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Back The Starving Saints
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 that thought brings her up short, too. She slows. Leans hard against an inner crenelation, hopes nobody with a bow sees her weaving shadow.

Pneio and Ornuo appeared, as if from nowhere. The gates did not open, but suddenly she was den mother to two creatures she has never seen before, never read of. They came to her from somewhere, just as her theories about the purification of water, just as the technique by which she can light a candle and have it burn without using up its fuel.

Her stomach sours far beyond its physical pangs.

These saints are here by her hand, and she doesn’t know how she did it.

14

14

The great hall is hot enough that Voyne sweats ceaselessly. It seems she is all made of salt and tears today, soggy and close to spilling open.

She doesn’t remember the last few hours in more than flashes. She knows she has not left the strangers alone, nor her king. They have all remained together, cloistered, even as the hall was surrounded by desperate petitioners. She knows that Prioress Jacynde did not come to join them, even though Ser Leodegardis has sent off at least five runners. Now, though, the hall is quiet, and beyond the walls, people have dragged themselves off to bed, driven there, perhaps, by guards—but Ser Voyne couldn’t say for certain.

She has been too focused on the food.

Somebody must be preparing it, for it appears on the long table they sit around, over and over again. She does not remember the saints and their Lady bringing baskets or bushels with them, but there is more than dried, stringy meat on their plates. There are red fruits, cherries and currants and strawberries, all ripe and bursting, all fresh. More sweet comb than the Priory’s hives could have produced is scattered between every serving dish. There are tender leaves, and crisp cucumbers, and early squashes, roasted to perfection. Voyne can’t help herself. She picks up one of the pea pods between her fingers, squeezes, stares at the smooth green pearl that emerges.

She places it in her mouth, chews, and nearly cries once more for how her tongue is coated with fresh vegetal brightness.

Voyne thinks she could eat forever, fingers stained red with juice, but then she glances at the window and it is night. Where did the time go? It takes every inch of her willpower to drag her focus back to her king, who sits beside her, beard stained red as well.

He is speaking about his childhood.