Ror would send Skye to Po. Silvern, Ror had sent on a different ship to the Middluns, to collect Grandfather Tealiff and bring him home. His remaining sons Ror had sent home to their families and their duties, turning a deaf ear to each son’s insistence that his proper place was in Ror City, managing Ror’s affairs. Ror left his affairs instead to his queen, as he always did when circumstances took him away from his throne. The queen was more than capable.

Katsa watched Ror, day after day, from her place in the riggings. She became familiar with the sound of his laughter, and his good-natured conversation that set the sailors at ease. There was nothing humble or compromising about Ror. He was handsome, like Po, and confident, like Po, and so much more authoritative in his bearing than Po could ever be. But—and this Katsa came gradually to understand—he was not drunk on his power. He might never dream of helping a sailor to haul a rope, but he would stand with the sailor interestedly while the sailor hauled the rope, and ask him questions about the rope, about his work, his home, his mother and father, his cousin who spent a year once fishing in the lakes of Nander. It struck Katsa that here was a thing she’d never encountered: a king who looked at his people, instead of over their heads, a king who saw outside himself.

Katsa took easily to Skye. He climbed occasionally into the riggings, gasping, his gray eyes flying wide with laughter every time the ship plunged into the trough of a wave. He sat near her, never quite as relaxed in his perch as she was in hers, but quiet, content, and good company.

“I thought, after meeting your family, that Po was the only male among you capable of silence,” Katsa said to him once, when they’d sat for some time without speaking.

A smile warmed his face. “I’d jump into an argument quick enough if you wanted one,” he said. “And I have a thousand questions I’d like to ask you. But I figure if you felt like talking—well, you’d be talking, wouldn’t you? Instead of climbing up here nearly to be hurled to your death every time we crest a wave.”

His company, and the friendly rumble of Ror’s voice below. The small kindnesses of the sailors toward Bitterblue when the girl came onto the cold deck for exercise. Captain Faun, who was so competent and so steady, and who always met Katsa’s eyes with respect. All these things comforted Katsa, and a tough little skin began to stretch across the wound that had opened in her when her dagger had hit Leck.

She found herself thinking of her uncle. How small Randa seemed now, how baseless in his power. How silly that such a person had ever been able to control her.

Control. This was Katsa’s wound: Leck had taken away her control. It had nothing to do with self-condemnation; she couldn’t blame herself for what had happened. How could it not have happened? Leck had been too strong. She could respect a strong opponent, as she’d respected the wildcat and the mountain. But no amount of humility or respect made it any less horrifying to have lost control.