The conversation isn’t like consciousness—they aren’t talking to each other, and Palamedes does not see the sword with his eyes or sense its power with his necromantic blood. It’s as though the information this being wishes to convey appear in his mind without conduit. He feels the horror and, quick on its heels, the effort to assuage him.

Palamedes doesn’t think this being is lying, but he also doesn’t like the way it noses about his own mind, and Camilla’s too.

:I am hers.: He is Camilla’s. Her necromancer, her friend, her burden. :Now, what are you?: