Stories tumble out of him, and Ser Voyne remembers, now, how they have passed the afternoon: not in counsel but in these fountains of stories. Her head aches. What has she told them? She thinks not much; her throat is not sore from speaking. But she remembers scraps of Leodegardis’s tales, about how it felt to be granted Aymar to protect. The importance of careful governance, of the reciprocal relationship between lord and subject. How he is so glad to have a chance to feed his starving people, how he thought he had failed them. She listens, now, as Cardimir talks about his wife, dead three years, and his sons, almost full-grown. He is speaking not as a king, but as a man; where is his propriety?

“And you, Ser Voyne?” asks the Constant Lady, at last turning Her gaze on Voyne. “Will you gift to us a piece of your past?”

If Voyne doesn’t think (and it is so hard to think right now), she can see not just the Constant Lady with Her curtain of golden hair, but Treila, too. She can feel the rage and silence of Carcabonne, the warmth of Treila de Batrolin’s household, the glittering period between betrayal and judgment, before Voyne knew who to blame for the suffering and deaths of so many. And then she thinks she will weep again, pinned by old mistakes, fierce regrets, confusion, desperation.

When did she become so weak?

Perhaps it is only natural, in the presence of divinity. Weakness as holy offering, radical devotion. Her king cannot see her falter, but the Lady accepts it. Drinks it in. It is okay to fall apart, when there are long white fingers to catch her.

She doesn’t need the attentions of the Lady; she needs the Absolving Saint to come and kiss her brow and ease the guilt and pain in her, recognize her, see her for who she is.

The Lady notes her silence. Her brow softens, but Her eyes seem to sharpen, to cutting glass. “Surely, you have triumphs?” She presses.

It’s a gentle nudge, from the blood she remembers on her hands with guilt to that she remembers with pride. Yes, she has had her conquests, too.

“Many,” she agrees. She doesn’t know where to start. She looks to Leodegardis, to her king, and they gaze back with gentle expectation. Neither moves to offer her direction.

And then, at the far end of the hall, the doors open. Memories fall away, and she and Leodegardis are on their feet reflexively. Voyne reaches for her weapon, only to realize it isn’t on her hip. When did she remove it? Where did she place it? How could she not notice, when she has spent so many years carrying its weight, that her gait is slightly but irrevocably altered?