Arin checked himself. These were questions Kestrel would ask. Kestrel knew exactly how to calculate what someone was worth. His lips curled in sudden disgust.

“Pleasant thoughts for both of us, I see,” said Roshar. “Oars in the water now, little Herrani, or we’ll never make the camp before nightfall.”

* * *

The day had gone orange. It hadn’t rained once.

“Nearly there,” Roshar said.

“Why do the plainspeople have to move camp?”

“They don’t have to, but this particular tribe has camped upstream of an agricultural village with crops. The villagers have complained that the water flowing downstream to them is contaminated. My sister wants these refugees to move into the city with the rest.”

A fist squeezed Arin’s heart. He remembered the woman with the cloth baby. He thought about being forced from his home, and how it would be to build a new home, and to be forced from that one, too. “So they suffer yet again.”

“Arin, do you think I want to ask them to move? My sister always gets me to do her dirty work.” Roshar sighed. “I suppose my face must be good for something.” When he caught the startled quality of Arin’s silence, Roshar said, “Yes, poor prince, maimed by the empire. Don’t you want to do what he asks of you, ye people of the plains? Look at him. Look at his face. He has lost something, too.” Roshar swore under his breath.

Arin looked back, even though he knew that Roshar wouldn’t want him to see his expression then. It was in moments like these, when the emotion in Roshar’s eyes matched his mutilations, that the prince looked most damaged.

Roshar spoke again, clearly this time. “Dacra will take the plains back. General Trajan is in the imperial capital now. It’s the right time. We’ll take back what they stole.”

“No. Don’t.”

“What?”

“Burn the plains.”

“What? Never.”

“Curse the empire,” said Arin. “Curse them. Burn that godsforsaken army out of your land. If they want it so badly, let them burn for it.”

“But we can take the plains back. I know we can.”

“And when the general returns to the front? What do you think he’ll do? He will set you on fire. You’re lucky he didn’t do that to begin with.” Something twinged inside Arin. Something that had to do with Kestrel. And he was so sickeningly furious with himself, for the way his mind kept reaching for her, at the way his body remembered her, even now, even here, half a world away, that he ground whatever thought he had been about to think into dust.

“Arin.” Roshar was still horrified. “That’s our land.”

“Sometimes you think you want something,” Arin told him, “when what you need is to let it go.”

* * *

The sky was dusky pink when Roshar announced that they’d reached their destination. Arin didn’t see an encampment, only a rust-colored screen of reeds. Beyond it, Roshar said, were grassy fields and the refugees.

They paddled to shore and slid into the mucky shallows to drag the boat into the mud and reeds. Roshar loaded his crossbow. He caught Arin’s glance. “Just a precaution.”

“I thought you were joking about the snake.”

Mournfully, Roshar said, “And I thought you believed every little word I said.” He pushed ahead through the reeds.

Arin wasn’t sure what worried Roshar—he hoped not snakes; a crossbow wasn’t a practical weapon against them—but he, too, was worried now. Roshar, a good distance in front of him, looked small in the reeds. Arin moved to catch up. Mud sucked at his heels. “The queen shouldn’t have sent you alone.”

Roshar turned. “I’m not alone,” he said simply. “You’re here.”

Arin was about to ask for a weapon. He was closing the gap between them.

There was a ripple in the reeds. A prowling wave.

The beast surged from the reeds and spread its claws.

36

The tiger slammed into Roshar. Roshar flung an arm up just as it struck him down. The beast bit the limb, snarling low, its muzzle wet with blood. Its jaws opened to reach for the neck, then closed again on the arm that got in the way.

Arin turned and ran for the canoe. It rocked under the heave of his body against its side. He snatched an oar from its well, stumbled back through mud and bent reeds, and cracked the oar down on the tiger. He beat its face aside.

A roar. The massive striped body recoiled. Roshar rolled away, crimson with his own blood. His hands were empty. He made a gasping sound that was, for one split instant, the only thing Arin heard.

Then the tiger came down on Arin.

He was shoved onto his back into the mud. He sank down. He was swallowing mud, straining the oar up between him and the tiger, who bared broken teeth. Its breath was hot. Its snarls ripped through Arin’s body as if he were the one making that sound. Claws were in his shoulders. Pain curled in. He tried to push back with the oar and block the jaws, but he knew how this would end. His arms would give out. The oar would splinter. The tiger would finally get the right angle and close in on his neck.

Black nose. Pulsing stripes. Wild amber eyes. The colors of Arin’s death.

But he remembered Roshar’s empty hands.

He remembered a crossbow.

And although he knew that a crossbow was no good (how could he aim it and keep the tiger at bay? Gods, was it even still loaded?), he risked a glance. He looked away from the tiger’s teeth. He looked into the reeds. He saw a snapped crossbow quarrel, its leaden tip sticking out of the mud.