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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

It won’t be like that, she tells herself. But she trembles beneath her blanket anyway, because her body knows better: that as kind as this camp has been to her, they won’t let her stay indefinitely. That she will be hungry again. And that if she walks away, she will carry with her the weight of everybody she left behind to die.

Does Ser Voyne carry that guilt, too?

Treila rolls onto her back and stares up at the stars, and she replays her conversation with the Loving Saint, looking for proof that she is making the right choice. Instead, she finds a bigger tangle. More questions. There had been so many little fractures: how he’d responded to her knife, how he’d spoken of the thing that wears the Constant Lady’s face, how he’d gazed at her as if he was unsure whether he’d prefer to eat or be eaten.

She will never know what is at the core of her that so angers a creature who can hide an entire person from the mind of another, that so delights a creature who can grow a feast from a fingernail. And she will never know if that means she could have saved the others.

Unless she goes back.

Two versions of herself begin to take shape: One, fleeing, too weak to take anybody else with her. Too smart to stay and risk herself. Willing to brave another long, dark winter, hoping she will survive more easily this time.

And the other, clever and possibly foolish, who believes she’s strong enough to fight. To get what she wants. To finally stand and refuse to be displaced.

She could die either way. But only one option provides the possibility of victory instead of just survival.

As the sun rises once more, Treila stands at a crevice in the rock face far below Aymar. She plants her hands on either side of the darkness and leans in, touches her lips to the black.

“Can you hear me?” she breathes into the crack. “I’d give you another finger to get back in.”

The darkness smiles. “But would you give me your ear?” it asks.

And shivering, Treila turns her face to one side and leans in.

30

30

Phosyne conjures the taste of honey on her tongue.

The vegetal spike of it erases the stone beneath her feet, the stench from her rooms, and all she can feel now is soft grass, blades pressing into her skin, sun beating down on her. She is warm. She is hot. She is burning up, and she is bedding down in flowers, and she feels the hum of a thousand bees crawling along her skin. They map her, every inch of her, and she is shaking with their vibrations, coming apart into pollen on the air.