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She thinks.

At any rate, Voyne’s corpse catches his attention in the next instant. His lips part. His brows draw down.

“Well,” he says, “that answers a few questions.”

“It raises a few more,” his companion says, his voice shivering through several notes at once. Treila’s head throbs, the ringing that had faded as she grappled for her life kicking up once more.

The Absolving Saint comes to stand over Ser Voyne’s body, disgust twisting his silvered lips. His attention fixes upon the handle of the knife where it protrudes, unmoving, from her throat. There’s so much blood, spilling out beneath her, painting the dirt.

The Loving Saint recognizes the dagger. It’s the only explanation for the way his lips twist, for just a moment, into a feral grin. But he doesn’t say anything. Only looks up and scans the closest shadows—for her, no doubt.

Treila does not breathe.

He’s proud of her, she thinks. Or proud of himself. What a tangle he’s made of her (or has she made it of herself?).

“I’ll tell the Lady Her pet is dead,” he says.

And then the Loving Saint flits out of existence. A blink, and he is gone.

Assumptively alone, the Absolving Saint crouches beside Voyne. He does not touch. Not her skin, not her armor, not the blade itself. That disgust is louder, now. He looks almost ill. “What a waste,” he murmurs. Treila doesn’t think he’s referring to the death.

After that, he is silent, and she is hollow. The quiet wraps around them both. It is strangling. It leaves no room for her panic or her sorrow, only dull attention. It’s too risky to leave, but she doesn’t want to leave. She doesn’t want to be parted from Voyne, not any more than she’s already managed. She knows she should go to Phosyne, tell her what has happened. Tell her they still have a way out. Tell her abouthow afraid the Loving Saint is of iron, of how much its mere appearance disgusts the Absolving Saint. There are so many threads to tug on that might lead the way to victory or, at least, safety.

They all feel so limp in her hands. She’s not quite sure who she is now.

She feels unmoored.

A part of her hopes that when the Loving Saint returns, he appears just behind her. Close enough to bite the shell of her ear, whisper a greeting, and then tear her own throat out. But when, at last, he does rejoin them, he comes on foot once more, from the direction he came before. This time, the plants part and stay parted. They form a path.

And once more, he is not alone.

With him are, of all people, Edouart and Simmonet. They’re too small to lift Voyne’s weight alone, of course, so there are others too—but Treila can’t look away from them. She watches as they take Voyne’s shoulders, indifferent to the gore, indifferent even to who they are dragging away. She remembers a night that feels like a lifetime ago, when she played dice with them and listened to them wax poetic about Ser Voyne’s strength. Her glory.

They don’t care, now. It’s all been washed out of their brains. Ser Voyne is just an object in their hands.

No better than meat.

43

Phosyne, still heartsore and vertiginous, is spared the need to choose her next action when the door to the hall swings open. Behind it is the Constant Lady, in Her full raiment, alone. No saints in attendance, no human followers, just Her in all Her terrible loveliness. Some details have shifted, though, truth shining through the mask She wears. The yellow paint upon Her cheeks and lips is stained a deeper orange. The blooms woven into Her gown have grown wild with thorns.

When She walks, Her steps ring as if She is shod in metal shoes.

The ring of watchers parts to let Her through. She stops only a few feet away, languidly surveying Phosyne and her throne.

“It suits you well,” She says, brow quirked, lips pursed. “My lesson helped you, then? You’ve shed your paupers’ guise and found a place of power.”

Phosyne’s mouth curls in a snarl. She isn’t in the mood for this. She needs to go to Voyne, find out what has happened. Her hand falls away from her throat, curls around the armrest of the throne once more. “Your creatures trap me here.”

“Do they?” She glances over Her shoulder at them, lifts a hand.

They fall back, respectful of Her power. They remind Phosyne of how Aymar used to defer to Cardimir, how the nuns responded to Jacynde. There is a hierarchy, something more than a master to Her beasts.

They climb back into the window slits, block them up until there’s no light at all except for the flickering flames of the reeds. They’re burning low. How long has she been here?

“You can leave at any time,” the Lady says. She strokes one of Her thick braids. Her nails are long and sharp; were they always this way?

Or is the time for disguises long past?