The horse slowed and sighed. Kestrel didn’t have it in her to force him forward. She shifted to dismount, then winced and stopped when the movement opened the cut along its edges.

Thirsty. The sun made her queasy. At the scout’s station, she’d splashed water from her canteen onto the wound. In the forest, when she’d untied the horse, she’d poured water into her palm for the animal to drink, and did it again until there was nothing left.

Now she could see the pale peaks of tents along the rise of the hills. She was close. And really, her poor horse. She’d moved again to dismount when she heard her name.

Arin was coming down the steep hill, skidding on the grass in his haste yet keeping his balance. A breeze tore through his hair, kited his shirt. His descent became a breakneck run, and Kestrel wondered wryly whether the god of death watched over him after all, or maybe the god of grace, or heights, or goats, or what ever god might allow Arin to run like that and not trip over a hillock and come tumbling down. It seemed a little unfair.

He jogged up to her, his hair heavy with sweat. His skin had darkened on the trek south, but he seemed paler now as he looked up at her, shadows under his eyes. He hadn’t slept.

He noticed her hand first. Her left side was hidden from his view. It touched her how his gaze went straight to her bloody right hand, his eyes flashing with the same thing she’d feel if her fingers were damaged, if she couldn’t play, and had to hobble along the piano keys when she wanted to fly.

He stripped off her forearm guard, swearing at the straps.

“That’s not my blood,” she said.

“You’re not hurt?”

“Left leg.”

He came around the horse, saw, and went quiet. “All right,” he said finally. “Come on.” He helped her down. “I can carry you.”

She heard the question in his tone. “No. Roshar will see. He’ll tease us mercilessly about it.” She smiled, because she wanted Arin to smile. She didn’t like the way he looked: the drawn lines around his mouth, eyes hooded with worry.

He didn’t smile. He cupped her face with both hands. An emotion tugged at his expression, a dark awe, the kind saved for a wild storm that rends the sky but doesn’t ravage your existence, doesn’t destroy every thing you love. The one that lets you feel saved.

Nervousness rose within her. It simmered, sickened.

Unreasonable. She knew that she could lift her parched lips to his and taste the truth of his love on his tongue. Still, she couldn’t say what she wasn’t sure she felt.

Her thigh throbbed. “No carrying,” she said lightly. “But I’ll let you help me up the hill.”

Leading the horse behind them, they moved slowly through the camp, Arin’s arm under Kestrel’s shoulders. He brought her to his tent.

“I think—” He hesitated. “Inside. You could stay outside. But.” He glanced down at her bloody thigh. “The trousers need to come off. I can fetch someone else—”

“No. You.”

His eyes flicked to hers, then away.

She went inside the tent. There was no canvas floor, only grass and a bedroll. She sat on the ground.

Arin glanced at her dry mouth. “You’re thirsty,” he said, and left.

He returned with a canteen, a bowl of water, a small pot, and clean gauze.

She drank. The water seemed to fall down a long way inside her. She thought about the water, how amazing it felt to drink. She thought about that and not him.

Arin knelt beside her. She set the canteen aside. The cut was a dull pain: almost nothing in the wake of her heightening awareness of him, her rapid heart. Outside the tent, cicadas sang.

He unbuckled her armor and lifted it gently away. “Nowhere else?”

“Just my leg.” It was a relief, at first, to be out of armor, yet once it was gone she felt exposed and too soft.

Arin didn’t move. She knew what she was supposed to do next. Her fingers fumbled as she reached to unfasten the fall of her trousers.

“Wait,” Arin said. “Just.” He stopped, then continued, “Leave them on.”

He reached into the rent in the left trouser leg and ripped it open, carefully forcing the path of the rip to circle her thigh. Soon the cloth was almost entirely detached, save for the flap still stuck to the wound. He tipped water onto it to soften the fabric. “This will hurt.”

“Do it.”

He peeled the flap from the wound. She sucked in air as blood ran. He pulled the cloth free, leaving her left leg almost entirely bare.

He rinsed the wound. “Ah.”