Page 44 of The Starving Saints

They take Ser Voyne to the chapel. Treila follows, head down, ducking out of sight when she is able. When she realizes where

they are headed, she takes another route, and finds herself unseen, as if when Voyne at last looked upon her and saw her once

more, Treila disappeared to all the rest of the world.

Or maybe she is so grief-stricken that she doesn’t notice when others are close, as long as they don’t reach for her.

Either way, she approaches the chapel alone. But just outside, she stops. The space, usually bright and open, is crowded and

shadowed. Everything, every hive box and pew and abandoned icon of the saints is covered in honeycomb. What was once so meticulously

maintained is now all but buried, encrusted and sealed shut with wax. In the gloom, flames dance atop what Treila realizes

with a lurch are timekeeping candles—but made tall and monstrous, winding and uneven. No wonder night and day seem to blur

together, if that is how each hour is being measured.

The room hums with the beating of a thousand wings, the air darkened by a roiling swarm of bees.

She has arrived before Voyne’s body, but not by much. She sees them approaching, the bearers with their shuffling feet and

unseeing eyes. For all their bewitched sleepwalking, though, they look strong. Well-fed. Cheeks are flushed with life, and

nobody trembles or stumbles beneath the weight they carry.

The knife in Voyne’s throat is barely noticeable, past the bright gleam of her strange armor.

And then she is gone, inside the chapel, down a walkway that Treila cannot see from her current vantage. She circles around to another entrance.

She hesitates, flinches as a bee circles her and makes as if to land. Feels again that desperate winter, her body swollen

and stung, cast out. They could do it again. Descend upon her, drive her away. Are they not the Lady’s? No. The Lady is not the Priory’s Lady. She is something else, something worse; the Loving Saint made that very clear.

She forces herself to edge into the chapel. There is nowhere Treila can step that will not break and spill a surge of honey,

and so she doesn’t try to be careful. With each step, she waits for the bees to come to her. But they don’t. They mass in

great undulations farther in, or crawl upon the fresh comb, but none come close to her.

She finds herself a little gap, a cradle of wax that guards her on three sides, with barely an opening wide enough for her

to enter. From within, she can see most angles, with a little stretching. She is careful, as she settles in, not to step on

any bees.

Her heart slowing, she notices, finally, that the sharp-toothed watchers of the yard are all but absent.

The only creatures in this chapel, aside from the bees, are human. The pallbearers kneel before the plinth where Ser Voyne

has been laid out, as if for a funeral.

Her father, Treila thinks with a pang, had no funeral. So many of her father’s servants were buried in a poorly marked grave

in a winter wood. But perhaps she should take joy that Voyne’s funeral will be more perverse by far.

The knife still protrudes from Voyne’s neck. Treila doesn’t know why. It’s garish, gleaming in the harsh sun that filters

in, almost as bright as the shine of her breastplate.

No, not hers. The Warding Saint’s.

Treila finally realizes that she hasn’t seen him anywhere.

It’s only the Absolving and the Loving Saints who appear at the chapel’s entrance. They take up posts by the doorway, but

aside from their positioning, they look quite at their leisure. The Loving Saint sips from a chalice. It is gold. It is likely

the king’s.

When he lowers it, his lips are red. He is drinking blood like it is wine.

It is eat or be eaten.

Treila clenches her fist, feels the absence where her little finger should be.

And then the Lady enters. It is the first time Treila has seen Her since the feast. She still wears Her holy raiment, her

garlands of flowers, and here, in this chapel, She is horrifyingly at home. She should be sitting on a dais. She should be

accepting prayers.

She does not enter alone.

Phosyne is with Her. Nothing has dimmed her newfound cleanliness, the perfection of her robes, her skin. The squalor of the

world cannot touch her, and she seems to accumulate light, illuminated out of keeping with the darkened chapel. Treila’s mouth

goes dry at the sight; she looks like she has been carved out of marble. She looks like she belongs here.

It takes a moment for Treila to realize who is missing: the king. Cardimir should be in attendance at Ser Voyne’s funeral,

to mourn the passing of his pet. Should be, but his regency is hollow: ever since the Lady first stepped foot inside of Aymar,

he has abdicated all responsibility. Wherever he is, Treila doubts he’d care to know his prized knight is lost.

Useless. So useless.

As the Lady and Phosyne near the plinth, Phosyne slows, then stops. Her shoulders grow tense. Her chin lifts with the sort

of brittle sharpness that Treila recognizes all too well.

“And where is your Warding Saint?” she asks. This is clearly the continuation of some other conversation, started far away

from here.

“Dead as well,” the Lady replies.

“The armor?”

“I imagine she took it before her own death. It was her hand that killed him.”

“And who killed her?”

“I do not know.”

At the door, the Loving Saint shifts, but says nothing. Treila shrinks deeper into the shadows.

Phosyne finally moves once more. She drifts up to the plinth and lays both hands upon it, not touching Voyne’s body. Her shoulders sag. She looks very tired.

“Dead,” she says, softly. “And neither of us there to see it.”

The Lady hums, and approaches as well. She is watching Phosyne, though, not the body. Her eyes glitter in the warm half-light.

“You knew, the whole time we spoke?”

“I did. Does it change your decision?”

What decision? Treila leans closer, eyes fixed. What has Phosyne agreed to?

“It depends. Do you know of a way to reverse death?” Phosyne’s voice is acid.

Treila thinks the Lady is smiling. It’s hard to tell from here.

“I might,” She says. “Give her to me.”

Phosyne’s inhale is audible. Sharp. “No.”

“Give her to me,” the Lady says, “and you may ask for anything in return.”

Anything.

Buried in that promise is a hint of hope. Anything might include Voyne’s resurrection. But it might not. The Lady has promised everything and nothing all at once. She has not

guaranteed She will even grant a request, only that Phosyne can make it.

She’d be foolish to say yes. Treila wishes she could go to her, show Phosyne her hand again, the side of her head. Make her

understand that bargains are all tricks. That she must be careful what she is giving up.

And Phosyne looks like she’s about to say yes.

It is all Treila can do not to cry out, to rush to the plinth and throw herself across the body there. You did this , she reminds herself. Ser Voyne is now nothing but flesh. On that day, back in the garden before it was twisted and warped

into what it has become, she had told Ser Voyne that she understood what hunger demanded.

Phosyne settles one hand on the gleaming armor that covers Voyne’s chest. Her head is bowed. Treila can’t see her face. Can’t

judge what she is thinking.

Treila holds her breath.

“You can’t touch her, can you?” Phosyne says, breaking her long silence. She reaches out as she says it, trails one finger along the hilt of Treila’s blade. It’s simple. Utilitarian. “Not while this is here. Otherwise, you’d just take her. You wouldn’t need to ask.”

The Lady’s jaw tightens. “Always clever, little mouse. Always so perceptive.”

“And they can’t touch her, either.” A glance to the saints.

“No. None of my kind.”

“But mortal hands may.” Phosyne indicates Edouart and Simmonet with a flick of her gaze.

“They may.” The Lady does not look happy, to give these concessions, but She does give them. Her generosity makes Treila nervous.

“And yet you did not have them pull the blade out.” There’s a hint of childlike wonder in Phosyne’s voice that does not match

the fierce pride in her eyes as she looks back up at the Lady. “Because they can’t either, can they?”

The Lady does not respond.

“But you think I can. So rephrase your offer. You will give me anything I ask for, if...”

She has reworded it herself. The Lady knows it, too. She tenses. She says nothing.

Phosyne huffs a small laugh.

“Send your scavengers away,” Phosyne murmurs, barely loud enough for Treila to hear, “and leave me to think. And then the

two of us can speak again.”

Treila half expects the Lady to strike out at Phosyne. To physically haul her from Voyne’s body, to threaten, to assault.

But instead, She inclines Her head. “Always clever, little mouse,” She repeats.

She lifts a hand.

In the next moment, the chapel is empty, save for Phosyne, Treila, and the pallbearers, who are as still as statues, heedless

of anything outside their skulls.

And Voyne, of course.

Without the audience, the chapel feels larger. Outside, the sun is near the horizon somewhere out of sight; Treila can’t tell if it’s dawn or dusk, if either has any meaning anymore. Whichever it is, it’s made the bees quiescent.

Phosyne returns to the plinth. Her fingers hover over the dagger, then over the gleaming plate covering Voyne’s chest. Her

gaze is fixed on Voyne’s face, as if she is waiting for an answer.

“I know you’re there,” Phosyne says. It’s not aimed at Voyne.

Treila flinches.

“Come out, please,” she adds, voice softening. “Don’t make me do this alone.”

Treila rises from her sticky nest, but takes only two steps, just enough to be visible around the pillar. The pallbearers

do not look up.

Phosyne finally looks away from Voyne, taking Treila’s measure.

Treila’s clothing is stiff with blood.

“It was me,” she says, before Phosyne can accuse. Easier, to take the blame directly, than to wait for Phosyne to put the

pieces together.

More dangerous, though; Phosyne’s expression twists into a livid snarl. Treila braces, in case she lunges.

But they are different creatures. Phosyne’s weapon is not her body. And that does nothing to dull the edge of her voice as

she murmurs, “You took what was mine, Treila.”

If anything, it makes Treila more afraid.

“Yours?” Treila breathes. No, mine , she thinks.

And at that, the dark cloud on Phosyne’s brow breaks. It doesn’t disperse, though, merely fractures. Pain flashes through.

Cautiously, Treila comes closer. Holds out a hand.

“Yours?” she repeats, a question now instead of an argument.

And slowly, Phosyne kneels before her. Covers her face with her hands. Her shoulders spasm.

Treila rests one blood-stained hand on top of her head.

“Before,” Phosyne confesses. “I found her in the throne room. She was trapped.”

Trapped, where Treila knows the Lady found Jacynde. Where the sound of a blade parting flesh had rung out. Had Voyne been

there, too? No, the Loving Saint would have used that if he could have.

“I took the throne,” Phosyne says, voice muffled by her palms. “And she came to me on bended knee. No. I made her come to me on bended knee. And I didn’t feel bad about it for a second. You... I think you should have left me to

die on the floor.”

Treila lets out a jagged little laugh at that. Her fingers tighten, tangle in Phosyne’s hair. “And I should have let the Loving

Saint eat me.”

Phosyne’s surprised inhale is rough. It catches in her throat like a blade has pierced there, too. But she lifts her head.

Treila lets her hand fall back to her side. They stare at each other, at their failures, their weaknesses.

“It’s all a mess,” Treila whispers, when she can hold it in no longer. “Every bit of it. We should leave. For real, this time.

It will cost us, though.”

“It will cost us either way,” Phosyne says. She scowls and wipes at her mouth, climbs back up to her feet. She looks at Voyne.

“There are things the Lady wants. That She finds valuable. If I can find the right combination, strike the right bargain—I

could still fix this.”

“Could you?” Treila asks. She’s not so certain.

“I could,” Phosyne says.

Treila does not ask how she knows.

Phosyne stares down at the knight for a long, silent moment, then shakes her head, plucks at her robes. Steps back. “Take

her,” she says. “Take her, down to the tunnels. Hide her there. But don’t leave.”

“Can we even hide, now?” Treila asks. “There are so many of them.”

Phosyne holds up a hand, closes her eyes. A faint note thrums upon the air. It sets the bees back to buzzing. Treila shivers,

falls back a step instinctively.

Then Phosyne opens her eyes once more, and all is as it was. “It’s safe, there. The same force that kept Voyne from following

us in will keep the Lady and Her creatures out.”

“And the distance from here to there?”

“Will not be easily crossed. But I think I can distract them. They want me at least as much as they want her. I will use that.”

“What has happened to you?” Treila asks, even as she edges closer to Voyne’s body. “What are you?”

Phosyne’s smile is hollow. She does not answer.

Instead, she goes to stand before the pallbearers. She is every inch the saint now, in this aspect, in this place. She has the clothing, the bearing, the command. She could be carried about the wall on a litter, and not look out of place.

“I know you have drunk of my water,” Phosyne tells them. They lift their heads at that. “I know that you reside, the smallest

fraction, in my domain. You will help Treila bear this body a little farther, and then you will find a quiet, shady place

to rest.”

Treila covers her mouth, then turns away. She does not want to see this.

But she can still hear it. The rustle of clothing, the creak of joints. There is no answering speech. No acknowledgment, or

gratitude, or hatred. Only bodies, coming to lift Voyne up once more.

And the sound of Phosyne leaving.

Treila stands motionless for a long time. Too long, she is certain, but she is so tired. She hurts so much, and there is still

work to be done.

But she has been here before. She has dragged herself out through the dark of the forest.

She grits her teeth and leads the way to the tunnel below the keep.

Whatever it is that Phosyne does to draw the attention of the Lady’s creatures, it works; Treila sees no trace of the many-limbed

flat things, though she sees the wreckage of their hunger. Blood stains on the stone. Bits of scalp and hair. Bones in the

windowsills. The saints were gentle, by comparison.

There is not much time left.

When they reach the workshop, Treila bids Edouart and Simmonet and all the rest to leave Voyne there. They obey. They do not

recognize her, or even mark her, save to follow her command.

She gives the two boys a shred of dried fruit all the same. She makes them eat it, and then she releases them.

Alone, she regards Voyne. She regards herself. She regards the gap in the rock. It will be hard to drag Voyne through in her armor. It will be hard to pull with Treila’s skirts tangled around her legs. But she can’t bring herself to change a single thing about them, not yet, not even for pragmatism’s sake.

So when she backs into the hole and grabs Voyne’s shoulders to haul after her, she does it stumbling and falling and cursing.

The tunnels are wide enough now, at least, that Treila can pull Voyne’s corpse alongside her as she descends. It is not easy,

and in the dark, she feels too dearly how Voyne’s skin is only the temperature of the air, how strange and slack her limbs

are. She will stiffen soon enough in the rigor of death, and she will be even harder to move, so Treila does not allow herself

to falter. She gives herself no breaks. She pulls and tugs and when Voyne’s armor catches on the rock, Treila squirms between

the body and the stone to get to the blockage, to maneuver them both to safety.

Safety. Treila wants to laugh. Treila is laughing by the time she reaches the cavern.

It’s still lit by Phosyne’s candle, flickering bravely against the black, and it gives her enough light to find a good spot

to lay out Voyne’s body. It’s a flat stretch just beside the glowing little creek, far from the crack in the wall at the other

end. Between the golden light of the candle and the blue cast of the stream, Voyne’s face is a sculpted death mask.

She looks peaceful, somehow. Even where the stone has scraped her forehead raw.

Treila settles a hand on Voyne’s chest. Her fingertips can just reach the blood-sticky skin of her throat, and after a moment’s

resistance, Treila gives in. Feels her skin simply to feel it, instead of to perform a task. She is so very solid. So very

real. Not a ghost, not a fragment of Treila’s past.

When Treila bows her head, she feels a surge of longing. It is clear, and piercing, and it cuts through everything else inside

of her.

This is not how Voyne was meant to die. This is not how Treila wanted to be reunited with her.

Treila wanted Voyne in her glory days, after she had liberated Carcabonne and come to Treila’s home to recover. She wanted the woman, strong and beautiful and noble, who had indulged Treila’s desires to learn swordplay, who had allowed Treila to fawn and flirt. A kindness to Voyne’s host; generosity to his daughter. Treila has always wanted that Voyne precisely for her impossibility. To find her would have been to go back before that long winter. Back before Voyne had sliced Treila’s father’s head off.

Before Treila had learned what suffering was.

She curls her fingers around the hilt and wishes she had Phosyne’s power to remove the blade. She longs for the safety of

the knife in her hand once more.

But no, that’s not right. She doesn’t want to hold it; she wants it gone.

It’s insulting, sticking out of Voyne’s throat. Wrong. She wants, so badly, to give Voyne a shred of dignity, to have the

blade removed, to let her rest , and suddenly it seems like the most important thing in all the world. Down here, there’s only one hungry mouth, and it waits

for the candle to be extinguished. Down here, the Lady cannot reach Voyne, and so Voyne can lie in gentle repose until Phosyne

finds an answer.

Phosyne is not going to find an answer. Treila saw the hunger in her eyes. Phosyne is a moment’s weakness from becoming like

the Lady.

There’s no point in staying. Treila eyes the gap, and the pain of losing her finger, her ear, echoes through her. She glances

down at Voyne, at her hand on the knife. If she could only pull the knife out, she could offer Voyne in place of her.

She could.

She wouldn’t.

What she wants, what she truly wants, is to unspool time. Go back to when Voyne was alive and they were curled together in

the garden. If Treila hadn’t grabbed for the knife—if she had listened, actually listened, and realized that they were playing

out, in terrible irony, the opposite of when Voyne had knelt at her feet and thought her the Lady—

Well. Things could have been very different, couldn’t they?

Treila’s hand shifts on the knife, loosens, almost falls away. A sob hitches in her chest. “You taught me how to fight,” she

tells Voyne. “It’s not fair that this one time, I wasn’t supposed to.” Her fingers tighten. Stubbornly, petulantly, childishly,

she tugs on the blade.

It slides free.