When Roshar and his sisters were young, they used to play a game.
It unfailingly started the same way: Inisha, slinking against a nearly translucent stone door or a wall in the palace, her arms folded over her chest. "Would you rather lose your eyes, or your ears?"
Roshar and Risha would take turns trying to come up with the better answer. Roshar, who in those days had never felt an urge to slink, would usually sit cross-legged on the floor, his hands on his knees, looking up at his twin.
"Eyes," he would say. Or sometimes, "Ears."
Inisha would wait patiently for the explanation, her black eyes wary and bright, posed on the brink of amusement.
"Without my eyes," Roshar would say, thinking of their overbearing tutor, "I'd finally be free of Hema's stupid face."
Or: "Without my ears, I wouldn't have to pretend not to hear people when they tell me that I'm wrong."
Or, with a shrug: "Does it matter? I'd still be twice as smart as you either way."
The truth was that Roshar didn't want to lose either. He quite liked his eyes. He quite liked his ears. He liked the way it felt to walk among the canalled streets of Dacra's capital and to see the boats skimming the water like insects, to hear the joyful sway of Dacran, and to know he belonged there: watching, listening.
Risha, who was still little then, who still trusted her siblings, would laugh, and something in Roshar would twist with the pleasure of pleasing someone he loved. But it was Inisha's joy he loved best, because it was so hard to obtain. Risha gave her love away like a street performer handing out flowers during the feast of Amalay, scattering them on the street before her. But Inisha. Inisha hoarded her love, kept it close to her chest, a prized jewel only to be unveiled on special occasions.
Now, of course, Inisha's love was a sharp, cruel thing, poisoned as it was by self-hatred and blame. Risha's was gone entirely. Risha was gone entirely: off in Valoria on a suicide mission Roshar had been foolish enough to convince her into. Arin claimed that Risha was safe, but how safe could any Dacran royal really be, caught tight in the Valorian emperor's web? As for eyes and ears, well. Roshar played his own version of his sister's game every time he caught sight of his reflection, every time someone's gaze lingered too long on the remains of his face.
Would you rather lose your sight or your face? His face was gone now, mutilated by the knife of a Valorian slaver, so that choice was made for him. But still, he wondered: would being sightless actually be better? Was it better to be beautiful or to be able to see beauty in others? Roshar had his suspicions, but with no answer forthcoming, the question would inevitably morph into something new, a snake raising its hooded head. What would you give to get your face back?
Your wit? Your country?
Your sisters?
It was a good thing the gods didn't work that way. The Herrani had stories that claimed they did, of course, but the Herrani had stories about everything. The other slaves had used to tell each other about them at night. Roshar, who had only tried to befriend other slaves until friendship with him was proven to be a death sentence, was usually too exhausted and too furious to do anything but listen: tales of the god of souls and his cloak spun of starlight, or the god of music who had created the birds. Roshar had seen no evidence any of them were real. And no one was offering him a trade.
He didn't know what he would do if someone did, but he suspected he would respond with cursing.
"Roshar," Inisha said, as Roshar drew a thick green slash across his eyelids. His wrist wobbled slightly, and he swore at his reflection.
"Now you've done it," he said. "My face is ruined. Hordes of admirers will weep at the loss."
"Roshar," Inisha repeated, ignoring him. "What do you think of the Herrani? Of Arin?"
This was a familiar question, one Roshar had asked himself before. Arin, the Herrani slave who had had to be restrained while Roshar's nose and ears had been cut off. Arin, whose face had been the last thing Roshar saw before the knife came down. Arin, who had still had enough fight left in him after ten years of slavery to protest Roshar's punishment.
Yes, Roshar had thought of him.
But he thought Inisha was asking in a military sense. Roshar knew Herran wouldn't stand a chance against Valoria without Dacra's aid, and that Arin couldn't be trusted to act intelligently without someone to hold him back from some bout of foolish self-sacrifice. That was how he had come to be in Dacra, after all. So: "I think he is lucky to be on our side."
But then Roshar thought of the tiger attack and Arin's sooty, belching invention, which Arin had just promised to Dacra in exchange for their support, and he added, "And I think I am glad to be on his."
Roshar leaned in to the mirror to redraw the line on his left eye. The ink came on chalky, dusting off on his hands. Green against brown.
Inisha said, "Herran and Dacra could be powerful together. I want him."
It wasn't often that Roshar wished he was speaking Herrani, but now he wished it. In Dacran, both countries and men were gendered male, and "him" could be either Herran or Arin. Dacran did not differentiate between all the different types of wanting; Herrani did. Roshar both did not want and desperately wanted to know which type of wanting his sister meant.
"Tell Arin that, not me," he said, taking the low road because it was expected of him and because he suspected it was what Inisha had meant. "Don't poison my mind. I am young and innocent, and as my older sister by four minutes, you are supposed to protect me from the sins of the world, which, last I heard, include bodily wanting."
Inisha wasn't fooled. She sat on the stool by Roshar's, looking hard at him. "Roshar. Do you object?"
He knew what she was asking. She had promised him Arin's life, that first day. Arin didn't know it, didn't know that he lived or died on Roshar's orders and Roshar's alone. Though Roshar had thought a few times about trying to explain it to Arin, he did not see a route to that explanation that did not make it sound like a new form of slavery.
He thought of Arin's face and its scar tearing through one side from eyebrow to cheek. He thought of the freshness of the wound, the way Arin's soul was still raw. He thought of how their injured parts seemed to match up, creating either one whole person, or one very damaged one. He thought of Arin's love for an enemy girl who would never love him back, and whom Arin could not even speak about.
"No," he said lightly, meeting his twin's eyes in the mirror. "Why would I object?"
Roshar walked for a very long time.
He did not want to think about Inisha approaching Arin. He did not want to think about Arin accepting. He did not want to think about Arin rejecting, either. He wanted to get furiously drunk and try to picture Inisha as the sister he had loved and Arin as the foreign slave he didn't know. Caring about people was so much harder than hating them.
The drinking went better than expected, which made the walking worse.
"Excuse me, dear lady," he said, nodding towards what at first glance had clearly been a woman, but what at second glance was looking more and more like a bridge. He staggered, feet unsteady.
"Steady, friend," said a voice. Roshar didn't recognize it, could barely make out the face it belonged to. But he felt the hands grasp his arms, holding him in place.
That was not supposed to happen. You were not supposed to touch a royal.
"I believe you mean, 'Steady, my prince,'" Roshar replied archly, still swaying more than he really ought to considering how weak the breeze was. "Or did you not recognize my face?" He bared his teeth as if to imitate a skull.
The man who had caught him stepped back at once. "I'm sorry, my prince, I didn't see—I didn't recognize—"
"And here I was, thinking I was the most handsome man in Dacra." Roshar shook his head, stumbling a few steps back. "Don't deny it or you'll hurt my feelings. I'm emotionally fragile, you know."
"Of course, Prince Roshar."
Roshar clicked his teeth in disgust. "You're not supposed to agree with me."
There was more Roshar wanted to say, but the road was bucking underneath him now, waving like a furious ocean. He felt his knees bend to keep his balance, but then the road gave a furious shake, and Roshar staggered one step, two step, three steps back, until the world disappeared from beneath him.
He fell.
That was how it went: earth, air, and finally, water, erupting with an enormous splash around him. He gasped from the shock, drawing in a mouthful of water. Roshar had fallen into the canal.
He was enveloped by the cold of it, his body springing to life. If his head was clearer, finding the surface might have been a simpler task. As it was, he kicked desperately towards what he thought was up. He didn't seem to be getting anywhere. His lungs burned worse than they did when they were full of smoked leaf.
The tiny, furious side of Roshar's mind that always lay in wait for moments like these seemed triumphant: Of course this is how you die. After all, you can't entomb a drowned man in the palace walls: imagine the kerfuffle.
Of course, you couldn't really entomb a mutilated man there, either. But Roshar didn't like to think about that.
He kicked again, harder. Then a hand reached down, curled around his arm, and pulled him towards the light.
Roshar fell into a narrow boat, coughing, his shin cracking against the wooden hull. He swore once, coughed up more water, and swore again.
"You swallowed half the canal," said the voice that belonged to the hand that had saved him. "You're not supposed to drink that water. Aren't you the prince? You're supposed to be smart."
"And you're supposed to be more respectful," Roshar said, squeezing out the bottom of his shirt. There was no point to it, really, other than a half-hearted attempt to preserve his dignity. He peered up. "At least I'm fantastically drunk. What's your excuse?"
Now that Roshar's eyes had adjusted, he could see that the man who was sharing his boat with him was much younger than Roshar had initially thought, and much more beautiful. He had curling black hair and golden-brown skin, with a nose that could have graced a Herrani temple carving. There were thick black rings around his eyes. Interesting.
The man shrugged. "Chronically irreverent."
Very interesting.
"If you're going to lodge a complaint," the man continued, "you'll have to do it from the water. I don't transport ingrates."
"No ingrate here. Very grate. The grate-est. That didn't make sense. In my defense, as I already said, I am very drunk." Roshar met the man's eyes and felt something in his stomach leap when the man didn't look away. "I'm Roshar."
"I know who you are."
"I don't know you."
"Sai," said the man, not extending a hand in greeting. Both of his were curled now around the massive oar that was being used to navigate the chilly waters of the canal.
"Sai," Roshar repeated. "I'll have to repay you for rescuing me. How do you feel about gold?"
"Positively. You don't need to give me any, though."
Roshar's eyebrows lifted.
"Your sister already paid me to keep an eye on you," Sai admitted. "I've been following you for hours."
The thing that had been building in Roshar's stomach crumpled, deflating into a low disappointment. Of course Inisha had set this up. He should probably be grateful she knew him well enough to make sure he didn't literally drown in his troubles. What he was was embarrassed he was so predictable. And furious that she had claimed his safety as her right.
"Foolish," Roshar tsked, shaking his head and sending water droplets flying. "You could have gotten double payment."
Sai didn't look away, even as he dragged the oar through the water, his muscles tensing with the motion. "I'd have fished you out of there for free."
The thing in Roshar's stomach rose slightly, a flower unfurling. "Of course you would," he said. "Who would want to live in a world without me?"
When Sai only smiled, Roshar took inventory of his body. His shin ached, and his head was beginning to feel stabbing rather than foggy. But mostly his eyes stung. He propped up his legs on the bench Sai was sitting on and lifted up a hand to wipe at his eyes. His wrist came away streaked with green. The eye paint. The eye paint he had labored over.
Roshar let loose a torrent of swearing, cursing the river, the boat, the paint on his arm that should have been on his eyes, even Sai.
Sai only laughed.