Anger knocked the wind out of Arin. There was a hard silence.

Roshar rubbed his eyes, smearing the green paint that lined them. He sighed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Arin.” It was Sarsine. She was standing in the library doorway.

“Not now,” he told her.

“Someone’s here to see you.”

“Not now.”

“He says it’s important.”

“What is important?”

“His message.”

“Which is?”

“He won’t tell me. He wants to tell you himself.”

“I’m busy.”

“No, no,” said Roshar. “Go ahead, talk to him. We’re done anyway. I’ll inform the battalion leaders of my battle plan, and—”

“Wait. Sarsine, who is this person?”

“A Herrani groom who took care of horses at a way station in Valoria along the road that goes north to the tundra.”

“Does his message have anything to do with a Valorian military operation?”

“I asked him. He says no.”

“Does he have information on the general, his troops, or the emperor?”

“No, nothing like that. But—”

Arin turned away. “Later.”

She took a breath as if to argue, then seemed to change her mind. “I’ll put him in your old rooms. He’s traveled far to see you.”

“Well,” Roshar said cheerfully, rolling up the map he and Arin had argued over. “Every thing’s settled, then. What’s that beach called? Lerralen? We’ll set out for it tomorrow at dawn.”

Arin couldn’t sleep. He threw his windows open. He heard an owl hunting in the summer dark.

It was, of course, safer to send the majority of the eastern forces to the beach at Lerralen, with no soldiers held back to guard the cliffs. The beach was an ideal place for the Valorian army to land. The beach and its surrounding terrain were relatively flat and wide open—good for an invasion. The Dacrans, who didn’t know the land they were defending, wouldn’t have any height on the Valorians, and that would make repelling the invaders harder . . . which General Trajan would like. Roshar was prob ably right.

Prob ably.

Arin had no power to overrule him anyway. Few of his people were in any condition to fight. He had no troops to command. He was lucky to have the eastern queen’s help.

Yes, lucky.

The queen, however, was no fool. She must have heard of Xash’s resentment at being ignored by Arin in the planning of a key battle.

Arin was glad Roshar was here, but it was nonetheless clear that he had been sent to put Arin in his place.

Arin braced an arm against the casement, resting his forehead against his wrist. The night curled around him. He’d lit no lamp. He wondered if one of the reasons Valorians trained to get by on little sleep was so that they could feel the way he did right now: like there was no difference between him and the darkness. He heard the sough of trees. He thought of the general landing on Herran’s shore. The muscles in his arm hardened. He’d never sleep now. He kept seeing the cliffs. They rose, white and sparkling, in his mind.

Kestrel wouldn’t be able to resist those cliffs.

If she were mustering an invasion, she’d like the looks of the beach at Lerralen, but she’d love the cliffs. The cunning of it would be its own attraction. And the results . . . if even a small force got up those cliffs and came south to meet the Valorians already massed on the beach, Herran’s defenses would be easily broken. The Valorians would take the countryside and work their way to the city, whose bay was now too well defended to take by sea.

If Kestrel were the general, that’s what she’d do.

If Arin were Kestrel, that’s what he’d do.

Arin found that his loose hand had become a fist.

He remembered the golden, oiled line that had marked Kestrel’s brow as the sign of an engaged woman, and how much he’d hated it. One evening in the palace, Arin had slowly nudged Kestrel up against the wintered windows of a closed balcony door. He’d felt her slender length against him. He’d kissed her mark. Later, he tasted the cosmetic oil on his lips. It had been bitter. He’d touched his tongue to it again.

Arin had had to struggle so hard for clarity. The things he had believed! He thought about the night the spell had finally broken. He’d sailed from the east. He’d risked everything to creep into the palace. He saw her again: the dismay on her face, the cold irritation, the way she’d rubbed her hands against the skirts of her blue silk dress, the sleeves belled and fastened tight at the wrist. That deep blue poured around her as she’d sat at the piano and tried to ignore him and played a laughing little melody. When he refused to leave, she’d turned cruel.