The Starving Saints

by Caitlin Starling

Voyne, grateful, lets the familiar words and hymns wash over her. It isn’t the balm it used to be, back when she was young and idealistic and fervent in her belief that the world could ever be orderly, could ever make sense, but it still soothes her jagged edges. It is a relief, to be reminded that she isn’t alone, is never alone.

They argue about trivial things enlarged by the growling of their stomachs.

There are rules, spoken and unspoken, of how each role within Aymar relates to another. Treila obeys them, even as she can see the fiction of them.

Nothing physical makes the king more worthy of a cooler, more private sleeping space—just the loyalty of his guard, his servants, and his subjects. And that, she must concede, is power.

In her chest, something blooms. Something tremulous and terrifying. Hope, out of season. Impossible hope. Another miracle for the pile.

Voyne knows what it is to doubt, to realize that the lens through which you have viewed the world and built your life is only one possibility.

She could die either way. But only one option provides the possibility of victory instead of just survival.

“I’m sorry,” Phosyne tells her. “I know I’m supposed to care.” Jacynde meets her gaze at last. She is frantic. She is fading. She’s on the cusp—one firm push in either direction could be her life or her death. “But I don’t.” Phosyne closes the door.

Simplicity is a lie. Service is never easy, not when done right.

The Lady will be soup soon enough.

Yummy