He said nothing. Just stood there, watching her.

“So you’re leaving after all?” she said.

“You know I am.” His voice was low.

“You’re not even going to pretend?”

He straightened. “You know me better than that, Keeper.”

“No.” She closed the door behind her. “Clearly I do not know you at all.”

Something flickered on his face, but he hid it quickly.

“So he’s alive?” she said. “Your father?”

He said nothing.

“And you knew that? All along you knew that?”

Still nothing. Her heart hammered so hard she could barely draw breath. This was not possible. She must have fallen asleep in her quarters and was having a nightmare.

“You knew what he was going to do?” she said. “You took part in it?”

Another flicker of emotion, too fast to decipher. His mouth opened as if he was going to speak. Then he clamped it shut, jaw held tight, and said nothing.

Moria stepped forward. Her hands were shaking. Rage pounded through her, and she had to struggle to keep her gaze on him, struggle to speak to him.

“You raised shadow stalkers. With your father. For your father. You raised them, and you commanded them to massacre my village.”

His eyes rounded. “No, I would never—I did not realize—”

Again he clamped his mouth shut, so hard she heard his teeth click. She could still see more in his eyes, more he wanted to say, but he blinked hard and when he looked at her again, his gaze was shuttered.

“You let them kill my village. Kill your comrades. Kill my father.”

She heard his teeth grind and the muscles on his jaw worked, as if he struggled to keep silent.

“What?” she said. “You have some excuse? Some explanation?”

He took a moment to open his mouth, just enough to let words out. “I have no excuse, Keeper.”

“Do not call me that!” she roared, yanking her blades from their sheaths.

“Moria, I—” He swallowed hard, and he seemed to pause, as if considering. A flicker of something like pain. Then anything in his expression vanished, his face going hard as he pulled himself straight. “Yes, I have done whatever you believe. I have deceived you. I have betrayed you. Remember that. Whatever happens, remember that.”

“Remember that?” She whipped a dagger at him. “I remember my father, you son of a whore!”

Gavril spun out of the dagger’s path just in time, and it passed just under his arm, ripping through the fabric before hitting the wall. He stared at it, as if shocked. She charged him, the other dagger raised, and it was only at the last moment that he feinted. He pulled his own sword. Her charge was clumsy, rage-blind, and his sword broadsided her arm, knocking her blade flying. She scrambled out of the way, but he didn’t strike at her, just stood there, sword half-raised.