Page 32 of The Starving Saints
“I don’t know,” she says, closing her eyes tightly. She doesn’t want to see the girl finish off that bit of fruit. “Stone is... I can’t say with any certainty what to do. I know a little about water. That’s all.” She needs to offer up something, though, if she’s going to get back up toher tower. Maybe, if she gets that far, she can confess to Ser Voyne, and then the knight will slit her throat and go to fix this whole mess.
That thought is far more comforting than it should be.
She tries to wet her cracked lips; it doesn’t work. But she does open her eyes, looking at the faint suggestion of shapes above her, stone pressed against stone. Stone below her, too. It’s very solid, but she knows she could fall through it, if she isn’t careful. That must mean there’s space there, even if she can’t see it.
“You give up?” the girl asks.
“No,” she says, surprising herself, but her mind is already working. Space inside the stone, so if it could be reconfigured—but how?—wind can pass through it, water can pass through it—stone becomes rubble, becomes gravel, becomes pebbles, becomes sand—
They have no iron, but they have water and air and, Phosyne thinks, flame.Flame.
“I need more information,” Phosyne says, slowly, “but I would presume its... dark down there?”
“More or less,” the girl says.
Strange. No time to consider it, though. “I can give you a candle,” Phosyne says, looking back to the girl’s face. “It will burn without ceasing. The wax won’t run out.”
“It’s a tight squeeze,” the girl says, but Phosyne can see a little light behind her eyes, eagerness, desire. Oh, yes, this might be enough to get a few nibbles. “How easily is it snuffed out?”
“It isn’t,” Phosyne says, lips twisting in a return not-smile. “Only water works.”
“Good,” the girl says. “Oh, very good. Here,” she says, and presses the bit of fruit to Phosyne’s lips at last.
She tries to chew it. It’s hard. It’ll take a bit of time, but she can just hold it in her mouth, let it soften, ooze. Her throat is so dry, though. She’s not sure she can swallow.
The girl takes out another bit of fruit, pops it into her mouth. Phosyne can’t help her pained whine, to see it disappear. But the girl holds up one finger, chews, and does not swallow. She just chews and chews and chews, and then she bends down and presses her lips toPhosyne’s. Phosyne’s jaw drops open in shock, and the girl’s tongue is there, pressing the sweet mush into her mouth, liquid with saliva.
Phosyne nearly chokes, but instead manages to swallow.
“Better?” the girl asks, sitting up. Her eyes sparkle in the dim light.
“Better,” Phosyne whispers, weakly.
“Good.” She pulls another few bits of fruit from the pouch, but doesn’t chew them, thankfully. Instead, she presses them into Phosyne’s palm. “Take your time getting up,” she says. “But try not to fall asleep, not until you’ve eaten it all. Can you get out of your tower again, once Ser Voyne has you back?”
“Probably not,” Phosyne says with a grimace.
The girl considers, then nods. “Right. Well, she’s not there now. Tell me where the candle is.”
“No,” she says, and tries to sit up. The girl moves to stop her, but Phosyne manages to get upright. Her head spins. “No, it’s not safe to go in there on your own. Help me up. Help me up and I’ll give you the candle, show you how to light it.” And Pneio and Ornuo wouldn’t have an opportunity to slip out and wreak further havoc.
The girl doesn’t like this option (her scowl is not at all hidden), but she grudgingly wraps an arm beneath Phosyne’s shoulders and heaves upward. For all her poise, it’s immediately clear that she, too, is weakened. They get to their feet but it’s a near thing, both of them holding tight to the other’s clothing.
Walking is harder, but they manage. The only real problem is the stairs, which are too narrow to climb abreast. The girl winds up behind her, pushing, hands firm on Phosyne’s lower back. The world tilts wildly. They climb.
When at last they reach the king’s chambers, they can hear soft voices inside, and the girl pulls Phosyne hard against the stone wall. Then she stops, and Phosyne realizes she must not know where the entrance to her tower is.
Phosyne steers them through the shadows to the little door that leads up and up and—there are no guards, no sign of Ser Voyne—into her fetid rooms.
They really do stink. It’s embarrassing. The girl behind her is trying to be stoic, but she twitches with the first tremors of vomit.
Phosyne pulls away and staggers to her workbench, where the candle is still burning. It’s the second one she’s made; the other is upended in a cup of water, because the moment she takes it out, it starts to burn again. This one is a little more polite. When snuffed, it stays snuffed.
She holds it up. “Here, watch carefully,” she says. The flame trembles because her arm is trembling. She sits down on her stool before she can fall.
The girl waits in the doorway, watching. The door, at least, is closed behind her.
Phosyne upends the candle. It continues to burn. Wax does not drip from it. The girl’s eyes go wide; apparently she didn’t really believe Phosyne until this moment.
