Page 46 of The Starving Saints

The keep is empty when Treila emerges from the tunnel.

She expects to see hungry, pale faces as she creeps up the stairs, but there are none. There are no tangles of limbs in the

windows. There are not even any sleeping, sated bodies on the floor. The whole edifice is silent, and the pained chaos of

Treila’s heart quiets with it, knowing that she has no room for feeling, only for caution.

If it is silent, then something has changed. Something has gone wrong.

She must get to Phosyne as quickly as possible. Carcabonne and Ser Voyne and her father can wait a little while longer; they

have, after all, waited for five years.

Treila steals out into the courtyard. It is night, and the upper and lower baileys are both empty, though the dirt is stained

in too many places. Still, there are no scraps, no bones or torn flesh, no abandoned tents. There is only soil, dusty and

dry and barren.

But the great hall’s windows blaze with light, and a soft murmuration drifts from them as well.

Treila takes the long way to it, clinging to shadows, back against the stone. She clutches the knife in her hand, watching

for any sign of saints or beasts. Ready to fight. Ready to carve a path.

There’s no need. She reaches the great hall without seeing so much as a flicker of a shadow that is not hers, and she peers

inside.

The room is full of bodies. There is laughter, a hundred voices raised one atop the other, singing at the far margins. There is delight. There is happiness. It shreds at her nerves, discordant, and Treila retreats until she finds an empty window into the corridor that leads into the great hall itself. She tucks her blade in the folds of her skirt and prowls forward, the way she had the night of the feast.

And it is so like the night of the feast, when she enters the great warm room. It feels like the whole of the castle is concentrated

here, though Treila knows that to be impossible. The walls could not contain them all. But the crush of bodies is so much

tighter and hotter than it was the night of the feast, and the yard outside so empty.

Treila, shivering, pushes her way in. Every brush of skin against skin makes her flinch. She waits for one of the faces to

turn, to see her with the Loving Saint’s piercing eyes, or the golden blank hunger of the beasts, but there is only mindless

rapture. Nobody cares that she steps on their feet, that she crushes them into their neighbor. Nobody reacts at all, except

to let her pass.

And then the bodies begin to thin. Each step becomes a little easier. Treila stops just short of falling out of the press

of bodies entirely, held up by a flash of yellow—the Lady’s face, turned away from her, gazing out to the center of the clearing.

Phosyne stands before Her.

Before them both, the king hangs upside down. He is naked, pale, just a man.

Less than a man; Phosyne has opened his belly, and his organs lie at her feet on golden platters. They have been carefully

sorted. His kidneys gleam. His liver glistens. His heart still seems to beat, though Treila is sure that is only a trick of

the light, or of her own rising gorge.

In Phosyne’s hand is a knife not made of iron but of bone. It is sharp, though; she is flensing the skin from Cardimir’s corpse

with casual flicks of her wrist. She is focused, wholly, on her work, reducing a great man to nothing more than a hanging

side of meat.

She is fascinated . Treila can see it in her eyes, when at last she wises up and focuses on the butcher instead of the butchered. It’s easier.

And it means she’s looking when Phosyne at last realizes that Treila is there.

It’s a subtle shift. It’s shocking that it happens at all, Phosyne is so clearly enamored with her newest project, her newest investigation. She doesn’t stop, of course, but she moves through the rest of the flaying knowing that Treila is there. She joints the meat knowing that Treila is there. She presents each lovingly sectioned cut of flesh to the Absolving Saint knowing that Treila is there.

She speaks to the Lady, words swallowed up by the heat of the room, knowing that Treila is there.

It’s a fine dance, from that point forward. Phosyne is clearly in no position to simply slip out of the room as the party

only grows once the king’s cuts have been carted off to the kitchens to be cooked up. Treila lets herself be swept up in it,

if only to obliterate herself a little longer, so that no prying eyes might find her. It’s a sick echo of the first feast,

with Treila playing the bewitched guest once more. Her knife burns in her fist.

She should be pleased that the king is dead. What Voyne said is, in the end, true: what was done to her was monstrous. Thrown out into an already starving countryside at the tail end of a brutal winter, with not even an understanding

of why. Perhaps her father earned Voyne’s blade through his neck. Perhaps her father even earned his family’s disinheritance.

But there were gentler ways. Kinder ways. Cardimir did not choose them.

And yet she can’t bring herself to feel vindication. He probably didn’t even notice when he was strung up.

She wishes she could have feasted on him five years ago, though.

The tide of the room has pushed her nearly to the door to the yard when Phosyne, at last, finds her. They see each other across

a scrum of bodies, much the same way the Loving Saint had first caught Treila’s eye. Maybe that’s what makes her blood run

cold, or maybe it is just rational fear of how much like them Phosyne has become. Her robes are finer than the last time Treila

saw her. They are heavier with embroidery. They are dyed in soft and shifting colors. And Phosyne is clean, so very clean,

no blood on her at all.

Treila turns and runs, throws herself back into the tide, lets herself be swept away, danced across the hall. She wants to lose herself, but she is tripping, staggering, something catching at her feet. She’s felt like this once before, near Phosyne’s rooms: it must be some manifestation of her power. Treila hisses a curse as she is steered back to the door, but when she looks up, Phosyne is not there. When she looks down, there are darting shadows. Not the flat painted things, but something else, something substantial but elusive.

And then she’s outside. Alone.

There’s heat around her legs, burning hot, and then it’s gone, too.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Phosyne murmurs from the shadows.

Treila jerks and whirls, body tightly strung. Her eyes dance around the courtyard. Nobody watches.

Treila hides the blade behind her back and hopes Phosyne hasn’t seen it.

“Stay back,” Treila whispers.

Phosyne, to her credit, does. She holds up both hands, empty. “Were you able to hide her?”

Her jaw clenches. “Yes.”

Phosyne’s shoulders dip the slightest bit. “Good. Good. I—negotiations are ongoing.”

“I can see that,” Treila says, eyes flicking to the hall.

“The distraction,” Phosyne says, wincing. “I told you I would distract them, so that you could move undisturbed—a feast was

called for.”

“And the king?”

It takes a moment for Phosyne to remember to look guilty. “He rules nothing here, not anymore. It has... cemented our status

as equals.”

“You and the Lady?”

“Me and the Lady.”

Treila shakes her head. Takes a step back.

“Treila,” Phosyne says, voice threaded through with command. It makes Treila want to run. No—to snarl, to strike. Her hand

flexes on the knife.

“And now you negotiate the distribution of the spoils?” Treila spits.

The guilt is quicker this time. “No, no,” Phosyne says, bowing her head, exposing her slender neck for just a moment. “I am

discerning what it is She wants. What can be safely given. I am going to fix this, I just need time.”

Time.

Time, or...

Or iron.

Treila wonders if it will burn her, should she touch it. Surely, if Phosyne is turning into one of them , it will be anathema to her.

She takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it hiss from between her teeth.

Lets herself trust in Voyne.

“Here,” Treila says, pulling the blade from behind her back and proffering the hilt. Phosyne stares at it. Looks up at Treila’s

face, searching. How , it asks. How did you—

And Treila doesn’t know how to answer.

Phosyne closes her fingers around the hilt without a flinch. But she doesn’t pull, and Treila doesn’t release it. She swallows,

throat bobbing, and feels suddenly, unaccountably young .

She doesn’t know what the right move is, here. She doesn’t know if it’s smart or foolish to tell Phosyne about Voyne, or about

the power of the iron. She doesn’t know if she trusts Phosyne to do the right thing, and, more than that, doesn’t know if

it even matters that Phosyne knows if it’s right or wrong.

“Take it,” Treila says, at last, unable to make any decision except the one she’s already made. She uncurls her fingers, leaves

the blade flat on her palm. “It will kill a saint, if it comes to it. The Lady, too. But you’ll have to move quickly.”

Phosyne looks into her eyes for too long, silent and motionless, and then she takes the knife and tucks it into one of her

voluminous sleeves.

“Do it for her,” Treila says.

“For her,” Phosyne agrees. There’s still that question in her eyes. That suspicion. That hope.

Treila just jerks her chin at the great hall. “You don’t want them missing you,” she says. “Get back.”

Phosyne nods, but still doesn’t move. She reaches out her other hand, touches Treila’s cheek—gently. “You can trust me,” she

says.

“I’m leaving,” Treila tells her.

“Good,” Phosyne agrees. “But you can trust me.”

It sounds less like a promise and more like a plea.

They regard each other for one last moment, and then Treila turns and, behind her, Phosyne walks away, back into the castle.

The door closes, and Treila breathes. The air out here is cooler now, and damp. A storm is on the way. She must return to

the cavern below the keep, and quickly now. She must let Voyne know how far Phosyne has fallen.

Or she can stay, and watch the disaster she can feel in her bones is coming. But without a knife...

Without a knife, she is in danger.

The feast will only last so long, and is no guarantee of safety even as it rages. Treila leans hard against the stone wall,

centering herself, preparing for one last dash.

And then she feels a tickle. The slightest brush of eyes over her shadowed form.

She turns.

The Loving Saint leans in the doorway.

He is not trying to hide his monstrousness anymore. His long white hair is stained red where it has trailed through blood,

and beneath his nails is filth. His clothing is in tatters. His muscles lie wrong for him to be anything but unnatural.

“Where has your knife got to?” he murmurs. “Your closest companion, your dearest love.”

“You saw it,” she says, taking a step back along the wall, only to hear a rustling, a hissing. It’s not only him that’s found

her. A glance over her shoulder reveals flat, white faces. The shift of limbs in the dark. She is surrounded by the saints’

creatures. Her mouth is dry, her throat sandpaper. But she lifts her chin up, meets the Loving Saint’s eyes once more. “It’s

in Ser Voyne’s throat.”

“But Ser Voyne isn’t in the chapel anymore.”

“Only Phosyne could remove the blade. Your Lady said so.”

His eyes spark. He’s pleased she was there—or pleased that he knew she was there, without seeing her. “No, no,” he purrs, taking a step closer, and this time she falls back. She will not meet him now. She knows better. “Not only Phosyne. Don’t you remember, foolish girl, that there is something in the core of you that the Lady did not predict? I think you could take the blade from Ser Voyne’s flesh as easy as breathing. But where did you leave it, I wonder?”

His nostrils flare, even as they change in shape, melting into Voyne’s.

“Did you think you were killing me, when you slaughtered her?” he asks with her voice. “How long, until you realized you were

wrong?”

“Don’t,” she bites out. “Don’t wear that face.”

“She died very prettily,” he continues. “Her lips were kiss-swollen. Was it from you? Did she know that you were there, or

did she think the sun was merely shining upon her face?”

She vibrates with disgust, thinking of the real Voyne, loyal and strong. Thinking of the Voyne this creature could have offered

her, wicked and cruel and vulnerable, too. Everything Treila had imagined her to be.

Treila cannot stop from licking her lips.

The Loving Saint laughs softly. Treila wants to hear Voyne laugh like that.

“Without that knife of yours,” he murmurs with Voyne’s lips, “we can have so much fun.” He is close enough to kiss her now.

Treila has forgotten to retreat. She doesn’t know when she became incapable of striking Voyne again, even in effigy.

“But as sweet as it would be to eat you with your dead knight’s face,” he sighs, and Voyne’s colors begin to bleed from him,

his hair begins to lengthen, “I find I’m sick of playing to your fancies.” His teeth sharpen. His eyes gleam in the dark,

catching the moonlight.

Treila reaches for his throat, but he’s faster. He catches her wrist, hauls her close. His mouth descends, and she snarls,

slamming the heel of her other hand into his jaw. His head snaps back and then isn’t there at all, and she’s falling through

him. His hair whispers over her skin as she slams into the wall, bounces off it, falls sprawling in front of a hundred dripping

jaws. The first one snaps, and Treila staggers to her feet and runs.

She knows Aymar better than possibly anybody else alive, but they are faster than she, and they do not obey the same laws. They sprint along the walls, prowl the sky above as if it is a ceiling, drop down in front of her and reach for her ankles. Her screams break upon the stone and fracture, and she goes down once, twice—

But they let her up each time.

They play with her, letting her gain a few desperate feet of lead only to cut her off and send her down the stairs into the

lower yard, hound her around the rims of the cisterns, close to falling. They carve gashes in her arms, tear at her skirts,

knock her down, but only far enough that she is rattled, not that she is broken. The detritus of Aymar, shredded tents and

abandoned clothing, tangle beneath her feet. The monsters’ laughter is everywhere.

And behind them, riding the wave of their bloodlust, is the Loving Saint, grinning, scenting the air, drinking in her terror.

Her missing ear surges with the roaring buzz of a thousand bees, loud enough to deafen.

Without a knife, she has no way to fight back. But there are other sources of iron. The chapel—the chapel must contain something,

some astronomical measure that has a steel pin at its core. Or the garden, where Voyne’s hammer lies somewhere in the botanical

riot. But they have hounded her to the other end of the keep, close to the gates, and she can see no clear path around them.

Her muscles burn. Her bones ache. She stumbles as she scrambles up one of the staircases to the walls, then goes down hard

as fingers close around her ankle and tug her back.

She is so close. She is so close to the edge of the wall. To the long drop on the other side. To some kind of freedom, if

only—if only—

If only it were not the Loving Saint who falls upon her now, his hair shrouding them like a curtain.

She twists to face him, teeth bared, but there are tears in her eyes, helpless tears.

“I told you I would make it good,” he murmurs, prowling up her body. She jerks her knee up into his gut, but her leg passes

right through him. He is at her side, then, hauling her up. His hands are in her hair. She screams.

He laughs and throws her down onto her stomach.

She crawls.

“You never give up, do you?” he asks. “I was going to kill you gently, eat you sweetly, but that wouldn’t do you justice. You wretched, vicious little thing.” His boot comes down on her lower spine and she can feel her vertebrae screaming. Creaking.

The pressure disappears. Reappears on her neck. Her leg. Her arm. He is everywhere. She flails, meets nothing but air, and

only barely manages to roll onto her back.

He looms above her.

“Scared little girl, always hiding in the dark. Do you think that makes your teeth as sharp as mine?”

He flickers in and out of place, half-real, half-insubstantial. He is a hundred different people, exchanging faces like paper

masks. But he sounds the same in each aspect: a pure vibration, rattling around in her skull, ramifying.

It has a source. Like Phosyne touching her brow and making choruses erupt, his existence creates the rise and fall inside

of her. She focuses in on it. She can hear the core of him, static, unchanging.

The noise rearranges itself, harmonizes, settles.

Treila stands upright. She fixes her gaze on him and refuses to fall into the ambiguity, the impossibility. She sees .

The flickering stops, leaving behind just a smudge of white on the world in the vague shape of a man. The world is still around

them. In his chest is a snarled thicket of a stomach, hungry, aching, desperate. And inside of her is a prism, a flashing

diamond: heavy and unmoving, the result of every time she refused to abandon herself, no matter the guise she chose to wear.

In the center of it, a bee’s stinger. A gift from the true Constant Lady? A fragment of her suffering? Something vicious and

pure, either way.

Treila blinks, and the vision is gone. The Loving Saint stands before her, no longer changing, no longer moving. Panting,

he stares at her, brows drawing down in belated wariness.

“You—” he whispers.

And Treila lunges.

Her teeth pierce the pale, lovely column of his throat. They crack through his windpipe even as blood surges into her mouth,

coats her tongue, drowns her in sticky sweetness. Sweet. Like honey. There’s no trace of iron, and she laughs, fierce and jagged, because of course there is no iron in his veins.

He is screaming. The noise gurgles, shrill against her tongue. She bites again, and again, chews and swallows, even as he

thrashes beneath her. Her nails pierce his clothing, his skin. She claws him until his flesh is ribbons, until she is painting

them both with his blood. They are on the floor; she doesn’t remember their collapse. All she knows is the feel of him, the

fight of him. She is the dark thing in the forest, feral and fierce, feeding herself in his misery.

Ser Voyne and Cardimir and her father and the whole world sharpened her teeth, taught her to use them.

And it is glorious.

When at last the Loving Saint lies still beneath her hands, when she has drunk her fill of his hot and heady blood, when the

buzzing in her missing ear has quieted to a light and diffuse din, she lifts her head and regards their audience. A hundred

hungry faces look back at her. She can see them all, the margins where one differentiates from another. They cannot hide from

her anymore, just as he could not hide from her.

She isn’t here to play their games. She is here to win them.

Treila rises to her feet, licking her lips. Her stomach feels full for the first time in many months. She scrubs one fist

against her mouth, smearing the honey-thick blood across her flesh like war paint.

She takes a step back, holds out a hand.

“It’s eat or be eaten,” she tells her audience. “And I have made it good. Eat up, pets.”

They fall upon the Loving Saint, ravenous, and let her walk free.

She makes her way back to the keep.