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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

Determined, Treila turns to go, and is surprised to see one of the saints. The Loving Saint, bent low in the dirt. He is planting seeds, working his hands into the soil out of season, but it looks beautiful as he does it. His skin is flawless, his eyelashes long, his hair shining. She hasn’t cared about the Loving Saint since she was a little girl with the crush all little girls seemed to have on him, well before she ever met Ser Voyne, but now she feels her heart give a little tug. Something beautiful, in all of this mess. It’s soothing just to watch.

He doesn’t look up, even when she drifts a little closer. Behind him, in the furrows he has already filled, she sees shoots breaking through the soil. They grow so quickly she thinks she can hear them.

Her stomach aches. It’s easier to understand than the quieter pain in her chest. She’s going to eat tonight, regardless of everything else. She’s too tired to resist now; for all her caution, she is not a fool, and she is still human, at the root.

The Loving Saint hums, quietly. Plants another seed, and another. They are all different sorts, enough to feed an army. She recognizes only a few. One in particular is translucent, almost flat, but curved. Its bottom edge is marked by a thin white line, its top by a pink stain. It goes into the ground, and not a minute later, it too is sprouting, its cotyledon pale and thin, growing fast into a spiral.

When she looks away, she finds the Loving Saint gazing up at her. He says nothing, but he quirks a brow, smiles.

She flushes and turns to leave.

He doesn’t stop her, and she’s back in the keep tower when she slows long enough to think again about that seed. It didn’t look like a seed at all, the more she thinks of it.

It looked like he was planting a fingernail.

But that can’t be right.

It grew like all the rest of them.

19

19

Phosyne slams the door to her tower shut and falls back against it, gasping for breath, the world spinning around her. Her throat hurts. Her cheek merely stings from where Treila struck her, but she feels both points of assault like brands. They’re the only thing holding her together, because every time she remembers falling through the chapel wall, she thinks she might fall through the floor next.

She sinks to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. “Ornuo?” she manages, and holds one shaking hand out for a warm, scaled flank.

She feels only air.