“Don’t ask me that. You wouldn’t do that. You would never leave me.”

But it’s different, he tried to say, then became lost in what he wanted to explain, that this . . . her—what? sorrow?—was dear to him, unexpected. So hard, to heave words into his mouth. He realized his hand had fallen.

Her face screwed into an expression he couldn’t read. “Get up,” she said through her teeth.

“Please. Go.”

She curled fingers over the rim of his leather breastplate and gripped it. “Make me.”

This time, Arin recognized her expression. Determination. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t see. You don’t owe me anything, he would have said. You’ll lose no honor if you leave. Arin wondered if she knew the way her whole being could become a vow.

He would say, Tell me why you can’t leave. Maybe, if his head were clearer, he would know why without asking. For now, he saw only her determination and its danger.

Was this his god’s version of mercy: that she would die on this beach with him?

Unbearable.

Through the thump of his head, he discovered a different pain. Traveled down it. His side. His ribs. A dagger. He pulled it out. She made an appalled cry. His side became sticky. He dug the dagger into the sand and gripped her shoulder with his other hand. Felt his head split. Arin pushed himself up, levering off the dagger.

He tried to distance himself from what he was doing, from the spasm that racked his body as he was sick again. On his knees, sky dark—rain? Kestrel’s shoulder, frail-seeming in his hand. Not able to bear his weight, surely, but she did, she strained to get him to his feet. Each stumble hurt, and he dreaded how it would be to mount Javelin and ride, but he would.

He did, and she was with him. Eventually he couldn’t tell if the sky was raining and dark or if his mind was. Everything was black and wet. As the horse moved beneath them, a quiet grew through the pain. A feeling floated over him like sillage from a rare perfume. He seemed to hear the tinkle of a glass stopper lifted from a tiny flacon. The release of scent. How was it possible, to smell flowers that weren’t there?

Arin became aware that his thoughts were hard to hold. They vanished into smoke. It didn’t matter. He let them go. Smoke, perfume, rain. All lovely, unlasting. The same, maybe, as what ever had made Kestrel swear that she wouldn’t leave him.

He wasn’t sure what had made her do that. But it had been something. It had been real.

This, he wouldn’t relinquish. This, he would hold and remember.

He saw Kestrel’s hands on the reins. He felt his body slacken. Hoofbeats hammered his skull.

Someone—deep voice—swore. “You tied him to you?”

“He nearly fell,” he heard Kestrel say.

Arin opened his eyes. Roshar was untying the rope that bound him to Kestrel, the prince’s gaze fixed on the knots. It wasn’t like Roshar not to look at him. “Well, that was stupid,” the prince told her. “Didn’t you consider that if he truly started to fall, his weight would drag you off, too?”

She was silent. She had considered this. Arin could tell from her silence.

Roshar’s arm went around Arin’s waist. “Come on,” he said. Arin sort of slid down from the horse and was steadied and held.

“You’re bleeding on me,” Roshar complained.

Yes. Arin supposed that he was bleeding. But his head. The ache was worse than anything. Arin let himself sag against Roshar, dropped his brow to the man’s shoulder. Then he made himself open his eyes again.

Kestrel stood to the side, arms tightly held to her chest. Beyond her lay an army encampment, hastily thrown together. Smaller than before.

“What happened?” Arin asked.

“A bloodbath,” Roshar said. “We retreated. They seized the beach. I blame you.”

Kestrel sucked in a furious breath.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Arin muttered.

“Are you going to make me carry you?” Roshar said.

Kestrel said something sharp. It wasn’t that Arin didn’t hear the words; he was just too weary to absorb them. He heard Roshar’s slow, drawling tones, Kestrel’s hiss. Arin wanted to tell her, He’s hiding from you. He wanted to say, He’s worried. Arin was suddenly overwhelmed by their worry, by how every thing was so unspoken. He stepped away from Roshar’s supporting arm and began to walk with no real destination in mind.

Roshar called him a filthy name. Caught him before he fell.

“Bone and blood and breath of the goddess,” Roshar said. “What were you trying to prove?”