He started to grope for the gate, to try to haul himself back through into the light and the air, then realized that to enter the kenta in such a state of agitation invited an annihilation even swifter than that offered by the sea. He forced his body to stillness, willing his mind to follow. Dim lights flickered around the edges of his vision, but whether they were real or the product of a mind starved for air he couldn’t be certain. His body convulsed while his lungs tried to heave a breath where there was no breath to be had. Panic prowled the edge of thought, hungry, circling closer as the cold clamped down.

Breathe, he told himself, and then follow the breath. He raised a hand to his mouth, feeling for the bubbles as they trickled through his fingers, forcing himself to wait a moment to be sure. Then, with legs like lead, he kicked for the surface.

He broke from the relative silence of the water into chaos. Someone was thrashing a few feet away, and men were bellowing—two or three voices piled on one another: Stop . . . Kill them now . . . Put the bow down. The air was almost as frigid as the water and only slightly brighter. A few torches gave off more smoke than light, illuminating what seemed to be a stone chamber, a small grotto carved out by the sea. Kaden twisted in the water, mind desperately sifting the various shadows, searching for the source of the voices, for a place to haul himself to safety. A quick, hard blow caught him on the lip, driving his face back under the surface. He came up, the lights spinning across his eyes, mouth filled with blood and brine. Triste was still tied, he realized, tied and drowning.

He caught her beneath the arms.

“Still,” he gasped, trying to hold her up. “Be still.”

A moment later Rampuri Tan’s shaven head breached the water and with it, his voice:

“Memory,” he ground out, as though intoning the opening passage to some lost ritual, “is the heart of vengeance.”

Triste finally stopped her flailing elbows, and Kaden took a moment to seize a full breath. The passage through the kenta had practically drowned him, but the older monk spoke with his normal implacable force.

The other voices fell silent. Someone cursed. Then:

“And vengeance is the balm of memory.”

“I am Rampuri Tan.”

“I am Loral Hellelen.”

“Keep your bows on the girl,” Tan said, hoisting himself from the water onto a small stone shelf, ignoring the sodden weight of his robe as he stood. “She is more than dangerous.”

“And the other?”

Kaden still couldn’t see the speaker, but he stroked weakly toward the rim where Tan had emerged, dragging Triste behind him.

“He is with me,” Tan replied. He had not relinquished his naczal when he stepped through the kenta, and the blade glinted in the dusky light. “Watch the girl.”