But if she sits, she will stand out if she does not eat, and she is certain she should not eat. Even before she saw that limb at the Lady’s table, recognized that it could not belong to any ungulate, noted the eight wrist bones arrayed around it as decoration—

Well, the Lady had very clearly wanted her to eat, and that alone is enough to put her off.

She finds the stairs down to the lower yard, takes them with her shaking, unsteady legs. There’s no sound of Ser Voyne behind her, and Phosyne lets herself slow a little, take each step with care. If Voyne is not behind her, then she’s at the Lady’s feet again. Broken, certainly. Twisted, undoubtedly. Whatever spell has fallen over Aymar that makes the king not question his visitors, that makes starving people wait to eat until granted permission, rests heavily on everybody who Phosyne saw in the great hall the night before, eating the first offerings of impossible food. And it rests heaviest on Voyne.

And does this food taste of you?

I do provide.

Phosyne stops, mouthing the exchange again. The pieces rearrange themselves. The food is the method by which these minds have been ensnared, yes, but why?

Because the food is of the Lady—that is, because the Lady provided it. Because to sit at somebody’s table, to let them feed you, is to create a bond. This is more literal, perhaps, than the usual bonds of hospitality, but she can see it clear enough: this castle, its inhabitants now belong to the Lady, because they have accepted Her gifts. Longed for them. Rejoiced in them.

And though the king welcomed the Lady into Aymar, somewhere in the mix he has lost his primacy. The Lady should be a guest, except, of course, that She is their rescuer, and beyond that, to all appearances, their deity. Even if She is not the Lady in truth, the king clearly believes Her to be so.

Aymar, Phosyne realizes, no longer belongs to the king.

It’s territory. Territory and fealty and Ser Voyne’s loyalty, transferred to another.

Phosyne starts pacing again, nerves afire with every connection she makes. She almost doesn’t see the ripple in the crowd, so wrapped up in horrors is she. But there it is, people parting, and Ser Voyne is once more looking for her.

She cannot let Voyne take her back. Of that, she is certain. But she is too frail to fight, to run. All she can hope for is to confuse Voyne long enough to evade capture, slip back into the crowd.

She ducks behind one of the cisterns.