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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

Phosyne is here, alone among the wolves.

“No,” she whispers. “No, I refuse.”

The Lady draws even with her once more. Holds out a hand.

“Come and look upon her yourself,” the Lady says.

Phosyne, lost, takes it.

44

44

They take Ser Voyne to the chapel. Treila follows, head down, ducking out of sight when she is able. When she realizes where they are headed, she takes another route, and finds herself unseen, as if when Voyne at last looked upon her and saw her once more, Treila disappeared to all the rest of the world.

Or maybe she is so grief-stricken that she doesn’t notice when others are close, as long as they don’t reach for her.

Either way, she approaches the chapel alone. But just outside, she stops. The space, usually bright and open, is crowded and shadowed. Everything, every hive box and pew and abandoned icon of the saints is covered in honeycomb. What was once so meticulously maintained is now all but buried, encrusted and sealed shut with wax. In the gloom, flames dance atop what Treila realizes with a lurch are timekeeping candles—but made tall and monstrous, winding and uneven. No wonder night and day seem to blur together, if that is how each hour is being measured.

The room hums with the beating of a thousand wings, the air darkened by a roiling swarm of bees.

She has arrived before Voyne’s body, but not by much. She sees them approaching, the bearers with their shuffling feet and unseeing eyes. For all their bewitched sleepwalking, though, they look strong. Well-fed. Cheeks are flushed with life, and nobody trembles or stumbles beneath the weight they carry.

The knife in Voyne’s throat is barely noticeable, past the bright gleam of her strange armor.

And then she is gone, inside the chapel, down a walkway that Treila cannot see from her current vantage. She circles around to another entrance.

She hesitates, flinches as a bee circles her and makes as if to land. Feels again that desperate winter, her body swollen and stung, cast out. They could do it again. Descend upon her, drive her away. Are they not the Lady’s? No. The Lady is not the Priory’s Lady. She is something else, something worse; the Loving Saint made that very clear.

She forces herself to edge into the chapel. There is nowhere Treila can step that will not break and spill a surge of honey, and so she doesn’t try to be careful. With each step, she waits for the bees to come to her. But they don’t. They mass in great undulations farther in, or crawl upon the fresh comb, but none come close to her.