“Sometimes, little ghost, you remind me of my sister,” he said.

Her brows shot up.

He laughed. “Not that one.”

Kestrel wasn’t sure what connection he saw between her and Risha. Because his younger sister was a hostage in the imperial court? Maybe.

“Whose blood?” She tipped her chin in the direction of his spattered forearms.

“A Valorian scout. About your size. I came looking for you, thought you might like to try her armor. Stylish. Light. Very Valorian. Good condition. Nary a scratch in the leather.”

“What about the scout?”

“Hard to catch. Harder to subdue.”

She gave him a level look.

Roshar tugged a cropped ear. “She’s alive.”

“When that scout doesn’t report back, the general will know we’re here.”

“All the more reason to find out what she knows.”

“Don’t . . . press her.”

“Kestrel,” he said quietly, “the blood is from the fight when we captured her. Not torture.”

“So you won’t?”

“Now, it would be nice if information fell out of the sky. Given that it doesn’t, it is still nevertheless comforting that certain people do horrible things so that other people don’t have to. We should be grateful to such people. Or we should at least not ask questions when we don’t want answers.”

“She can’t help us. Valorian scouts operate in relays. She doesn’t report directly to the general’s camp, but to a station between there and here. An officer remains at the station and sends hawks with coded messages back to the main camp, which keeps the scout from knowing too much: she won’t know how the general’s army might have shifted in formation, or what the conditions there are. She won’t know the codes.”

Roshar tilted his head, regarding her. “Do you know the codes?”

Kestrel nudged her memory. It pushed back. “I might have,” she said slowly, “once.”

“I’m sure the scout knows something useful.”

“There’s no point torturing her for information she doesn’t have. Let her be.”

His expression was difficult to read. “I’ll do as you wish,” he said finally. “For now.”

“Thank you.”

He slouched against a tree. “Do you forgive me for earlier?”

“That piece of pageantry in the village? I’m not the one you should be asking.”

“It’s good for Arin.”

“Good for you, too.”

His black eyes met hers. “You want to win?”

“Yes.”

“If Arin is admired and my people are trusted, does that help or hurt?”

“Help,” she acknowledged.

“Come try your armor. I think it’ll fit.”

Arin came into Roshar’s tent just as the prince tightened the last buckle on Kestrel’s armor. Arin was shaven, his hair wet. What ever he was going to say died on his lips.

“Aren’t you pleased?” Roshar said.

Arin immediately left, dropping the flap of the tent’s opening behind him.

Kestrel found him by his fire at the edge of the camp. It had grown late. He’d pitched his tent on the outskirts. She realized that, at each day’s end, he’d been setting his tent farther from every one else.

He fed the fire. She crouched beside him, the leather armor creaking. He flinched at the sound. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “It’s hard to look at you like that.”

“I’m still me,” she said, and was surprised at herself for trying to convince him that no matter how she seemed to change, she remained the same person. This wasn’t her usual line of argument. As she thought about how she looked in Valorian armor, and whether she looked like herself or not, a germ of an idea began to grow.

“Promise me you’ll stay out of harm’s way,” he said. “I don’t want you on the battlefield.”

“It’s not fair of you to ask that when you’d never do the same.”

“The risk is different for you and me.”

She became angry. “Why, because you’re god-touched? Because you’re good with a sword and I’m not?”

“That’s part of it.”

“That matters less than you think. People who are good at fighting die in war all the time, and people who aren’t can find ways to win.” Her idea—the armor, the Valorian scout, a plan—took shape. Kestrel’s anger carved its details and made it perfect.