Embarrassment, he realized finally. It was an unfamiliar emotion, one he’d not experienced with the Shin for many years. It was surprising to encounter it here, now. After all, he’d grown up in the opulence of the Dawn Palace, surrounded by servants and slaves, grown accustomed early to the genuflections of even the highest ministers. It was, he supposed, a testament to the thoroughness of the monks, to their ability to scrub away all such habits, that he felt so out of place now, among the luxury of the temple. The priestesses and priests, even their servants seemed like queens and kings, all poise and perfection, while he felt acutely the dirt beneath his nails, the oiliness of the beaten wool tunic, the rough stubble hazing his chin.

“You didn’t tell me your home was so beautiful,” he said, gesturing vaguely.

She frowned, glanced around as though really seeing the place for the first time, then shrugged. “Your monastery was beautiful.”

Kaden compared the rough stone buildings of his memory with the sweeping curves and sumptuous fabrics surrounding them. “A different kind of beauty.”

“A clean beauty,” Triste said. She lowered her voice. “This place . . . it’s all wine and silk on the surface, but beneath . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Even in the Temple of Ciena, there are things that are not pretty. And people.”

Before she could say more, however, the screen to the pavilion swung open and a woman surged inside. Kaden had expected the poised reserve he’d seen from everyone else associated with the temple, but she utterly ignored him and Kiel, throwing her arms around Triste in a desperate embrace, sobbing her name over and over. After a long time, she pulled back, staring in horror at her daughter’s wounds.

“Who did this to you?” she demanded.

Triste opened her mouth to reply, then closed it, shaking her head. Morjeta studied her for a few heartbeats, then gathered her daughter in her own arms once again. Kaden couldn’t see Triste’s face, buried as it was in her mother’s shoulder, but her hands closed convulsively around the fabric of the older woman’s gown, and, from the shuddering of her shoulders, it seemed that she, too, was crying.