Valyn shook his head weakly, a smile stretching his lips. “Kaden is nothing like me,” he said. “He isn’t angry. He isn’t rash. He is level as the sea before a storm.” His legs trembled beneath him. “Kaden will not trust anyone. He will not make mistakes. He will wait as long as it takes and then, someday, when you are tired or relaxed, when you forget to bolt the door, when you’re out riding, or signing papers, he will come for you. He’s not like me. He will not fail.”

The kenarang’s lips tightened.

“Valyn,” Adare said. “You don’t understand. It’s not too late.” She took a step forward.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

He had one more play left, one final thrust before he collapsed. With a roar, he hurled himself forward, hacking up and across. It was a desperate attack, and il Tornja treated it that way, knocking Valyn’s blade aside, then flicking out with his own sword, a casual, almost contemptuous motion. Valyn jerked his head back, but too late, too late.

The blackness came before the burn, a darkness as absolute as anything in the pit of Hull’s Hole. Then the fire, a searing line slashed across his face. His eyes, he realized dimly. The kenarang had slashed his eyes, blinding him.

Valyn stumbled, half fell, then pushed ahead with what meager strength remained, a single step into the darkness, then another, on and on until there was no more stone beneath his feet, until he was dropping helplessly, hopelessly toward the cold, dark water slapping at the rocks below.

49

The cloying air inside the Shin chapterhouse reeked of blood and death. It reminded Kaden of the slaughter of goats back in the Bone Mountains, only the slaughter of goats happened outside, in the clean air beneath the bright gaze of the sun. The small rooms of the chapterhouse admitted little light, and less air. In the struggle, someone had kicked a large pot of beans into the hearth, and the sludgy mix of wood, ash, and broth still smoked, filling the rooms until it was difficult to see, to breathe.

Bodies lay everywhere, dozens of them, twisted in broken postures, or seated against the stone walls as though sleeping. Some had been nearly hacked apart, flesh rent in wide, ragged wounds, some had been killed by tiny holes no larger around than Kaden’s thumb.

“Adiv’s men,” he observed, frowning at the bodies. “Six or seven of them for every one of the others.”

Kiel nodded. “The Ishien know their work, and they had prepared the ground for an ambush.”