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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

They are close, closer than Phosyne meant for them to get, and her rib cage aches with how fast she is breathing, how hard her blood pulses in her veins. She hasn’t been so close to another person in months, maybe years, and for all her fury, she can’t look away from Ser Voyne’s blazing eyes. They’re a piercing shade of hazel, and they are so bright with answering fervor. Her whole imposing presence, her coiled, barely leashed threat, is making it impossible to think.

And then the ground shifts below their feet.

Behind her, furniture judders against the wall, the floor. Phosyne pulls away, spins on her heel, but Voyne is already ahead of her, pounding back up the stairs, over to the window. She pushes hard against the glass pane, then starts disassembling everything blocking it up.

“Stop!” Phosyne shouts.

“I need to see what’s happening,” Voyne bites out, and there comes another crash, this one more sound than movement. The shadows that are Pneio and Ornuo dart out from their hiding places, find new ones. Scraps of wood hit the floor, roll down the stairs, and Phosyne presses herself against the wall as she climbs.

By the time she gets there, Voyne has stopped halfway in her dismantling. There’s no need to keep going; the shouting from below, the torchlight on the walls, the continued slam of stone against stone gives them the answer:

They are under attack.

5

5

There is a sick poetry in it; Voyne has spent the whole day making excuses to avoid coming to the madwoman’s tower, pretending that she was in some way helping the defense of Aymar, and instead attack comes when she is trapped here in this foul, fetid little chamber. It’s as if Etrebia has sensed her dereliction (which is not fair; to be here is duty too, even if it’s farcical).

She watches through the gaps in Phosyne’s window as another blow strikes the outer wall. The sun is low enough now that she cannot see the extent of the damage, but the steady rhythm of the assault tells her what she needs to know. This is not some light sortie. They mean to attempt the castle once more.

She can’t stay here.

“Take shelter,” she says, pulling away from the window and longing for her armor. She seizes Phosyne by the elbow, steers her toward the stairs. The witch resists, of course, but Voyne is stronger and more certain. “Down in the lowest levels, with the others.”

“But—my research—” she stammers out, and Voyne wants to shake her.