The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(50)

Another hallway, a turn. Then . . . a soft glow. A lamp.

A liquid sound. A muffled thump. Glass on wood?

She stepped into the lamplit room.

Arin looked up from where he sat. His fingers tightened around the glass in his hand. He stared.

She flushed, realizing that she’d forgotten to throw a robe over her thin nightdress.

Or had she forgotten? Had she not decided in some way too quick for thought that this was exactly what she’d wanted? She glanced down at the shift’s hem, which hit just below the knees. The cloth was as sheer as melted butter. Her flush deepened. She saw the expression on Arin’s face.

He glanced away. “Gods,” he said, and drank.

“Exactly.”

That brought his gaze back. He swallowed, winced, and said, “It’s possible that I’ve lost any claim to coherent thought, but I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Those gods of yours.”

His dark brows were lifted. His eyes had grown round. The glass in his hand was a tumbler, the liquid a thumb’s width high and deep green. It looked like the blood of leaves. He cleared his throat. Hoarsely, he said, “Yes?”

“Did you pray to them?”

“Kestrel, I am praying to them right now. Very hard, in fact.”

She shook her head. “Did you pray to your”—she rummaged through her memory—“god of souls?” She was ready to believe in a supernatural reason. It would explain his power over her.

He coughed, then gave a short, rasping laugh. “That god doesn’t listen to me.” He set the tumbler next to the carafe on the table. He paused, thinking. In a new, slow tone, he said, “Except perhaps now.” He dropped his cheek into an open palm and rubbed fingers into one closed eye. He nodded at the chair across the table from him. “Would you like to sit?”

Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to get closer to him. Her pulse had gone erratic. “I’m fine here.”

“I’d really rather.”

“If I make you uncomfortable, why don’t you leave?”

He laughed again. “Ah, no. No, thank you. Here.” He slid the glass across the table. The remaining liquid sloshed but didn’t spill. When she sat, curious (what would the blood of leaves taste like?), he said, “You might want to try only a bit first.”

“That’s not wine.”

“It decidedly is not.”

“What is it?”

“An eastern liquor. Roshar gave it to me. He said that if you drink enough of it, the dregs start to taste like sugar. I suspect a prank.”

“But you’ve no head for drink.”

He looked as startled as she felt. “Of all the things, you remember that.”

She had remembered something else, too, as she’d tried to sleep. She’d come to ask him about it, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she appraised him. “You seem clear-minded enough.”

“It’s early. Still, I don’t know. This conversation feels just shy of a delusion.”

She fiddled with the glass. “I want to understand a few things.”

“Ask me.”

She wasn’t yet ready to share what she remembered. She set the glass down. “What did you tell the queen?”

“I told Inisha about you.”

“What, exactly?”

He hesitated. “I’m afraid to say.”

“I want you to.”

“You might leave.”

“I won’t.”

He stayed silent.

She said, “I give you my word.”

“I told her that I belong to you, and no other. I said that I was sorry.”

She couldn’t help the rush of plea sure . . . and jealousy. His words did make her want to leave. She felt so unalterably his. It was bewildering, because she didn’t know him, not really, and he knew two halves of her that she couldn’t fit together.

He was waiting for her to speak. He was so still. She realized he was holding his breath.

She said, “That’s political suicide.”

He smiled a little.

“How did she respond?”

“She said, ‘You overestimate your importance.’ ”

“Is that why you’re drinking?”

“Kestrel, you know why I am drinking.”

She looked into the shadowed corners of the room. Talking with him was like having a flower unfold inside her chest, then close up tight. Creep open. Collapse in on itself. Voice low, she said, “Why do you call her Inisha? That’s not her name.”

“It’s . . . her little name.” The pause made Kestrel think that he’d been translating a Dacran term in his mind before speaking it, but also that he’d been translating her question, and recognizing the implied intimacy it exposed between him and the queen. He held Kestrel’s eyes. “There never would have been anything between her and me if I’d known the truth about you. I should have known it. I can’t forgive myself for not knowing it. As it was . . . yesterday, in the garden, you asked if I used her for political gain. I didn’t. I used her to forget about you. You prob ably don’t want to know that. It’s ugly. But I must tell you, because there’s been too much hiding. More would break me.”