Page 51 of The Starving Saints

Voyne’s denial strikes Phosyne hard. It drags a sob from her, and the world sobs too. Aymar shudders, and outside the rain

begins again.

“Why?” she begs. “Look at me. Look. ”

Voyne looks.

She sees, through the haze of a ringing skull and burning adrenaline, a frightened, desperate woman, whose skin is red and

scalded, whose robes are stained crimson with blood over her ribs, whose eyes are the same cloudy gray they were the day they

met. She sees a woman she has sworn to protect, though the king she gave the oath to no longer lives, and wouldn’t merit obedience

if he did. She sees the woman who, in her own way, has ushered Aymar through a great and terrible transition.

The False Lady is dead, or at least locked away. If her words are to be trusted, Phosyne holds dominion over every life in

Aymar, with possibly only the exclusion of Treila and Voyne.

Voyne doesn’t feel excluded, not really.

“I am your minder,” Voyne says, with more patience than she feels. Her certainty doesn’t remove her fear, not even close.

But the world is spinning apart around them, and Voyne cannot fix that herself. She can’t fix any of this herself. Treila

holds the leash of the beasts that wait to devour them, and Phosyne holds the keys to the world. “I will bring you back to

yourself. Do you trust me?”

Phosyne bares her teeth, shakes her head.

“She will kill you if she has to,” Treila says softly, from just over Voyne’s shoulder. Voyne fancies she can hear a strained

smile in her voice. “Do not doubt that. That she hasn’t says there is still hope.”

Phosyne laughs, weakly. She weeps. She folds down, held up only by Voyne’s hand around her throat.

Voyne tightens her fingers just a little, a reminder of the chapel, of the cistern, of everything between them.

Phosyne’s breath catches.

“Let me take you from this place,” Voyne says. Her head is foggy, but she knows they cannot remain here. Sweat rolls from

her skin, even now that the boiling stew below them is closed off. “Relax. Trust me, Phosyne.”

She tightens her fingers, and, like in the cistern, it lets Phosyne’s hands slide from the stone. Voyne pulls her up to her

feet, her aching muscles protesting every inch.

And when they are both upright, together, Voyne slides her other arm behind Phosyne’s knees and lifts.

She takes a moment to make sure she has her footing, and looks up to see Treila evaluating the two of them, standing as well,

Voyne’s sword clutched in her arms. Alive and whole. It is more than Voyne had hoped for.

Phosyne saved her, too.

Voyne could not have borne her loss. She knows that, as much as she knows she cannot abandon the woman in her arms.

Together, they leave the tower and make their way down the stairs, breathing ragged in the close space.

Outside, the wind echoes the heaving of their lungs, bursting against the face of the keep. The stairs rock and yaw beneath

them, like nothing so much as a ship adrift. They are all adrift, here in the eye of Phosyne’s power, raw and terrible and

tasting, unavoidably, of her .

A snap. A cry. Something else torn loose, tossed into the swirling abyss Voyne can see whenever she passes by an arrow slit.

Phosyne is far too light, and far from pliant. She isn’t trying to fight, Voyne reminds herself, but that doesn’t stop the

paroxysms of pain and power from twisting her frail body, pitching her this way and that, making her spine bend and nearly

crack as she howls.

Treila keeps casting wary looks back at them, and Voyne keeps her expression closed off.

She hopes they will reach the throne room. She has a suspicion this will only work in that space.

Voyne has learned a thing or two about negotiations, about oaths, about intent. Everything within these walls is an exchange;

their horrible guests had only made it more literal. Power bargained for sustenance. Obligations forming the warp and weft

of the world, reciprocal and definitional. She was, perhaps, the first to feel the truth of it, eating at the False Lady’s

table, falling at Her feet. She’d come very close, she knows now, to freeing them all that first night. If she’d only kept

her head, struck the False Lady instead of the Warding Saint, they could all still be slowly starving, waiting for the end.

That—that is all that waits for them on the other end, though. Voyne stops on the stairs, mere feet from the closed door to

the throne room. Treila makes it a few more steps, then pauses with her hand on the wood. Glances over her shoulder.

“If I do this,” Voyne says, “if I break the siege, then what next?”

Treila quirks a brow. “Then we walk out of here.”

“Etrebia—”

“Is gone. I have seen it. We exist, in here, in a bubble. Beyond the gates is freedom, Voyne.”

Her mouth goes dry.

“The refugees,” she murmurs.

“Those that live,” Treila agrees, slowly, with a fine smile, so very much like a pleased cat’s, “have survived the worst siege

in history, and will walk out with us. A fine trick, hm?”

A few nights’ horrors for salvation.

Voyne only prays they will not remember.

“Come,” Treila says. “Whatever you have planned, let’s do it quick. There’s one saint left in the keep, and while I am eager

to tear his throat out too, I’m a little woozy.”

Voyne nods, and cradles Phosyne a little closer.

Phosyne whimpers, and presses her face to Voyne’s throat. Outside, lightning splits the sky, and one of the guard posts spins

lazily in the air, shedding tables and chairs and, Voyne imagines, playing cards. A whole keep, rent apart.

They don’t have much time to save the rest.

Treila pushes open the door, and Voyne carries Phosyne over the red and white and yellow paint that has dried tacky on the stone. The hive behind the throne has collapsed in upon itself, black now, blighted, bloated from too much weight, too unnatural an energy. There is no hum of bees as Voyne kneels and deposits Phosyne, gently, on the floor. Rises and steps over her, goes to the throne.

Sits.

Feels the echo of hands upon her scalp, a circlet of iron, a promise fulfilled.

Treila looks at her above Phosyne’s shivering form, then skirts around her, comes to the side of the throne. Behind it. Her

feet crush foulness, break it open, spill Jacynde’s defiance back out into the world.

When Treila settles one hand on Voyne’s shoulder, leaning the rest of her weight against the back of the throne, it feels

right and good. Voyne tips her head back. Smiles.

Treila’s lips quirk in response.

“You had better know what you’re doing,” she warns.

She is magnificent. Tested and honed and entirely herself. That the False Lady ever stole her from Voyne’s eyes is a travesty

that can only be rectified by another decade’s fond appraisals.

“Do you trust me?” Voyne asks, voice catching, hopeful. “Because I trust you, to the ends of the earth.”

“You killed my father,” Treila reminds her. “Sentenced me to starve. And taught me how to fight, and made me hope for better

things. Yes, I trust you.”

Voyne nods. Looks back at Phosyne.

Watches as her spine arches against the stone.

“Come here,” Voyne says. “Please, Phosyne. Just a little more.”

“It’s too much,” Phosyne gasps, convulsing.

“I know,” Ser Voyne murmurs. “But I can bear it. Give yourself back into my care, Phosyne, and I will bear the weight for

you.”

Phosyne must come these last few inches on her own, but Voyne believes in her.

She holds out a hand.

Phosyne stares at it, shivering half out of her skin.

“I’d like that,” Phosyne whispers.

“Then come. Kneel before me.”

“Swear—fealty?” Her lips twist, and then her eyes close again and she shudders, her whole body quaking. She flickers in and

out of nothingness, transparent for just a moment, and then distorted, elbows tugged unnaturally far from her body, limbs

attenuated.

“And in return receive protection,” Voyne affirms. “A give-and-take. Not just once, but ongoing. A relationship we can negotiate.”

Treila makes a considering, pleased noise behind her. “That could work,” she agrees. “A reordering. Back to how it should

be.”

And in those words are the weight of Carcabonne, and her father’s house. Treila understands as well as she does.

She, too, reaches out a hand.

“A little farther,” Treila murmurs. “I don’t think you are fresh out of miracles, not yet. One last one, and then you can

rest.”

Phosyne shivers, then pushes up. Plants her hands beneath her and lifts her weight. As Voyne looks on, she drags herself the

last few inches closer and sags against the throne.

She lets her head fall against Voyne’s knee, and lifts one hand.

“A miracle?” she whispers.

“A miracle,” Voyne agrees. “From the depths of you. I know you know the way.”

Phosyne nods and settles her hand in Voyne’s. Her eyes close. She focuses, and outside the keep, the winds still to a bare

hush. The floor ceases its rocking. Everything is still, a held breath.

“To you, Ser Voyne, I give the mastery of me,” Phosyne whispers. “For I hold within me dominion over every life within this

castle, and relinquish them to your care. And any strength that yet lives in my bones, I give also to you, so that you may

direct it to where it is most needed.”

A smile twists her lips.

“I could use the help,” she adds, opening her eyes.

Voyne smiles down at her. “I accept,” she murmurs.

And slowly, gently, the world rights itself.

It starts with an exhale; the throne room gasps, and the burning heat of summer flees, replaced with the calm coolness of an autumn day. Through the windows, no longer blocked by hungry beasts, Voyne can see the guard tower settling once more into its moorings. The world rushes to right itself. Or perhaps it is her: her knowledge of how Aymar is meant to be, its defenses, its weaknesses. Her rigid certainty that, for better or worse, the world endures human suffering. That it is worth it, to restore order, instead of breaking and beginning anew.

Carcabonne, after all, was rebuilt. The lives were lost, the suffering cannot be erased, but Carcabonne continues. Aymar will

as well.

Phosyne’s eyes close, and her head grows heavy against Voyne’s lap, but a quick touch proves her heart beats still. Treila’s

throat clicks behind her as she swallows. Rests her cheek against Voyne’s head, in place of any iron crown. Outside, the sun

shines down clear upon the yard, and Voyne can hear the soft sounds of other lives. Not of feasting, or of terror, but of

instinct. Bodies moving to the light. To water, of their own accord. To each other.

They will have so many questions. They have lost so much.

Voyne closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the throne with a sigh. One of her hands curls into Phosyne’s hair.

The other lifts to touch Treila’s arm.

“Is it real?” she asks them both. “Or am I dreaming again?”

“It’s real,” says a fourth voice.

In an instant, Voyne is on her feet. Her blade is in her hand, put there by Treila, who stands beside her, lips curling in

a snarl. Even Phosyne stirs, braced against the throne, bleary eyes taking in their visitor.

The Absolving Saint gazes back at them.

Or rather it is the creature they have called the Absolving Saint; but he no longer clings as strongly to his stolen iconography.

He does retain most of his mortal appearance, the right number of limbs, the correct proportions. He does not flicker in and

out of view the way the lesser beasts once did. He even keeps his silvered lips.

But his eyes are glittering black, multifaceted, like an insect’s. His skin is glossy gold. His hair has been replaced with

one sleek, shining piece of carapace.

“Peace,” he murmurs. He holds his hands apart, and they are empty. He still wears an apron draped over his front, pristine as always. Voyne remembers the platters he has born, the offerings he has made.

“Peace?” she asks him.

“Yes, ser knight,” he says. “I would beg of you an exchange, if you would let me.”

“You will forgive me,” Voyne says, “if I am not so quick to bargain.”

“An entreaty, then,” he says. He lowers his head in supplication. “A favor that I shall beg of you, except that I have something

to offer as well.”

Treila steps forward. “And if I tear your throat out instead?”

He regards her, inclines his head again. “Then I would accept it, though I wouldn’t have much choice.”

“Let him speak,” Phosyne says. Her words slur slightly, but her head is up when Voyne glances back at her. “He has always

been a thoughtful one.”

“Observant,” Treila adds.

Voyne looks about them. It is three against one, and they have bested the False Lady already. She does not want to be too

arrogant, but... perhaps. Perhaps she can take the role of leader, not warlord.

She steps back and lowers herself onto the throne once more. She keeps her sword across her knees but lifts up one hand in

invitation.

He approaches.

He goes down on his knees.

He offers up—

A knife.

Treila’s knife, if her sharp inhale is any indication. But the knife went down with the False Lady, into the cistern.

“How?” Voyne asks, sharp and harsh.

He spreads his palms below the blade once more, more deference.

“The kitchen,” he says.

Behind her, Treila lets out a startled laugh. “The cistern.”

“Just so. It was nearly too large for the pipe.”

“And now you bring it here,” Voyne says. Later, she will wonder at the image, turn it this way and that and hold it up in the light. A creature of terrible power, still in the kitchens, trying once more to prepare a meal. He is, she will realize, built for service as much as she once was.

“In return for this knife, Phosyne was granted dominion over this castle and all the lives inside it that my Lady held. That

dominion now resides in you.” He cants his head, considers his next words carefully. Perhaps he did not think to make it this

far into his speech. “You want us gone, I am sure, those of us who remain. Though, to be fair, we are not many.”

Treila laughs, darkly.

“But we cannot leave without your releasing us,” he says. “And in exchange for returning this blade, I would have our release,

if you were to be so merciful.”

Voyne is not inclined to mercy. “You have destroyed us,” she says, simply. “Turned us against one another, fogged our minds,

induced us to indulge in horrors. You have feasted upon us. You have fed our own to us.”

“You had already done it yourselves,” the Absolving Saint counters. “Unknowing in both cases, I am sure.”

She regards him cooly.

He quails, eventually. “It is not the same,” he admits.

“No. You made us delight in it. Gave us false hope, and devoured us to your benefit.”

“Yes.”

“And why should I not keep you here to starve?”

The Absolving Saint hums, and gives every appearance of consideration. But it is not he who speaks, in the end, to argue for

clemency.

It is Phosyne, pillowing her cheek once more against Voyne’s thigh.

“The blade,” Phosyne murmurs. “It lets his kind ignore the bonds of iron that have kept him at bay. That keep his kind out

of towns and palaces, from doing there what they have done here.”

Voyne shudders at the thought.

And to his credit, the Absolving Saint inclines his head. “Yes. And if you will take it in exchange for our freedom, we will

once again be hurt by it.”

“We go back to the way things were,” Treila translates.

“A fair trade,” the Absolving Saint suggests. “More than fair.”

“And are there more of you?” Voyne asks. “More than yourself and what creatures Treila did not set upon one another? Or is

this your entire world?”

Phosyne, at her hip, is alert. Judging. Treila, too, at her shoulder.

“There are,” he says. “And when I leave here, the bonds we have made will transfer to all of them.”

“Lying?” Voyne asks.

“No,” Phosyne says. Treila does not reply.

Voyne looks up to her.

“Does it matter?” Treila asks. “There are dark things in the forest always. Something will eat regardless. Better not to risk

making their teeth any sharper.”

Voyne considers, then nods. She gestures. “Lay down your knife, then, hungry thing. But before you go—”

He hesitates, half-bowed.

“Phosyne,” Voyne continues, “please word this for me. I want everybody in this castle who has unknowingly suffered to remain

unknowing. They are stirring, even now. I would not visit this horror upon them, if it is within my power.”

“Horror,” Treila offers, “shapes character. And it did happen.” She would know; those dark things in the forest found her

years ago. But whatever she found there is not the same as what happened within these walls.

“They had no control over themselves during it,” Voyne counters. “It’s not the same, dear heart.”

Treila blushes. Says nothing more.

Voyne looks at Phosyne.

“In exchange for the return of the knife and all the meaning therein,” Phosyne murmurs, “and in exchange for gifting those in this castle that are not us, and that are not you, a gentle evening’s slumber from which they shall wake fed and unknowing of anything beyond your arrival at the gates of Aymar, you are free to go and take your creatures with you, never to return to this plateau, may we never look upon you again.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning and intent.

The Absolving Saint nods and lays down his knife.

It makes a faint ringing sound against the stone.

When he stands, he looks thinner, less lustrous. He offers them a small, silvered smile, and leaves the throne room.

Voyne lets free a deep and exhausted sigh.

“Treila,” Voyne murmurs, “tell me more about what waits outside those gates.”

“I confess I know very little,” the woman says, but she circles around to the front, holds out her hands. “Except that it

is autumn, and there is a small band of soldiers waiting for us. Ours, not Etrebian. The world beyond is safe, for now, and

waiting for us. But they will ask where the king is.”

Phosyne goes very pale, even as Voyne rises and reaches down to bring her along with them.

“The king,” Phosyne says, “is dead.”

“He is,” Voyne murmurs. Slowly, they make their way to the door. Down to the yard. Out into a crisp autumn day, the sun shining

down from its right place against the blue of the sky. “But in all likelihood, one of the princes took up his mantle months

ago. There was, after all, no relief force.”

In scattered tents, far fewer than there should have been, they see people sleeping. Dreaming, in the shade. The dirt no longer

bears any trace of blood or silty storm. Everything is still and quiet.

“The world goes on without us,” Voyne adds, softly. She leans heavily against Treila, against Phosyne, as they approach the

gate.

There is nobody there to man it, but it stands open.

“The way I worded it,” Phosyne says, after a moment, “they will think there was a miracle here. The Constant Lady and Her

saints, in truth. A visitation. An intercession.”

She’s right, of course. And their role in it will be lost: three starving women who struggled for mastery of themselves in the face of a spiraling world.

“Can we leave here?” Treila asks, softly, sounding unaccountably young for the gore that stains her to the bone.

“Only one way to find out,” Phosyne says, and her eyes flash with an eager hunger. “And we must hope we can. For there is

no food in Aymar Castle.”

Voyne pulls them both close and, together, they take the next step.