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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

She wants to say no, wants instead to ask him to send her away as a messenger. It would be a better use of her skills. But if he is right, if this Phosyne has worked one miracle already and only needs help to produce another—

She can trade one escort for another. A king is not so different from a madwoman.

“Yes, my liege,” she says.

3

3

Aymar Castle does not quiet with the setting of the sun. Soon, moans of hunger will echo through the halls, and even now people are restless. Few are sleeping, though there is little to do for those not on guard duty, no candles to see by. Some attend the evening Priory service. More sit and talk in window niches, looking nervously toward the walls, half expecting another night assault, though Etrebia has not moved in a fortnight. They argue about trivial things enlarged by the growling of their stomachs. They search for scraps of food in the empty dirt.

Treila prowls.

There is an art to catching rats. It is not one she learned in childhood, but she has become quite proficient. So proficient, in fact, that what little money changes hands inside these walls eventually makes its way to her, in exchange for one, three, five cooling bodies. Most think that rat-catching requires bait, and that would be the easiest option by far, but this is not the first time Treila has faced down starvation and survived it. She knows how to entice when she has nothing left to give.

Or, more accurately, how to spot something a rat would want and set a trap to waylay it.

They’re clever creatures, rats; they avoided or even foiled her first attempts, years ago, when she was too desperate, too ashamed, to be clever herself. Now, though, she has snared another one with nothing more than some rags and a long-empty turnip box, and she dashes its skull against the floor before it squeals too loudly.

Half an hour later, Treila has found a buyer: a young mother with three small babes. It will hardly take the edge off, but it’s something, and she has the coin to pay. For her, Treila presents a veneer of calm concern; this is not a mercenary transaction but a kindness. A mother is more likely to pay for kindness.

Treila does not feel guilt as she slinks back into the keep, down the stairs, into the small space that was once her workroom, where she stitched gloves and other fine leathers for Leodegardis’s knights. Others used it too, of course, when there was handwork to be done; but even then it was cramped and poorly lit, and now it’s half-clogged with items made useless by their communal captivity. Empty barrels, empty flour sacks, empty looms.