The Winner's Crime(37)

The old man looked at him, his expression kind. Arin suddenly craved kindness. He was seized by a horrible feeling, a familiar one. He’d been caught in its fist for ten years. He was sick of it. Why couldn’t he outgrow it? He was no child. He had no business feeling lonely.

Loss of blood made Arin light-headed. His thoughts seemed to float and drift.

Tensen rose and brought a fresh bowl of water to Arin, who sank his right hand into it.

“Risha is very beautiful,” the minister commented.

“Yes,” Arin said. “She is.” It was hard to think. Arin was so tired.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Tensen said. “Unless I need to pack for an abrupt departure over the tempest-tossed winter sea?”

“No. Go to sleep.”

Tensen smiled and left him.

Arin sat for a long time in that chair. He considered what he knew, what he thought he knew, and what he knew he didn’t know. Then he reconsidered everything.

His thoughts began to take strange shapes. They beat their wings and fluttered away. Arin found himself borne on those wings and flown into sleep.

He had dreams where moths were crawling on his face. Their legs became black stitches. They laid eggs in a long line down his forehead and over his cheek. The eggs hatched.

He dreamed of Kestrel. He dreamed of Risha.

He dreamed that Kestrel had become Risha, that the sun had become the moon, and he couldn’t tell whether he was blinded by the light or the dark.

An infection set into the wound. Arin’s fever raged high.





16

No one looks at a slave, Arin had said. Kestrel began to look very closely at hers. She settled on one. This particular woman was in fact not a slave but a paid servant, one of the Valorians selected to be a lady-in-waiting to Kestrel. It was a mark of high status to be served by one’s own people; in return, the Valorian ladies-in-waiting were decently paid and their blue servant dresses trimmed with white.

Kestrel couldn’t remember the woman’s name. But she was about Kestrel’s height and size. She would do.

One morning not long after the reception in the imperial gallery, Kestrel contrived to be alone with the servant and spill a large glass of water on her.

“I’m so sorry!” Kestrel cried. “Oh, I am clumsy.”

“No matter, my lady,” said the flustered woman. “It’s just water.”

“But water is very wet. You must be uncomfortable. Here, change into this.” Kestrel offered one of her dresses, carefully selected for being simply cut, without ornament, yet made from a rich fabric.

“I couldn’t,” said the maid.

“Of course you can! And you will keep it. Do you think I would miss it? Now, you’ll insult me if you believe that. Go on, you may use my dressing room.”

The maid was reluctant, but Kestrel placed the dress firmly in her hands. The woman’s expression changed as she began to think things through. Kestrel saw her thoughts. If the maid worked for an entire year, she could still never afford a dress like this. It was a treasure. She could wear it and be stunning. Or maybe she would sell it. The fabric was velvet. It would fetch a fine price.

The maid went to try on Kestrel’s dress.

When the woman emerged into the sitting room, Kestrel could tell that it took all of her control not to spin around and feel the skirt swing. “It fits perfectly,” the woman said. “Are you sure I may keep it?”

“Of course.” Kestrel took the woman’s work dress from her crooked arm.

“Oh. I have to take my work dress back to the housekeeper.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

“But I can’t let you—”

“I insist.” Kestrel smiled. Later, she would apologize to the housekeeper. She’d explain that she had no idea where she’d put the dress. She’d cover any cost.

After the maid had left, Kestrel took the damp work dress into her bedroom and dried it before the fire. She hid it in the back of a wardrobe filled with summer clothes that would remain packed away for the next two seasons.

It was possible that this maid reported to Verex—or worse, to the captain of the palace guard, or the emperor. But Kestrel didn’t think that an exchange of dresses would seem noteworthy. It was only the whim of a kind mistress.

*

Kestrel waited for a night when she wasn’t called upon to appear at a function. This took some time. There were dinners, game nights, and friendly, bloodless swordfights performed for an applauding audience. The prince’s bride was expected to attend everything.

The governor of Herran, however, seemed to feel no such pressure.

Arin never came. More than a week had passed since she’d seen him in the art gallery. Kestrel didn’t dare to ask for any news of him. When she met Tensen’s eyes once across a crowd of courtiers, he shook his head.

Unless she had information to give Tensen, she should keep her distance—especially after what happened the last time. Kestrel could still feel the emperor’s nails digging into her skin.

He hadn’t carried out his threat to her—or so she thought. But his mood had soured. The entire court felt it. Kestrel wasn’t the only one relieved when finally a night arrived when no one was expected to put on finery and gather in the emperor’s presence. A holiday-like atmosphere ruled the palace. There were rumors of lovers who would meet for frosted kisses in the Winter Garden’s hedge maze. Some courtiers swore they would crawl into bed early with hot bricks at their feet.