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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

And even if it doesn’t hurt Ser Voyne quite so much, Treila can still seize her original goal. Ser Voyne does not feel guilty, no, but she adores, and that might be stronger than shame. Treila can break her faith with it. Dismantle every belief that led to Ser Voyne so cleanly severing her father’s head from his body.

“Have you ever questioned your orders? Ever hesitated to fulfill them?” she asks.

“Not yours,” Ser Voyne replies.

Treila frowns, tries to think—what orders? Girlish orders, for refreshment, for lessons, for sparring in the yard. Those orders? They meant the world to her, but she’d been fourteen, spoiled, desirous for the first time in her short life. That Ser Voyne marked them is . . . she can’t think of the word. She can only shudder.

“And King Cardimir’s?” she presses.

And she is treated to the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen: Ser Voyne’s lip curling in contempt, in barely restrained hatred.

“You know the answer to that, my lady,” Ser Voyne says.

“No, I don’t think I do,” Treila says, and leans closer. Her breathing has quickened so much that she is almost hyperventilating. “Do you truly hate him so? I would never have guessed.” She is breathless.

“He has misused me. I know that now, thanks to you,” Ser Voyne returns, and her tone now is urgent. As if she needs Treila to understand. “I have followed every order he has given me, even when it conflicts with what is best in me, with where my strength arises from. I thought that he knew best, but he has led me astray.”

“Yes,” Treila whispers, raises her second hand to cup Ser Voyne’s other cheek. Her skin is so hot beneath Treila’s touch, a sheen of fine sweat appearing on her brow. Treila wants to kiss it. Wants to drink it in. “This is all I’ve ever wanted you to know. I’ve wanted you to realize it for so long. For years, Ser Voyne.”

“I didn’t realize how long I’d been waiting for you,” Ser Voyne confesses.

Treila is shaking. Tears burn at her eyes, tears she can’t afford to shed. But what if she could? What if she could, for the first time in five years, lay down the burden of her rage, and rest a while, knowing she would be fed, and clothed, and loved?

Understood, at least.