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But they have taught her enough, more than enough to satisfy their end of the agreement, and if she lingers—

The Loving Saint catches her other leg. Tugs. She feels herself slip against the stone.

She hears claws clicking on the steps.

The smell of sulfur wraps around her, and Phosyne jerks in reflex, reaches out a hand. Her fingers skim the black, scaled muscle of Pneio’s—Ornuo’s?—leg as he leaps over her, and behind her he skids, hissing, to a halt.

The saints are staring.

“Something summoned,” the Lady says, with deep distaste. Then She hisses and jerks back as Phosyne’s other brimstone creature streaks past Her and runs straight over Phosyne’s belly, clawed feet digging in. It spurs her to action, and she kicks the Loving Saint in his perfect jaw and throws herself back into her room.

It is blazing hot inside. Phosyne clambers upright. At her feet, Pneio and Ornuo bristle, hissing and slithering about her ankles.

“Lesson over,” Phosyne gasps.

The Lady’s lip curls, and then She smiles, inclines Her head. Bows at the waist. Her saints follow suit, conceding defeat—for the moment.

They turn to leave, and that is when Phosyne, at last, registers the impossible:

More eyes peer out of the shadows behind them.

The saints are no longer alone.

31

For every body she moves, Ser Voyne checks every entrance to the yard. Each time, she expects to see the Lady standing there, or one of the other saints. Her arms burn and her skin beads with perspiration. Dust rises up and forms a slurry with her sweat, and by the end, she is filthy, sore, exhausted.

And alone.

It feels like a trap. It can’t be an accident, that Ser Voyne is standing now in the middle of the cleared yard, worn down, barely upright, guzzling water. She’s vulnerable. She knows she’s vulnerable. One word from the Lady, or one strike of the Warding Saint’s fist, and she’ll fall. She will. She knows it.

And yet she remains alone. That, perhaps, is why when Ser Voyne at last staggers into the keep, chin up, eyes flashing, she doesn’t go immediately to Phosyne’s tower.

No, there is other work to be done, in this blessed, unexpected reprieve.

She has not found Cardimir, and she has abandoned hope of it. He is either with the Lady, or cowering somewhere private. But Ser Leodegardis... she thinks that, if he has any of his mind left to him at all, he will be eager to mount a defense. If she can givehimwater, he will be able to help her. She goes first to the great hall, but does not see his bearded, worn face anywhere. Food litters the tables, still heaped to groaning, but it is rotting already. Lettuce has turned black and slick, and flies buzz thick above the picked-clean bones of—

Ser Voyne turns away. Goes back into the keep proper. Climbsthe stairs to where, not two weeks ago, she sat with her liege, Ser Leodegardis, the chamberlain, and all the rest.

This room is occupied.

Ser Leodegardis sits alone at the table. Beside him is a cup of, Voyne knows without looking, honeyed wine. She can only hope it is not blood. His gaze is fixed on a map.

His right forearm is gone, amputated neatly at the elbow.

Ser Voyne’s stomach lurches, her mouth waters, and she remembers the fine round bones strewn across the platter of roasted meat like pearls.

Not pearls. Wrist bones.

When she sits down across from him, it is with her full weight. She bows her head. She wonders if he can even see her.

“Ser Voyne,” he greets.

She wonders if he is himself.

That, he doesn’t offer an easy answer to, but when she looks up to him, she meets eyes that seem uncommonly clear. Then again, she hasn’t gotten close to anybody but Phosyne since her fever dream broke, and Phosyne is many things, but bewitched by the intruders if not one of them.

“Ser Leodegardis,” she offers, wondering what he will do with his name.