Page 14 of The Starving Saints

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.

Stories tumble out of him, and Ser Voyne remembers, now, how they have passed the afternoon: not in counsel but in these fountains

of stories. Her head aches. What has she told them? She thinks not much; her throat is not sore from speaking. But she remembers

scraps of Leodegardis’s tales, about how it felt to be granted Aymar to protect. The importance of careful governance, of

the reciprocal relationship between lord and subject. How he is so glad to have a chance to feed his starving people, how

he thought he had failed them. She listens, now, as Cardimir talks about his wife, dead three years, and his sons, almost

full-grown. He is speaking not as a king, but as a man; where is his propriety?

“And you, Ser Voyne?” asks the Constant Lady, at last turning Her gaze on Voyne. “Will you gift to us a piece of your past?”

If Voyne doesn’t think (and it is so hard to think right now), she can see not just the Constant Lady with Her curtain of golden hair, but Treila, too. She can feel

the rage and silence of Carcabonne, the warmth of Treila de Batrolin’s household, the glittering period between betrayal and

judgment, before Voyne knew who to blame for the suffering and deaths of so many. And then she thinks she will weep again,

pinned by old mistakes, fierce regrets, confusion, desperation.

When did she become so weak?

Perhaps it is only natural, in the presence of divinity. Weakness as holy offering, radical devotion. Her king cannot see

her falter, but the Lady accepts it. Drinks it in. It is okay to fall apart, when there are long white fingers to catch her.

She doesn’t need the attentions of the Lady; she needs the Absolving Saint to come and kiss her brow and ease the guilt and

pain in her, recognize her, see her for who she is.

The Lady notes her silence. Her brow softens, but Her eyes seem to sharpen, to cutting glass. “Surely, you have triumphs?”

She presses.

It’s a gentle nudge, from the blood she remembers on her hands with guilt to that she remembers with pride. Yes, she has had her conquests, too.

“Many,” she agrees. She doesn’t know where to start. She looks to Leodegardis, to her king, and they gaze back with gentle

expectation. Neither moves to offer her direction.

And then, at the far end of the hall, the doors open. Memories fall away, and she and Leodegardis are on their feet reflexively.

Voyne reaches for her weapon, only to realize it isn’t on her hip. When did she remove it? Where did she place it? How could

she not notice, when she has spent so many years carrying its weight, that her gait is slightly but irrevocably altered?

But it’s only Prioress Jacynde in the doorway; it would be blasphemy to draw a sword. Blasphemy doubled by their holy audience.

The worry about her sword drops away as she and Leodegardis make their bows.

Jacynde does not look pleased.

She has brought with her two of her nuns, their shorn heads covered by cloth knotted at the napes of their necks, the knots

stuck through with heavy ornaments. They are wearing full robes, which Voyne realizes she has not seen them do except for

the three high holy days they have passed in captivity. Jacynde herself is in full regalia, embroidered stole draped over

her shoulders, layer upon layer of gauzy silk hiding all the lines of her body. Her face is painted, in seeming echo of the

faces of the saints.

Voyne registers, dimly, that this looks like armor. Perhaps it is the martial set of Jacynde’s jaw.

Jacynde’s attendants hold two small skeps. Not live ones; they do not hum with life. Not offerings, then, but—

“Your Highness,” Prioress Jacynde says, and the sharpness of her voice stops Voyne’s thoughts, reorients them once more toward

defense. “May I speak with you?”

Behind Voyne, Cardimir stands as well. “Come and sit at my table, Prioress,” he says, and Voyne can hear the threat in it.

Where is her sword?

Jacynde ignores the king’s warning, his invitation, and does not break stride as she sweeps down upon the saints.

“I don’t know who you are,” Prioress Jacynde says, standing within a breath of the Constant Lady, “but you are not welcome here.”

“Prioress,” the king warns. “These people are my guests.”

The Constant Lady does not flinch, nor cower, nor offer appeasement. She blinks, placidly. “Jacynde de Montsansen,” she pronounces,

and the prioress’s rageful countenance stills, dulls. “I do not begrudge you your doubts. But please, let me help you. Let

me bring food to your table, as you have begged me so often these last weeks.”

Jacynde’s face contorts. Her lips part. Her girls shift where they stand, stealing glances at each other, at the saints arrayed

behind the Constant Lady.

“And from where comes this food?” Jacynde asks, gesturing at the dishes arrayed across the table, the fruit, the greens. “Whose

fields? Whose hands? This,” she says, stalking forward and grabbing up slender stems of asparagus, tender and pliant, “is

gone some three months now. And there will be no currants in this abundance for another month on.”

The prioress has a point, Ser Voyne realizes with a lurch, like the shock of a cool breeze piercing the heady haze inside

the hall. She knows this. She knew this. When the Constant Lady came through the gates ( through the gates? a knowing part of her whispers), there were no stores with them, no traveling companions, and though the Constant

Lady is no mortal woman, surely, surely , the divine must either be far less solid, or far more understandable.

If Prioress Jacynde told her otherwise, Ser Voyne would believe it. She is not a student of metaphysics, of faith. Perhaps

she is wrong. But Jacynde is afraid, and so Voyne remembers to be afraid.

This is a war. The chances that an unknown, unexpected kindness is safe and good are so minuscule she could laugh.

Voyne is lethargic from the food, the heat, but she rises to her feet all the same. Her gaze darts across the room, takes

in all the details again. These strangers with their paints, their luminous eyes, their fine clothing. Their appearances,

so close to the icons that are walked around the walls each day. How have they sat here, for hours upon hours, and talked

of nothing of substance?

No plans for escape. No explanations. Not even hope, not really—only distractions.

The food curdles in her belly.

Jacynde tosses the asparagus on to the floor, steps back in disgust. The few servants and her attendants look between it and

her, and Voyne can see the hunger in their eyes. But then Jacynde is rounding once more on the Lady, and Voyne moves to stand

behind her king, as if she can offer protection.

“Whatever you are, you are not Her,” Jacynde snaps. “Where is your order ?”

Order. The Priory’s machines, their careful measurements and engineering, all at the behest of the Constant Lady. Constant,

because She is the reason the world works as it should, in predictable ways. For a moment, Voyne feels a spike of doubt. This

Lady who has brought them food—She is something wilder. A riotous wood in place of a manicured garden.

But what else could She be? Because She is certainly not human.

The king snorts, derisive. Jacynde’s attention shoots to him, then back, as if she cannot risk taking her eyes off of the

Lady.

The Lady only gazes back at her, perfect yellow-painted lips frowning, hurt. A perfect pantomime. “Does it frighten you so

much, that you might have been wrong?” the Lady asks.

Jacynde makes a shocked, choking sound.

“That you may have worshipped wrong all these years, imposed so many strictures upon when and how you may ask for help? I

have always been here for you, Jacynde de Montsansen. But sometimes it is so hard to hear you, through all your machines.

Come. Sit with me. I will take your anger into myself and give you back only bounty.”

Murmurings, from the two nuns, desperate, confused, hungry. They step as if to go to her, but Jacynde spreads her arms out,

forming herself into a wall. Her anger is fracturing, though. Voyne can see it. Can see devastation, can feel it, echoing through her with so much familiarity. Voyne knows what it is to doubt, to realize that the lens through which

you have viewed the world and built your life is only one possibility.

But then Jacynde’s expression hardens. “My faith does not waver,” she spits. “And you are not that which I serve.”

The Lady’s lips curve in a perfect painted frown as She picks up a goblet of wine and holds out one fine hand. The Loving

Saint rises and gives Her a piece of weeping honeycomb. He has pulled it from one of the skeps, taken from Jacynde’s girls

and now buzzing with life. She has a flash of memory: a comb dripping gold onto Phosyne’s hands. Phosyne. Voyne should be with her. Watching her. And then the thought is gone, and it is all Voyne can do to keep her eyes trained

on the Lady as honey slides down Her pale skin, drips into the wine.

“That can be righted. Kneel, sweet child,” the Constant Lady says, raising Her eyes to Prioress Jacynde. Jacynde moves as

if to look away, then stops, caught. Voyne knows what she sees, those impossible rings of color. But unlike Voyne, she remains

standing. She backs away. She turns as if to flee.

The Warding Saint rises from his seat and seizes one arm. The Absolving Saint takes the other. They hold her gently, so gently,

their fingers barely pressing into her arms. Jacynde doesn’t fight, but weeps.

The Lady raises the cup to her lips.

Jacynde drinks. Her eyelids flutter.

This isn’t right.

Cold burns down through Voyne’s spine, snapping hard against the heat of the room. Her fingers close over Cardimir’s knife.

It isn’t a sword, but it will do. She bares her teeth and lunges for the Constant Lady.

The Warding Saint steps in between them. Voyne’s blow lands on armor that rings strangely in the sudden silence of the hall,

and the blade skips, jumps, cuts into the exposed divot of the inside of the saint’s elbow. A roar rips from the Warding Saint’s

placid face, and then he catches her by the jaw, and stares into her eyes.

And Ser Voyne is on her knees again, and it is the Constant Lady bending over her.

She hears the buzzing of bees inside her skull as the Constant Lady gazes into her eyes. The spiraling colors seem to dance, and Voyne strains upward, lips parted, thoughts all in disarray. Did she really lunge with the knife? There is no knife in her fingers. She does not smell blood. The Warding Saint still sits at the table, speaking with the king.

Jacynde is prone upon the floor, and her nuns have joined the feast.

The Constant Lady strokes Voyne’s cheek, and Voyne trembles at Her touch. “Be still,” She murmurs. “Breathe. Breathe for me,

Ser Voyne.”

The righteous fury bleeds from her so swiftly she doesn’t notice its passing, and she is filled, instead, with yearning. Her

lungs work to a steady beat. Inhale. Exhale. The Lady smells of honey.

“What a beautiful creature,” the Lady says. “Honed to such a sharp edge. So loyal. So brave. So ready to leap into the fray.”

Yes , Voyne thinks, and then frowns as she recalls the weight of a blade in her hand. Recently. So recently she can still feel

the vibration of a blow up to her shoulder, the faint echo of collision. But she doesn’t remember lifting a blade.

“Your king is not as good to you as he should be, perhaps. Does he not know what he has in you? The passion. The strength.

You would break yourself open against every weapon Etrebia could bring to bear on you, and still push forward. You’d spear

yourself on the blade and keep walking, until you could wring the life from their necks. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Ser Voyne says, and she can see it. Taste it. She wants to be outside of the walls, riding down hard against the enemy.

She wants to push them back. She wants to free them all.

But there is a leash around her neck, and she can’t go beyond the wall. Voyne cannot stop the animal whine that builds in

her throat at the thought, but the Lady is there to soothe her, press cool lips to her brow.

“He wastes you. I can see how you strain.”

“ Yes ,” she gasps.

“I would cultivate you,” the Lady breathes into her skin. “Only say that you will be my champion, and I will loose you upon

the world.”

Something twists in the back of Ser Voyne’s head. Something howls. But this is all Ser Voyne has wanted for five years now, and she tilts her head up. She doesn’t look at Leodegardis, or her king, or anybody else in the room.

She looks up at her Lady, at Treila de Batrolin, at the rising sun, and smiles. “It would be my honor,” she says.

Her Lady rewards her with a kiss. Voyne tastes honey on Her lips.