But Arin said nothing.

Roshar swore at him in Dacran, the curse so intricate and colorful that Arin didn’t even try to make sense of the grammar.

In the silence that followed, Arin thought about how the god of death had deserted him. He had strained to hear his god. He’d also prayed to the god of war—confederate of death, drinker of blood—but the prayers had found no favor. Ithrya Island had been lost. It was now occupied as a Valorian base, south of Herran. It wouldn’t be long before the general’s army tried to land again on the peninsula—though where was uncertain.

Roshar said, “My sister is going to have some hard questions for you.”

Arin couldn’t avoid remembering the queen’s kiss last spring. He’d pressed her against the shut door. She had wanted him. Kestrel had said that she didn’t. He hadn’t wanted Kestrel either, not then. Or so he’d thought. His gut twisted with shame.

“Arin, you will do me the courtesy of responding when I speak.”

“Your sister is none of my concern.”

The prince pressed palms to his face so that his hands made a mask that showed only his disbelieving eyes. Then his fingertips crept up and rubbed against squeezed-shut eyelids.

But what could Arin say? He couldn’t explain how it felt, mere days after Kestrel had come to his rooms and said that she liked the dagger, to hear the rich cascade of the piano played in a far-off room. To hold his breath as he heard the initial stammer of notes. Then: mistakes worked through. Rhythms made right. He’d felt this new thing, giddy and bright. It spun inside him, soft and warm and summery.

“We have used this city as a base.” Roshar dropped his hands. He’d switched to Arin’s language. He was speaking with the kind of bell-like tone one uses with children. “It’s been a convenient point of return. We’re here now because the bay provides a good base to attack or defend anywhere along the eastern coast between here and Ithrya. And the city, as the general’s greatest prize, must be protected. But the general’s not likely to bite at it, not yet. Not when we’ve avalanched again the mountain pass he used for the first invasion. Not when our fleet is in this bay. He can seize the easy fruits of your countryside and march north, inland to the city, where he’ll breach the wall and take what he wants that way.”

Arin didn’t disagree.

“I’m heading south soon, little Herrani. I don’t plan on returning to your lovely home with its new and fascinating guest. Will you see fit to join me in defending your very own country, or will you waste away here with your Valorian ghost until her people break down your doors and murder you both?”

“I’m coming with you,” Arin said . . . but not immediately, and with the prick of offense that comes when an accusation hits home.

“My prince. ‘I’m coming with you, my prince.’ ”

But Arin wouldn’t say it, not even in the same mean mock-play of Roshar’s tone. He swallowed, throat tight. His mouth had the same taste it had years ago when a Valorian had shoved a horse bit into it.

“I do hope,” Roshar said, “that what you lack in grace and self-preservation will be recompensed by a return to your usual brutal and uncanny gift for battle. I want you to kill them all. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“What about your gun?”

Roshar’s word for Arin’s invention was accurate in the vaguest sense, since the term had long been used to refer to any shape and style of cannon.

“Our supply has increased,” Arin said, “but I’m worried about the device’s accuracy.” He shuffled through the papers on the table until he found the sketches for the weapon. He selected a particular page and traced the sketch of a barrel and matchlock. “If we use what we have now, we’ll risk hitting our soldiers when we fire. We can surprise the Valorians with this weapon only once, and—”

A slender hand reached between them to take the sketch.

Roshar spun around. Arin didn’t move.

Kestrel stood there, ignoring the prince, who had sucked in his breath and hardened his expression into a death’s-head mask. She glanced up at Roshar once, coolly, then continued to study the design. She hadn’t looked at Arin at all. Her slippered feet sank into the plush, vividly patterned carpet as she stepped quietly away from them and closer to a window. A shaft of light hit her cheekbone, made the paper glow. It set her hair on fire. Arin’s stomach twinged. His throat tightened. Her eyes were still too shadowed. But she’d gained weight and looked less frail. Once again, Arin dared to hope.