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“The distraction,” Phosyne says, wincing. “I told you I would distract them, so that you could move undisturbed—a feast was called for.”

“And the king?”

It takes a moment for Phosyne to remember to look guilty. “He rules nothing here, not anymore. It has... cemented our status as equals.”

“You and the Lady?”

“Me and the Lady.”

Treila shakes her head. Takes a step back.

“Treila,” Phosyne says, voice threaded through with command. It makes Treila want to run. No—to snarl, to strike. Her hand flexes on the knife.

“And now you negotiate the distribution of the spoils?” Treila spits.

The guilt is quicker this time. “No, no,” Phosyne says, bowing her head, exposing her slender neck for just a moment. “I am discerning what it is She wants. What can be safely given. I am going to fix this, I just need time.”

Time.

Time, or...

Or iron.

Treila wonders if it will burn her, should she touch it. Surely, if Phosyne is turning into one ofthem, it will be anathema to her.

She takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it hiss from between her teeth.

Lets herself trust in Voyne.

“Here,” Treila says, pulling the blade from behind her back and proffering the hilt. Phosyne stares at it. Looks up at Treila’s face, searching.How, it asks.How did you—

And Treila doesn’t know how to answer.

Phosyne closes her fingers around the hilt without a flinch. But she doesn’t pull, and Treila doesn’t release it. She swallows, throat bobbing, and feels suddenly, unaccountablyyoung.

She doesn’t know what the right move is, here. She doesn’t know if it’s smart or foolish to tell Phosyne about Voyne, or about the power of the iron. She doesn’t know if she trusts Phosyne to do the right thing, and, more than that, doesn’t know if it even matters that Phosyne knows if it’s right or wrong.

“Take it,” Treila says, at last, unable to make any decision except the one she’s already made. She uncurls her fingers, leaves the blade flat on her palm. “It will kill a saint, if it comes to it. The Lady, too. But you’ll have to move quickly.”

Phosyne looks into her eyes for too long, silent and motionless, and then she takes the knife and tucks it into one of her voluminous sleeves.

“Do it for her,” Treila says.

“For her,” Phosyne agrees. There’s still that question in her eyes. That suspicion. That hope.

Treila just jerks her chin at the great hall. “You don’t want them missing you,” she says. “Get back.”

Phosyne nods, but still doesn’t move. She reaches out her other hand, touches Treila’s cheek—gently. “You can trust me,” she says.

“I’m leaving,” Treila tells her.

“Good,” Phosyne agrees. “But you can trust me.”

It sounds less like a promise and more like a plea.

They regard each other for one last moment, and then Treila turns and, behind her, Phosyne walks away, back into the castle. The door closes, and Treila breathes. The air out here is cooler now, and damp. A storm is on the way. She must return to the cavern below the keep, and quickly now. She must let Voyne know how far Phosyne has fallen.

Or she can stay, and watch the disaster she can feel in her bones is coming. But without a knife...