Cover

Dedication

For David,

you knew this one was special right from the start

Contents

1. Cover
2. Title Page
3. Dedication
4. 1
5. 2
6. 3
7. 4
8. 5
9. 6
10. 7
11. 8
12. 9
13. 10
14. 11
15. 12
16. 13
17. 14
18. 15
19. 16
20. 17
21. 18
22. 19
23. 20
24. 21
25. 22
26. 23
27. 24
28. 25
29. 26
30. 27
31. 28
32. 29
33. 30
34. 31
35. 32
36. 33
37. 34
38. 35
39. 36
40. 37
41. 38
42. 39
43. 40
44. 41
45. 42
46. 43
47. 44
48. 45
49. 46
50. 47
51. 48
52. 49
53. 50
54. 51
55. Acknowledgments
56. About the Author
57. Also by Caitlin Starling
58. Copyright
59. About the Publisher

1

1

In fifteen days, there will be no food in Aymar Castle.

She has done the arithmetic forward and back. They have been down to strangled rations for weeks now, and there have been mistakes. Thefts. Impulsive, desperate gorgings. Even if every soul in Aymar Castle keeps to their allotted portion—and Phosyne does not think that is likely—every soul in Aymar Castle will run out of food in fifteen days.

And though Phosyne is one of the few outside the Priory who can work sums, everybody else is bound to realize this soon.

They are packed in one atop the other; a castle meant to hold at most three hundred for any length of time now shelters three times that. Every nook and cranny is full to bursting of terrified farmers and a pitiful handful of overwrought knights. They’ve been living in this unbearable press for almost six months now. It’s a testament to Ser Leodegardis’s leadership that they’ve lasted this long, that the siege outside their walls has not broken them, that plague has not crashed down heavy on their heads. But time is inexorable, as is the human stomach.

Relief has not come. They do not know if it will.

Fifteen days.

Phosyne counts out her own stores, meant to last her another three. She doesn’t eat much, so they might last her a little longer, except she has two little mouths to feed that the quartermaster doesn’t know about. Her companions slink along the walls and ceiling, all long, sleek bodies and dark scales, looking for a crevice to slip through. Ornuo stole a chicken a month and a half ago, but Phosyne has since stopped up her few windows. No chance of that happening again. (She does not know the depths of their hungers and desperations, nor even their real nature. She worries that they will begin to nibble on her toes as she sleeps.)

She tosses out a bit of ox hide she can’t bring herself to stomach yet, and Pneio snaps it from the air, then retreats beneath her desk to gnaw at it. His brother darts after him. They tussle.

For herself, she takes nothing, instead locking the strips of tough dried meat and gristle back inside the heavy box she’s reassigned for the purpose. Later, she’ll eat later, after she’s made some progress. Progress is the only reason she’s been afforded the rations she has been, the only reason she is allowed to live alone despite the pack of bodies throughout the rest of the keep. Progress earns her the candles she burns down to nubs in the close darkness of her stoppered tower.

Progress has not been forthcoming, as of late.