Page 5 of The Starving Saints

There is a sick poetry in it; Voyne has spent the whole day making excuses to avoid coming to the madwoman’s tower, pretending

that she was in some way helping the defense of Aymar, and instead attack comes when she is trapped here in this foul, fetid

little chamber. It’s as if Etrebia has sensed her dereliction (which is not fair; to be here is duty too, even if it’s farcical).

She watches through the gaps in Phosyne’s window as another blow strikes the outer wall. The sun is low enough now that she

cannot see the extent of the damage, but the steady rhythm of the assault tells her what she needs to know. This is not some

light sortie. They mean to attempt the castle once more.

She can’t stay here.

“Take shelter,” she says, pulling away from the window and longing for her armor. She seizes Phosyne by the elbow, steers

her toward the stairs. The witch resists, of course, but Voyne is stronger and more certain. “Down in the lowest levels, with

the others.”

“But—my research—” she stammers out, and Voyne wants to shake her.

Your research is a joke , she nearly says, but this is an emergency, and she is built for action. “Your research will not matter if you are dead,”

she says instead as they reach the main floor of Phosyne’s squalid chamber. “Take some of it with you, if you must, but you

are going to take shelter, and you are going to wait for my return.”

And the woman has the gall to try to climb back up to the window.

Now she shifts her hold to Phosyne’s collar and drags her to the door. “You may not be able to see sense,” Voyne hisses, “but I will be cursed if I let you throw away your life.”

She ignores Phosyne’s wailing all the way down the stairs. Past her liege’s room, down to the lowest level, where terrified

farmers and servants are already massing. She shoves Phosyne into the press of them. “Keep her here,” she demands of an older

woman whom she thinks she recognizes from the kitchen. And then she allows herself to stop caring, and plunges out into the

yard.

A flash of golden hair passes by her, half-recognized and then gone in another breath; some serving girl, guiding younger

boys to safety, making her job easier.

This is no Carcabonne. Not the battle for its release, nor the state she found its halls in. But the fear, the fear is so

thick in the air she can taste it. Little blood slicks the stones of Aymar, but more will soon, if salvation does not come.

And yet she is exhilarated all the same. The waiting is over. The moment is here.

Constant Lady preserve her, but she should have her armor now. Even if it weighed her down as she did exactly what she is

doing now, herding the frightened innocent to some semblance of shelter. At least she would feel more herself. At least people

would know to look to her for aid.

But perhaps there is a mercy here—without her armor, she is much less obviously the queller of the riot. Some, no doubt, fear

her less when she doesn’t gleam. And despite her silent pleas, there is no Constant Lady here. There are only people, as there

always have been. Voyne must be their intercessor.

The yard empties, the panic contained within the walls farthest from the bombardment. She doesn’t think all of the enemy’s

strikes are hitting home; if they are, the walls are holding well. Adrenaline filters out the collisions that are too soft,

too distant, not relevant. That still leaves several that hit, one after the other, that crumble an interior wall into the

lower bailey yard. Smaller chunks skitter and fly to all corners. It’s not safe to remain.

This is the held breath before the battle. She would do well to make use of it.

She retreats inside, into the press of too much humanity. Too many people. Even with some in the great hall, even with others in various towers, there are too many people to move. She can’t spot any of the attendants who are trained to help the knights into their plate; she will have to arm herself. She can barely reach the stairs and climb up. If any of these walls collapse, there will be mass death.

Perhaps that is why she finds her king two floors up, in their converted quarters, where she goes to fetch her armor.

That does not explain why he stands by the window.

She feels unaccountably naked as she goes to his side, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring out.

“My liege,” she says. “We must get you somewhere safer.”

He doesn’t look at her. He is twisting pinches of his beard into tight spirals. “This is the moment, Voyne,” he says instead.

“Look. See what our iron has bought. This may be the moment of our ransom.”

The Priory.

She crouches down so that she can see out the window below him. Out on the far wall, she can see figures working in shadows,

the torches doused to deny Etrebia anything to aim by as night falls in earnest. But she can make out enough: the nuns help

work small catapults, each of the Priory’s design. They are not, strictly speaking, a martial order, but their designs have

always been of use in times of war. Those catapults, she knows, are stronger than their footprint should rightly allow, and

around their rotational bases they bear notations she has heard called radians that allow precise calibration, aiming, destruction. From here, she can barely see the nuns at work, their shorn heads wrapped

in black fabric hastily donned to hide them in the night. They observe the turning of the machines. They load them with what

Voyne can only hope is their precious new invention.

( But what if , her treacherous mind whispers, that invention is as laughable as Phosyne’s rotting meat? )

The catapults release in a wave; she hears the thunk as they reach full extension. She can’t see what they lob out across the field, but when they strike the siege engines below, they explode into bright, multicolored flames that spread fast. She can see the silhouettes of the Etrebians trying to douse the flames, but they’re pushed back.

And then the siege engines begin to buckle.

“Bless the Constant Lady,” Voyne whispers, awestruck.

They stay there, the two of them, her king standing above her, Voyne crouched by his feet. They watch. One by one, every siege

engine that is struck by these Priory-derived incendiaries collapses in the flames. And the nuns are skilled at their mathematics,

their geometries; they know how to aim, and aim fast.

When the catapults fall silent, Voyne can only assume they have exhausted their munitions. But it has been enough.

The attack on the gates never comes.

Etrebia has been held at bay.

Tears burn Voyne’s eyes. There is no hope of any repeat performance, not without resupply, but the Priory has done the impossible.

She can only hope that it breaks Etrebia’s will; that in the morning, they will look out and see the camp pulling up stakes,

retreating. It is what she would do. Take the measure of their new opponent, and return again when ready.

“My gambles do work,” her king says, and she feels his hand settle briefly on her scalp. Her skin crawls, but she remains

still, because—he is right. He must be right. “Now I only wait on you to help me feed our people.”

She tries not to let her relief sour. Hopefully, there will be no need of his madwoman; they can discuss in the morning.

For now, there is work to be done; in the absence of impacts and the crumbling of stone, she can hear crying. Screaming. People

have been hurt, likely killed. “I must go to them,” she says. She half expects him to stop her, but he lets her go. Down the

stairs once more, down to the yard, where Ser Leodegardis, Ser Galleren, all the rest, have gone to work.

Torches flare to life. There is far more destruction than she anticipated. Stone to move, wounded to tend to. But it could

have been far worse, and her brain feels cooler as she gets to work. As she does what she was built to do.

They have been working side by side, hand in hand, for no more than fifteen minutes when Voyne sees movement to her left. Quick and fleeting, nothing more than a shadow. Something falling, she thinks, though it makes no noise.

“Is that Phosyne?” Leodegardis says, startled. Voyne’s blood runs cold, then hot, and she shakes her head.

“Leave her.” She doesn’t have time to care about the madwoman, her bizarre “logic” or her heresy.

“She’s running,” somebody else says, and Voyne snarls and pulls away from their efforts. Damn the witch’s chaotic nature.

And damn Cardimir for making Phosyne her problem. There, in the gloom, a flash of movement, Phosyne’s pale face; her dark

robes blend into the shadows. She is running, and full tilt.

“Go,” Leodegardis murmurs, and she can’t tell if he’s entreating her to rush after his pet, or warning her that she must follow

Cardimir’s orders, even when they are foolish.

The sooner she has penned Phosyne up, the sooner she can attend to those who really need her.

She follows.

Phosyne’s path is erratic, twisting, turning. It’s as if she’s chasing something unseen. But no matter her desperation, she

is unpracticed and underfed, and Voyne gains on her. Just as they reach the smithy yard, Voyne falls upon her, tackling her

into the dirt.

“Let go!” the witch cries, but Voyne only holds her more tightly. She is bird-boned beneath her, barely anything of substance,

but she thrashes and squirms like a trapped stoat.

“Stop resisting,” Ser Voyne commands, and it only makes Phosyne thrash harder. Fabric tears, loud and organic and more human

than crashing stone.

Something collides with the charcoal pile three feet away, sending black chunks skittering in a hundred directions in the

dark. Voyne hunkers down reflexively, head ducked, so that her face is pressed to Phosyne’s throat. But there are no more

missiles coming over the wall; she can’t make sense of the collision, given half a second to think. Below her, Phosyne goes

limp, gasping for breath. Voyne can feel her pulse against her cheek, fluttering wildly.

And then she smells smoke.

She sits bolt upright and there is a glowing spot, orange and hot, spreading quickly.

“Oh, no,” Phosyne whispers beneath her, half a whine.

Voyne has a hand on her briefly, on her throat as if to keep her from wriggling free. But that isn’t the best use of her.

“ Fuck ,” she snarls, and then she’s up and off Phosyne, snatching up a shovel from where it leans nearby, stabbing it into the pile.

Fire in the fuel could mean conflagration. That there’s no more iron to smelt barely registers as she scatters the pile, searching

for the ember.

Behind her, Phosyne wails, drags herself to the pile for some unknowable mad reason. Voyne is digging too slowly. The bright

burning spot is the size of a fist, fingers about to unfurl. The heat is already almost too much to bear, and it will only

grow. “Get back!” Voyne barks, even as Phosyne plunges her hands in.

She will burn. There’s nothing for it—she has no shovel, she will burn.

And she does. Phosyne falls back, clutching air. Her hands are burned, no doubt, curled in as the flesh melts and bubbles.

It looks for all the world like she is clutching something, some slip of shadow, but that can only be Voyne’s overtaxed mind.

It doesn’t matter . Voyne shouts, instead, for help. In an instant, Leodegardis is there, Galleren is there, they are scattering the ignited

coals, kicking dirt over them, stamping them out. That leaves Voyne to return to Phosyne’s side, furious.

Phosyne is on her belly in the dirt now, hugging herself. But she is not sobbing with pain.

She lifts her head, and looks back at Voyne, defiant.

Snarling, Voyne seizes her by the hair, barely long enough to allow rapacious fingers.

Phosyne gasps in pain and her arms twitch. Again, it looks as if she holds something slender, like a cat, but there is nothing

there. Another bit of her madness? Does she hallucinate, too? Or does the witch force the world out of its order? Spit in

the Constant Lady’s face?

“Do not dare move, witch,” Voyne growls into her ear.

Phosyne tries to hunch, but Voyne drags her head back; she has no patience left to let Phosyne hide.

“I apologize,” the madwoman gasps out. “I didn’t mean—let me go. I’ll go back to my tower, the attack is over, I will go back

to my work, please—”

And Voyne is out of patience. She slams Phosyne into the wall of the smithy.

“Give me one reason why I should not have you brought before my liege for nearly finishing Etrebia’s work,” she says, low

and even into Phosyne’s ear. There is none. None at all. Whether Etrebia retreats or remains in the morning, Voyne will be

quit of this insipid creature.

But the glow of the explosions of Etrebia’s siegecraft, the glow of the charcoal pile, is in Phosyne’s eyes as she says, triumphant,

“I have an idea for a miracle.”