“All right,” Kaden said, half disentangling himself from the girl’s limbs. He reached toward the spear, to block it or push it back, then hesitated. The smallest nick of the blade could kill Triste. “All right,” he said again, standing, raising his hands. Emperor he may have become, but even the harrowing events of the preceding week had not completely effaced the old obedience of an acolyte. Besides, there was something new in the monk’s voice, something sharp and dangerous. In all the months of Kaden’s excruciating tutelage, he had heard indifference and disdain daily, but never this deadly focus, not even when Tan had faced the ak’hanath. He studied the monk’s face, but couldn’t tell if he remained in the vaniate. That frigid stare of his pinned Triste to the grass where she lay sprawled, the Aedolian uniform clutched about her. The bright tip of the naczal pressed at her throat.

“What are you?” Tan asked, each syllable distinct.

She glanced from Kaden to the surrounding sea, then shook her head.

“I don’t know what you’re asking. . . .”

Tan flexed his wrist and the blade slid a finger’s width, smooth steel over smoother skin. A moment later, blood welled in its wake: three drops, hot beneath the hot sun.

“Stop,” Kaden said, stepping forward, his mind scrambling to make sense of the scene. Moments before, they’d been struggling to escape the trap that was the orphanage, all focus on the kenta and vaniate, and suddenly, when Kaden wanted nothing more than to ask about Valyn, about the unfolding fight, about whether his brother was still alive, Tan had decided to turn on Triste. It made no sense. Triste was on their side. She had helped them to escape, had fled alongside him from the Aedolians through the vertiginous passes of the Bone Mountains, had, when the time came, played her part perfectly in the ruse that allowed them to defeat Ut and Adiv. The livid slice Pyrre had taken out of her cheek was proof enough of that. Kaden shifted toward her, but Tan brought him up short.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going to let you kill her,” Kaden said. His heart slammed against his chest. He struggled to bridle it, to bring it under control, along with his breath.

“It is not your choice,” Tan replied. “Even you can see that.”

Kaden hesitated. Triste’s blood stained the tip of the naczal.

“All right,” he said, stepping back a stride. “I can’t stop you, but I can urge you to wait. To think.”

“It is you,” Tan replied, “who would do well to think. You might think about how she came here. About how she passed the gate. Before you are so quick to defend her, think about what it means.”

Triste, for her part, hadn’t so much as twitched when the blade cut. Her panic from a minute before had vanished.