“You could collect allies,” Morjeta said quietly. “Assemble a force of your own. In secret.”

Kaden considered the idea. “Who? What allies?”

“There are factions,” she replied, “inside the court. Ministers bitter about Adiv’s promotion. Generals vexed at having been passed over . . .”

Kaden looked over at Kiel.

“It could work,” the Csestriim said. “Your father was well liked in many quarters. If we could assemble a list of old-guard loyalists . . .”

Morjeta nodded. “I don’t have all the names—not everyone seeks solace in our temple—but it would be a start.”

“Yes,” Triste said, leaning in. “You work fast, force Adiv out before your sister and il Tornja return. When they get back to the city, you’re seated on the Unhewn Throne. Killing you then would be open treason!”

“Yes,” Kaden said, the word heavy on his tongue, “but they already murdered one emperor, a man girded far better to withstand their attacks than I am. I might be able to get past Adiv, but even then, what would I have? The throne and a group of old men who knew my father. Il Tornja controls at least some of the Kettral. I’d probably find poison in my water or a knife in my back just days after entering the palace.

“There’s more than one problem. First, even if I get the throne, especially if I get the throne, I’m an easy target. Second, Adare and il Tornja are too far ahead. They’ve been consolidating power for years. As kenarang, il Tornja commands the armies. Adare has seized the political reins, and people are calling her a prophet. They control the two pillars on which all Malkeenian rule is grounded.”

For a long time the four of them fell silent. Triste picked angrily at a scab on her wrist while her mother gazed into her goblet of wine, as though the answers were scrawled on the mint leaf circling the rim. Kiel’s gaze went hard and absent again. Finally the Csestriim turned to Kaden.

“You still have the kenta,” he pointed out. “You could get to Aragat. The Malkeenian line originated there. Away from the Dawn Palace, you’ll be harder to attack. The old aristocracy, from when the atrepy was a kingdom, may rally behind you, shield you. . . .”

“The old aristocracy is here,” Morjeta said. “From Aragat and everywhere else. They arrived months ago for the funeral of Sanlitun, and most have remained for the coronation of the new Emperor.”

“Why?” Kaden asked, shaking his head. There were dozens of pre-imperial lineages scattered through Annur, their power blunted by the rise of his own family. Most kept to their estates, living off inherited wealth, reading chronicles of the days before Annur, when their lands were their own and they owed fealty to no one. It seemed unlikely that they would travel all the way to Annur to pay homage to a murdered emperor or his missing heir. “What do they want?”