“My father says I’m soft. He’s right.”

“You must blame me all the more.”

“For being hard?” He brushed his fair hair out of his eyes so that he could see her better. “Is that what you think you are?”

“If I hadn’t suggested poison, maybe the plains wouldn’t have been burned after all. Maybe our army would have done nothing.”

He gave a cynical laugh.

She said, “If I’d never talked with your father, at least whatever did happen wouldn’t have been my fault.”

“I’m not sure that not knowing is the same thing as innocence.” He leaned back into the rustling, smelly straw. “I think that you did the best that you could. Risha will think so, too, when I tell her.”

“No. Don’t tell her. Please.”

“I tell her everything,” he said simply.

Kestrel’s gaze fell again to the puppy. She wondered what it would be like to be able to tell someone everything. She stroked the soft creature. “Will it live?”

“I hope so.”

A quick, hot liquid streamed through Kestrel’s fingers. She yelped. The puppy’s urine trickled down her sleeve.

Verex widened his already large eyes. “That was lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“That’s not all puppies do, you know. It could have been worse.”

Kestrel smiled. “That’s true,” she said. “You’re right.” Her smile grew, and became a laugh.

* * *

Her maids were horrified. They ran a bath and practically stripped the clothes from her. But Kestrel nursed that floating feeling of forgiveness Verex had given her. It buoyed her in the warm bath.

She asked to be alone.

The bath cooled. Her hair, water-dark, lay flat and sleek over her breasts like armor.

Arin had changed her. It was time to admit that.

Kestrel stood in the bath. The water sheeted from her. She wrapped herself, oddly and unreasonably shy with her own nakedness.

What kind of change had Arin wrought?

She thought back to last summer, and how it had felt as if he were thumbing her eyes wide open to see her world. She thought about the puppy, velvety blind, and her wish never to have heard any plan for the eastern plains, so that she wouldn’t bear any responsibility for what had been done.

Kestrel thought that she needed to open her eyes wider.

She looked.

There was the plush robe around her, for the prince’s bride must have comfort. She saw stained glass set in the bathing room windows, for a Valorian must have beauty. Gold rings glimmered wetly on Kestrel’s wrinkled fingers. The general’s wars had won luxury for his daughter.

And there were the rules. They hung invisible in the humid air. But who had decided them? Who had decided that a Valorian honors her word? Who had convinced her father that the empire must continue to eat other countries whole, and that slaves were Valoria’s due right of conquest?

Her father held his honor so firmly, like a solid thing, something that couldn’t twist free. It occurred to Kestrel that she had wondered before what her father’s honor was like, and Arin’s, but she didn’t know the shape of her own.

There was dishonor, she decided, in accepting someone else’s idea of honor without question.

Kestrel bent to touch the faucet and pipe of the bath. There was running water in Herrani houses, for fountains, mostly, but the imperial palace was veined with an ingenious system of pipes that pumped in warm water from thermal sources in the mountain, heated it further with a furnace, and swept it up to the highest floors. This system had been invented by the chief water engineer, the one who had designed the canals.

On the day after Arin had left, Tensen had asked Kestrel to investigate something. “The chief water engineer has done the emperor a favor,” he’d said. “Could you find out what it was?”

Kestrel lifted her hand from the still warm bath pipe that led to the floor and vanished into it. She went to the window, and stood in the light of its brilliant stain. Her hands glowed blue and deep pink. She unlatched and swung open the window. Everything went clear. The air was raw. Kestrel could scent it on the wind: that thing that was going to blow her forward in time, to warmth, flowers blooming, trees in pollen and then spread green.

Spring.

23

On the sixth day at sea, Arin stopped being seasick. That night, there were no clouds. Stars frosted the sky. The ship was becalmed.

Arin was on deck, turning Kestrel’s dagger in his hands. In the end, he’d decided to take it with him. It was his now, by his own blood. Or so he told himself.

He sheathed it. He tipped his head back and gazed at the wide band of stars that arched over him in a glittery smear.

Sarsine had seemed so tired when Arin had seen her on his way from the capital. He’d worried over her wan face and shadowed eyes.

She’d snorted. “It’s the food.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s too little of it.” She’d sighed then, and said that all of Herran was tired.

“That will change,” he told her. He explained how to save the hearthnut harvest. Sarsine had touched the back of his hand in gratitude. Then she’d looked at him hard. Her eyes were bright. She said, “Look at what they did to you.”

“It’s nothing.”

But she wept over his changed face, which made him feel worse about it. Arin let her. He didn’t know what else to do.

Later, Sarsine said, “Now tell me what you haven’t told me.”