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luck. If we succeeded in Lundegaard, we had to cross into Ankeny somehow, somewhere. When they saw you, they must have thought the All-Mother was blessing them.”
    Silence followed those words.
    Petrus glanced at Innis. Her face was bleak. He wished he could reach out and take her hand, but he couldn’t, not while he was Justen.
    “Do you think there’ll be more?” Frane asked.
    Gerit snorted. “In Ankeny? Without a doubt. There’s a bounty on his head. They’ll be wanting a piece of it.”
    Katlen turned to Cora. “But we need our swords! We need to be able to fight!”
    “You’ve got fire magic,” Gerit said flatly. “That’s a better weapon than any sword.”
    Katlen ignored him. “And as for skirts! They’re impractical! They’re—”
    Petrus stopped listening. He stared down at his empty bowl. If only ...
    If only, what? There were so many if onlies . Dozens of them, hundreds. If only King Esger hadn’t placed the bounty on his son’s head. If only Dareus had survived the battle in the desert. If only Susa had ducked a second sooner.
    Petrus grunted in disgust at himself. What was the point of if onlies ? They made things neither better nor worse. A waste of time. A waste of emotion.
    “Let’s see if we can mend that sword of yours,” Prince Harkeld said over the sound of Gerit and Katlen arguing.
    Petrus looked at him. “Huh?”
    “Your sword. I’ll get the whetstones.” The prince stood.
    Petrus unsheathed his sword. The blade was notched. He glanced at Innis. She was staring down at her bowl.
    “Innis...”
    She looked at him. Tears shone in her eyes.
    His heart seemed to turn over in his chest. He wanted to hug her, to comfort her. Instead, he held out the sword. “How did this happen?”
    Innis blinked back the tears. “Throwing star.”
    Prince Harkeld returned with two whetstones. “Here.”
    Petrus set himself to trying to remove the nick. Alongside him, Prince Harkeld sharpened his own sword. Petrus sent him a sideways glance. The prince had to be afraid. He’d been the Fithians’ quarry, not Susa. But Prince Harkeld didn’t look afraid. His expression was the same one he’d worn for weeks: grim, remote, distancing himself from the mages around him.
    Gerit and Katlen were still arguing. Shut up! Petrus wanted to yell at them.
    “For pity’s sake,” Cora said. “You’re behaving like children.”
    “But—”
    “Enough.” Cora’s voice was sharper than he’d ever heard it. “We won’t discuss this any more tonight.”
    Gerit growled, pushed to his feet, and left the campfire.
    “How that man ever became a Sentinel—”
    “Enough, Katlen.”
    Prince Harkeld tested his blade with his thumb and sheathed it. He stood and walked to where their supplies lay piled.
    Petrus worked on his sword, keeping an eye on the prince. He was going through one of the packsaddles. He was safe enough; Rand was near him, and Ebril flying overhead.
    The prince came back carrying two swords in their scabbards. “You’re not going to get rid of that notch. Here. Take a look at these.”
    Petrus laid Justen’s sword aside.
    The first sword the prince held out had Lundegaard’s crest worked into the hilt. Petrus swiped it in the air a couple of times. The weight and balance were good. It must have belonged to one of the soldiers who’d died defending them in the desert.
    The second sword... The weight and balance weren’t just good, they were perfect. He hefted the sword in his hand, cut the air.
    “Like it?” Prince Harkeld asked.
    Petrus nodded. He examined the hilt. No crest was worked into the metal. “Whose...” And then he understood. “It’s Fithian.” The taste of the assassin’s blood filled his mouth. He almost brought his dinner up.
    “Crafted by a master, from its balance.”
    Petrus turned the sword over in his hands. An assassin’s sword. How many men had it killed? He tested the blade with his thumb. It was razor sharp. “Well looked