As the bristles moved over the fine parchment, he felt the knots of his mind loosen. For the first time since fleeing the Bone Mountains, he settled into a rhythm he actually understood, the wetting and clearing of the brush, the faint pressure of the bristles on the page, the easy, fluent movements of the wrist and fingers. He let all thought of Adare and Annur drain from his mind, all worry about the Unhewn Throne, all the faint tangles of grief for his father. Instead, he filled his head with the image of the Mizran Councillor, his blindfold, the shock of hair, the angle of his chin. After the first strokes, even the sense of the man as a man faded. There was only light and shadow, hollow and form, teased out in dark ink on a light page. He found himself adding details, unnecessary details, as the painting neared its conclusion—the stiff collar, the mountains behind—until there was nothing left to draw and he reluctantly laid down his brush.

Kiel rose to consider the painting.

“No,” he said after just a moment. “I don’t know him.”

“I’m almost finished,” Morjeta said, eyeing Kaden above her own canvas. “Where did you learn to paint?”

Kaden shook his head. The effort of explanation seemed too massive, like trying to unearth a buried stone for which he couldn’t even find the edges.

The leina studied him a moment longer, dark eyes abrim with curiosity, then gave an eloquent shrug. “There,” she said, turning back to her own portrait, rotating it so that everyone could see. “It’s finished.”

She had painted a bold figure with a strong chin and high cheekbones, lips open in a partial smile revealing a row of perfect teeth. Kaden had expected a stern, severe face, on the order of Micijah Ut or Ekhard Matol, a military man with a mind for tactics and blood. Morjeta’s il Tornja, however, looked sly, almost jocular, as though he were on the verge of breaking into laughter.

Kaden frowned. “He doesn’t look like Csestriim.”

“Csestriim?” the leina asked, blanching, eyes going wide. “Are you mad?” Then she met Kaden’s gaze and dropped her eyes, bowing until her face almost touched the table. “A thousand apologies, Your Radiance . . .” she began.

Kaden raised a hand to cut her off, but at his side Kiel had gone utterly still.

“The expression is deceiving,” he said, voice low but certain. “Over the thousands of years, he has learned to smile.”

Kaden turned, feeling his heart kick in his chest. “You know him?”

The Csestriim nodded, but didn’t speak. For a few heartbeats, everyone just stared, first at Kiel, then at the page, then back.

“And?” Triste said finally.

“Like me, he has worn many names. The first was Tan’is.”

“Why did he kill my father?” Kaden demanded. “Why does he hate the Malkeenians?”