Page 28 of The Starving Saints

14

The great hall is hot enough that Voyne sweats ceaselessly. It seems she is all made of salt and tears today, soggy and close to spilling open.

She doesn’t remember the last few hours in more than flashes. She knows she has not left the strangers alone, nor her king. They have all remained together, cloistered, even as the hall was surrounded by desperate petitioners. She knows that Prioress Jacynde did not come to join them, even though Ser Leodegardis has sent off at least five runners. Now, though, the hall is quiet, and beyond the walls, people have dragged themselves off to bed, driven there, perhaps, by guards—but Ser Voyne couldn’t say for certain.

She has been too focused on the food.

Somebody must be preparing it, for it appears on the long table they sit around, over and over again. She does not remember the saints and their Lady bringing baskets or bushels with them, but there is more than dried, stringy meat on their plates. There are red fruits, cherries and currants and strawberries, all ripe and bursting, allfresh. More sweet comb than the Priory’s hives could have produced is scattered between every serving dish. There are tender leaves, and crisp cucumbers, and early squashes, roasted to perfection. Voyne can’t help herself. She picks up one of the pea pods between her fingers, squeezes, stares at the smooth green pearl that emerges.

She places it in her mouth, chews, and nearly cries once more for how her tongue is coated with fresh vegetal brightness.

Voyne thinks she could eat forever, fingers stained red with juice, but then she glances at the window and it is night. Where did thetime go? It takes every inch of her willpower to drag her focus back to her king, who sits beside her, beard stained red as well.

He is speaking about his childhood.

Stories tumble out of him, and Ser Voyne remembers, now, how they have passed the afternoon: not in counsel but in these fountains of stories. Her head aches. What has she told them? She thinks not much; her throat is not sore from speaking. But she remembers scraps of Leodegardis’s tales, about how it felt to be granted Aymar to protect. The importance of careful governance, of the reciprocal relationship between lord and subject. How he is so glad to have a chance to feed his starving people, how he thought he had failed them. She listens, now, as Cardimir talks about his wife, dead three years, and his sons, almost full-grown. He is speaking not as a king, but as a man; where is his propriety?

“And you, Ser Voyne?” asks the Constant Lady, at last turning Her gaze on Voyne. “Will you gift to us a piece of your past?”

If Voyne doesn’t think (and it is sohardto think right now), she can see not just the Constant Lady with Her curtain of golden hair, but Treila, too. She can feel the rage and silence of Carcabonne, the warmth of Treila de Batrolin’s household, the glittering period between betrayal and judgment, before Voyne knew who to blame for the suffering and deaths of so many. And then she thinks she will weep again, pinned by old mistakes, fierce regrets, confusion, desperation.

When did she become so weak?

Perhaps it is only natural, in the presence of divinity. Weakness as holy offering, radical devotion. Her king cannot see her falter, but the Lady accepts it. Drinks it in. It is okay to fall apart, when there are long white fingers to catch her.

She doesn’t need the attentions of the Lady; she needs the Absolving Saint to come and kiss her brow and ease the guilt and pain in her, recognize her, see her for who she is.

The Lady notes her silence. Her brow softens, but Her eyes seem to sharpen, to cutting glass. “Surely, you have triumphs?” She presses.

It’s a gentle nudge, from the blood she remembers on her handswith guilt to that she remembers with pride. Yes, she has had her conquests, too.

“Many,” she agrees. She doesn’t know where to start. She looks to Leodegardis, to her king, and they gaze back with gentle expectation. Neither moves to offer her direction.

And then, at the far end of the hall, the doors open. Memories fall away, and she and Leodegardis are on their feet reflexively. Voyne reaches for her weapon, only to realize it isn’t on her hip. When did she remove it? Where did she place it? How could she not notice, when she has spent so many years carrying its weight, that her gait is slightly but irrevocably altered?

But it’s only Prioress Jacynde in the doorway; it would be blasphemy to draw a sword. Blasphemy doubled by their holy audience. The worry about her sword drops away as she and Leodegardis make their bows.

Jacynde does not look pleased.

She has brought with her two of her nuns, their shorn heads covered by cloth knotted at the napes of their necks, the knots stuck through with heavy ornaments. They are wearing full robes, which Voyne realizes she has not seen them do except for the three high holy days they have passed in captivity. Jacynde herself is in full regalia, embroidered stole draped over her shoulders, layer upon layer of gauzy silk hiding all the lines of her body. Her face is painted, in seeming echo of the faces of the saints.

Voyne registers, dimly, that this looks like armor. Perhaps it is the martial set of Jacynde’s jaw.

Jacynde’s attendants hold two small skeps. Not live ones; they do not hum with life. Not offerings, then, but—

“Your Highness,” Prioress Jacynde says, and the sharpness of her voice stops Voyne’s thoughts, reorients them once more toward defense. “May I speak with you?”

Behind Voyne, Cardimir stands as well. “Come and sit at my table, Prioress,” he says, and Voyne can hear the threat in it.

Whereisher sword?

Jacynde ignores the king’s warning, his invitation, and does not break stride as she sweeps down upon the saints.

“I don’t know who you are,” Prioress Jacynde says, standing within a breath of the Constant Lady, “but you are not welcome here.”

“Prioress,” the king warns. “These people are my guests.”

The Constant Lady does not flinch, nor cower, nor offer appeasement. She blinks, placidly. “Jacynde de Montsansen,” she pronounces, and the prioress’s rageful countenance stills, dulls. “I do not begrudge you your doubts. But please, let me help you. Let me bring food to your table, as you have begged me so often these last weeks.”

---