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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

“I’ll think about it,” she says, but doesn’t mean it. It’ll serve better as an ingredient, anyway. “Stay away from the guests,” she adds.

“I’m no fool,” Treila says, hiding the doused candle, retreating to the door. “Why do you think I want to get out?”

Phosyne has to concede she has a point.

16

16

The castle is unnaturally quiet. Treila has no trouble slipping down the steps, through the king’s quarters, and over to the staircase that leads down to her little workroom. Her mind is loud enough to make up the difference, however, humming with a hundred different thoughts. The impossible candle in her hand, the rotted fruit smell of Phosyne’s breath, the renewed possibilities of that hole in the ground.

And she can still feel Ser Voyne’s hand on hers the day before. The sweeping rush of being so close, finally, to what she’s dreamed of for years.

She can also see Ser Voyne’s face in the yard just a few hours ago, transported and transfigured and—

Very far away from her.

She missed her chance to really drive the knife home. Take the guilt she’d seen in Ser Voyne’s eyes and pluck at the taut harpstring of it until, finally, Ser Voyne fell at her feet and begged for forgiveness. She would have been so beautifully devastated when Treila refused. But the rhythm of the castle is changing drastically, and Treila isn’t sure how it will shake out, except that Voyne is too central to how their closed world runs; with these intruders, she will be in her element again. She won’t have space for doubt and regret.

If Treila’s lucky, she won’t care about leaving Voyne to her fate, either.

There’s no point in wasting time. Whoever these guests are, however they got into Aymar, they’re not a way out. At least not one that Treila can take advantage of. They’ve shifted the balance so abruptly that Treila hates them by reflex. Saints, she thinks, and wants to laugh, because there is no such thing as saints. If there were, she wouldn’t be trapped here.

Really, she’s right back where she started, but she can see more clearly now. She’s got a light for her darkness.

Treila crouches where Phosyne had lain not half an hour before, and sucks at her lower lip, staring at her fingers. Just little pricks; Phosyne’s had barely bled (though Treila thinks that has more to do with why she’d been lying half-dead on her workshop floor than any calculation of how deep to pierce her skin). Treila has suffered worse. She’d bled more from scraped knees when Ser Voyne—