Page 50 of The Starving Saints

The Absolving Saint places the platter before the three of them.He picks up carving fork and knife, and begins to slice petals of flesh away from the two bones that run through the center of the shank. He places two on Ser Voyne’s plate, and her mouth waters.

Cinching Phosyne tight against her with one arm and leaning forward to pin her to the table’s edge, Voyne reaches out and picks up a piece. It is tender and slippery between her fingers. She is mildly surprised to see her hands are still covered in blood and honey.

It wouldn’t have mattered before. Before? But she has a memory of heavy iron in her hand, between her and her food, carrying it to her lips instead of her sticky fingers.

She takes a bite anyway. She chews. She swallows.

She lets the Absolving Saint take her hand when she is done and wipe it clean for her, then reaches for more.

In her lap, Phosyne sounds like she is crying. “Look. Please, look at what you’re eating,” she entreats.

Ser Voyne looks. The roast weeps glistening fat, rests in pools of oil that shimmer in the candlelight and sing with spices. Voyne can’t help but lean in, can’t help but select another glistening slice from the beautiful arrangement. Horse? Whatever beast it came from was heavily muscled, but Voyne has never seen a shank with so much meat upon the bone before.

“Don’t,” Phosyne begs.

Ser Voyne takes another bite half to spite her, half to model good behavior. Phosyne will need to eat, and soon; she is so fragile in Voyne’s arms.

When she has eaten the last of what is on her plate, ignoring Phosyne’s wheezing breaths, close to panic, Ser Voyne drinks deeply from her cup. It is water, not wine. The cool sweetness of it breaks over her, and the confusion is back.

She knows the taste that lingers in her mouth, the fat that coats her lips and the shreds of flesh stuck in her teeth. Just like she knows these halls, just like she knows that she should be wearing metal. Frowning, she takes another bite, chews slowly, closes her eyes. It comes apart easily between her teeth, slides over her tongue, and sheremembersthis, though last time she had it, it was not spiced half so well. Last time, there was smoke. Last time, there was blood.Last time, she had been so hungry, the hungriest she had ever been, and the meat had been parceled out so carefully between her and her men, and...

“Ser Voyne,” her Lady says, pulling her away from the memory. “Attend to your charge. She needs your firm hand, I think.”

Of course. Phosyne’s body struggles in her arms, and Ser Voyne clamps down harder, holding the frail woman against her chest. With one hand, she grabs up a honey-drenched fig; with the other, she presses against Phosyne’s jaw, spreads her chapped lips wide. With one finger, she pushes between Phosyne’s teeth.

“Eat,” Voyne demands.

Phosyne bites down. Blood spills from Voyne, and she cries out, dropping the fig, loosing her hold. And then the pain is gone, and Phosyne is gone, sprinting wildly for the exit. Voyne is on her feet, but the Lady reaches out and clasps her bleeding hand. She draws it to Her own lips, and Voyne pants, torn between two duties.

“Stay, Ser Voyne. She will come back, I am sure. She must eat sometime,” the Lady murmurs into her blood. But Ser Voyne cannot hear her, because she knows the taste of this meat, and Phosyne is not in her tower, and all of this is wrong, it’swrong, she knows these halls, she knows this anger inside of her and—

And she’s supposed to be saving this castle.

She pulls her hand from her Lady’s lips, and races after Phosyne.

From behind, she thinks she hears her Lady laugh.

21

Voyne’s blood is sharp and metallic in Phosyne’s mouth. It’s also rich and full of life, and she should be swallowing it down just from desperation, but instead she spits the moment she gets into the keep proper, even though the knight is likely just behind her.

She can’t. Shecan’t, not after seeing Voyne eat piece after piece of a man’s arm. It’s all she can do not to vomit.

Her brain is on fire, the Lady’s words echoing in her head, out of order, recombining.Oh, I was not summoned, little mouserepeats again, and again. It brings no relief.

Phosyne didn’t call these things here, and that now appears to be the worst possibility of all.

She’s in the main garrison room, staring at the doors available to her, wondering if she should retreat to her tower, or down into Treila’s tunnel, when she sees a shadow move against the far wall. The late-afternoon sunlight is harsh, the shadows deep. Phosyne freezes, trapped between Ser Voyne, who must be close behind, and whoever lurks ahead of her.

Treila steps out into the light.

“Where is she?” Treila whispers.

“Close,” Phosyne confesses. “The tunnel—”

“Not when she can find us again so easily. She’ll look there first.” Treila beckons, and Phosyne comes close enough that the younger woman can seize her wrist, draw her close. “Your best bet,” Treila says, “is outside.”

Outside, Phosyne hears singing. Joyous cries. It’s far more animatethan it was when Voyne hauled her through it. She shakes her head. “If the Lady—no, thatcreature—sees me again—”