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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

All she needs to do to check is close her eyes, but she doesn’t want to look away from her audience for even a second. They ring the throne and Jacynde behind it, staying at a polite distance for the time being. She can’t quite make out where one figure ends and the other begins. In the gloom of the throne room, they are little more than smudges of flashing pigment, glittering gold where their lips part and they show their teeth.

They aren’t talking. Aren’t making any sound at all now, save for their breathing.

They are waiting.

Phosyne isn’t sure if they’re waiting for her to show weakness or to show strength. She’s still a little intoxicated, still fixed on the memory of Ser Voyne’s skin under her hands, Voyne’s obedience under her voice. She’d been beautiful even in her agony, and the memory makes her shudder. She’s not supposed to think that.

What is she becoming?

42

42

Ser Voyne lies dead in the garden.

Her hair remains dark. Her face is slack and unchanging, no sharp teeth revealed by her parted lips. Beestings pock her scalp, gnarl her hands. Nothing at all marks her as anything but a mortal woman.

And Treila has killed her.

“I didn’t mean to,” she says to nobody. Her voice wavers. Her eyes pulse with unshed, unbidden tears.

Didn’t you? her own thoughts whisper back.

She did mean to. Of course she meant to. But Voyne being dead was never the point; the point was to see her suffer. To cause her suffering. And instead, Treila didn’t even know who it was she was killing until it was too late.

That’s it. That’s why she’s crying now, finally, unable to stop herself.

It’s not because it felt so good, kissing her, that she’d almost forgotten the knife entirely.

She’s still huddled by the body when, minutes or hours later, she hears movement from the other side of the thicket surrounding them. Not footsteps, not quite. It sounds more like plants being pulled over one another, a sort of cyclical shushing almost like waves on a shoreline. For a moment, Treila is frozen. She doesn’t want to leave Voyne’s side, doesn’t want to lurch back into motion again.

By the time she remembers to panic, it’s too late to grab the knife, even if she could bring herself to touch it. She slides back into the shadow of the greenery and watches, empty-handed, as the saints emerge on the other side of the clearing.