That coolness came back into the commander’s voice. His eyes were flat. “Lieutenant Yeni, this reader is a danger to your fellow soldiers. I didn’t have you marked as unreliable, but I swear on the Light of Guidance, if you refuse orders, I’ll give you to the regulators along with him.”

“I—” Surit said.

Tennalhin put a hand up, the palm facing Surit. “Do it!” he said. “Just do it! You’re a fucking architect. This is what your brain was built for! Do you think I want to take this to the regulators?”

Surit was trapped. He hadn’t written anyone in years: a few times as a child, then once when someone dared him at officer academy, and he’d regretted it afterward. Both the subject and his commanding officer were telling him to do it. Logically there was no reason for him to feel this wave of stubbornness. “You have the right to refuse, Sen Tennalhin.”

“I’m not refusing,” Tennalhin said flatly. “I told you to get on with it.”

Surit tried to clear the unpleasant taste from the back of his mouth and said, “Please ready yourself.” He reached out and directed a command at Tennalhin’s mind.

Every architect saw minds differently. Surit hadn’t written many people—Elvi had valued strict mental discipline and raised him that way—but when he had, it had always been like shining a light into water. Sometimes it was a sparkling pool of icelike fractals; sometimes it was dark and mossy like a stone well. When he reached out to Tennalhin’s mind, casting light on the currents within it, he was expecting something deep and difficult to influence. But he wasn’t prepared for what he plunged into.

Tennalhin’s mind was like the sea.

Surit nearly lost himself. Tennalhin’s subconscious intentions were all around him like swirling currents. Surit had to will himself to keep his own mind together. As he sank further, illuminating the ocean around him, his mind threw up images to try to make sense of it: there were dark shapes in the depths, unfathomable shadows, leviathans that floated in the distance or turned away with the flick of a tail. He sensed that if he sank deeper, there would be swaying tendrils and reefs and rocks. The sea of Tennal’s mind stretched beyond anything he had ever experienced—one mistake, and Surit knew it could swallow the faint, steady light he brought with him.

The currents grew more violent as he sank, trying to toss him out. Surit struggled to stay focused. He usually picked out intentions by leaning over the surface and looking for them, but he would have no chance of that here: Tennalhin’s intentions were wide currents that rose and fell from miles deep. With every movement, the water made new efforts to tear Surit’s consciousness apart.