“Heirs,” Kaden concluded, shaking his head. He hadn’t expected to recognize Annur, had expected the city to seem strange, confusing, indifferent to his return. He had not anticipated, though, finding it so fully turned against him, had not thought to find the conspiracy that led to his father’s death so deeply rooted and flourishing.

Emotions buzzed inside him like wasps: anger, sadness, confusion. But he’d spent eight years learning to set aside his emotions, and he did so. He tried to remember what he knew of Adare from his childhood. She’d been an impetuous girl, impatient with the dresses and decorum that came with her station, impatient, it seemed to him now, with childhood itself. The one time he could remember his sister paying any actual attention to him was on the day he left for Ashk’lan. She had stood on the imperial docks, lips tight, eyes burning.

“Bid farewell to your brother, Adare,” their mother had said. “He is a child now, but when he returns, he will be a man, and ready to take the reins of the empire.”

“I know,” was all Adare had said before kissing him coolly on both cheeks. She never said farewell.

Kiel’s eyes were fixed intently on the air between them, as though scrutinizing some shape or pattern no one else could see. After a long time, his gaze focused and he turned to Morjeta.

“Can you paint?” he asked.

She nodded. “Not as well as some of my fellow leinas, but it is one of Ciena’s arts.”

“Ran il Tornja,” he said. “Tarik Adiv. I’d like to see what they look like.”

Kaden glanced at the man, suddenly grasping his intent. “You’re wondering . . .”

Kiel nodded. “As you told me back in the Dead Heart, there were ak’hanath at your monastery, which means my people are involved.”

Morjeta frowned, then nodded. “I can make a passable likeness of both men, but it will take some time.”

“I’ll paint Adiv,” Kaden said.

He volunteered as much for the excuse to plunge into something familiar as to expedite the process, and for a few heartbeats after Morjeta produced the necessary materials he did nothing but sit, brush in hand, staring at the fine blank vellum. It seemed a lifetime since he had contemplated something as clean, as straightforward as an empty page, more than a lifetime, as though he’d dreamed the endless hours seated on the rock ledges of Ashk’lan. Finally he dipped the brush into the porcelain saucer of ink.