The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(117)

Arin gave him a warning look. The prince pretended to look innocently confused, then shrugged and moved to walk ahead of them, the half-grown tiger slinking at his heels. The tiger was eerily docile, even for a young one raised by humans. It pushed its head up under Roshar’s hand like a house cat. Arin watched its solid sway, the already powerful shoulder blades rising and falling under its fur. Arin sensed but couldn’t name the origin of what made people (animals, too, apparently) long to follow the prince. With an uncomfortable prickle, he suspected that if he asked and Roshar deigned to give a straight answer, the prince would say that what ever it was, Arin possessed it, too.

A strange feeling: as if filaments trailed from Arin’s body. A thousand fishing lines snagging attention. Here and there. Little tugs. People caught on the lines. The way sometimes people couldn’t look him in the eye, and when they did they became fish trying to breathe air.

He wished it weren’t like that.

He knew it would be necessary.

Roshar and the tiger dis appeared inside, leaving Kestrel and Arin alone on the path.

Kestrel was stiff, her delicate shoes planted in the walkway’s gravel. She had lifted the hem of her storm-green skirts, the gesture of a lady, but he saw how she made fists of the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” he said, guessing what troubled her: the memory of the Firstwinter Rebellion. Her dead friends, Arin’s deception, the halls of the governor’s palace choked with corpses.

She gave him a narrow look. “Part of you isn’t sorry.”

He couldn’t deny it.

But she softened and said, “I’m not innocent either. I, too, feel sorry and not sorry about things I’ve done.” She let her dress’s hem fall to the stones and touched three fingers to the back of his hand.

Arin forgot, for a moment, where he was and what they were discussing. A marvel: that such a light touch could feel like a whole caress, that his body could ignite so easily.

Now she looked amused.

“Let’s leave.” He slid a hand beneath her loose hair and thumbed the slope of her neck, feeling the fluttery pulse there. Her expression changed, amusement melting into slow plea sure. He said, “Let’s not go in.”

“Arin.” She sighed. “We must go in.” Her slightly parted mouth closed again into a tense line.

“What else is troubling you?”

“The queen hasn’t said a word to you.”

“Well,” Arin said, uncomfortable, thinking of various reasons for Inisha’s silence.

“All of the Dacrans are too quiet.”

“Not Roshar.”

“Him, too. He just says a lot without meaning much.”

Arin paused, then said, “I believe in our alliance.”

“I want to, too.”

He offered her his hand.

They went inside.

They sat at a table on a raised dais in the dining hall, the four of them in a line, Arin and the queen occupying the center and Kestrel and Roshar to their sides, an arrangement Roshar maneuvered without seeming to as the hundreds of people already seated watched them.

The queen gave Arin a sidelong glance, her black eyes unreadable. She said nothing, and didn’t look at him again.

Roshar, the tiger curled at his feet, barely touched his food as the first courses were served, but instead drank the green Dacran liqueur he favored. Arin saw, beyond the silhouette of the queen, how Roshar clenched and released the glass. His fingers were unsteady.

“Brother.” The queen spoke as if nudging him.

“Leave me alone.” He refilled his cup.

When people entered bearing the main course—including, Arin noted with wry amusement, the fastidiously prepared loin for the tiger, on its very own platter—Roshar stood, swaying a little. The room hushed. He scanned the faces, Dacran and Herrani alike.

“People of the hundred,” he said, using an ancient Herrani phrase Arin was surprised he knew, “who leads you?”

So many cried Arin’s name that it no longer sounded like his name.

“Do you trust your country to him?”

Yes.

“Would you say that Herran is his?”

Yes.

Sudden distrust slicked down Arin’s spine.

Roshar raised his hand to quiet the roaring crowd, and Arin was reminded of Cheat relishing his role as an auctioneer. A stone rose in his throat. Kestrel’s hand tightened on his, but Arin no longer felt wholly there.

“Enough,” said the queen . . . not so much in reprimand, but rather as if telling him to get to the point.

“I have fought for Arin, bled for him. I hold him in my heart. I have even named my tiger after him—no small honor. And yet, we have a problem. Arin of Herran was not always my friend, and once committed an offense against me that caused my queen to award me control over all he owns: his life, his belongings, and—since you say he possesses it—his country. I’ve been told to take from Arin what is due to me. I’ve been told it is mine by law. Must I? Yes. Will my people support my claim, with force if necessary? They will. Will my queen rise in admiration of me? Oh, indeed. And so I must.

“No, Arin. Sit down. Other wise you’ll make an ass out of yourself, and that role is mine. I see my tiger’s meal is here. You, there. Yes, you. With the platter. Bear it forth.”

Kestrel laughed. Arin felt rather than saw that she had relaxed beside him, aglow with mirth. He sank back into his chair, because now he too understood Roshar’s game. He wanted to sag with relief. He wanted to strangle the prince.