She never got lost. She never had trouble building a fire, or shelter. She hunted so easily. Her vision and her hearing were better than those of anyone she’d ever known.

She stood abruptly. She strode the few steps back to the pond and stared into it without seeing it.

The physical needs that limited other people did not limit her. The things from which other people suffered did not touch her. She knew instinctively how to live and thrive in the wilderness.

And she could kill anyone. At the slightest threat to her survival.

Katsa sat on the ground suddenly.

Could her Grace be survival?

The instant she asked it, she denied it. She was just a killer, had always been just a killer. She’d killed a cousin, in plain view of Randa’s court—a man who wouldn’t have hurt her, not really. She’d murdered him, without a thought, without hesitation—just as she’d very nearly murdered her uncle.

But she hadn’t murdered her uncle. She’d found a way to avoid it and stay alive.

And she hadn’t meant for that cousin to die. She’d been a child, her Grace unformed. She hadn’t lashed out to kill him; she’d only lashed out to protect herself, to protect herself from his touch. She’d forgotten this, somewhere along the line, when the people of the court had begun to shy away from her and Randa had begun to use her skill for his own purposes, and call her his child killer.

Her Grace was not killing. Her Grace was survival.

She laughed then. For it was almost like saying her Grace was life; and of course, that was ridiculous.

She stood again and turned back to the fire. Po watched her approach. He didn’t ask what she was thinking, he didn’t intrude; he would wait until she wanted to tell him. She looked at him measuring her from across the flames. He was plainly curious.

“I’ve been comparing myself to other people,” she said.

“I see,” he said, cautiously.

She peeled back the skin of one of the roasting fish and sliced off a piece. She chewed on it and thought.

“Po.”

He looked up at her.

“If you learned that my Grace wasn’t killing,” she said, “but survival . . .”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Would it surprise you?”

He pursed his lips. “No. It makes much more sense to me.”

“But—it’s like saying my Grace is life.”

“Yes.”

“It’s absurd.”

“Is it? I don’t think so. And it’s not just your own life,” he said. “You’ve saved many lives with your Grace.”

She shook her head. “Not as many as I’ve hurt.”

“Possibly. But you have the rest of your life to tip the balance. You’ll live long.”

The rest of her life to tip the balance.

Katsa peeled the flesh of another fish away from its bones. She broke the flaky meat apart and ate it, and thought about that, smiling.

Chapter Twenty-two