His attacker shook away the stun of Arin’s blow, his hair catching the lamplight. The man was blond. Valorian. Dressed in military black.

And well armed. A knife in each hand, a short sword at his waist. One of those knives was Arin’s.

He’d have to get it back.

Arin was still trapped between the man and the gate. A bad position. The man swung the hand that held Arin’s blade, and Arin ducked. The knife raked the gate behind him, shot sparks. Hitting metal instead of flesh seemed to throw Arin’s opponent off balance, and Arin drove into the opening made when the man’s swing had gone wide and wrong. Arin thrust a knee up, sank it into the man’s gut, seized a wrist, and wrested back his knife.

But not before the man sliced through the air with his own.

That dagger was beautiful. Arin saw its flash. It arrested him somehow, it started him thinking when he had absolutely no business thinking. Arin didn’t flinch away fast enough. The blade cut into his face.

Pain seared from forehead to cheek. Red flooded Arin’s left eye. He was blinking, he was half-blind, he was desperate to know if someone can still blink if an eye has been gouged out. He wept blood. His face had split. He could feel air inside the parted flesh, and his hand instinctively went to it.

That saved him. Without meaning to, Arin had blocked a second blow, which caught him in the forearm. It tipped him sideways, and in his shock Arin didn’t fight the momentum, which knocked him against the long wall of the hallway.

He had dropped his knife. But his hand was scrabbling the wall even as his mind screamed at it not to be stupid, there was no weapon there.

Arin’s hand wrapped around a dead lamp set into the wall and ripped it free. He smashed it against the man’s head. He heard a cry. He ground the shards in.

And now the fight was his. Now Arin was remembering every nasty trick he’d ever learned with his fists, elbows, and feet, and he was forgetting that he’d never really been trained to hold a weapon, except as a boy, and that boy’s arm had trembled under the weight of a child-size sword, and little Arin had begged not to be made to do it, and so what did his grown self know about the sword, which he yanked from the attacker’s scabbard? What did Arin know about the Valorian dagger that appeared in his hand as if a god had set it there? What could he do even as both of his blades were hurtling through the darkness, and the Valorian cried, “Please,” and Arin stabbed into him as if this was an art, this was his art?

With all the grace in the world, Arin’s body said mine, and cut the man’s soul right out of him.

Where was Arin’s breath?

He gasped. With one good eye, Arin looked down at the bloody mess of the Valorian at his feet. He dropped the sword. He tried to wipe away the red-black blindness from the left side of his face. Blood streamed. No matter how Arin pawed at the flowing wet curtain, he couldn’t see through it.

He gave up.

He was still holding the Valorian dagger. He was holding it strangely, as if it belonged to him, which was impossible. Yet his fingers clutched it and refused to let go.

His breath still shuddering through him, the pain still hot, Arin lifted the dagger into the weak light.

He knew this blade.

How could he know it?

The dagger was light, well balanced. It hadn’t been made for a strong hand. Arin had been a blacksmith; he knew quality when he felt it. The tang was simple yet strong. The hilt had been chased in gold, but not overly so—nothing gave the dagger too much weight or interfered with its clean efficiency.

And it was loved. Someone had taken very good care of the blade that had carved Arin’s face open.

None of this explained why Arin’s hand held the weapon so tightly. He frowned, then rubbed at the blood on the hilt. There was something red beneath the red. A ruby.

It was a seal.

The dagger’s seal showed the hooked talons of a kestrel.

15

Once Tensen had recovered from the sight of Arin dripping blood on the carpet of their suite, the old man was remarkably matter-of-fact. “Let me see,” he said, and gently pushed Arin down into a chair.

Arin kept the sodden cloth to his face. In that dark hallway, he had ripped the sleeve from his inner shirt and pressed it against the pulsing cut. He hadn’t lifted it away since. He was afraid to know what lay beneath. Everything hurt too much to tell exactly how badly he’d been injured.

“Arin.” Tensen tried to peel Arin’s fingers away from his face. Arin sighed, and let him. He thought about things like depth perception, and how it would be to fight if he had one eye. He thought about a monster’s face.

The cut bled freely. Blood ran into Arin’s mouth and down his neck as Tensen inspected him.

“Open,” Tensen said.

Arin’s lashes were sticky with blood. “Open,” Tensen said again, and when Arin still didn’t, the minister fetched a pitcher of water from the bathing room and poured it onto Arin’s face.

Arin hissed. He choked on the water. He pressed back into the chair, soaked, and trembled like an animal as Tensen’s fingers went to the corner of his eye and pried the lids apart.

Arin caught a glimpse of light, then the blood ran in again.

“It missed the eye,” Tensen said. “You’re cut from the middle of your forehead down through the brow and into the cheek. Your eyelid’s even scratched, just a bit. But the bone of your brow caught the worst of it.”

Relief flowed through Arin.

Tensen produced a clean handkerchief and padded it onto the left side of Arin’s face. “You need stitches. And”—he looked more carefully at Arin’s right hand, curled against his thigh—“tweezers.”