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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

She feels a little steadier.

She doesn’t want either of those things except that she does. This is unsustainable. She wants to have her room, her little world. She wants control. There is no control in this.

Phosyne has control, though. Little scraps, but enough. Enough to build a little world.

Groaning, she pulls away from Treila’s and Voyne’s hands, onto her belly. The stone below her holds, the steam rising, heating the sodden silk against her chest even as it plasters against her back, cooling quick. She stares down at the Lady, bounded by Phosyne’s scraps. Boiling in her flames, in her water, restrained by the stone that lets Phosyne come and go as she pleases. The Lady is screaming. The Lady is snarling.

The Lady will be soup soon enough.

Phosyne smooths the stone back into place, sealing Her away. It goes readily.

The rest of the keep slides with it.

Because the problem remains that Phosyne still holds dominion over the whole of the castle, and all the lives within it. The knowledge still tears at her. A name gives her an anchor, something to hold on to, but it does not stop the hunger.

And it does not make the world any smaller.

She doesn’t know how to set things back to rights. She does not want to set things back to rights. The death of the Lady feels like enough, though she knows it isn’t. She wants to stay this way, but she can’t stay this way. Outside her windows, the world is breaking; she can see stone floating in the air. She can see the moon nestled in the sun’s embrace. Strange, cold twilight has enveloped the world, and for a moment, all she can feel is delight. Delight, to experience this new working of the heavens.

This can’t continue.

Phosyne looks up at Ser Voyne, blade shining in her hand. She looks at Treila, blood-soaked, murderous, as certain as she’s ever been.

And then she plunges her hands into the stone and lets it solidify there, chaining her. Stilling things for just a moment, just long enough. “Kill me,” she begs, and bows her head to expose her throat. “Kill me, please.”

The sound of metal over metal; Voyne comes close, kneels before her. Fits one hand around Phosyne’s throat, as if it is meant to be there. Phosyne gasps, shudders, pushes into it.

But Voyne does not tighten her fingers, only urges Phosyne to look up at her.

“No.”

51

51

Voyne’s denial strikes Phosyne hard. It drags a sob from her, and the world sobs too. Aymar shudders, and outside the rain begins again.

“Why?” she begs. “Look at me. Look.”

Voyne looks.