Page 111 of The Winner's Kiss
She told him exactly what he could do.
“Such language. Did you learn that from Arin? Stop kicking, little ghost. We’re in full view of the camp. Weren’t you just haranguing me about my honor? How can I cultivate respect in the rank and file if you kick me? Now. Truly. Look at my absolutely serious face as I say this. What would you have me do? More to the point, what will your father do?”
Kestrel went still.
“A move must be made,” said the prince.
Lerralen. Kestrel had learned of the Valorians’ failure to invade via the beach there. She knew how smooth the terrain would be from the beach to Herran’s city.
If victory is slow, her father would say, it becomes increasingly harder to grasp.
He must wince from his defeat along the southern road. How could he wreak the most damage in retaliation? He could claw victory to himself by regrouping his forces to land at Lerralen with overwhelming force, with countless cannons and soldiers spread thick and wide. A costly victory. But if achieved, it’d lead to a rapid seizure of the city.
She told Roshar to garrison a contingent at Errilith to hold what they had well defended, and move the rest of his army west to reinforce the Dacrans stationed at Lerralen.
As she saddled Javelin and tightened the girth, she tried to quell the leaping worry in her belly. She should not worry.
After all, what could the general do that she could not do? Had she not learned war at his knee? Did his voice not haunt her? She thought about the way her memory—or imagination—of him seemed to advise her.
She didn’t like the way he was right. How she listened. She wondered if there was any difference between how she listened to him and how Arin listened to his god.
Hilly terrain smoothed as the army rode west. The land grew slightly arid. The dirt was a light grit.
Kestrel saw how the Herrani soldiers lured Arin into riding with them in the middle ranks. There were requests that he consider the gait of an unruly horse. Or a story left dangling, a teasing challenge: finish it, Arin, why don’t you . . . if you can. Sometimes a question: was Arin sure he wasn’t related to the Herrani royal line? This flustered Arin, and was so likely to hold him in extended conversation and vigorous denials that it was the most common ploy used to keep him in their company.
Once, when Arin let his horse fall back to ride with the Herrani, Kestrel caught Roshar’s sliding gaze. Pensive. Murky. A strange mixture of satisfaction and dis plea sure.
Kestrel said, “I thought you wanted them to love him.”
Roshar glanced over his shoulder at Arin in the middle ranks.
They rode in silence beneath the hard blue sky. Then Kestrel said, “On the tundra, Arin had a ring with a stone in it. Did you give it to him?”
“Never lend that boy anything. Careless. He lost it.”
“It could put people to sleep.”
“Yes.”
“And that white salve, the numbing one—is that eastern, too? Is it made from the same thing?”
“What an observant ghost you are. Yes, Kestrel. The liquid in that ring and the salve contain different quantities of a poisonous worm from our plains. A very little bit, mixed with ointment, will numb the skin. More will send you to sleep. More still? You take the goddess’s hand and live with her forever.”
“Why don’t you dip crossbow quarrels in it? I remember my father complaining about the poisoned arrows of the eastern plainspeople.”
“Alas, we’re far from the plains and my supply is limited.” He squinted at the sun. “Why do you ask?”
She was quiet.
He said, “You’re not thinking about crossbow quarrels.”
“Sometimes I have trouble sleeping.”
“In case I wasn’t clear, that part about taking the goddess’s hand means dead. As in, you die. In its highest concentration, you can die from simply touching the poison, even when the liquid dries.”
“I’d be careful.”
Roshar swiveled his horse in front of Kestrel’s, blocking her path. Javelin snorted and stopped.
