She finds herself a little gap, a cradle of wax that guards her on three sides, with barely an opening wide enough for her to enter. From within, she can see most angles, with a little stretching. She is careful, as she settles in, not to step on any bees.

Her heart slowing, she notices, finally, that the sharp-toothed watchers of the yard are all but absent.

The only creatures in this chapel, aside from the bees, are human. The pallbearers kneel before the plinth where Ser Voyne has been laid out, as if for a funeral.

Her father, Treila thinks with a pang, had no funeral. So many of her father’s servants were buried in a poorly marked grave in a winter wood. But perhaps she should take joy that Voyne’s funeral will be more perverse by far.

The knife still protrudes from Voyne’s neck. Treila doesn’t know why. It’s garish, gleaming in the harsh sun that filters in, almost as bright as the shine of her breastplate.

No, not hers. The Warding Saint’s.

Treila finally realizes that she hasn’t seen him anywhere.

It’s only the Absolving and the Loving Saints who appear at the chapel’s entrance. They take up posts by the doorway, but aside from their positioning, they look quite at their leisure. The Loving Saint sips from a chalice. It is gold. It is likely the king’s.

When he lowers it, his lips are red. He is drinking blood like it is wine.

It is eat or be eaten.

Treila clenches her fist, feels the absence where her little finger should be.

And then the Lady enters. It is the first time Treila has seen Her since the feast. She still wears Her holy raiment, her garlands of flowers, and here, in this chapel, She is horrifyingly at home. She should be sitting on a dais. She should be accepting prayers.

She does not enter alone.

Phosyne is with Her. Nothing has dimmed her newfound cleanliness, the perfection of her robes, her skin. The squalor of the world cannot touch her, and she seems to accumulate light, illuminated out of keeping with the darkened chapel. Treila’s mouth goes dry at the sight; she looks like she has been carved out of marble. She looks like she belongs here.

It takes a moment for Treila to realize who is missing: the king. Cardimir should be in attendance at Ser Voyne’s funeral, to mourn the passing of his pet. Should be, but his regency is hollow: ever since the Lady first stepped foot inside of Aymar, he has abdicated all responsibility. Wherever he is, Treila doubts he’d care to know his prized knight is lost.

Useless. So useless.

As the Lady and Phosyne near the plinth, Phosyne slows, then stops. Her shoulders grow tense. Her chin lifts with the sort of brittle sharpness that Treila recognizes all too well.