Page 68 of The Winner's Curse
“I’m Valorian. I will.”
“Kestrel, there will be … changes, after tonight. But give me a chance to explain.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then think about this.” In the moonlight, Arin’s jaw hardened into a black line. “What would your next move be, after killing your driver? Will you attack me? Would you succeed?”
“I’ll kill myself.”
Arin took a step back. “You wouldn’t.” Yet there was fear in his eyes.
“An honor suicide? All Valorian children are taught how, when we come of age. My father showed me where to stab.”
“No. You wouldn’t. You play a game to its end.”
“The Herrani were enslaved because they were too poor at killing and too cowardly to die. I told you I didn’t want to kill, not that I wouldn’t. And I never said I was afraid of death.”
Arin looked at the driver. “Unhitch both horses.”
Kestrel held the knife steady as the driver stripped the first horse of its gear.
When she mounted its bare back, Arin lunged for her. She had expected this, and had the advantage of height and a wooden-heeled shoe. She kicked his brow, saw him reel. Then she dug one hand into the horse’s mane and forced it to gallop.
Kestrel could see well enough by the moon to avoid deep ruts in the road. She concentrated on that, not on the betrayal seared into her skin. Branded on her mouth. The shoes fell from her feet and braids whipped her back.
It wasn’t long before she heard the beating of hooves behind her.
* * *
The gate to the estate was open and the path strewn with the bodies of the general’s guard. Kestrel saw Rax, his dead eyes staring. A short sword was buried in his gut.
Her horse was hurtling across the grounds to the house when the quarrel of a crossbow whined through the air and punched into the beast’s side.
The horse screamed. Kestrel was thrown to the ground. She lay there, stunned. Then the fingers of her right hand realized what they no longer held and began scrabbling for the knife.
Her hand closed around its hilt just as a boot materialized in her line of sight. The heel drove into the winter dirt, the sole hovering over her knuckles.
“It’s the lady of the house,” said the auctioneer. Kestrel stared up at him, at the crossbow he held so easily, at the way he appraised her, moving from bare feet to torn dress to bleeding forehead. “The piano player.” His boot lowered and rocked a slight pressure over the bones of her fingers. “Drop the knife or I’ll crush your hand.”
Kestrel dropped it.
He grabbed the back of her neck and hauled her up. Her breath came quickly, in short bursts of fear. He smiled, and she saw him again as he had been in the pit, pitching the sale of Arin. This slave has been trained as a blacksmith, the auctioneer had said. He would be perfect for any soldier, especially for an officer with a guard of his own and weapons to maintain.
No Valorian in the city had a guard of his own save General Trajan.
Kestrel saw again how the auctioneer had met her eyes that day. His delight when she had bid, his expression when others had joined. He hadn’t been excited to see the price drive higher, Kestrel realized. He had been anxious.
As if the sale of Arin had been meant for her, her alone.
The ground trembled with approaching hooves.
The auctioneer’s smile grew wider as Arin dragged his horse to a halt. The auctioneer motioned toward the shadows of trees. Armed Herrani appeared. They trained their weapons on Kestrel.
The auctioneer walked toward Arin, who dismounted. He placed one palm against Arin’s cheek. Arin did the same to him. They stood, creating an image Kestrel had seen only in dust-covered Herrani art. It was a gesture of friendship as deep as family.
Arin’s eyes met hers.
“You are the god of lies,” she hissed.
