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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

But perhaps she should be realistic: see that it will be wasted no matter what. There is no way out. Her unseen world has only let them starve for longer. Maybe she’s only mad. Maybe the method of purifying water will eventually be explained and defined, repeated, wrestled out of the numinous, inhuman unknown and into the Priory’s understanding.

Maybe it’s better if she takes the Lady’s blessing on her tongue, the sweet honey made from the pollen of wildflowers beyond Aymar’s walls, brought back past an encircling army that could not stop a bee’s flight even if it cared to do so. Maybe it’s better if she tries prayer for the first time in almost a year.

We are hungry, she begs wordlessly, eye sockets aching with tears her body isn’t sure it can shed, and we are lonely, and we are desperate.

Save us, because I’m not sure I can.

She lifts the comb to her lips. She closes her eyes. She prepares to bite.

And then the saints arrive.

11

11

The blast of trumpets steals Voyne’s attention away from Phosyne, her blood running cold, then boiling hot, as she thunders up the stairs to the little glass plate that Phosyne has insisted on reseating. She grips the sill hard as she leans forward, peers out of the gloom into the bright light of midday. Her eyes refuse to adjust at first, and the glass is uneven.

But she can see movement, shapes, the glint of sun off metal. The garrison is rallying. Has Etrebia made another move at last, recovered so quickly from the routing of their siege engines?

No; the patterns of movement are all wrong. All focus is not on the walls, but inside them. As Voyne’s eyes adjust, she makes out a broad circle of uncovered soil down in the lower bailey, ringed by a thick press of bodies.

Something is inside.

“Stay here,” she snaps as she races back down the stairs, dodging something that waits at the landing that she is certain wasn’t there before. But she doesn’t have time to think. “Eat the honey. That’s an order, witch.”

Phosyne’s hands drip, sticky and golden, and she nods. Then Voyne is in the hall, and the door is shut behind her, and she doesn’t have to think about the madwoman or her own tender, anxious heart anymore.

The king’s chambers are empty. So are the rooms below, and so, even, is the wall of the upper bailey, because everybody is crowded in the lower yard staring at whatever is just inside the gate. She has her sword in hand before she’s tramping down the stairs, and she is on the verge of barking orders, demanding knowledge.