At this, Silas and Colum came to themselves. Colum drew. But Ianthe gave a sudden shrill trill of a laugh—a laugh with too many edges. “Eighth! Sword away,” she said. “Oh, Eighth. I’m not going to hurt you.” Ianthe suddenly tucked her knees into her chest and moaned: it was the low, querulous moan of someone with a stomach pain, almost comical. “This is not how I had envisioned this,” she said afterward, teeth chattering. “I am merely telling you. I won.”
