But it’s only Prioress Jacynde in the doorway; it would be blasphemy to draw a sword. Blasphemy doubled by their holy audience. The worry about her sword drops away as she and Leodegardis make their bows.

Jacynde does not look pleased.

She has brought with her two of her nuns, their shorn heads covered by cloth knotted at the napes of their necks, the knots stuck through with heavy ornaments. They are wearing full robes, which Voyne realizes she has not seen them do except for the three high holy days they have passed in captivity. Jacynde herself is in full regalia, embroidered stole draped over her shoulders, layer upon layer of gauzy silk hiding all the lines of her body. Her face is painted, in seeming echo of the faces of the saints.

Voyne registers, dimly, that this looks like armor. Perhaps it is the martial set of Jacynde’s jaw.

Jacynde’s attendants hold two small skeps. Not live ones; they do not hum with life. Not offerings, then, but—

“Your Highness,” Prioress Jacynde says, and the sharpness of her voice stops Voyne’s thoughts, reorients them once more toward defense. “May I speak with you?”

Behind Voyne, Cardimir stands as well. “Come and sit at my table, Prioress,” he says, and Voyne can hear the threat in it.

Where is her sword?

Jacynde ignores the king’s warning, his invitation, and does not break stride as she sweeps down upon the saints.

“I don’t know who you are,” Prioress Jacynde says, standing within a breath of the Constant Lady, “but you are not welcome here.”

“Prioress,” the king warns. “These people are my guests.”

The Constant Lady does not flinch, nor cower, nor offer appeasement. She blinks, placidly. “Jacynde de Montsansen,” she pronounces, and the prioress’s rageful countenance stills, dulls. “I do not begrudge you your doubts. But please, let me help you. Let me bring food to your table, as you have begged me so often these last weeks.”

Jacynde’s face contorts. Her lips part. Her girls shift where they stand, stealing glances at each other, at the saints arrayed behind the Constant Lady.

“And from where comes this food?” Jacynde asks, gesturing at the dishes arrayed across the table, the fruit, the greens. “Whose fields? Whose hands? This,” she says, stalking forward and grabbing up slender stems of asparagus, tender and pliant, “is gone some three months now. And there will be no currants in this abundance for another month on.”

The prioress has a point, Ser Voyne realizes with a lurch, like the shock of a cool breeze piercing the heady haze inside the hall. She knows this. She knew this. When the Constant Lady came through the gates (through the gates? a knowing part of her whispers), there were no stores with them, no traveling companions, and though the Constant Lady is no mortal woman, surely, surely, the divine must either be far less solid, or far more understandable.