I frowned, pulling my hand close to my chest. The heart-shaped leaves tapered into fine points, and the vine formed a perfect circle without a discernible beginning or end.
It stung.
When I met Sainte’s patient gaze, I drew in a slow breath. His eyes searched, waiting for me to accept that the gods were real—that they heard the people’s prayers, if not mine.
I didn’t recall ever praying for faith.
“I need to see the priest from the north,” I said. “And Nothar wants to speak with you.”
His smile vanished, replaced by a furrowed brow. “We will go to his temple when you are ready.”
I huffed, pulling away from him and slogging toward the pool’s edge. The warm water stung the mark on my wrist, and I held it above the surface, hissing in pain.
“Be careful,” I warned, struggling to pull myself out, the wet dress clinging to my skin. “I don’t want to see what kind of damage he can do.” I waved my hand for emphasis.
If these visions truly were the gods, Nothar didn’t care for me. If the second rite was anything to go by, he would readily leave me in a snowdrift. And I was supposed to be his kin.
I couldn’t think about what he would do to Sainte.
We dressed quickly, a fur between my damp hair and my dress, and followed Edne as she hobbled up the steps. She led us through well-lit corridors to a warm, cozy room.
Whitewashed walls reflected the hearth’s light, candles adding a soft glow. The space felt inviting, but the frail figure on the bed seemed out of place amid its warmth. Swaddled in furs and blankets, his features appeared gaunt and discolored. Red and black splotches marred his skin, and open blisters on his ears oozed blood and fluid onto the white linen pillow. I swallowed nervously, taking in the unsettling sight.
Edne tsked, giving me a prod with her cane. “Go on now.”
I took a hurried step forward, glancing back at her. She smiled, shook her head, and closed the door behind her hunched form. I peered at Sainte for help, but he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. When he caught my gaze, he arched a brow, a silent challenge as if to say I got myself into this mess. Now I had to see it through.
I heaved a sigh and turned to the feeble man who looked to all the world as if he were sleeping. Sparse white hair revealed the extent of his injury. It wasn’t just his face. Any exposed skin bore the ravages of Wynterborne’s harsh kiss. I frowned. Locals knew to cover themselves against the elements. The coldbit deep here, and it wouldn’t be forgiving to someone who braved its wrath unprepared.
This was a Priest of Nothar, and an aged one as well. He should have known how to prepare for the trek and withstand the Howls.
His wrinkled mouth thinned into a smile, his eyes, the color of snow-laden clouds, opened, seeking me out. I offered an unsteady grin as he tilted his head. A raspy sound escaped his dry lips, and I instinctively moved closer.
“Wat—er.”
I glanced around, then grabbed the pitcher from the end table. After I filled the mug, I eased onto the bed’s edge and chewed my lip. How could I help him drink while he lay flat?
Sainte stepped close, solving my conundrum by slipping his strong arms under the man’s head, lifting him upright. I raised the mug to his lips, waiting as he drew in slow sips. His eyes fixed on my face as he drank, but I was too nervous I might drown him to divert my attention from his mouth for more than a second.
When he turned away from the drink with a soft sigh, Sainte lowered him to the pillow. I set the cup aside and offered a gentle smile now that he didn’t look as pale.
“You must be the Lost Princess,” he rasped.
The blankets slipped off his chest while he drank, and my grin faltered as I noticed the same sores along his torso, the black of dead skin and red, open blisters.
“Princess Elspeth, at your service,” I said quietly, tugging the furs up to his chin.
“Thank you, child,” he whispered. “You are sweet as honey—an answer to the people’s prayers.”
He lifted a weak hand from beneath the covers, and I fumbled to expose his weathered palm. I steeled myself and grasped the wound-covered limb.
“Ah, see,” I grimaced with a soft shake of my head, “the gods didn’t actually choose me.”
He frowned, cloudy eyes searching my face. “What do you mean, child?”
“The Rite of Favor,” I explained, “they chose Adastrus, not I. Though, don’t ask me why I had to endure the other rites if the last one settled them all.”
“Show me your hands.”
