Page 64 of The Starving Saints

She doesn’t stop until she’s back in the keep, dry heaving, curled up on herself like she’d been in the cistern. Somewhere behind her, there’s movement, and then Phosyne is beside her, a hand hovering over her shoulder, unsure if she trusts Voyne enough to touch.

“What’s happening?” Phosyne asks. “What are you feeling?”

“There was no tunnel,” Voyne says, because she doesn’t know how to describe the sickness in her now. She doesn’t want to tell Phosyne that she craves honey on her lips with a fervor that scares her.That she wants to see ringed irises, not Phosyne’s flat gray eyes. She wants the Lady. She wants to run to Her, fall at Her feet, and she’s almost too far gone to feel horror at the image.

“But I was ahead of you,” Phosyne says, and, at last, touches Voyne’s shoulder. The contact sends a jolt through Voyne. She pulls away, afraid of what she might do if she doesn’t put distance between them.

“I know,” Voyne snaps. She’s up on her feet, pacing. “Iknowthat, I could hear you, but there was just unbroken rock. There wasn’t a way through. I shouldn’t have been able to hear you through that, I don’t—I don’tunderstand—”

She doesn’t understand any of this. Her brain is on fire, her limbs do not always obey her, and she wishes more than anything that she could wring the Lady’s throat, the way she’s killed a hundred others.

The nothingness of their companion enters the room, and Voyne snarls, turns away, slams a fist into the wall because if she doesn’t, she might lash out at the woman she cannot see or at Phosyne, and that will only make everything worse.

Phosyne doesn’t speak. Voyne supposes that means she’s listening. Voyne hopes that means the nothing has a plan.

But then Phosyne shakes her head, says, “No, no, we’ll just try again—”

“There’s no point,” Ser Voyne says. “There was awall—”

“We’ll give it some time, Ser Voyne and I can go in together, I can try to see what’s stopping her—”

Nothing. Nothing fills the room. Ser Voyne breathes hard through her nose, fights the urge to flee.

And then nothing is gone again. It’s just the two of them left, Phosyne looking between Voyne and the hole, the hole and Voyne.

“Well?” Voyne asks, when she can speak again.

“She’s leaving without us,” Phosyne says. She clutches the bundle of her robes to her, fingers tight. All of her is tight. Every muscle in her narrow body is tense.

And Voyne realizes then that if Phosyne goes back into the tunnel, Voyne will not be able to pursue her.

Time stretches. Voyne almost kneels, almost begs, because shedoesn’t want to be left here alone. She makes herself wait instead. Wait, and hope that perhaps Phosyne will credit duty more than survival.

It is a stupid choice to make, but Voyne hopes that she makes it.

When Phosyne unrolls her robe and drags it back on over her head, Voyne weeps.

26

Halfway between the keep and the grotto, Treila curls up against the stone and laughs.

It’s not sane laughter. She knows very well it isn’t. It’s the laughter of the absurd, of the tragicomic, and she is shaking apart with it. Not only can Ser Voyne not see her, not hear her, not conceive of theconceptof her, but the very earth spits her back out when Treila tries to draw her into this grotto she now thinks of as her own. There are more than a few glistening jokes in that, and she wishes she could tell the Loving Saint, because she knows he would laugh against her skin.

She should go back for Phosyne; a little more cajoling, perhaps, and the woman would likely follow her in and leave Ser Voyne behind entirely. Treila saw the bruises on her, after all. Has put together a little of their dynamic. But that might take time, and the Loving Saint’s echo is still ringing in her head.

And she knows exactly the cost she has to pay to leave on her own. It’s small enough.

When she can will herself to move again, she slinks through the passageway. It’s easier this time, and not only because soon she can see the glow of Phosyne’s candle at the other end. It’s not roomier, exactly; if there were more space around her, she would fear getting lost. But it issimpler. She doesn’t scrape herself as often. The tight pinches aren’t quite as tight as she remembers them being.

At last she emerges into the grotto and sets about dressing once more. It’s quiet, save for the faint trickling of the water, the susurrus of fabric over her skin. No Phosyne, no Ser Voyne, no refugees, nosaints. The air of simple safety is almost strong enough to make her forget to fear the creature in the darkness.

He doesn’t say anything to greet her. The candle, after all, is still burning.

Treila looks at the crack for a long time, flexing her hand at her side. The Loving Saint’s words echo in her head.If you have a way out, Iwould suggestyou take it. Whatever the cost. You won’t have the choice soon.It could be a trap, of course; perhaps he said it knowing it would drive her down here. Perhaps whatever lurks in that crevice is a friend of his.

She knows that just because it felt genuine, the way he purred against her skin, it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a good liar, down to the bone. He must be.

But she doesn’t think he was lying when he warned her to be careful of bargains.One half of an exchange.She will not get something for nothing. Any way out was always going to cost her.

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