The Winner's Crime(80)

The names came later. A much longer list of casualties than usual.

One name was passed around the court like a pearl. It was said slowly, in appreciation of its luster, its smooth weight, the way it rolled into the well of a palm and warmed.

When Kestrel heard it, she realized that she had been expecting this since the day Ronan had snatched the recruitment list from her. The discovery of that expectation cracked some brittle thing inside her. She had known. She had known this would happen. And yet it was now clear that she hadn’t believed that she did, that she had shunted thoughts of it away into a part of her mind where things were kept but never looked at.

How could she have hidden from that knowledge?

How could she have known that Ronan would die, and yet not know it?

It had been so clear.

In her rooms, alone, Kestrel covered her mouth. The pearl of Ronan’s name lodged in her throat. She swallowed. It hurt.

She had dreams that shamed her in the morning, dreams where Ronan gave her a white powdered cake, yet spoke in Arin’s voice. I made this for you, he said. Do you like it?

The powder was so fine that she inhaled its sweetness, but always woke before she could taste.

*

Kestrel wrote to Jess. She was afraid to visit.

The next day, Kestrel’s maid brought her a letter. Kestrel’s heart leaped to see Jess’s handwriting on the outside, and that familiar wax seal. Instantly, she blamed herself for that surge of relieved hope. It was wrong for her to feel this way when Ronan was dead.

But she hadn’t thought Jess would answer her. And this letter—Kestrel weighed it in her hand before she broke the seal—was just as thick as the one she had sent Jess. Surely Jess wouldn’t write so much if she wanted nothing to do with Kestrel.

Kestrel opened it. She felt again that strange mixture of knowing and not knowing, of shock and resignation.

She unfolded the envelope. Hadn’t she seen this coming? Hadn’t it been obvious?

The envelope contained the letter Kestrel had sent to Jess: unopened, unread.

*

Kestrel hadn’t played the piano since discovering the music room’s hidden screen, but she no longer cared who heard her. She wanted someone to listen to her grief.

Her music was angrier than she had expected. A sweet prelude that twisted away from her, and darkened, and knitted its way down into the lower octaves. She played until her wrists hurt. She played until she fumbled. The room vibrated with dying chords.

Kestrel rubbed her hot wrists. There was a ringing silence. Then, just as Kestrel was about to go over her mistake, she heard a faint chime.

She knew that sound.

There was someone behind that screen. A person likely to know about the palace’s hidden listening chambers. And why wouldn’t the emperor share such a secret with this man? The emperor valued him. The proof? Consider the emperor’s gift: a golden watch. It showed the phases of the moon. Its hour and minute hands were tipped with diamonds. It chimed the hour.

Kestrel didn’t know what had made her father hide behind the screen. She didn’t know if he was still there, or if he’d left the instant after his watch had chimed and Kestrel had lifted her head at the sound.

All she knew was that he had listened to her play. He’d never done that before.

A memory came to Kestrel. Deep into her seventh year, when Kestrel was still weak from the same disease that had killed her mother, the general had decided to ride with his daughter out of the city. She had nearly fallen asleep on her pony. The Herran countryside was crisp. The chill had made her nose run. He had taken her hunting. He helped her notch the bow. He pointed out the prey. He shifted her elbow into the right position. When she missed, he didn’t say anything. He shot a pheasant, plucked it, and built a fire. She dozed before it, and woke to find herself covered with furs. It was dark. Her hair smelled like smoke and roasted fowl. When her father saw that she was awake, he reached into a saddlebag for a loaf of bread, which he broke. He gave her the larger half.

In the listening silence of the music room, Kestrel lowered her hands to the piano keys and played the memory of that day. She played the sway of her pony beneath her, the phlegm in her lungs, the tension in the bowstring, the glowing heart of the fire. She played the way that her father, when he thought that she was still asleep, had brushed hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. He had drawn the furs up to her cheek. She was young enough then to call him papa.

Kestrel played the moment when she had opened her eyes, and he had looked away. She played the feeling of the bread in her hand.

*

Not long after, Kestrel went to the gallery. She was brought up short to see her father there. He was looking out one of the slender windows, his back to the art. He turned when she entered.

“I heard that you come here every day,” he said. “I hoped to speak with you alone.”

They’d been avoiding each other since she’d heard his watch chime. “You could have come to my suite,” she said.

“I was curious. I wondered what you like so much about the gallery.” He came to meet her. His boots echoed in the vast space.

“You know what I like.” How many times had he called her love for music a weakness? He had warned her: the Herrani had admired the arts, and look what had happened to them. They’d forgotten about the sword.

A frown dented his brow. He lifted his gaze from the collection of sculptures and paintings and focused again on Kestrel. His voice low, he said, “Your mother played beautifully.”