly. His words ran together as he reached for her with one broken hand.

“You’ll do it. You’ll bring him back. It doesn’t matter. You’ll save us all. Bring back the Saint, and you will change everything. This body doesn’t matter. This broken flesh is dying. But he will resurrect us all.”

She leaned away from his grasping fingers, tears rolling down her cheeks as he continued, voice rising and filling the silent court, shrill and bouncing off the walls. He was louder than her heartbeat, louder than her thoughts, louder than anything she’d ever thought to hear or hear again.

“You will save us all. You will bring him back. We will live again.”

Horror filled her, devastation and sorrow, fear snarling behind it all, driving it all. She couldn’t look away as the prince walked up behind the man and, without a word, slipped a dagger between his ribs. She met the prince’s gaze, unable to stop herself, swallowed by horrible consuming darkness.

The priest continued to ramble, voice softening and trailing off as blood soaked his robe, face going pale. He slumped to the side, single eye wide and fixed, lying on the floor before her until his voice finally stopped and silence rushed in to fill the void.

The prince reached for her. She flinched away but was unable to escape his grasp. Hard fingers dug into her upper arm as he pulled her to her feet, turning her away from the cooling body on the floor to face what had been brought in while the priest died.

Two pieces of the Saint lay on a burgundy velvet blanket.

The last time she’d seen the gold and jewel-encrusted hand had been the day of the fires, when the gates had finally opened beneath the onslaught of the prince’s army, the day her family died.

Anger bubbled up, furious sorrow, and she glanced behind her to the man on the floor.

“No,” the prince whispered, leaning into her. “Don’t look back.”

The jewel-encrusted and gilded bones drew her gaze—the call of the Saint, the way they weighted the room and seemed to suck in all the light. She’d never seen this bone before. She’d only ever seen the hand that her temple had housed. Once upon a time, there had been talk of a tour to visit all the relics, a pilgrimage to cement her faith. But that was something else the head priestess had promised there would be time for.

Her fingers itched to touch the new bone, what must be an arm bone but was ten times larger than any human bone. It was proportional to the hand, the bones of a giant, a myth.

“You want to touch them,” the prince said, keeping his voice low, the courtiers around them leaning forward. “I can see it on your face. Go on.”

He let go of her arm, and she took a step forward, the crowd around her fading into the background as the bones called to her. She knelt and placed her hands on the forearm bone. It was warm, as if it had been held recently, as if it were still a part of the Saint and had never cooled in death.

Somewhere, deep inside, something shifted in her soul.

Behind her, the prince was speaking again, loud enough for the whole room to hear, loud enough so that there would be no doubt of his intent.

“I know more than you might expect. I know about you. I know about the map. I’ve shown you what waits if you refuse.” He paused, studying the bones and the way she touched them, how her hands caressed them lovingly. “But how could you refuse? Your one and only purpose is to bring him back. It’s the only reason you exist.”

Sorcha paused, pulling back. He was right. There was no denying that. And she wanted to find the Saint, she needed to resurrect her people. They depended on her. But inside, another voice began to whisper, pulsing, growing stronger. What if what she brought back was worse than anything they’d yet seen? What if the Saint refused to perform the resurrections? What if all the people she loved remained dead?

Doubt. Fear. These things sat beside her desire to fulfill her purpose.

“What if I choose not to help you?” she asked softly.

“Tell me, priestess.” The prince crouched down in front of her, studying her face, the dagger held loosely in one hand while blood dripped onto the polished floor. “What choice do you think you have?”

The threat of death colored his words, unsaid but present. She was afraid to die. And that was a betrayal of all she’d been taught—all she believed. Death was nothing. The Saint would be there—he would welcome her with open arms, his devoted follower, his most beloved oracle. But faced with death, she’d chosen life, time and again. Following first the Wolf’s—Adrian’s—commands and now the prince’s.

But maybe if she survived long enough and pretended to give the conqueror what he wanted, she could find another way through. A way to keep her promises and keep her life.

Her gaze drifted back to the golden bones and then to the prince and his triumphant expression.

“I’ll take your silence as acceptance.”