Page 33 of The Starving Saints

Phosyne looks at the inverted flame that does not danceup, that ignores the rules of the world, and then she dips it in the cup of water. The flame disappears without smoke.

As she pulls it out, she finds she’s feeling better, a little firmer, a little more real, because the girl is staring with naked want now, want and interest that Voyne hasn’t matched even while watching the same impossible demonstration. “To light it again is a little tricky. You can’t light it from another flame, or it will be just a candle. It will melt, it will gutter. Instead—” And here she rolls the words around in her mouth, hesitating just shy of revealing her secret. It will likely make the girl afraid.

Still, it’s how the flame is kindled. “Instead, it needs blood. Possibly my blood. I don’t know yet; Ser Voyne won’t let me test it on her.”

The girl’s face transforms, eyes widening, lips parting in arealsmile, and Phosyne files that away for later. For now, she picks up a little lancet, pricks the tips of her forefinger and thumb right through the existing scabs.

“It also needs a little sulfur.” Her blood is sluggish, but as she rubs her fingers together, it spreads out, slickens. She takes a pinch of thefoul-smelling yellow powder from a little jar and it soaks up the blood hungrily. “And a note. Can you sing?”

“A little.”

“How well do you know your hymns?”

“A little.”

Phosyne casts her a curious, appraising look, then shrugs. “The opening note of ‘On Breath,’” she says. “Can you sing it for me?”

Nothing.

Phosyne turns back to the candle, sings it herself. It’s a clear note, high, higher than feelsrightfor this, but it does work. She feels the change in her fingers, where the bloody slurry shifts, realigns. She pinches the wick of the candle.

As she pulls her fingers up and off, it flares to life.

The girl is staring now. Phosyne picks up the candle and holds it out to her with her non-bloodied hand. “Take this down, look more closely at everything, and maybe you’ll find a way out you missed. If not, find a way to get to me again. I’ll keep thinking.”

Cautiously, the girl creeps closer and takes the candle from her. She cradles it in her hands. Tests the flame, then hisses and pulls back; it’s hot, of course. Real flame. But it continues to burn even as the girl tests it, waving the wax back and forth. No guttering, no faltering.

Phosyne sifts some of the sulfur into another, empty jar. She holds it out. “Take this, so you can douse that as needed and get it lit again.”

“Thank you,” the girl says, slipping the jar into a pocket with nimble fingers. “I assume I’m not supposed to tell anybody?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Phosyne says. She grabs one of the bits of fruit, pops it in her mouth, chews. She closes her eyes in bliss. She moans a little. “But you seem like the type who’d like to hide that. The candle. You don’t want them seeing the flame, seeing where you are.”

“No, not really,” the girl agrees. Phosyne hears her move, but not toward the door. She feels warmth, a little ways from her back, and then hears the hiss of the flame extinguishing once more. “I’m Treila,” the girl says, directly behind her.

“Phosyne.” Strange, to tell somebody else her name. She hasn’tdone that in a long time. It makes her feel a little more solid, or maybe that’s the fruit. She opens her eyes, leans back, looks up at the shadowy young woman.

“You should eat the honey,” Treila says, and points to the chunk of comb, now covered in dust and detritus.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, but doesn’t mean it. It’ll serve better as an ingredient, anyway. “Stay away from theguests,” she adds.

“I’m no fool,” Treila says, hiding the doused candle, retreating to the door. “Why do you think I want to get out?”

Phosyne has to concede she has a point.

16

The castle is unnaturally quiet. Treila has no trouble slipping down the steps, through the king’s quarters, and over to the staircase that leads down to her little workroom. Her mind is loud enough to make up the difference, however, humming with a hundred different thoughts. The impossible candle in her hand, the rotted fruit smell of Phosyne’s breath, the renewed possibilities of that hole in the ground.

And she can still feel Ser Voyne’s hand on hers the day before. The sweepingrushof being so close, finally, to what she’s dreamed of for years.

She can also see Ser Voyne’s face in the yard just a few hours ago, transported and transfigured and—

Very far away from her.

She missed her chance to really drive the knife home. Take the guilt she’d seen in Ser Voyne’s eyes and pluck at the taut harpstring of it until, finally, Ser Voyne fell atherfeet and begged for forgiveness. She would have been so beautifully devastated when Treila refused. But the rhythm of the castle is changing drastically, and Treila isn’t sure how it will shake out, except that Voyne is too central to how their closed world runs; with these intruders, she will be in her element again. She won’t have space for doubt and regret.

If Treila’s lucky, she won’t care about leaving Voyne to her fate, either.

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