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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

“If you stay,” he says, eyes shining in the evening light, “it is eat or be eaten. But I promise I’ll make it good.”

23

23

Voyne shakes in the shadow of the cistern wall.

They need to move. That is clarion clear in her mind while little else is. They’ve been here for too long. The sun was still up when she followed Phosyne down this way, and now it’s not. The air is thick and hot, but the water is cooling quickly. She’s shaking, and not entirely from her thoughts.

But her thoughts are terrible enough to keep her pinned, huddled up into a little ball. She feels it all at once: the Lady’s lips on hers, the glory of being seen, of being valued, once more. Jacynde’s faithless tongue held tight in her hand while the woman sagged limp beneath her, unable or unwilling to defend herself. The cut of the knife. Sitting at the Lady’s feet in the garden, pouring out her heart, only to see the Lady across the way instead. Confusion. Desperation. Apologies, begging, a gentle hand against her head. Blood and honey on her hands, people crying as she hauled them to the feast, then forgetting to cry as soon as they were placed at their seats.

Phosyne’s weight across her shoulder, in her lap, the cut of her teeth into Voyne’s finger. The Lady, laughing, barely caring about Voyne at all.

And the clear taste of water, the feel of Phosyne’s throat beneath her hands, the sudden loss as she evaporated into stone.

Confusion.

Confusion.

Confusion.

She’s crying again. She needs to stop the tears, needs to stand up, needs to get out of this cistern and take Phosyne with her. Somewhere safe. Somewhere she can think, and they can talk, and perhaps find a plan to salvage all of this.

If it can even be salvaged. Voyne isn’t sure it can be. Maybe it’s that uncertainty that keeps her shivering on the ground. Or maybe she’s just too tired to move. Too tired to fight.

Her head hurts so badly.

And then she hears Phosyne calling for help, and she’s up, and moving, and has her hand clapped over the other woman’s mouth in an instant. “Quiet,” she rasps, and drags Phosyne back under the shade of the tarp, away from prying eyes.

Phosyne lets her.

Voyne licks her lips, trying to find more words where the one came from. “If somebody hears you,” she says, haltingly, stumbling over each syllable, “then She can hear you, too.”

That Voyne feels not just panic, but joy, at that idea? That is reason enough that it can’t be allowed to happen.

Phosyne nods, and Voyne releases her. It’s hard to stay standing, but she forces herself to, forces herself to meet Phosyne’s eyes as she turns to peer up at her. “Welcome back,” Phosyne says.