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

Ser Voyne takes another bite half to spite her, half to model good behavior. Phosyne will need to eat, and soon; she is so fragile in Voyne’s arms.

When she has eaten the last of what is on her plate, ignoring Phosyne’s wheezing breaths, close to panic, Ser Voyne drinks deeply from her cup. It is water, not wine. The cool sweetness of it breaks over her, and the confusion is back.

She knows the taste that lingers in her mouth, the fat that coats her lips and the shreds of flesh stuck in her teeth. Just like she knows these halls, just like she knows that she should be wearing metal. Frowning, she takes another bite, chews slowly, closes her eyes. It comes apart easily between her teeth, slides over her tongue, and she remembers this, though last time she had it, it was not spiced half so well. Last time, there was smoke. Last time, there was blood. Last time, she had been so hungry, the hungriest she had ever been, and the meat had been parceled out so carefully between her and her men, and . . .

“Ser Voyne,” her Lady says, pulling her away from the memory. “Attend to your charge. She needs your firm hand, I think.”

Of course. Phosyne’s body struggles in her arms, and Ser Voyne clamps down harder, holding the frail woman against her chest. With one hand, she grabs up a honey-drenched fig; with the other, she presses against Phosyne’s jaw, spreads her chapped lips wide. With one finger, she pushes between Phosyne’s teeth.

“Eat,” Voyne demands.

Phosyne bites down. Blood spills from Voyne, and she cries out, dropping the fig, loosing her hold. And then the pain is gone, and Phosyne is gone, sprinting wildly for the exit. Voyne is on her feet, but the Lady reaches out and clasps her bleeding hand. She draws it to Her own lips, and Voyne pants, torn between two duties.

“Stay, Ser Voyne. She will come back, I am sure. She must eat sometime,” the Lady murmurs into her blood. But Ser Voyne cannot hear her, because she knows the taste of this meat, and Phosyne is not in her tower, and all of this is wrong, it’s wrong, she knows these halls, she knows this anger inside of her and—

And she’s supposed to be saving this castle.

She pulls her hand from her Lady’s lips, and races after Phosyne.

From behind, she thinks she hears her Lady laugh.

21

21

Voyne’s blood is sharp and metallic in Phosyne’s mouth. It’s also rich and full of life, and she should be swallowing it down just from desperation, but instead she spits the moment she gets into the keep proper, even though the knight is likely just behind her.