Page 129 of The Starving Saints

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.”

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