Page 111 of The Winner's Curse
No, she tried to say. I didn’t mean it. But her mouth didn’t work.
“You’ve been through an ordeal,” the doctor said. “You need to rest.”
There was an odd taste on her tongue, a faint bitterness whose taste turned into a numb feeling that prickled down her throat.
A drug.
The numbness held her down until sleep took over.
* * *
She dreamed of Enai.
Kestrel’s sleeping self knew that this was not real, that the dead are gone. But she longed to sidle near Enai, to shrink into a small girl and not glance up, not search the woman’s face for the blame that must be there.
Kestrel wondered how Arin’s ghost would look at her.
He would stalk her dreams. He would show visions of himself killed in battle. He would make his mouth a mockery of the one she knew. His eyes would fill with hate.
That was how one looked at a traitor.
“You’ve come to curse me,” Kestrel told Enai. “There is no need. I curse myself.”
“Sly child,” Enai said, as she had done when Kestrel had been naughty. But this was not the same thing, Kestrel wanted to say, as stuffing sheet music into the rafters of Rax’s practice room and pulling them down to read when she was alone and supposed to be drilling herself in combat. It was not the same thing as a sharp word. A prank played.
Kestrel had bought a life, and loved it, and sold it.
Enai said, “A story, I think, to make you feel better.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I don’t need a story. I need to wake up.”
“And do what?”
Kestrel didn’t know.
Enai said, “Once there was a seamstress who could weave fabric from feeling. She sewed gowns of delight: sheer, sparkling, sleek. She cut cloth out of ambition and ardor, idyll and industry. And she grew so skilled at her trade that she caught the attention of a god. He decided to acquire her services.”
“Which god is this?”
“Hush,” Enai said. In that way of dreams, Kestrel found herself in her childhood bed, the one carved with hunting animals. Enai sat by her, shoulders elegant and straight in lines Kestrel had always tried to imitate. The woman continued her story. “The god came to the seamstress and said, ‘I want a shirt made of solace.’
“‘The gods have no need of such a thing,’ said the seamstress. The god looked at her.
“The girl knew a threat when she saw it.
“She met his demand, and when the god tried on the shirt, it fit perfectly. Its colors changed him, made his face seem not quite as pale. The seamstress studied him and had thoughts she knew weren’t wise to share.
“The god paid her in generous gold, though she hadn’t named a price. He was pleased.
“Yet it was not enough. He returned, ordered a cloak of company, and left even before the seamstress agreed to do it. They both knew that she would.
“She was putting the finishing touches on the cloak’s hem when an old woman entered the shop and looked at all the things she couldn’t afford to buy. The woman reached across the counter where the seamstress sat at her work. Wizened fingers wavered over the cloak of company. Faded eyes became so starred with longing that the seamstress gave her the cloak and asked nothing in return. She could make another one—and quickly.
“The god, however, was quicker still. He returned to her village sooner than he’d said. Who did he see but the elderly woman sleeping by her fire, wrapped in a cloak that was far too big for her? What did he feel but the grip of betrayal, the swift, deep dart of jealousy that should shame a god?
