“You have not,” Matol replied, testing the flame with his finger, then wincing at the heat.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know where you learned to read Csestriim script.”

Triste’s eyes took on a desperate, hunted look. “In the temple,” she managed. “They taught me everything, everything but the high mysteries. Every leina learns languages, sometimes more than a dozen.” She was babbling, terrified. “Men come from all over Eridroa and Vash, all over the world. . . .”

Matol shook his head. “You told me earlier that you didn’t know where you learned it.”

“I forgot! There was so much I learned—music, dancing, language. They taught me a little. I remember now, a few words when I was very young!”

She twisted against her bonds as she spoke. Observe, Kaden told himself. Just observe. He threw himself into the Carved Mind, etching the strokes of the saama’an as the scene unfolded, using the discipline as a shield against what was taking place.

“You’re claiming that the whores of Ciena taught you ‘just a few words’ of the Csestriim tongue in case . . . what? In case a creature everyone else in the world believes was destroyed thousands of years ago wanders in hankering for a fuck?” He laughed a long mirthless laugh at the absurdity of the notion. “Manderseen,” he said at last, gesturing toward the smirking guard, “hold the lamp here while I take this young lady’s hand.”

The Ishien guard stepped forward, smirk broadening into a grin. Matol took Triste’s wrist almost gently in his larger, scarred hard, then pulled it toward the flame. The girl let out a low wail as the fire lapped at her skin, her fingers scrabbling like the legs of some tormented creature. “Please,” she moaned, body convulsing, legs thrashing, as though the movement could carry her hand from the fire. “Please!” Her voice rose and rose into a high, horrible keening.

Observe, Kaden told himself, forcing his hands to his side. There was nothing he could do, and besides, he’d burned himself more severely on several occasions working in the kitchens back at Ashk’lan. Of course, this was only the beginning.

Matol released her hand finally. Two of the fingers were red and blistered, the kind of burn that would only heal after a night in an ice bucket and a week in wrappings. Triste tried to pull it to her chest, but the shackle would not permit her. Her eyes were still open, but she wasn’t focused on anything beyond the looming horror of her own pain.

“It looks like real fright,” Kaden murmured to Tan. “She’s not faking it.”

To his surprise, the monk actually seemed to consider his words, then shook his head. “Keep watching.”

“How did you use the kenta?” Matol asked, passing his own hand back and forth through the flame idly, quickly enough to avoid a burn.