Who are you to tell me about truth? Wager me, and we shall see. I wager you: Arin of the Herrani shall not have his revenge.
She set the stakes: the winner would seize the power of the loser, who would be cast down from heaven and into whichever form the winner chose. You will not be free, the god of games warned me, until a human pities you.
She won our wager, of course. She always wins. When Arin met Trajan in battle, one of them did fall: Trajan, his army vanquished, his hopes and honor ruined. Yet he did not die. Arin stopped his sword from delivering a death blow, and the god of games laughed.
You might think I was lucky she did not turn me into a dirty goat, or a toad, but the god of games is clever. Instead, after she stole my power (I am borrowing it, she said. Do not sulk! You may have it back when you have earned it), she changed me into something beautiful: a rose.
What human would pity a rose? Better that I had become a goat.
I grew in mortal soil. My thorny stem thrust up from the earth. My flower was a tight, hard bud. Even before I bloomed, I despaired. I knew humans. Flowers, to them, were a simple pleasure. A flower could not feel or think. Cut the stem and take it home. Place it in water. Enjoy its scent and color. What was there to pity?
It always amazed the pantheon, to see what might inspire a human’s compassion. Who would have thought that Arin, having lost everything at the hands of General Trajan, would find compassion enough to spare the man’s life? Kestrel of Valoria, the general’s daughter, had made Arin swear not to spare her father in battle, yet when the moment came, Arin could not murder the man. Compassion demanded he stop his sword. How could he kill the father of the woman he loved? She would never cease to grieve, no matter what she had made him promise. Her grief would grieve him.
Nirrim, Queen of Herrath, wondered what the god of thieves had truly taken from her. Regret, maybe, she thought. Or love.
But it was not regret. It was not love. It was what makes love and regret possible.
Then what?
Nirrim could have wondered about the truth of what she had lost for every moment of her little life, but she could not have named it, for it was compassion, and it remains the fate of all humans who lack compassion never to understand that they lack it.
SID
I LOAD THE GUN, STUFFING the wad of blackpowder and the bullet down the short barrel; curl my blackened fingers around the grip; and take aim. The grip fits snugly in my hand. My father made it for me, just as he made my dagger. The barrel doesn’t waver. I pride myself on a steady aim, and when I miss it’s usually because I’m bored of impressing people on the sidelines. No one’s watching now, but I feel jumpy anyway, remembering my mother’s words. The painted tin target, set on the lawn near the tall white bones of birches, is fifty paces off—challenge enough, since that distance is where the gun begins to lose accuracy. I cock the firing mechanism.
“You’ll be late for dinner,” someone drawls in my ear.
The gun cracks, a plume of smoke rises in the air, and my shot goes wide. “Gods, Roshar! I could have killed you! I am going to kill you.”
“You love me.” Roshar takes the hot gun from my hand, turning it over in his, making an impressed grimace as he inspects the ivory handle. “Is this one of your father’s newer versions? You know, I gave him the idea for the gun, years ago, when he was but a poor, lost Herrani in my nation’s capital.”
“You did not.”
“Well, not directly.” As if confessing a secret, Roshar adds, in a lowered voice, “It was the mere presence of my genius that gave him the idea. I’m like one of your Herrani gods. I blessed him with divine inspiration.” He peers inside the flashpan. “I really like this new, small, handheld model. I think I’ll keep it.”
I take the gun from him and slide it into the holster at my right hip. It is my nicest holster, made from embossed black leather, and it shows boldly against my tan breeches and white tunic with its high, masculine collar and intricate black embroidery. Given that the state dinner is in my honor and I will be greatly stared at, I feel obliged to give the attendees a good show. I always draw the eye, not just for my good looks but also for what I do with them: my men’s clothes and boy-short hair and dramatic flair. I have decided to play to expectations tonight. No one, save my father, knows that I worked as my mother’s spy, or that I am useful for anything beyond spending my country’s gold and bedding its women. Let everyone believe I am the good-for-nothing princess. It is close enough to the truth, and if that makes the court let down their guard around me, it will be all the easier to investigate my mother’s claims. “Get your own gun,” I tell Roshar.
“No one takes me seriously,” he complains. “I miss Arin the tiger. I shouldn’t have left him in Dacra. Everyone takes me more seriously when he’s around.”
I examine my black-dusted hands, wondering whether to clean them before dinner. I like the disreputable look they no doubt give me, which would play well to the image I want to cultivate tonight, but my father won’t like it. He used to dream of being clean. A bar of soap was a miracle. He is too proud to remind me of this, but he would mention that my showing up dirty makes our guests think I don’t respect them.
Well, I don’t.
Pretend you do, my mother would reply.
“Your father wants a report on your time in Ethin,” Roshar says. “Before dinner. If you are quite finished with target practice. Not a single hole in the target, I see. That shot of yours was quite bad, little god-child.”
I ignore him, snapping the strap of the holster in place. It feels good to have my gun back. I like having my gun on one hip and my dagger on the other, my Herrani and Valorian birthrights in plain sight. I didn’t wear the gun in Ethin. Once I realized the island had no knowledge of this kind of weapon—indeed, no knowledge of blackpowder at all, and no cannons—I kept the gun hidden. No need to let a foreign nation know about a military advantage. Keep your strengths and weaknesses hidden, and reveal them only to your gain. “Etta sent you to find me?”
“I came purely for the delight of your presence.”
I remember staring down at my mother’s pale face. Poisoned? I said. Who would poison you?
That—she smiled—is a foolish question.
Oh, right. I forgot how many people hate you.
She looked up at me as though she were my child. In a small voice, she said, Is it so many?
I felt cruel. Well, I said evenly, as though the problem at hand were some boring mathematical equation we would solve together, it only takes one disgruntled person.
Yes, she said, her voice stronger. Exactly.
I know when your mother tells you she has been poisoned, it isn’t very daughterly to feel good—but I did, because I always liked working on a problem together, instead of being her problem, and when my mother respects you and takes you into her confidence, it is no small thing.
How do you know you’ve been poisoned? I asked.
I don’t, my mother said. I suspect it. Her lids half lowered. In that light, her brown eyes looked golden. Tired. She was at the end of her strength. Quietly, she said, Do you believe me?
When are you ever wrong?
All the time.
You?
I need to correct my mistake, she murmured, and this was like her: to be cupped in Death’s palm yet still hunt for something she had missed, to examine a puzzle for a better way to solve it. The gods alone knew what mistake she meant. It could be anything. There was always something she needed to perfect. Amma, I said suddenly, desperately, as though ready to beg, I will help you.