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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

Still, she strips it off his body, belts it all in place on hers. It’s just pageantry, but it makes her spine a little straighter, a little stronger. She hefts the hammer in her hand, dripping as it is with honey, and looks out in challenge at the prowling host before her. She sees a face, two faces, three. They are gone as quickly as they appeared.

They are not the only things moving. The tableaus have broken apart. People, people she is sworn to protect, are edging closer. She wants to open her arms to them. Take charge. Tell them she is here to right these wrongs.

But behind her, the door to the smithy hangs open. She hears Theophrane shouting her name. Begging.

She stands, head spinning. At her back, her audience is prowling closer; she can feel it in the hot pepper breath that gusts around her. She can hear the crack of bone as they devour the offering she has made for them. They feast upon their own; they make no distinction.

Her world is shaking at the seams. She has done something wrong. Her gut twists.

In front of her, she sees bodies. A mass of bodies. Farmers and trappers and cartwrights and shop clerks, unwashed and half-starved and piling into the smithy. They rush through the door like a wave.

She can make out every hair on their heads, smell the stink of their bodies, and when she looks at them she doesn’t feel drunk or drifting.

They are human, only human, but they tear Theophrane apart all the same.

39

39

It’s daylight outside the keep, but Treila barely notices until she sees that the mortal inhabitants of Aymar are awake once more, and it is easier to find her way.

Easier, but far more exposed. She wants shadows. She wants darkness. She doesn’t want this target painted on her back. It is so much worse to flee from monsters in the light of day.

If the Loving Saint is still seeking her, though, there is no sign. She doesn’t risk looking back as she plunges into the press of bodies before her. There are so many. They are all distracted, all with juice- and blood-stained lips, all clamoring for sustenance. For salvation. Who they turn to changes. In one knot of humanity, it is a child, counting out beans in the dirt, offering one out of every ten to the ravenous crowd around his feet. In another, it’s a tangle of three men, mouths open with pleasure, flesh sticking and sliding in a mess of blood and sweat. As long as Treila presses toward the center, and then allows herself to be pushed back out on the other side, nobody notices. Nobody cares.