Page 97 of The Starving Saints

“Never,” Voyne says, aching, clumsy hands fisting in Treila’s soft clothing. She needs armor. She needs to be protected.

Treila surges back down for another kiss, arches, stretches against her. One of her hands leaves Voyne’s side, but Voyne is drowning, too confused, too overwhelmed. This is not how she wanted this to go, but somehow it is perfect. Treila was right, of course; she has spent too long aching in the shadows.

But there’s no way for Voyne to come before her still serving a king. No way to make amends if the False Lady once again hides Treila from her sight. No way to hold her if she is too tightly tangled in Phosyne’s spiraling web.

She can’t serve Treila, but she can protect her.

Treila returns to her fully, and Voyne reaches up to cradle her jaw. She kisses her tenderly, now, trying to tell her everything. Trying to make things right.

Pain blossoms in her throat.

Voyne looks down to see Treila’s fist forced against her neck. In that fist is the hilt of her dagger. The blade is buried deep. It has cut through her esophagus, her trachea, her veins and arteries and everything that she needs to live.

Strange.

She never thought she’d die like this.

41

Phosyne is still sitting on the throne when she feels something snap inside her.

The pain emanates from her throat, just below her jaw. It is sharp, stabbing, nowhere close to her heart, but the meaning is undeniable enough. Either she is dying or—

Or something has happened to Ser Voyne.

All she needs to do to check is close her eyes, but she doesn’t want to look away from her audience for even a second. They ring the throne and Jacynde behind it, staying at a polite distance for the time being. She can’t quite make out where one figure ends and the other begins. In the gloom of the throne room, they are little more than smudges of flashing pigment, glittering gold where their lips part and they show their teeth.

They aren’t talking. Aren’t making any sound at all now, save for their breathing.

They are waiting.

Phosyne isn’t sure if they’re waiting for her to show weakness or to show strength. She’s still a little intoxicated, still fixed on the memory of Ser Voyne’s skin under her hands, Voyne’s obedience under her voice. She’d been beautiful even in her agony, and the memory makes her shudder. She’s not supposed to think that.

What is she becoming?

42

Ser Voyne lies dead in the garden.

Her hair remains dark. Her face is slack and unchanging, no sharp teeth revealed by her parted lips. Beestings pock her scalp, gnarl her hands. Nothing at all marks her as anything but a mortal woman.

And Treila has killed her.

“I didn’t mean to,” she says to nobody. Her voice wavers. Her eyes pulse with unshed, unbidden tears.

Didn’t you?her own thoughts whisper back.

She did mean to. Of course she meant to. But Voyne being dead was never the point; the point was to see her suffer. Tocauseher suffering. And instead, Treila didn’t even know who it was she was killing until it was too late.

That’s it. That’s why she’s crying now, finally, unable to stop herself.

It’s not because it felt so good, kissing her, that she’d almost forgotten the knife entirely.

She’s still huddled by the body when, minutes or hours later, she hears movement from the other side of the thicket surrounding them. Not footsteps, not quite. It sounds more like plants being pulled over one another, a sort of cyclical shushing almost like waves on a shoreline. For a moment, Treila is frozen. She doesn’t want to leave Voyne’s side, doesn’t want to lurch back into motion again.

By the time she remembers to panic, it’s too late to grab the knife, even if she could bring herself to touch it. She slides back into the shadow of the greenery and watches, empty-handed, as the saints emerge on the other side of the clearing.

The Loving Saint is first. He’s not bothering with any mask of civility; he’s still the hungry thing from the stairwell. His head moves from side to side as if he’s scenting the air. Scenting her, scenting shame. But if he is, the whole clearing is dripping with it; there’s no way he’ll be able to pinpoint her.

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