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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’s insulting, sticking out of Voyne’s throat. Wrong. She wants, so badly, to give Voyne a shred of dignity, to have the blade removed, to let her rest, and suddenly it seems like the most important thing in all the world. Down here, there’s only one hungry mouth, and it waits for the candle to be extinguished. Down here, the Lady cannot reach Voyne, and so Voyne can lie in gentle repose until Phosyne finds an answer.

Phosyne is not going to find an answer. Treila saw the hunger in her eyes. Phosyne is a moment’s weakness from becoming like the Lady.

There’s no point in staying. Treila eyes the gap, and the pain of losing her finger, her ear, echoes through her. She glances down at Voyne, at her hand on the knife. If she could only pull the knife out, she could offer Voyne in place of her.

She could.

She wouldn’t.

What she wants, what she truly wants, is to unspool time. Go back to when Voyne was alive and they were curled together in the garden. If Treila hadn’t grabbed for the knife—if she had listened, actually listened, and realized that they were playing out, in terrible irony, the opposite of when Voyne had knelt at her feet and thought her the Lady—

Well. Things could have been very different, couldn’t they?

Treila’s hand shifts on the knife, loosens, almost falls away. A sob hitches in her chest. “You taught me how to fight,” she tells Voyne. “It’s not fair that this one time, I wasn’t supposed to.” Her fingers tighten. Stubbornly, petulantly, childishly, she tugs on the blade.

It slides free.

45

45

Resurrection is not so different from coming back to herself in the cistern.

There is the tectonic shift, a fundamental reordering of her mind, her body, her very being. There is the chill, settling deep into her bones. And above it all there is the disorientation, the sudden realization that there are holes in her memories, that she does not know where she is, that something has gone very wrong.

But there are fewer tears this time.

Instead of crying, she convulses. She gasps for breath. She clutches her throat and writhes on what feels like stone, but is uneven, uncarved, far more natural. She doesn’t know where she is, but she knows she is cold, and that breathing is hard.

It becomes less hard with every breath, though. That’s not usually how this goes.

And it’s not Phosyne beside her, but—

Golden hair. Wide, evaluating eyes. Treila de Batrolin crouches, curled in on herself, across a small, glowing creek. She’s clutching her dagger tight. In the low light, Voyne can still see the metal is dark with her blood.