Page 67 of The Winner's Curse
Kestrel smiled. “Do you have more imaginary friends?”
“I—”
A distant explosion rumbled through the night. One of the horses screamed. The carriage shook, knocking Kestrel’s head against the window frame. She heard the driver’s shout, the crack of a whip. The carriage ground to a halt. The hilt of Kestrel’s dagger jabbed her side.
“Kestrel? Are you all right?”
Dazed, she touched the side of her head. Her fingers came away wet.
There was a second explosion. The carriage jerked again as the horses shied, but Arin’s hand held Kestrel steady. She looked out the window, toward the city, and saw a faint glow in the sky. “What was that?”
Arin was silent. Then: “Black powder. The first explosion was at the city guards’ barracks. The second was at the armory.”
That might have been a guess, but it didn’t sound like one. Half of Kestrel’s mind knew exactly what it meant if Arin knew this, but the other half slammed a door on this knowledge, letting her understand only what it meant if he was correct.
The city was under attack.
Sleeping city guards had been killed.
Enemies were ransacking weapons from the armory.
Kestrel scrambled out the carriage door.
Arin was right behind her. “Kestrel, you should get back in the carriage.”
She ignored him.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
Kestrel looked at the Herrani driver hauling on the reins and swearing at the shifting horses. She saw the growing light over the city’s center, a sure sign of fire. She stared up the road. They were only minutes away from her estate.
Kestrel took a step toward home.
“No.” Arin seized her arm. “We need to go back together.”
The horses quieted. The uneven rhythm of their snorts and stamped hooves floated into the night as Kestrel thought about Arin’s word: need.
The door she had slammed shut in her mind sailed open.
Why had Arin told her not to drink the wine?
What had been wrong with the wine?
She thought of Jess and Ronan, and all the dancers at the ball.
“Kestrel.” Arin’s voice was low but insistent, the beginning of an explanation she did not want to hear.
“Let me go.”
His hand fell, and Kestrel saw that he saw that she knew. She knew that, whatever was happening tonight, it was no surprise to him. That whatever awaited her at home was as dangerous as black powder or poisoned wine.
Both Arin and Kestrel were aware that her options here—on this road, isolated, at night—were few.
“What is going on?” The Herrani driver climbed down from his seat. He came close, then stared out over the dark crest of a hill at the city’s faint glow. He met Arin’s eyes. “The god of vengeance has come,” he breathed.
Kestrel drew her dagger and pressed it to the driver’s throat. “Curse your gods,” she said. “Unhitch a horse.”
“Don’t,” Arin told the driver, who swallowed nervously against Kestrel’s blade. “She won’t kill you.”
