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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

Then it’s confusion again. Water beads along her brow. Sweat, surely, but the cistern is also humid, the water warm from the sun. If the air out in the yard was already thick to breathe, this is like drowning.

Slowly, Phosyne lowers herself to the ground. Into the water again. It’s only a little over a foot deep, but she hunkers down into it, cups her hands beneath the surface.

Ser Voyne kneels, too. Reaches for Phosyne’s throat.

Phosyne makes herself lean forward into it, and lifts her hands between them, to Ser Voyne’s lips.

“Drink,” Phosyne says, as Ser Voyne’s fingers brush her neck.

Ser Voyne hesitates. Licks her lips.

Bows her head and sips.

Her eyelids flutter. The lingering anger in her brow goes slack. Her hand leaves Phosyne’s neck and cups Phosyne’s hands instead, bringing them closer to her. The water is running out Phosyne’s fingers, but Voyne drinks and drinks, guides their hands down to scoop still more water, drinks again, mouths at Phosyne’s palms even as the last of the water drains away.

Ser Voyne shivers. Shudders. Quakes. Bows over Phosyne’s hands and presses them to her fevered brow.

And then she sobs.

22

22

The great hall roars.

Treila sits next to Edouart’s mother and gives herself over to the rush of it. Laughter trips off her tongue, stories too, praises, gratitude. It’s every feast day wrapped up into one, and all around her, food is torn apart, swallowed whole, pressed against others’ lips.

Nobody has noticed yet that Treila is not eating.

They’re all too distracted, and it’s enough to serve food onto their plates, refill cups, stoke the fires of conviviality. Down deep, Treila is terrified, but on the surface, she is laughing. Her eyes gleam in the firelight as night descends.

She feels a sort of power, knowing she’s still got her head. Seeing everybody else lose theirs. She knows that the meat Simmonet chews is human flesh. She also knows that he can’t tell, even though the foot of whoever it belonged to was served up right alongside it. Treila has taken it upon herself to pick the scraps of meat from between the little bones, because it will get eaten either way, and it’s too distracting to see people touching it without processing what they’re holding.

And it feels good, to pass food to Simmonet, to Edouart, to see their hollow cheeks flush with delight as they chew and swallow. They have been so hungry, and now they weep with delight.