Arin attached his strange stock to the fitted barrel. He set steel pins through punctured holes in the stock and then soldered them to the barrel. Last, he cut a long strip of leather and fashioned a strap. This weapon was meant to be carried.

Arin slung it over his shoulder like he would a Dacran crossbow. Then he summoned the queen and her brother.

* * *

They cleared the castle yard outside the forge. Just before Arin fitted the black powder twist and metal ball into their chamber, he had a vision of the whole device exploding in his hands and taking his head with it. He’d used black powder before. He’d felt a cannon’s burst. He’d heard it: that single, booming heartbeat of the god of war. But it wasn’t fear that he felt when he lit the fuse and set the stock against his shoulder. It was hunger.

The fuse burned.

The weapon cracked the air. It slammed into Arin’s shoulder, punched the breath out of him. It seared his palm. He almost dropped it.

There was a brutalized silence. Shock had changed Roshar’s and the queen’s faces. A wisp of smoke trailed from the broad, blessedly big kitchen door. Arin’s aim had been terrible. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the little lead ball, buried deep in the door. What mattered was the queen pacing the yard to stand tiptoe before the door. She touched the smoking hole.

Yes. He willed her to say it. As Arin found his breath again, his mind didn’t think words like alliance or trust or even something more. Just yes. Later, he would consider the weapon fully. Later, he would shrink from what he’d done. But now there was only no or yes, and he’d had to choose. He’d had to find what would give him the word he wanted.

“That,” Roshar said. “That against the empire.”

“Think about how much black powder it takes to fire a cannon,” Arin said. “The Valorians don’t care. They have a lot of it. We don’t, but we won’t need much with this, and it can go anywhere. Let them drag their heavy cannon. Let them waste horses and soldiers maneuvering artillery into position. I know”—Arin shook his head—“the device isn’t precise. Not yet. I can make it precise.”

Roshar and the queen still stared at him.

“Come with me,” Arin said. “I want to show you something else.”

He led them into the forge, which was hot from the vat of molten metal Arin had prepared. Arin unslung the weapon. He strode toward the vat. There was a choking gasp from the queen as she realized what he was about to do. He dropped the weapon into the vat.

He turned back to the queen and her brother. “The Herrani will make more. I’ll tell them how. We’ll supply you with them. We would do that … for our allies.”

“Did you have to melt it?” Roshar said.

“I need you to need me. You could have taken it, examined its mechanism, and found a way to reproduce it. Then you wouldn’t need Herran.”

“Arin, you idiot. What makes you think we won’t torture the design out of you?”

“You won’t.”

“I might. I might enjoy it.”

“You wouldn’t.” He looked at them. “Well? Can we fight together?”

It was the queen who said the word, but Roshar who made it real. He crossed the short space of the forge and placed one palm on Arin’s cheek. It was the Herrani gesture of kinship. The queen smiled as Arin returned the gesture, and then the word came: beautiful, deadly, as small and hot as the hole in the kitchen door. In that moment, that word was all that Arin wanted.

“Yes.”

* * *

Arin was coming from the baths. His face had been sprayed with black powder. It had been in his hair. Even in his teeth. He looked like he’d survived a fire. He’d cleaned himself, noting the massive bruise that darkened his scarred right shoulder and crept toward his chest. Then he returned to his room to pack.

The queen was waiting outside his door. She opened it for him to enter. Thinking that she needed to discuss something in private, perhaps a detail of the alliance, he was silent, too, as they walked in. When the queen had shut the door softly behind her, he said, “My people need to hear the news. I’d like to leave.”

The queen came to him, then came closer. She reached to thread fingers through his damp hair. He froze. Whispering her cheek across his, she brought her warm lips to his ear. “Yes,” she murmured. “But not yet.”

41

He kissed her. Her mouth parted beneath his. Her hands were on him, and it was curious, it felt alien. He relaxed—shouldn’t he relax? She seemed to think he should.

He remembered his hunger. Not for this. But she gave, and he took, and gave back, even while knowing what he really wanted instead. He didn’t want to want it, and the thought of Kestrel, of that monstrous want—so stupid, so wrong—made him stop. He pulled away. He gritted his teeth once, hard, in a held breath, bright fury at himself.

“Arin?” said the queen.

He kissed her again, more deeply. This time, he lost himself in it a little. It filled him. It pulled him away from himself. That was good. He was tired with the way he had been. He forgot it all.

Except … he remembered other kisses, other times. It was impossible not to.

This was the truth: in his mind, Kestrel touched his scarred face. This was her mouth moving against his. This was the truth: what he imagined was a lie. The truth and the lie held him tight.

It made him think. The queen leaned into him, brushing his bruised shoulder, and he winced. He recalled his own soot-covered face after firing the weapon. What had Arin thought earlier? That he looked like he’d been in a fire.