“That might be part of the problem.”

She spoke as if she hadn’t heard. “I don’t care about your war.”

“Did you, or did you not, just advise us on how to improve a weapon designed to riddle your people with holes? A weapon that if we are very lucky will kill your father.”

“My father.” The blue sky went black. Wasps buzzed inside her head. She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out.

“Yes,” Roshar said. “He’s leading the Valorian army. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

The hand that held the dagger sagged. She thought about her conversation with Arin in his rooms. He had tried to tell her.

Roshar touched her shoulder. Her vision cleared, but her heart was racing. He said, “I apologize. I’m sorry for what I said earlier.”

She felt far away and horribly grounded at the same time, like her heart had been torn from her body and lost, and she didn’t know whether she was her heart or her body.

“Kestrel?”

It was one thing to perfect a weapon that would kill her people. It was another to discover that she hadn’t considered her father, had never even thought about his role in this war, though she’d had enough information to guess it without being told.

She realized she didn’t regret perfecting the weapon. Part of her wanted her father to be a target. Her own father. What kind of person was she?

Abruptly, Roshar said, “I don’t remember how I used to look.”

It took her a moment to absorb what he had said.

“When I look in a mirror, this is all I see,” he told her. “There’s no memory of what I was before.”

The scent of ilea fruit was heady. She forgot her father. She did not want to remember him. Bringing her gaze up again to Roshar’s face, she met his lovely, untouched eyes. And saw the satiny brown skin of his cheek. She asked, “Do you miss who you were?”

At first, she thought his reply would be mocking. Yet he simply shrugged and spoke in a voice that was light yet thin. “Oh, what’s the use of missing?” He squinted one eye and, apparently aware of how the mood had changed between them, he said, “You’re good with a blade.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I never was.”

“I said good, not divinely talented. You’ve got an ease that comes from training for a long time.”

“Is that what you see, or what you know about me from before?”

“What I see. I didn’t know you before.”

Kestrel watched him smile yet again, softly this time. She waded into the sheer relief of being with someone who knew her only as she was now.

The piano and the horse were hers in an uncomplicated way.

They didn’t talk, which helped. It wasn’t that they expected nothing from her. Even the piano seemed expectant, each key ready for the strike. Javelin chewed her loose sleeve and slobbered and shamelessly leaned in for her caress. Yet both the horse and the piano knew her and didn’t care how she compared with her former self. They were hers. She was theirs. There were no questions.

She saddled Javelin. It wasn’t easy. But if she lifted the saddle to his back every day then a day would come when her weak arms were strong. She tightened the girth. An irrielle bird hopped in through the open stable doors, pecking at the dirt. It cocked its head, watched Kestrel with tiny green eyes. Tipped its long, narrow tail. She got a mounting block, which she thought she prob ably hadn’t used since she was a child, and set her foot in the horse’s stirrup. The stallion was enormously tall. Mountainous, really. A warhorse. He shouldn’t suit her, but he did.

She pulled herself up clumsily, but the horse didn’t seem to mind. The bird launched itself back out into the unclouded sky, dipping and weaving. Irrielles don’t fly straight.

Kestrel took the reins and spurred the horse to follow the bird.

She rode away from the house, taking a path that led to another path. She didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t long until she was surrounded by trees in full leaf. The path stretched out into a green tunnel. She rode for some time. She saw a day owl with her owlets. There was little wind. It wasn’t too hot. Good weather for war.

She’d heard enough of the conversation between Arin and Roshar a few days earlier. They were biding their time here. If she were them, she wouldn’t stay long.

Her stomach swayed. It matched the horse’s movement. She loosened the reins, letting Javelin go as he pleased.

But she found that he was surging forward, hooves clopping. Arin’s house lay far behind. The path forked. The horse went left. He was stepping surely. He was, she realized, going somewhere he recognized and she didn’t.