Still, Ser Voyne kneels as if it does contain her liege, and Phosyne approaches obliquely so that she can get a glimpse of the knight’s face. Her brow is furrowed (but when is it not?) and she looks . . . tired. The light has not gone out of her, no, but where she had looked upon Phosyne with barely concealed adoration after she chose to remain with her in Aymar, now she has retreated into herself.

This is not how this woman is meant to be. Phosyne has never seen her in her glory, in her element, but she can imagine it well enough. Astride a charger on a battlefield, armor gleaming, eyes flashing with certainty and precisely focused rage. Kneeling here, at this throne (chair), adoring and ready to serve, to turn the keen edge of her focus on any enemy that dare come.

It is a lovely picture. It is, Phosyne suspects, what the Lady sees in her as well.

She thinks to greet her, breathe her name into the midnight stillness of the room, but Voyne hasn’t noticed her. Voyne hasn’t noticed much of anything. It’s likely, even probable, that something has happened between Phosyne’s tower that morning and this room now, that she has fallen once more at the Lady’s feet in the interim—and that would be Phosyne’s fault, for not keeping her close at hand. Or perhaps she has wound down, her springs uncoiled, needing to be issued another directive, another command. Phosyne doesn’t know the specific steps of the dance between them; maybe it’s only through the continued application of will that Voyne even exists, now.

An odd thought—it’s in her voice, but not her accent. It doesn’t taste right. Taste is important. The Lady had tasted different, honey on the tongue. Phosyne doesn’t taste honey with that thought, but something spiced, like a cumin seed cracked between her teeth.

Interesting.

Some change, accompanying her transformation, her room’s? Some impingement of the unseen world onto her mind? Perhaps her leaps of intuition, of recognition, have taken on a new character with her broadened appreciation of the world. And what a leap it is, that maybe Voyne doesn’t exist without somebody to obey. Phosyne tries to follow the taste of it. She gets nowhere.

Nowhere, that is, except the throne.

It’s right in front of her now. She’s watching Voyne, so she didn’t notice when she got this close, but now her hand is on the armrest. She hesitates, but only briefly.

She doesn’t taste cumin anymore, but the memory of it is . . . persuasive. It makes sense. Phosyne wants to test it.

Phosyne sits on the throne.