The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(2)

“It doesn’t need to be, not to attack a city whose population has been drugged into lethargy. A city,” Arin said pointedly, “that the emperor believes has no allies.”

“I like a surprise attack. I like the thought of pinning the Valorians between us. But your plan only works if the emperor hasn’t sent a fleet that vastly outnumbers us, and can easily sink each of our flanks. It only works if the emperor truly doesn’t know that Dacra”—Xash’s voice betrayed his disapproval—“has allied with you. The Valorian emperor would love to crush such an alliance with an overwhelming show of naval force. If he knows we’re here, he might very well send the entire Valorian fleet.”

“Then a battle along the strait is better. Unless you’d rather they attack us here in the bay.”

“I rule this fleet. I have the experience. You’re barely more than a boy. A foreign boy.”

When Arin spoke again, it wasn’t with his own words. His god told him what to say. “When your queen assigned you to sail your fleet to Herran, whom did she name with the ultimate command of it? You or me?”

Xash’s face went hard with fury. Arin’s god grinned inside him.

“We set sail now,” Arin said.

The waters east of Ithrya Island were a sheer green. But Arin, from where his ship lay in wait for the Valorian fleet, could see how the currents pushing out of the strait made a broad, almost purple rope in the sea.

He felt like that: like a dark, curling force was working through him. It flooded to the tips of his fingers and warmed him. It spread his ribs wide with each breath.

When the first Valorian ship flew out of the strait, Arin was filled with a malicious joy.

And it was easy. The Valorians hadn’t expected them, clearly had no idea of the alliance. The size of the enemy fleet matched theirs. The slenderness of the strait made the Valorian ships sail out into Herran’s sea by twos. Easy to pick off. The eastern fleet drove at them from either side.

Cannonballs punched the hulls. The gundecks fogged the air with black smoke. It smelled like a million burnt matches.

Arin boarded his first Valorian ship. He seemed to watch all this as if from outside himself: the way his sword cut a Valorian sailor apart, and then another, and on until his blade was oiled red. Blood sprayed him across the mouth. Arin didn’t taste it. Didn’t feel the way his dagger hand plunged into someone’s gut. Didn’t wince when an enemy sword crossed his guard and sliced his bicep.

Arin’s god slapped him across the face.

Pay attention, death demanded.

Arin did, and after that, no one could touch him.

When it was done, and Valorian wrecks were taking on water and the rest of the enemy ships had been seized, Arin could see straight again. He blinked against the lowering sun, its light an orange syrup that glazed the fallen bodies and gave the blood an odd color.

Arin stood on the deck of a captured Valorian ship. His breath heaved and hurt in his chest. Sweat dripped into his eyes.

The enemy captain was dragged before Xash.

“No,” Arin said. “Bring him to me.”

Xash’s eyes were bright with anger. But the Dacrans did what Arin asked, and Xash let them.

“Write a message to your emperor,” Arin said to the Valorian captain. “Tell him what he’s lost. Tell him he’ll pay if he tries again. Use your personal seal. Send the message and I’ll let you live.”

“How noble,” Xash said, contemptuous.

The Valorian said nothing. He was white-lipped. Yet again Arin marveled at how the Valorian reputation for bravery and honor so often fell short of the truth.

The man wrote his message.

Are you really a boy, like Xash says? the god asked Arin. You’ve been mine for twenty years. I raised you.

The Valorian signed the scrap of paper.

Cared for you.

The message was rolled, sealed, and pushed into a tiny leather tube.

Watched over you when you thought you were alone.

The captain tied the tube to a hawk’s leg. The bird was too large to be a kestrel. It didn’t have a kestrel’s markings. It cocked its head, turning its glass-bead eyes on Arin.

No, not a boy. A man made in my image . . . one who knows he can’t afford to be seen as weak.

The hawk launched into the sky.

You’re mine, Arin. You know what you must do.

Arin cut the Valorian’s throat.

It was when Arin was sailing home into his city’s bay, his hair hard with dried blood, his clothes stiff with it, that the story slipped inside him. It lay on his tongue and melted like a bitter candy.

This is the story Arin told.

Once there was a boy who knew how to cower. One night, the gods could see him locked alone inside his rooms, shaking, near vomiting with fear. He heard what was happening elsewhere in the house. Screams. Things breaking. Harsh orders, the actual words muffled yet still clearly understood by the boy, who retched in his corner.

His mother was somewhere beyond that locked door. His father. His sister. He should go to them. He said so to his pointed knees, tucked up beneath his nightshirt as he huddled on the floor. He whispered the words, voice warbling out of control. Go to them. They need you. But he couldn’t move. He stayed where he was.

The door thumped. It shuddered on its hinges.

With a splintering crack, the door gave way. A foreign soldier pushed inside. The soldier’s skin and hair were fair, his eyes dark. He grabbed the boy by his bony wrist.