Matol shrugged, his momentary fury utterly vanished. “Used to be, but the Ishien remembered their charge, held to their post, while you and your family abandoned it long ago.” He paused, as though waiting for Kaden to object, then pressed ahead. “When we’re finished with this bitch, which might take some time, I’ll have questions for you. I want to know about this plot against your family.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Not because I would care if the people of Annur rose up and gutted every living Malkeenian, but because this is how they work, the Csestriim. They find a structure, an order at the heart of our world, something we created, and then they go to work on it, chipping at the walls, undermining the foundation, until it crashes down, until we’re crushed by the very thing we built.” He stared at Kaden, eyes wide and furious. Then, abruptly, he laughed. “Which is why I might need to keep you here for a year or ten. After all, if we’re using you, then they’re not.”

A chill ran up Kaden’s spine.

He glanced over at Tan for some sign of tacit support, but the older monk’s face betrayed nothing, and he made no move to speak. Kaden swallowed the insult and the fear both. Pride and fear were illusions—dangerous illusions, in this case. Here, hidden beneath tons of stone and sea, cut away from the cloth of society, a man like Matol could do whatever he wished. Kaden wasn’t going to help Triste or Annur by insisting on his own honor.

This is why we have courts and laws, he thought to himself. This is why we have an emperor.

When Kaden first learned of the Ishien, their mandate had sounded like a noble cause, like something pure. That single-minded purpose, however, stripped of the aegis of law and tradition, religion and the order religion brought, began to look very much like madness. For the Ishien, anything was justified if it might lead to the Csestriim. Any lie. Any torture. Any murder.

“Is there anything new from the girl?” Tan asked.

Matol snorted. “Same shit. Sobs, begs, whimpers, tells us she hasn’t done anything wrong. Problem is, she doesn’t squirm right.” He turned to Kaden, brows raised as though waiting for the obvious question. When Kaden held his peace, the man blew out an irritated breath and explained.

“The enemy look human, but they’re not. They’re not right,” he tapped his head with a grimy finger, “in here. When it comes to torture, they feel the pain—Meshkent has his bloody hooks in them, same way he does in the rest of us—but they don’t feel the fear. They’re older than the young gods. Kaveraa can’t touch them.”