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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

Her liege’s lips curl in a snarl, an expression she hasn’t seen on him since the siege first set in and proved it could not be broken. “Ser Voyne, master yourself. We do not have the strength to fight. This is not the time to be precious.” He looks so arrogant, in this moment, chin lifted, tongue virginal to the taste of human meat. “Give me a miracle, and I will relent,” he proclaims. “But I see no miracle.”

“The woman is ungovernable!” Voyne cries. “You cannot rely on her. You can’t ask me to—”

“I can ask you to do anything I please,” he cuts her off. “She gave us clean water. She will give us food. Until then, I will do as I see fit.” He looks down at the body of Jecobe de Avienten, touches the cut stump of his wrist.

“You screech so loudly of what we should and should not do. We should not eat him, hm? Then what if we give it to your charge instead?” Cardimir asks. “Not so bad as eating, but it could still give us food one day. It could be the link to our miracle. Would that mollify your nerves, girl?”

Girl strikes her deeper even than the thought of Phosyne fumbling about with a man’s remains. Cardimir has never spoken to her this way, and she bristles. “And what would she do with it, Your Majesty? Let it rot and try to make it dance with grass seeds?”

“I must agree with Ser Voyne,” the prioress admits. “To be consigned to meat is terrible. To be wasted would be more so.”

“And have you given me a solution?” the king snaps, rounding on her, his fury growing. “Either of you, will you give me a solution? No? If you tell me she is mad and cannot give me my miracle, then I will trust you. But if that is so, then this man’s flesh goes to feed my people. He is a sacrifice. This is a sacrifice. You must know what we have done, but they have no need to. It buys us time. Stand back, Ser Voyne.”

Helplessly trained, Ser Voyne steps back. She sinks to one knee. She stares up at her king, and wishes she were anywhere else at all.

9

9

Are you lost?”

Treila screams. She falls back, staring wild-eyed at the whispering fissure, but she sees no movement, no indication of life. She hauls herself back up onto the ledge, clutches her dress to her front, never looking away.

But there is nothing. Nothing but the water, the breeze. She needs to go. She needs to squirm back through the gap in the stone, back into Aymar, back into her slow, slow death.

“Don’t leave,” the gap whispers. “Not yet. You are so tired.”