“It’s not the first time,” Phosyne confesses. “Months ago, two—creatures appeared. Arrived. I don’t know from where, but the gates hadn’t opened, just like they didn’t open yesterday. And at the time I must have known how I’d called them here, but now I can’t remember, so I must be going mad.” She chokes on a laugh, covers her face with her hands. “I don’t know how I do any of it! None of it makes sense, except that it does, somewhere inside of me, my thoughts go every which way and then they crystalize. Today I passed through solid stone, when Ser Voyne fell upon me, and—and—” Phosyne gasps. “And this is the first time I’ve been rightfully scared of it all!”

She’s shouting by the end of it, tearing at her hair.

Treila doesn’t look the least bit frightened, though. She steps closer, instead. Looks at the mess that is Phosyne with hunger.

“Solid stone?” she asks.

Phosyne nods, head jerking on her spine, a broken puppet.

Treila grabs her wrist. “Then you’re coming with me. Now. Because if we can get out, none of this is our problem anymore. Do you understand me?”

“It’s all my problem,” Phosyne whispers.

“Just because something’s your fault doesn’t mean you have to fix it,” Treila counters, and tugs Phosyne after her.

“My research—my notes—the creatures, they’ve gone missing, somebody must have opened up this room while I was at the chapel, and oh, Treila, the prioress—”

Treila slaps her again. This time, Phosyne feels it, and stops talking. Stops moving. Stops thinking, just for a moment.

She just stares at the floor.

“Sometimes,” Treila says, slowly, carefully, enunciating every word, “you just have to leave it all behind and start over.”

Phosyne nods, and lets herself be dragged from her tower.

20

20

Ser Voyne knows these halls.

They are as familiar to her as breathing. She has spent time here, but when she tries to remember how she has spent her days, she comes up empty. It doesn’t bother her in the slightest, but it is curious, and she has had a most curious day all around.

In the great hall, the grand feast is being laid out. Something more wondrous even than the meal the saints provided the night before. She can smell the roasting meat even from where she stands inside the main keep tower. Her job, bestowed on her by her beautiful Lady, is to walk the ramparts and these towers to find anybody who lingers, anybody who has not heard of the most generous invitation to eat and be merry. She’s already found a few small clusters, mostly people too weak to move. She has fed them honey and smiled upon them until they roused and staggered off toward salvation. The others she has persuaded through alternative means.