Page 71 of The Winner's Curse
Coolly she said, “This is a ceremonial fighting uniform. Do you expect me to fight a duel on the docks?”
“You’re too noticeable.” There was something strange about his voice. “In the dark. You … you look like an open flame.” He found another black tunic and tore it between his hands. “Here. Wrap this around your hair.”
Kestrel stood still, the black cloth limp in her arms as she remembered the last time she had worn such clothes.
“Get dressed,” said Arin.
“Get out.”
He shook his head. “I won’t look.”
“That’s right. You won’t, because you are going to get out.”
“I can’t leave you alone.”
“Don’t be absurd. What am I going to do, take back the city single-handedly from the comfort of my dressing room?”
Arin dragged a hand through his hair. “You might kill yourself.”
Bitterly, she said, “I should think it was clear from the way I let you and your friend push me around that I want to stay alive.”
“You might change your mind.”
“And do what, exactly?”
“You could hang yourself with your dagger belt.”
“So take it away.”
“You’ll use clothes. The leggings.”
“Hanging is an undignified way to die.”
“You’ll break the mirror to your dressing table and cut yourself.” Again Arin’s voice seemed foreign. “Kestrel, I won’t look.”
She realized why his words sounded rough. She had switched, at some point, to speaking in Valorian, and he had followed her. It was his accent that she heard.
“I promise,” he said.
“Your promises are worth nothing.” Kestrel turned and began to undress.
28
He took her horse.
Kestrel saw the logic. Her carriage had been abandoned on the road and the stables were largely empty, since many horses had gone with her father. Javelin was the best of those that remained. In war, property goes to those who can seize and keep it, so the stallion was Arin’s. But it hurt.
He studied her warily as he saddled Javelin. The stables rang with noise: the sounds of other Herrani readying horses to ride, the beasts whickering as they smelled human tension, the thumps of wood under hooves and feet. Yet Arin was silent, and watched Kestrel. The first thing he had done after entering the stables was grab a set of reins, slice the leather with a knife, bind Kestrel’s hands, and place her under guard. It didn’t matter that she was powerless. He watched her as if she weren’t.
Or maybe he was just contemplating how hard it would be to bring a captive on horseback into the city and down to the harbor. This would have given Kestrel some satisfaction if she hadn’t been very aware of what he should do.
Knock her unconscious, if he wanted to keep his prize. Kill her, if he had changed his mind. Imprison her, if she was too much trouble either way.
She saw his solutions as well as he must.
Someone called Arin’s name. He and Kestrel turned to see a Herrani woman leaning against the stable door, sides heaving. Her face was damp with sweat. She looked familiar, and Kestrel realized why at the same time she understood why the woman was here.
She was one of the governor’s slaves. She had come as a messenger, with news of what had happened at the ball after Kestrel and Arin had left.
