They’d barely reached the basement when the attackers hit them. Kaden had tried to study each hollow as they passed, holding his lantern high, listening for the scuff of boot on stone. He’d heard nothing, seen nothing, and then a bright shattering pain erupted across the back of his head and he was falling forward, head striking against the stone wall, then the stone floor.

Blood flooded his mouth. He realized vaguely that he’d bitten into his tongue, but there was no time to worry about that. As his mind swayed, thought coalescing then scattering like a school of skittish fish, the fighting continued around him. Triste was screaming, and then suddenly silent. Kaden tried to rise to his feet, but something slammed him back down. A weight settled across the small of his back, grinding him into the floor. He opened his eyes to see Kiel struggling with an armed figure, and then, quick as thought, the Csestriim, too, was down.

It happened too fast for Kaden to have any idea what was going on, but there was no mistaking Ekhard Matol’s face when the man crouched down beside him, his skin spattered with blood, eyes wide.

“You remember some of the things we did to your little whore here?” he asked, voice soft but savage. “The fire? The slivers of glass?”

Kaden kept his mouth shut, focused all his effort on shoving aside the red welter of pain, on seeing the dimensions of the trap that they had sprung. There were four figures in addition to Matol, one driving a boot into his back, the other leaning over Kiel a few steps away. Matol himself was holding the Csestriim naczal in his hands.

“Tan’s spear,” Kaden managed.

The Ishien shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Where is he? Is he all right?”

“You can ask him yourself when we’re back in the Heart.” The man chuckled. “ ’Course, he might have trouble answering you.”

“Matol,” one of the other men cut in, “we need to move.” It had taken them only a few moments to bind Kiel’s hands behind his back. The Csestriim swayed slightly, but he was doing better than Triste, who lay slumped in a heap where the wall met the floor. Matol scowled, then nodded. “Get the girl,” he said, gesturing with the spear. “We’ll be secure once we’re through the kenta.”

A moment later, Kaden felt himself hauled upward by the back of his shirt. The Ishien had made no effort to tie his hands—another measure of the contempt they felt for him—but a short knife appeared at his throat.

“Walk,” Matol hissed.

Kaden walked.

They followed the corridor for a few dozen paces, turned into a smaller passageway, then descended another stairwell. When they reached a small room, stone walls rough cut and dripping, Matol pulled him up short.

“The kenta is just ahead. You might want to prepare yourself.”