The monk stopped them in front of one arch identical to the rest. Up close, Kaden could see the script carved into the keystone, a word or words; it was hard to be certain how many. Evidently there were scholars back in Annur who could read those sharp angles as though they’d been raised on the language, but Kaden, of course, had been afforded no opportunity to study with the scholars of Annur.

He eyed the arch, curiosity and caution warring within him, but it was Triste who spoke.

“Where does it lead?”

“You cannot read it?” Tan asked.

The girl bit her lip but refused to respond.

“You choose a strange time to begin your deception,” the monk observed. “You read a similar language in Assare.”

“I’m not Csestriim,” Triste insisted. “Even if I can read it.”

“What does it say?” Tan pressed.

“Tal Amen?” Triste said finally. “No. Tal Amein.”

Kaden shook his head.

“The Still . . . Self?” she translated, squinting as she did so. “The Missing Heart?”

“The Dead Heart,” Tan said finally.

Fear slicked a chill finger along Kaden’s spine. The arch looked like the rest of the arches: slender, still, almost inviting. Through the open space he could see the black-tailed seabirds darting into the waves, sunlight shattering off the broken panes of the sea. There was no telling what lay on the other side, but Tan’s translation promised something less inviting than this lost island.

“The Dead Heart,” Kaden said, trying out the words. “What is it?”

“It is dark,” Tan said. “And cold. Hold your breath as you step through the kenta.”

“Who goes first?”

“She does.” The monk nudged Triste forward with his naczal. “If the guards decide to loose their shafts, better her chest for the broadheads.”

11

The Flea was waiting.

Even as Valyn rolled to his feet, shielding his head with one hand from the rubble still raining down from above, retrieving with the other the blade he had tossed away from himself while falling, even as he scanned the room for his Wing through the kicked-up haze of smoke and stone dust, even as he tried to slow the hammering in his chest, to see the scene clearly, to fucking think, he knew something was wrong.

It’s too bright, he realized, squinting about him, flexing his left elbow, which felt badly bruised but not broken. It’s lit.