“Your father’s alive,” Arin told her, sure that it was the wrong thing to say even as he was sure that it must be said. An emotion darkened her eyes.

Later, after the fire had burned out and the road was a charred ruin littered with corpses, Roshar’s soldiers had scavenged the remains, and Arin had helped catch riderless war horses, Kestrel finally spoke. “He’ll resupply.” Her voice was flat. “The empire doesn’t lack for black powder. He might have to return to Ithrya Island to get what he needs, but he’ll hit hard when he hits next.”

The stolen supplies and their wounded were loaded in wagons. The army made its way to reunite with the forces left behind at Errilith.

Outside Errilith, in the meadow near where they had first made camp in this region, Arin came to share Roshar’s cooking fire. The sun had just set. The air was still heavy and warm, cast with a honeyed light.

Roshar was smoking. He’d been in a foul mood since they’d left the fire-blackened road, though Arin had reminded him that the battle was a victory. “I know,” Roshar had said, yet looked nettled.

Arin helped himself to warmed flatbread toasted over the fire. Soft bread on a military campaign seemed just short of magic. He ripped off a small piece and chewed slowly. Roshar glanced at him, huffed a little, but said nothing—which was disappointing, since Arin had hoped to provoke the prince by taking his food.

A Herrani soldier passed close to their fire and moved on, though not before Arin noticed that the man’s eyes were rimmed with orange like a Dacran’s.

“That’s nice,” Arin commented to Roshar.

The prince choked on a lungful of smoke. When he stopped coughing, Arin said, “Is it disrespectful that my people wear that paint?”

“Oh, no,” Roshar said, not sarcastically, yet with a bite that suggested that Arin had missed the point. “It’s nice.”

“Say what you mean.”

“I am not nice.”

Arin’s brow furrowed. “True, but we’re not talking about you.”

“We should be. We should absolutely be talking about me.”

Arin wished Roshar wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t slip on false arrogance as if it were mourning garb worn in the service of a joke. He opened his mouth to say so, then saw that Roshar looked genuinely troubled. “What’s wrong?”

Roshar said, “Do you remember how you attacked me in my city, in front of the queen’s guard?”

“To be fair, you had drugged and bound me.”

“Do you remember how you were punished for that?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the paint.”

“That’s because you don’t understand your punishment.”

Uneasy, Arin said, “The queen told you to choose my punishment. You never did.”

“That entire audience with my sister was in Dacran, which you didn’t speak or understand at the time—or did you?”

“No.”

“I was your translator. I warned you. I said that you had to hope that I wouldn’t lie.”

“Did you?”

“Let’s say that I translated very loosely.”

“Roshar.”

“At the time it didn’t seem important. What would you care about the finer points of Dacran law? And you didn’t have anything worth taking.”

“What exactly did the queen say?”

“That your life belonged to me.”

Arin, whose life had already belonged to many different people, felt his lungs shrink.

“So yes,” Roshar said, “I had—have—the right to decide your punishment, to kill you if I wish. By our law, I can also seize anything you possess.”

“You’re not in Dacra. Your law holds no weight here.”

“My soldiers would say other wise.”

“What do you want?” Arin’s voice rose. “My house?”

“This isn’t entirely about what I want or don’t want. But if we win this war, you’ll have a prize very much worth wanting.”

Arin saw what he meant. “This country wouldn’t be mine.”

“Oh, Arin. Please.”

Arin fell silent. They’d let the fire go out. Shadows had grown around them.

“Puts my sister in quite an interesting position,” said Roshar. “It was a public announcement. One that she clearly didn’t think through, though I’ll be honest and say that when you fetched up on our shores you didn’t appear worth much. It cost her nothing then to offer me your life. It made for good courtly show. And now what ever is yours is mine. Despite its miserably cold weather, Herran is a pretty prize: rich, fertile. A good buffer between Dacra and the empire. My sister has a few options, depending on how this war plays out. If we win against the empire, we could seize Herran by force, which normally wouldn’t cause a fuss, if it weren’t for the fact that she’d be taking from me what our country considers legally mine. I happen to be popular with my people. Another option: she could ask me to give Herran to her.”