The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(59)

The general was out of reach, for now. But someone closer by would do.

He left the tent and didn’t have to go far. Roshar was waiting for him. “I hear we have an unexpected guest,” said the prince.

Arin clamped a hand down on his shoulder and drove him into the trees.

Roshar—oddly enough—made no sound until enough distance had been put between them and the army. When they wouldn’t be overheard, he said cautiously, “Arin, why are you . . . manhandling me?”

“You knew.”

“Specificity, please.”

“On the morning we left, you knew that her horse wasn’t in the stables. That’s why you saddled a horse and brought it to me: so that I wouldn’t notice that she was gone. You are a liar.”

“That’s not a lie.”

Silence.

“Arin, you are crushing me. Fine, yes, all right. I might have gently deceived you, in the name of your greater happiness. Is that really a lie? Or if it is, isn’t it a very, very small one?” He showed with his fingertip and thumb just how small.

“You don’t know what makes me happy.”

“I know that you’re not. I know that you’ve no sense of reason where she’s concerned. Maybe I did observe that Javelin wasn’t in his stall that morning. Maybe I knew how things would unfold: how you’d notice, and go tearing off after her, wherever she was, and my sister would learn of it. What would my soldiers think if I waited for you? Or if we marched south without you? It’d all fall apart. So yes, I lied. I’d do it again. My only other option was to watch you throw every thing away for the sake of someone who doesn’t even love you.”

Arin released him. He felt brutally gutted.

“You wanted the truth,” said the prince.

Arin thought of Cheat, Tensen, Kestrel. He wondered if some part of him was drawn to lies. What was it that made him so easy to deceive?

“Oh, Arin. Don’t look like that. I apologize.”

He stared at his friend, who was still his friend. It struck him that Roshar had gone quietly into the trees because if he had protested, his army would have cut Arin down.

Arin apologized as well, then said, “It’s not you who angers me.”

“Oh no?”

“You’re just a close target.”

“How flattering.”

“Kestrel was caught by her father. He had proof that she was spying for Herran and exposed her to the emperor.”

Roshar considered this, his expression guarded. “A new memory?”

“Yes.”

“What else does she remember about the general?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You should ask.”

“No.”

“This isn’t prying, Arin. This is gathering information potentially relevant to our current operation. I’m happy to talk with her if you won’t.”

“Leave her alone.”

“You underestimate my charm. Granted, she once pulled that dagger on me, but we’ve put that behind us. She likes me. I am very likable.”

Arin didn’t want to tell him about her raw eyes, or the stripped, thin quality of her voice. The way she’d wept, the utter abandonment. Her face: so alone, no matter what he said to her.

“She’s in no shape to talk to you,” he said flatly. “She rode for two days and a night with no food or water except maybe what she gathered along the road—if she bothered to do that. She didn’t even know for sure that she’d find us. She guessed where we’d go and pushed herself to catch up.”

The prince lifted his brows. “Impressive.”

His tone made Arin wary. “What do you mean by that?”

“She’s got a knack for survival.”

It struck Arin that Roshar could have pressed Kestrel for information before, back in the city, and if he hadn’t, it wasn’t likely out of deference to her ill health and recovery, or because he’d assumed there was nothing to be gained from digging around in Kestrel’s uncertain memory. It was because Roshar wouldn’t have trusted what she had to say . . . then. If he trusted her word now it was only because she’d been damaged by their enemy. Which made her—Arin saw the idea take shape in Roshar’s eyes—a motivated asset to their cause.

“I don’t like what you’re thinking,” Arin said.

“She could be useful.”

“You will not use her.”

“The general’s daughter? We’d be fools not to. You talk about her as if she’s made of spun glass. Know what I see? Steel.”

“You won’t make her part of this war. I’m taking her back to the city.”

“No,” Kestrel said from behind them. “You’re not.”

Arin turned.

The sight of her. It wasn’t just that she looked lost in his too-large shirt, or how her eyes were tired holes. It was the set of her jaw. The way she lifted her chin. He’d seen this before. All the ships that shattered against the rock of her determination. How she’d break herself, too, if she must, to get what she wanted.

Lock this slave up. Her words, uttered the day she’d fought a duel for his sake, still hurt. What had followed: the clench of helplessness. Being outnumbered by her father’s private guard. The first blow. The way she hadn’t looked back as she’d let the door shut behind her. Humiliation. A sort of appalled admiration. Indebtedness. Later: her, injured and limping across the villa’s lawn.