“Ever see a cat?” Trant asked, then snapped his teeth at Kaden, clawed at the air. “They don’t just kill, no. Nope. Cats—they tease, they toy, they taunt. Same thing with the Enemy . . . they wanted to see what we’d do. It’s all here,” he insisted, waving his hand toward the walls. “All here. Scrolls, codices, all of it. They filleted some of us like fish, cut the eyelids off others. What’s wrong with us—that’s what they wanted to know. What’s wrong?” His lips twisted into a grimace. “It’s all here,” he muttered. “Bastards wrote it all down. It’s all here.”

Trant was staring at him wolfishly, and after a moment Kaden turned away to look at the chamber once more. The weight of the place had grown more oppressive, as though too much blood had soaked into the stone, as though history had its own stench that no amount of salt water could ever fully expunge. The Dead Heart wasn’t a fortress at all, it wasn’t even a prison; it was a grave, and the Ishien who stalked the halls were like the ghosts of men, still fighting a war they refused to let die. This was the place to which Kaden had insisted they come, the place to which he had unwittingly brought Triste. This charnel pit was Tan’s home. The chill of the air settled deeper into Kaden’s flesh, pricking at his clammy skin. He wasn’t a prisoner, not exactly, but it wasn’t at all clear that he could leave.

13

Night saved them, night and the heavy clouds that obscured their flight as they clutched the bird’s talons, rising free of the shattered city, then from the canyon itself, rising, rising, with what felt like agonizing slowness, until they were clear of the highest peaks, buried in darkness and cloud. Valyn had no idea whether Suant’ra had killed the Flea’s bird, no idea if Chi Hoai Mi was alive, or if the Flea himself was following. That fear kept him awake through the first part of the escape. The fear and the pain.

As the night wore on, however, as ’Ra winged unevenly westward through the achingly cold night, it was all he could do to stay conscious in his harness, to brace himself against the buffeting gusts of the bird’s massive wings, to keep his numb fingers wrapped around the strap overhead. He couldn’t draw a bow, not with the quarrel buried in his shoulder, could barely even hold himself upright, and yet he was faring better than both Gwenna and Talal.