“You have such strange speech,” Monshara said. “Like an educated slave.”

Zezili rankled. “You’re one to talk of slavery, riding about at the call of some Dhai.”

Monshara’s expression hardened.

“Syre Zezili?” Daolyn called. “There is an issue with your husband, Syre.”

“Tell him to wait.”

“I apologize deeply, Syre. But it is quite urgent.”

Zezili sighed. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Monshara stood as she exited.

Zezili took Daolyn by the arm as soon as they entered the courtyard. “What’s this? You know how important this is?”

“I’m sorry, Syre,” Daolyn said. “But your husband has… done something.”

“Done something?”

Daolyn gestured across the yard, to the door leading into Anavha’s chambers. Zezili went there. The door yawned open at her touch. She came up short.

At the center of the room, Anavha’s double bed had been neatly sliced in two. The front half remained, canted forward now on just two legs. The rest was… gone. Zezili saw a scorched mark in the floor at the front of it, roughly circular. Beside it, Anavha sat back on his heels, clutching himself. He was barely clothed. Zezili saw blood on his hands, and a knife next to him.

Anger and terror seized her. She went to him. Took him by the arms. Shook him. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

His face was slack, smeared in tears and clumps of gold makeup. She saw three neat cuts on the inside of his bare thigh. The new wounds stood out in stark contrast to the older scars running parallel to them, some just a week old.

Her grip loosened. His self-harm was an unfortunate habit but not life-threatening. She suspected he did it to get attention.

“What happened?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She slapped him lightly. He began to cry.

“What happened?” she asked. Softer, now.

The ruin of his tear-smeared face, lacking the artifice of the perfect makeup, made him look much younger. In that moment, she was reminded that he was little more than a child.

He said, “I opened a door.”

Chapter 8

8

Lilia stood among the scattered lanterns in the temple garden, clutching a pack to her chest. Her personal belongings were almost nothing: an extra pair of clothes, a dog-hair coat, sandals, the mahuan powder for her asthma, and Kalinda’s letters. The books and strategy games that had sustained her days were all property of the temple. She had arrived at the temple with the clothes she wore, and it appeared now that she would leave it with little else.

“Have you ridden a bear before?” Taigan asked.

Dawn was a hazy gray promise kissing the edges of the darkness. Though it was warm, she found herself shivering.

“A long time ago,” Lilia said. “They were not so tame, though. My mother spoke to them.”

Taigan snorted. “I expect she did. When did you come to the temple?”

“After my mother died. Kalinda brought me.”

“Who’s Kalinda?”