Page 43 of The Starving Saints

Phosyne, still heartsore and vertiginous, is spared the need to choose her next action when the door to the hall swings open.

Behind it is the Constant Lady, in Her full raiment, alone. No saints in attendance, no human followers, just Her in all Her

terrible loveliness. Some details have shifted, though, truth shining through the mask She wears. The yellow paint upon Her

cheeks and lips is stained a deeper orange. The blooms woven into Her gown have grown wild with thorns.

When She walks, Her steps ring as if She is shod in metal shoes.

The ring of watchers parts to let Her through. She stops only a few feet away, languidly surveying Phosyne and her throne.

“It suits you well,” She says, brow quirked, lips pursed. “My lesson helped you, then? You’ve shed your paupers’ guise and

found a place of power.”

Phosyne’s mouth curls in a snarl. She isn’t in the mood for this. She needs to go to Voyne, find out what has happened. Her

hand falls away from her throat, curls around the armrest of the throne once more. “Your creatures trap me here.”

“Do they?” She glances over Her shoulder at them, lifts a hand.

They fall back, respectful of Her power. They remind Phosyne of how Aymar used to defer to Cardimir, how the nuns responded

to Jacynde. There is a hierarchy, something more than a master to Her beasts.

They climb back into the window slits, block them up until there’s no light at all except for the flickering flames of the

reeds. They’re burning low. How long has she been here?

“You can leave at any time,” the Lady says. She strokes one of Her thick braids. Her nails are long and sharp; were they always this way?

Or is the time for disguises long past?

Slowly, cautiously, Phosyne stands. Her robes cling to her thighs, sweat-stuck to the skin below, but a twitch of her hand

sets them right. She doesn’t know if she actually touches the silk to do it.

“An improvement, to be sure,” the Lady says with a smile. “Look at you. So imperious. I expected it would take you far longer

to find a throne, little mouse.”

I only took it because—

The protest dies in her throat. Because why? Because Voyne needed her to? No. Because Phosyne wanted to see what would happen?

Closer, and she feels horrible for it.

She says nothing, tamping down the swirl of questions. She can’t afford weakness, not in front of the Lady.

“Are you going to flee back to your room?” the Lady asks. “I saw your work. Very nicely done. Your beautiful little world

has strong walls of its own now.”

She is leading up to something. Phosyne knows it, but can’t divine what it is. “I am not fleeing,” she says, meeting the Lady’s

gaze. Her eyes remain those unnerving rings upon rings of color. “But I am leaving.” Phosyne steels herself, goes to step

past Her.

The Lady reaches out and touches her wrist.

It’s a light touch, not enough to stop her, but it makes Phosyne falter all the same.

“Stay a moment,” the Lady says, voice quiet, for her ears only. “You and I, we have much to discuss.”

“I want no more lessons.”

The Lady makes a small, doubting sound, but doesn’t push. “Are you afraid, little mouse?”

“Of course.” She sees no point in lying. The windows are full of shifting impossibilities. Her stomach remains all but empty.

She thinks she hears screaming from the yard, though it’s hard to tell; it might be singing. “I’ve seen your hunger.”

“I sup on flesh and bone, petal and root, the same as you, but more rarified things besides: lust and longing, fear and ecstasy.”

The madness in the yard below. The dancing of the people of Aymar, their hedonistic dissolution. All of it to feed Her and

Her creatures.

“You play with your food,” Phosyne says.

“I season my meat, and keep it occupied. I give it fertile fields to fat itself. You will see soon, little mouse. You will

come to understand the satisfaction of having everything available to your teeth. I can see your hunger, too.”

And Phosyne is hungry. But it’s not the hunger of an empty stomach. It’s the need to taste. To chew. To consume. She wants to indulge.

She tamps down on the urge. That is what led her to that throne, what led her to command Voyne, to take what she wanted with

no thought to their surroundings, the danger they were in.

Phosyne realizes she is trembling.

She stays perfectly still as the Lady slides Her hand up Phosyne’s wrists to the sleeves of her robe, fingering the fabric.

She makes herself watch the progression of those pollen-stained fingertips, and as she does, she realizes these robes are

familiar. They are very much like Jacynde’s. They are very much like the Lady’s.

When did she do that? Did she do that, or did they change when she wasn’t looking, the way the painted faces watching them move whenever her gaze slips

off them?

Phosyne doesn’t remember. The trembling is getting worse. She must be stronger than this, if she is going to walk out of here

in one piece.

“Do you fancy yourself Jacynde’s replacement?” the Lady asks.

She flinches. She can’t help it. “No.”

“And yet she is dead behind this throne you’ve taken for your own, with Ser Voyne’s sword straight through her.”

“I didn’t place her there.”

“But you had taken her into your care. Did you abandon her, little mouse, to fend for herself? That is a cruel thing to do.

You surprise me.”

“I needed to build my walls,” Phosyne whispers.

“And you did not want to take on an obligation to somebody else.” Quiet, a moment. Even the bees seem to go still. The Lady touches Phosyne’s jaw, still featherlight, and applies just a little pressure. An indication, a request.

Phosyne looks at her once more. They are of a height.

“Tell me, little mouse—would you go into your room, that pretty, sheltered world of yours, and leave all of this behind, if

you knew it would sustain you?”

A night ago, she would have said yes.

Now, though, the world has gotten a little bigger. Her desires have grown teeth. “No,” she says. “No, I want freedom.”

“An understandable want. I can fulfill it.”

Phosyne bares her teeth in something that is not a smile. “And what would you require in return?”

“There are many things you could give me,” the Lady says. Her hand has not moved. “The exchange, I think, could benefit us

both. We are not so different.”

Phosyne closes her eyes for just a moment, for just long enough to see that the Lady blazes before her, but that she burns

with nearly the same intensity.

She reaches out, touches the Lady’s cheek, mirroring perfectly. Her eyes are open again. Her mind is racing.

“Were you like me once?” she asks.

The Lady cants Her head. Considers. Drops Her hand and steps back so that She can regard the full length of Phosyne.

“Do you mean, was I earthbound? Was I born of a womb, and did I drink milk as a babe? No.” Her gaze flicks up. “But could

you be like me, one day? I think that is the far more interesting question, little mouse, and I think it is the one you mean

to ask.”

Phosyne’s throat is very dry. She is thinking of sinking into stone. Of lighting candles with blood. Of bewitching a whole

castle into feasting upon its own.

She has never questioned where her power comes from—only where the knowledge does.

The Lady smiles. It is gentle. She holds out both hands.

Phosyne struggles not to take them.

“Give me your name, little mouse,” She murmurs, “and I will give you your answer.”

And for one blistering, parched moment, Phosyne wants to.

But then she thinks of how the Lady says Ser Voyne’s name: with ownership. She would do the same with Phosyne’s. There’s a

power in it, a worth, or else She would not be asking for it.

The Lady notes her hesitation. Steps closer. Their audience holds its breath, waiting to see what Phosyne will do.

“Give me your name, and the nightmare will end.”

Phosyne lifts her chin. Pulls her hands into fists at her sides.

“What do you have to gain from this?” she asks. “You have every soul in this castle as it stands. Surely you have everything

you desire.”

“Not everything. And not every soul.”

“So you want mine.”

The Lady doesn’t deny it.

This does not match her understanding of the situation. Phosyne is not important—or, at least, she was not important. The Lady and Her saints have come to devour this castle, and Phosyne is only a curiosity, an unexpected snare

in their plan. But then she thinks of the feast, of being laid like an offering at the Lady’s feet, and how delighted the

Lady had been to see her. How quickly She’d become fascinated.

Her world is getting smaller. Her breathing is growing faster, shallower, panic threatening to pull her under completely.

She staggers away from the Lady, mind racing, eyes darting around the room. She is surrounded on all sides. They shift and

spark in her periphery, flat white faces getting closer, and they have teeth, they have so many teeth , and she has teeth too, she could tear them all to pieces—

No. No, she has to get out.

She will go to Ser Voyne, wherever she is, and throw herself on her mercy. Beg understanding. Ask for a plan, any plan, because

they are running out of time and have no more room for games.

She is in the doorway when the Lady’s next words strike.

“You will not find your knight out there, little mouse.”

Phosyne halts. The skin along her spine crawls. Her throat aches. “What have you done with her?” she asks, fighting to keep

her tone even.

“Nothing at all. But your Ser Voyne is dead.”

The pain in her throat intensifies. It is like a blade cutting through flesh and gristle. Phosyne sways on her feet from it,

from the horror in her gut and the answering anger that flares to life beneath it.

Treila is gone. Voyne is gone.

Phosyne is here, alone among the wolves.

“No,” she whispers. “No, I refuse.”

The Lady draws even with her once more. Holds out a hand.

“Come and look upon her yourself,” the Lady says.

Phosyne, lost, takes it.