Page 27 of The Starving Saints

The sounds of the feast beyond the keep walls have died away when Phosyne and Voyne leave the little room with the crack in

the world. What light there is comes from a pale half dawn, gray and strained. It falls on bodies, sleeping sprawled across

the stone.

Nobody has gone back to their pallets or beds, and instead slumber seemingly where they fell coming in from the feast. There

is very little sound. Phosyne and Voyne step over bodies and ascend the stairs, not quite looking at each other because (at

least in Phosyne’s case) that would be to acknowledge just how scared they are.

Phosyne doesn’t want to be here. She wants to be on the other side of that tunnel, puzzling with the thing that Treila met

down there, looking for another way out. It should have been easy to leave Voyne behind. Physically, it would’ve been. But

then Phosyne thinks of Ser Voyne compelled to obey her orders, and remembers her confusion, her terror, as she surfaced from

the Lady’s control instead, and she feels guilty for even considering abandoning this woman.

Besides, she can always leave on her own, if she changes her mind.

Probably.

“We’ll need a plan,” she says when it is just them in the staircase, halfway up to the tower. “A real one. A specific one.”

“Our enemy is powerful,” Ser Voyne agrees, slowing.

“Study won’t be enough.” Phosyne crowds up against Voyne, half so she can speak softly, and half because she feels exposed. Her room would be a far better venue for this conversation, but she wants a promise now. Something more than Voyne’s determination, before Treila arrived, or her tears, after Treila left. A promise that Phosyne is not making the wrong choice.

“No.” Voyne studies her face in the dim light. Mulls something over, behind her shadowed eyes. “My sword—the Lady took it

from me. That is a place to start. And the water. Everyone must drink water, and soon; the day’s heat will only grow.”

“Unless they mean to kill us all.” Phosyne smiles. It’s a little hysterical. “In this heat, if they can keep the feast going—”

“They’ve already stopped the feast.”

“For tonight. But if they don’t give out water to everybody, I don’t think they’ll know to ask, anymore. Two days, then, at

most. Right?”

“Surely thirst can punch through their intoxication.”

Phosyne says nothing. Waits for Ser Voyne to understand the obvious.

Her shoulders sag a few seconds later. “We can’t assume that,” she says.

“No, we can’t. We don’t even know what they want.” Except obedience, from Voyne, and—what, from Phosyne?

Attention?

The Lady had addressed her like a pet, but not exclusively (not like the king does); there was an eagerness to be seen. To

be listened to. And She had allowed Phosyne to dig in her heels and refuse Ser Voyne, up until a point. It had amused Her.

She had wanted to know more about the water. What else might She like to know?

“The water is a good place to start,” Phosyne says, rubbing at her brow. She leans against the curved stone wall, inches away

from the breadth of Voyne’s body. She feels sheltered there. Hidden. “It serves two purposes. It keeps everybody alive a little

longer, and it might loosen the hold on them, like it did on you. But how can we distribute it? There are too many mouths,

and the Lady will see the change, I am sure of it.”

“And we do not have unlimited stores,” Voyne murmurs. Her brain is engaged now. She leans in to Phosyne, conspiratorially,

even curves her body slightly around Phosyne as if to hide her. “But we can hope for rain.”

“It’s not just water, though. It must be purified. By my hand.” She considers. “Or by my powder, as it may be. Perhaps we start from the powder, not the water.”

“Perhaps.” Voyne gazes down at her with something very like hope, then pulls away, shaking herself. “This is no place to discuss

strategy.”

“No,” Phosyne agrees. Thinks to say lead on , but stops herself shy. No more commands, no matter how innocently meant; she must be more cautious.

They begin to climb once more.

They reach the final curve of the staircase without issue, and Phosyne sways on her feet, exhausted, as she takes the last

turn.

Prioress Jacynde lies motionless in front of her door.

Her skin is as red with heat as when Phosyne last saw her, her brow as paper-dry. She is alive; of that much, at least, Phosyne

remains certain. But how she came to be here makes less sense. There’s no sign of the young nun—or anybody, for that matter.

There is only Jacynde, eyes shut, body still except for the fluttering of her pulse in her throat.

Behind her, Ser Voyne swears and takes a step back. No doubt thinking of the chapel, remembering now with a clearer mind what

it was like to carve out the woman’s tongue. “I—I can’t—”

“Then don’t,” Phosyne says. She thinks. They can’t just step over the body, leave the prioress here alone. And she suspects

Voyne will adjust, once the shock has subsided. “She needs water. I guess we are starting from there after all.”

It’s probably not safe for Ser Voyne to go to the cisterns alone, but it’s not that much safer if Phosyne goes with her, either.

Or for Phosyne to go on her own. But it will give them more of the lay of the land, of how many sleeping bodies have fallen

scattered and strange across the yard.

“Consider it reconnaissance, as well?” she adds, making sure to force her voice into a questioning lilt at the end, to make

sure it isn’t a command.

A glance over her shoulder shows Ser Voyne looking relieved. “Yes,” she agrees. Looks down at Jacynde a moment, swallows heavily. And then she rolls her shoulders. “I’ll be back soon.”

She looks like a knight again when she strides off. It’s comforting. Phosyne watches until she disappears around the curve

of the stairs.

Right. Jacynde, then.

Phosyne pushes open her door and drags the prioress’s body inside and over to her own pallet. It is surely nothing like the

bed Jacynde is used to, Phosyne is only too aware now of how it stinks, but she has no other real options. She gets a rag,

dips it in the little water she still has, and lays it against the side of Jacynde’s mouth. She’s no doctor, but she figures

that should help. At the very least, if this insensate sleep is anything but natural, it should break through it.

But the water does not, in fact, miraculously restore the woman to consciousness.

With a groan, Phosyne sinks to her knees beside the woman and mops the water over her exposed skin. There’s no fresh blood

around her mouth, at least. Whatever Voyne did is done.

It’s strange, to wash Jacynde’s exposed scalp. To have this woman, prickly and powerful and angry, limp beneath her hands.

Once, Jacynde was Phosyne’s entire world (though Jacynde barely noticed Phosyne until Phosyne had already begun to slip away).

Her sermons and preferences and biases had shaped Phosyne’s life and belief. Had guided her through her faith.

Her faith is...

Her faith is complicated, even without considering the form of the Lady walking the castle walls Herself, instead of being

carried as a statue in a litter. She’s fairly sure that her faith wasn’t always so complicated. There must have been months,

years , when it was as simple as breathing—or, at least, simple enough that she could wrestle with her doubts within its confines.

But then her mind had started to turn, and her research had shifted from waterwheels and pulley systems to the basest nature

of water itself, because she’d heard it whisper .

Not literally, of course. But she’d been helping test a new dam design, ruminating on how much she could convince a river to change its nature, and then the sun had caught on the water a certain way, and she’d been able to taste it without dipping a hand in to drink, had heard the quality of the light on the surface and down, lower, where she could not see.

From there, everything had fallen apart. Fallen together. She’d given up on structure. Her duties became less and less important

than her theories, and she began acquiring books: fiction books, and recipe collections, and alchemical treatises that would

have gotten her excommunicated.

Did get her excommunicated, eventually, along with all the rest that had gone wrong.

And where was her faith in all of that? There was no moment when it stopped, when she decided she no longer believed in the

Lady or Her saints. She isn’t even sure that she doesn’t believe in them (the actual concept of them, not whatever is wearing their costumes). It just hardly seems to matter anymore.

At any rate, now Jacynde is just a woman, and a half-dead woman at that. Phosyne doesn’t know what to do. If the water doesn’t

work, must she try something else? A way to restore vitality, or belief, or holiness?

That might be it. Jacynde’s holiness, her proximity to the ineffable, has been forcibly stripped away.

That doesn’t give Phosyne much hope that she can fix it.

Her musings are interrupted by a knock at her chamber door, and she forces herself up on creaking knees. Sunlight filters

through the window in the loft with the character of midday, though Phosyne doesn’t think it’s been half so long as that.

But what does she know? She’s mad, isn’t she?

At any rate, Ser Voyne has returned, and it’s time to get to work. She stumbles to the door and hauls it open without checking.

The Lady stands before her.

Her saints are in attendance as well. They fill the small hallway, and Phosyne hopes that Ser Voyne is far, far away, isn’t

already on her way back.

“Hello, little mouse,” the Lady says, smiling. Her eyes are bright. Phosyne meets them for half a second, then looks away, chest burn ing. There’s too much Phosyne wants to know, wants to ask her. Wants to believe. “May we come in?”

“No,” Phosyne says.

Phosyne wishes she’d said the same to the king, when he called, because that one word actually works . The Lady doesn’t move. She doesn’t even step closer to try to force the issue.

She does, however, peer over Phosyne’s shoulder. “What a beautiful little world you have for yourself,” She murmurs. Her tone

is gentle. Genuine. Intrigued. Not mocking, like Phosyne thinks it should be. Anybody’s would be. Even Treila, who hadn’t

necessarily been bothered , hadn’t actually approved of the squalor.

And the Constant Lady, by contrast, appears delighted. She is looking up, now, and Phosyne turns to see Her gazing at the

corkindrill hanging from the ceiling. And then, crouching and tilting Her head, up at the bit of occluded window in the loft,

which Phosyne is surprised She can even see from there.

Phosyne straightens her spine. The Lady is, if nothing else, an enemy. That much has been clear since Phosyne first set eyes

on Her, cemented in the horror of the feast. That she now feels flattered and wants to preen is immaterial. “Have you come

to negotiate?” she asks, doing her best to sound strong. She thinks she sounds a little like Ser Voyne. Or Treila; Treila

would know how to handle this creature.

“Negotiate?” the Lady echoes curiously. “I simply wanted to speak again, now that you’ve had some time to marinate.”

Phosyne’s skin pebbles.

“This castle—we can give you nothing,” Phosyne says, taking the measure of the Lady and all three of Her attendants in turn

as she speaks. “We are dying. There’s no way out. So why have you come here? Deliverance?”

The Lady laughs. “Of course not.”

Well, at least that is settled.

“But do you really think you can give us nothing?” the Lady continues. “You have breath enough, still. Life.”

“Life that you are purchasing with your feast,” Phosyne tries.

The Lady smiles.

“Life, and love, and fear,” She agrees. “And power. There is power here, as well. Let us in, little mouse.”

The flattery makes Phosyne shiver as much as the threat. She opens her mouth to say no all the same.

“Let us in, and we will help you with your guest.”

Phosyne goes stiff. She is a poor liar, down to the bone, even before she glances over her shoulder at Jacynde. “I don’t need

help,” she tries anyway.

“I smell fever,” the Warding Saint says. “Sun fever—it is dry and scorched.”

The Lady smiles. “Jacynde de Montsansen?”

“Yes,” the Absolving Saint says. “Yes, I can smell the propolis beneath her nails still.”

“She’s dying,” the Loving Saint adds.

Phosyne’s heart beats triple time in her chest. They have not crossed the threshold yet, not even toed the edge of it, and

Phosyne could just shut the door. Could hide. Letting them in won’t help Voyne return safely, and she should not risk herself

for Jacynde.

But they haven’t brought food with them. Phosyne has her water. Perhaps it is safe. Perhaps...

“No,” she makes herself say.

They do not leave.

“There is so much power in you,” the Lady sighs, instead, closing Her eyes and parting Her lips as if She is tasting the air.

“And I do not think you even notice it, most of the time. Tell me, little mouse, how it feels to speak.”

Phosyne blinks. “I... to speak?”

“Can you feel the urgency in your own words? The press of muscle that is not muscle, the slide of conjuration? When you purify

your waters, what does it taste like, the notes that you sing into being?” The Lady’s eyes are still closed as She recites

this litany, lips curling, pleased and pleasing. “Do you even know what it is you do to the world?”

There is nothing for Phosyne to do but swallow thickly, mind spinning, touching lightly upon every way she has nudged the

fabric of reality and felt it shift.

“You don’t know what it is you do,” the Warding Saint murmurs. “You’ve only just begun to see.”

“Let us teach you, sweetling,” the Absolving Saint says, or sighs , really, as he gazes at her with calm focus.

Phosyne shivers.

“You know?” she asks, unable, in the end, to resist. She wants context too badly. Wants to understand what it is she’s reaching

for. Wants to know what it means when she sinks into stone.

Voyne can’t give her that.

This is how they get you , she tells herself, letting the words sound like Treila’s because Treila, Phosyne knows, will not let herself be so easily

tricked. Hunger is not so hard to resist. Phosyne has done it before.

“We know you’ve done things your kind are not meant to do,” the Loving Saint says.

That causes a ripple of reaction. The Lady does not look angry , per se, but She does go very still, and the Warding Saint takes one step back and turns to face the white-haired one.

The Loving Saint only smiles.

“And what do you get, for teaching me?” Phosyne asks, because it can’t be this easy.

“Entrance,” the Lady says.

“No,” Phosyne says again.

The Lady’s smile, at last, turns brittle.

Teaching is ongoing. If she lets the Lady in, she doesn’t want to let Her in for all time. To accept would be to form a relationship,

but Phosyne only hungers for the knowledge, not the attachment. She needs to draw a boundary.

Phosyne considers a moment longer, and then steps into the hall.

The Lady regards her with something that looks like pleasure. “A novel solution,” the Lady admits. “But that doesn’t tell

me what we will get instead in exchange for teaching you.”

Phosyne turns away, puts her back to them. “Teaching me is the reward,” she ventures. “For not harming me.”

She thinks she hears the Absolving Saint gasp in delight.

“Very well,” the Lady agrees.

Phosyne shivers with triumph.

“What do you wish to do?” the Lady asks, at her shoulder now. Her fine hands hover close to Phosyne’s waist, but do not touch.

“For I do believe that, should you wish to do something, anything at all, you can find the tricks to make it happen.”

“Like the water,” Phosyne says, uneasy.

“That, and more,” the Absolving Saint says, at her other side. They’re both close enough to touch her. Neither does.

“But we will only teach you one thing, in exchange for your safety this one time,” the Lady purrs. “So choose carefully, little

mouse.”

Phosyne stares into her room.

This whole exchange hinges on the belief that these creatures want to teach her. Phosyne is fairly certain of that, bolstered by their response to her explanation. But she doesn’t know at

what point their desire to harm her will outweigh that longing to instruct. Helping Jacynde is the safe option; they have

already offered it once, even knowing that she feels no great loyalty to her anymore. Asking for the correct words and actions

to banish them from the castle is, almost certainly, too much. And in between?

She could ask to learn how they summoned food.

How they had bewitched Ser Voyne.

How they had enticed an entire castle to eat at their table and lose their minds.

What she wants, though, is to ask what they are . What they fear, what they crave, what they have come for. But that’s not on offer.

So she reaches for the next step removed from what they are: “Teach me how you came into the castle, unnoticed.”

The Lady’s hands settle at her waist, and Phosyne feels teeth pressed against her throat in a smile. “Gladly,” the Lady says.

“Close your eyes, and taste honey on your tongue.”