A chicken feather lifted in a sudden breeze and eddied along the base of the well.

“Arin, Kestrel’s dead.”

His ears were ringing. He felt as if he’d fallen into the well. He heard Roshar’s voice from far away. The words tumbled down to him. “It was recent,” Roshar said. “A disease. While she was away from the capital, traveling with the prince. The whole empire is in mourning.”

“That’s not true.”

Roshar said something. Arin couldn’t hear him. He was at the bottom of the well. The water closed over his head, cold and black.

Chapter 6

“I’m fine.”

“Arin, I know you’re not.”

Sarsine had been waiting for him by Javelin’s empty stall when Arin returned with the lathered horse. Arin felt a jagged, sharp sort of feeling. Rusted in parts, menacingly shiny in others. If it had been a real thing lying in the dirt, anyone would have known better than to touch it.

He had gone for a ride. He’d left his house so there would be no question of visiting or avoiding parts of it that reminded him of her. He’d pushed Javelin hard. But when he had finally slowed the stallion and paced him under the green canopy of the city’s horse paths, he’d wiped the sweat from his face and remembered whose horse was beneath him. He saw that he had no choices. He saw that even avoidance was a reminder.

His hands held the reins too short. An emotion claimed him, merciless and familiar. His heart shrank. It felt small and hard and full, like a nut he could crack in his fist.

His face was still wet. He’d ridden too far. He turned Javelin back home.

When he saw Sarsine waiting in the open, shaded stables on a three-legged stool, he had ignored her and let Javelin drink from the trough in the yard. He had stripped the horse of his saddle. Lifted off the reins. Fetched a bucket of water, which he had slowly poured over the horse, who snorted and lowered his head. Arin scraped water from the coat, then wiped him down with a cloth. He checked the hooves, digging out mud and pebbles with a pick, using his fingers to get gently into the grooves on either side of the hoof’s frog.

Finally Arin saw that his silence wouldn’t be enough to make his cousin go away. He brought the horse into the stables. He said he was fine, she said he wasn’t. He wiped down Javelin’s tack and hung it up and tried silence again, this time because he was sure that if he spoke he’d say something he’d regret.

She said, “Why do you think it’s wrong to mourn her?”

“Sarsine.” His voice was tight. “If you love me, you’ll leave.”

“Answer me first.”

The words shot out of him. “Because she wasn’t who I thought she was. You can’t mourn someone you didn’t know.”

“I saw how you were with each other. Why would you think you didn’t know her?”

“Because she’s a liar. She has her games, her clever tricks. Every one falls into her trap. I did, too . . .” He trailed off, listening to his own words. He began to brush Javelin’s brown coat, leaning in hard. “She’s not dead.”

“She’s not?” Sarsine sounded worried.

He watched the horse’s muscles twitch and leap under the brush. “No.”

“Arin, I know how this feels. You know that I do. Like it’s impossible, like some mistake has been made and if you could only correct it—”

“That’s not it. I’m saying that the whole story sounds false.”

“I don’t understand.”

The brush was moving rapidly. “The secret marriage, to start with. The Firstsummer wedding was valuable to the emperor. All that goodwill. The excitement to witness the emperor’s dynasty growing. The bride. She was a prize, do you know that? That wedding wasn’t about the emperor’s son marrying Kestrel. It was about the emperor marrying the military. The emperor would never forgo that wedding. If they married in secret, then why didn’t the emperor force them to marry again for every one to see? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You don’t want it to make sense.”

“A disease killed her? I never saw her sick the entire time I worked in her villa. She was only bedridden once, and that’s because—” Arin stopped, remembering how she’d limped. She’d been injured in a duel that she had fought for him.

He lowered the brush.

He’d been here before. He used to do this all the time: invent stories about Kestrel that fit with her bandaged knee, the way she’d kissed him, the night she’d unlocked the door that separated her rooftop garden from his. From a window in his suite, he’d seen the door open. He had waited, pulse rising. Moments like that, right before she had shut the door again, haunted him in the capital, made him imagine things about her. Lovely, tempting scenarios. He remembered how he’d even wondered if she could be Tensen’s Moth.