They reach the ground floor of the keep, and then slip down the stairs to the little room where Voyne found Phosyne earlier. She knows she was just here, can remember it, but it’s all a little slantways. She hates this. She hates being unsure of herself, of feeling so unsteady. She has a purpose, the same one she’s had for six months, and that should be enough.

But she’s not wearing her armor. She doesn’t even have her sword. Everything feels strange, and she’s not even sure who she is, anymore. That thought isn’t hers. It’s more like scales being peeled up. Something slipping out from underneath. She hisses.

There’s a touch on her wrist. Phosyne looks up at her.

“We’re here.”

Not much longer, then, until they’re outside, and maybe Voyne will be able to think straight. It’s the only hope she can cling to as she looks around the little room, and sees again the hole where the floor and a wall join.

Phosyne is looking up and to the right of it, and then she averts her gaze. Voyne tries to look where Phosyne had, but flinches instantly; she feels the deflection like the crackle of lightning in wool blankets.

At least she feels it, this time.

“Is that really necessary?” Phosyne says. Not to her, though. A pause. Listening. “No, I can move just fine like this.” She plucks at her robes. “Ser Voyne much the same, I think.”

“What?”

Phosyne flushes a little. “Our friend recommends undressing. Apparently—”

And then nothing. Silence. More than silence. Voyne grimaces, touches one ear.

Phosyne cocks her head. “Incredible,” she murmurs. Voyne wishes she didn’t sound so delighted.

“I will remain clothed.”

“Right. Of course. Perhaps, though, I . . .”

And then she’s fussing with the toggle of her robe, and then she is nude. All bones and angles, skin pallid and loose where there was flesh beneath before. Bruises, where Voyne has touched her. Voyne looks away, suddenly short of breath.

“It will make the climb easier,” Phosyne says, or passes along. Voyne isn’t sure which. The other woman is wrapping the worn fabric into a bundle, if the sounds are anything to go by. “Right. Well, off we go, then.”

Voyne nods, hazards a glance. Phosyne is clutching the bundle to her chest. It helps. Slightly.

“Through here,” Phosyne says, crouching down. Ser Voyne’s head pounds. This absence with them, that she cannot hear the name of, cannot look through, cannot look at—it will drive her mad, soon enough. It makes it impossible to look at the hole. Their companion must be in front of it, or inside it.

“I can’t see the way,” Voyne confesses, then focuses on her breathing so she doesn’t vomit.

Phosyne hums acknowledgment. After a minute or so, she clears her throat. “Try to look again?”