Page 122 of The Starving Saints

And she isalive, alive and quicksilver. Even as Phosyne spasms and the air within the room collapses into the flame of the candle, then bursts out once more, taking the fire with it in a shower of sparks—even then, Voyne is moving.

Her blade plunges into the Lady.

It skewers Her right through. Phosyne sees it burst from Her belly, shining and clean. Sees the Lady look down at it in fascination. There is no pain upon Her perfect brow.

The blade withdraws, and Voyne, too, can tell something is wrong as the Lady turns.

“Run—” Phosyne gasps, and then, with all her might, she thunders, “Run.” The walls shake with it. Treila is there, too, and she, at least, will flee; she is smart enough, but—

But neither of them moves.

The Lady turns to face them both, and Phosyne cannot see Her expression. Cannot see if She is pleased or furious. Phosyne has to know.

She must know.

That hunger crashes into her, steals away all her senses. Without the Lady’s attention, without the candle between them, Phosyne’s grasp on all the world slips through her fingers. One thing. She mustfocus on one thing above all the rest, because she can feel the wind gusting outside, can feel the heat ratcheting up, a boiling sun, a broiling sky.

She fixes herself on the flash of Voyne’s armor. Iron that will not help her now. Iron that comes too late.

And even though Voyne must understand at least a little, she cuts into the Lady’s belly once more.

It changes nothing.

The Lady walks forward along the length of the steel. It slides through Her easily. No blood drips from the wound as She at last reaches Voyne, cups her jaw in both Her hands. Phosyne sees it all in the reflection of Voyne’s breastplate.

“Welcome back to the world, Ser Voyne,” the Lady says. “Though it was supposed to be you on this blade, if I recall.”

Voyne snarls. “It was to be Etrebia’s sword,” she says, “but you took that from me, too, along with all the rest.”

The Lady smiles, delighted. “Vicious thing, I will take my time in savoring you.”

“Voyne!” It is Treila’s voice, cutting through the roar. She is close at hand, and she is streaked with blood. Hers? No, it does not smell like hers, and Phosyne is falling down a long, dark tunnel as she tries to place it. “You don’t need a sword!”

They must have some other weapon. But Voyne isn’t moving, and Treila isn’t either.

She is trying to, but Phosyne is holding her tight.

Phosyne doesn’t remember moving, but she has the woman in her arms now, and Treila is staring at her, confused, as Phosyne leans in, catches a flake of blood between her teeth.

It tastes like honey.

Blood of a saint, then. Which one?

From behind her, she hears the Lady murmuring to Voyne, trusting that Phosyne’s distraction will keep Her safe. “But what is this crown about your head? You are built to obey, Ser Voyne. It is written in your bones.”

That gets some response, some jerking movement that Phosynecannot see the whole of, because she’s too busy staring into Treila’s eyes.

“They can die?” Phosyne whispers. But she knew this. She has not seen the Warding Saint since Voyne’s body was presented, wearing his armor.

No, the important thing is—there need be no iron to do it, because when Treila left her, she was unarmed.

Phosyne staggers back, far enough that she can see all three of them. Treila stepping forward as if to come after her, murderous and betrayed, and Voyne, her hands around the Lady’s throat. The Lady in the center of it all, unflappable, serene.

There is the flash of steel, but it’s not Voyne’s sword. It’s the knife, the Lady clutches it in one perfect hand, and before Phosyne can cry out, Treila has thrown herself into Voyne, knocked her away from the Lady, and taken the dagger in her place.

Phosyne cannot see where the blow lands, but she can hear Treila gasp, can hear Voyne snarl as the Lady steps back. The sword slides from Her belly, falls to the floor. It leaves no hole behind. A thicket of thorns grows across the Lady’s robes instead, fresh armor, ready to cut.

And Treila is bleeding. She tries to move and can’t, a pained and ragged cry issuing from her throat. Voyne has her in her arms, is positioned over her as if to protect.

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