The Winner's Kiss (The Winner's Trilogy, #3)(95)

Her skin sang so loud that she couldn’t think of any words, let alone the right ones, and by the time she knew that she should, that it was now, that it wouldn’t hurt to say what she felt, that she could give her love to someone without being broken for it, Arin had already gone.



Roshar had a litter brought to Arin, who glanced at it and the men assigned to carry it. “No,” said Arin.

“Idiot,” the prince sneered. “You were knocked unconscious. You look like hell. Get in the litter.”

“I’ll go in a cart,” Arin said, referring to wagons that carried the wounded. “I don’t need special treatment.”

“Oh yes, you do.”

Kestrel had never seen Roshar so angry.

“Why?” Arin squinted at him. “Because of your concern or because you want to send a message to the army?”

Kestrel could think of two messages: to show the Dacrans that the supposedly god-touched Herrani leader was weak, or to show the Herrani that the eastern prince valued Arin. Maybe both.

Roshar’s mouth twitched into an unhappy smile.

“Then I’ll ride,” Arin said.

When the day ended and the army set camp on a low hill whose bushes bore thick, oily green leaves, Roshar stood near his tent as an officer set it up. The prince’s fingers drummed the muscles of his crossed arms.

Kestrel didn’t know where Arin was. She thought he’d gone to water his new horse at a stream near camp, but when Roshar’s tent was up and the sun down, and Arin hadn’t returned, an icy mist of anxiety stole over her.

“He’ll be more comfortable there.” Roshar jerked his chin at his tent.

“And you?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Arin won’t like it.”

“I don’t care.” Then he added, the words coming in a rush, “The litter wasn’t symbolic. No hidden message. Not every one speaks in code. I just want him to be well.”

Slowly, she said, “I think that he is.” She had watched him during the day’s ride, and although his face had grown drawn, it seemed more from weariness than pain. He’d easily kept his seat and met her sidelong looks with a small smile. Her concern had lessened.

Not entirely, though. Not enough to keep her from searching the camp after Roshar had left her by his pitched tent. Not enough to uncurl her fingers, squeezed into fists after the sky’s humid indigo had darkened. She returned to the tent and lit a lantern. Inside, she chafed her arms as if cold, eyeing the burning wick. She meant to measure it. After it burned down to a certain mark, she’d search for him. But the wick had barely begun to sizzle before she seized the lantern’s handle, hurried toward the tent’s canvas door . . . and smacked into Arin as he entered.

She gasped. “Where have you been?”

He ran a hand through his wet hair, glanced down at his damp shirt. He smelled of soap. “Well.”

“A bath?”

“ ‘Bath’ makes a cold creek sound so glamorous.”

“In the dark?”

“There’s a moon.”

“I was ready to make Roshar help me find you.”

“Oh, I saw him. He directed me here—emphatically.” Arin lifted his brows, impressed. “The wording he used was very creative.”

Kestrel became aware of how close she stood to Arin. The lifted lamp gilded his face, illuminating the peak of the tent’s apex above. It radiated a small heat between him and her. She moved away.

He touched the clenched hand that held the lamp. “Little Fists, what’s wrong? Both you and Roshar are angry. All I’ve done is get hit on the head.”

“And sleep. And ride. And bathe.”

“Well, I was disgusting.”

Kestrel turned and strode to the table. She set the lamp down, practically slamming it.

Arin followed. “I don’t know how to prove to you that I’m all right.”

She kept her back to him. Something terrible was clawing up her throat.

“I was lucky,” Arin said. “I had you. And a hard head. And the grace of my god.”

“Damn your god.”

Arin caught her arm above the elbow. She turned to face him. All trace of humor had left his face. His eyes were wide, urgent. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? I can say anything. Anything except what really matters.”

“Kestrel, take it back. You’ll offend him.”

“Your god risks you.”

“He protects me.”

“You’re his plaything.”

“You’re wrong. He loves me.”

Saying those words made him look so alone. He reminded her of sails curved by the wind, full and yet empty at the same time. She found that she was jealous of his god. The sudden jealousy held her so hard in its grip that she couldn’t breathe.

“It’s true,” Arin insisted.

She saw then that she had hurt him, that his god’s love was all the more precious to him because of his fear that he would find it nowhere else. Her anger rinsed away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I ask your pardon. His, too.”

Arin released her, his relief plain.

“I’m not really angry at a god,” she said, “or you.”

His brow creased.