The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(100)

Softly, he said, “I could stop you so easily, right now.”

“If you did, you’d hand your father yet another victory.”

He sighed. “The awful thing is, part of me wants to please him, despite every thing.”

“No. Please don’t. You can’t.”

“But I do want to . . . and I hate myself for wanting to please him, and I can’t think of a way to do it without hurting you. Maybe you could think of a way, but would never tell me. You’d fall into my father’s hands again, and your father’s hands, and I’d never forgive myself.”

Kestrel told him that she would miss him. She told him, quietly, as the sound of waves pushed and pulled at the night, that she wished he were her brother, that she was sorry, and grateful to know him.

There was no sound other than the waves as she walked away.

When she reached Arin, he released the parted bushes and lowered the eastern crossbow he’d held cranked at the ready.

“You wouldn’t have,” she stated.

Arin looked at her. He certainly would.

“Verex is my friend.”

Arin unloaded the crossbow. His fingers were trembling. “You greeted him like a friend,” he acknowledged. “But . . .”

They both looked back toward the camp. The slender shadow of the Valorian prince slowly retraced his steps. He dissolved into the camp’s firelight, a good distance from the supply wagons.

Kestrel untied the empty sack from her waist and dusted her hands, her clothes. “Matches, now.”

Arin’s hands still weren’t sure of themselves. He fumbled with the box. She took it, struck a match, and touched it to the trail of black powder she’d left behind. It sparked, lit, and burned down the line.

They ran.

The explosion blossomed over the beach.

They stayed off the road as they rode through the dark. Their pace was slow. Moonlight painted the land. They were silent, but Kestrel knew that it couldn’t be due to the same thing, because she hadn’t told Arin that she’d seen her father in the Valorian camp. The sight of him lingered with her. Her love for him closed within her like a fist. Nervous, bruised. She despised it. Wasn’t it the love of a beaten animal, slinking back to its master? Yet here was the truth: she missed her father.

It seemed too awful to tell Arin.

But finally, when they stopped to sleep, not bothering with a tent, just bedding down in a hollow they’d trampled in the tall grass with their boots, Arin spoke. He slid a hand under her tunic to touch her bare back, then stopped. “Is this all right?”

She wanted to explain that she hadn’t thought she’d ever bear anyone’s touch on her scarred back, that it should revolt him and revolt her. Yet his touch made her feel soft and new. “Yes.”

He pushed the shirt up, seeking the lash marks, tracing their length. She let herself feel it, and shivered, and thought of nothing. But a tension grew. He was still, but for his hand.

Kestrel said, “What’s wrong?”

“Your life would have been easier if you had married the Valorian prince.”

She drew herself up so that she could face him. The scent of black powder clung to them both. His skin smelled like a blown-out candle. “But not better,” she said.

It was the next day’s end when they caught up with Roshar’s army, which had stopped—oddly—at a time too early to make camp, and rather late for a moment’s rest. More than that, it was the uncertainty of the soldiers that gave the halt a strange feeling. They looked as if they’d had no orders at all. They held ranks, but loosely, and were murmuring among themselves, armor still buckled, horses saddled. Several remained mounted. A Herrani soldier toyed with her horse’s reins. A Dacran eyed her as if he wished his horse had reins, so that he could do something with his empty hands. When Arin and Kestrel rode up to the vanguard, all eyes lifted. Faces turned to Arin, seeking an explanation, relieved because here, at last, was an answer. But Arin didn’t even understand the question.

“What has happened?” he asked the two nearest soldiers on their horses.

“Someone came for our prince,” the Dacran said.

Arin glanced at Kestrel, alert to the hesitation in the Dacran’s voice. Arin wondered if he needed to translate for her.

“Someone took him away?” she asked the man in his language.

The soldier clicked his teeth. No. “But I heard that his face became terrible, truly. That no one could look at it. Some worry that she—”

“She?”

“Brings news of the war’s end. That we’re to abandon the campaign and go home.” The soldier glanced sideways at Arin. “Some hope for it.”

“Your queen?” Arin asked.

But it was not, in fact, the queen who had come for her brother.





Chapter 37

Roshar was waiting alone outside his tent. Kestrel saw what the soldier had meant about Roshar’s face. She’d grown used to the prince’s mutilations; she rarely noticed them anymore. But now an emotion so scored his features that his face became pure in its damage: a mask of loss, twisted with anger and shame.

Arin went to him, eyes wide with concern. He spoke swiftly in Dacran. What was wrong? What had happened?

“My sister won’t speak with me.” Roshar cleared his throat. “Not without you.” His gaze flicked from Arin to Kestrel. “Both of you.”