“My ears are strong enough.”

He hesitated, then nodded, looking thoughtful and grim. “After I left An-Ileyoba—that night after our fight—I wandered Dhyrma for a while. As you are aware, tracking alagbatos is no easy task. Paying charlatan shamans, camping in wait for spirits . . . It was numbing, and I liked it that way. Scout all day, drink all night. Dream of you, if I was lucky. My plan was to live that way until you returned from the Underworld. And if you never returned, well . . . the alagbatos weren’t going anywhere. And neither was the wine.” He gave a tight, self-deprecating smile. “I told myself to be content. After all—that’s what I told you to do. I had a home, if I wanted it, and a family—Dayo, our council. Everyone I loved was safe and cared for. Except for you, of course. And . . .” He stiffened then, running fingers through his wet hair. “I started wondering about my brother Sendhil. I hadn’t contacted him in years—was afraid to, really. But I tracked him down. I expected to find him snug in some luxury Vhraipur apartment, bullying his way through the Dhyrma social scene. He was Hallowed to sense people’s vulnerabilities, after all, and so he’d certainly have plenty of money: The Imperial Treasury cares for the relations of Anointed Ones. But when I found him . . .”

His jaw hardened. I lifted my wet hand to his face, and let the memory unfold inside me.

CHAPTER 29

A lanky boy wallows in the dirt, propped against the side of what looks like a brothel. He sings to himself, tossing back a leather flask, and I can smell the stink of liquor from yards away. The boy shares my russet complexion, my chin and prominent ears. Despite his dissolute appearance, he’s clean-shaven. I’d smile if I weren’t so horrified—my brother never could grow a beard.

“Twelve Realms, big brother,” Sendhil slurs without rising. He looks me up and down with a sneer. “Looking at you now, I’d never recognize the champion pit fighter of Vhraipur. Much nicer clothes, for one thing. No bloodstains. Or do the servants take care of those for you?”

“It’s good to see you, Sendhil.” I ignore the barb—I had known this wouldn’t be easy. “I . . . know I wasn’t there for you when we were boys. That I haven’t been there for you. And I’m sorry. But now, I hope at least we can . . .”

I trail off, taking in his clothes—a disheveled soldier’s tunic, cobra sigils emblazoned on each breast.

The guilt drains out of me, replaced by disbelief that chokes my throat, and I barely manage words at all.

“You’re still with the mercenaries,” I say.

And he shrugs. My poor, brilliant, idiot of a baby brother—shrugs. “What else would I do?”