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“Haven’t you wondered,” Liandrin says, in a voice that’s low and anything but hollow, one finger tracing down the arc of Moiraine’s cheekbone, cold as steel, “a pretty, cossetted little spy like you - what it feels like to be used, to be completely helpless in the power of another?”
It washes over Moiraine like a tide; the one power sparking just below Liandrin’s skin, the red-hot wash of her rage, barely contained, the deep, trembling core of fear it hides, and - Yes, she wants to say, wants to give in, wants to drown under that poisoned weight. But - she is a spy, after all, and well used to veiling her feelings, so there’s no lie in the blue of her eyes when she opens them and lets the word never fall from her lips like a sneer, rather than the regret it is.