Page 158 of The Winner's Kiss
“Oh, so it just happened.”
“Yes.”
“The gods made you do it.”
Kestrel laughed. “Maybe they did.” Then, earnestly, she said, “I’m sorry, Sarsine.”
Sarsine folded her arms. “Then make it up to me.”
“How?”
Sarsine’s expression softened. Now there was an inquisitive gleam in her eye. “Start with the night you left. End with this very moment. And tell me every thing.”
So Kestrel did.
There was to be a city-wide feast to celebrate the military victory, with a banquet at the governor’s palace, where Queen Inishanaway would preside. The cooks in Arin’s house were hard at work, slaughtering every chicken in the yard, pulping erasti fruit and thumping dough against floured tables.
Arin was in the still room, trying to soothe the anxiety of a woman who was saying that she had just preserved the jams, and must all of them be used for the banquet, every last one? She didn’t think the Dacrans appreciated ilea fruit. Why serve something they wouldn’t love as much as the Herrani did? It would be best, surely, to keep at least those jars for winter.
Trying to explain the politics of such lavish consumption tangled Arin up in frustrated half sentences, because it didn’t make much sense to him, either, to consume every edible thing in one night.
And then he heard Roshar’s accented voice in Herrani drifting down the hall from the kitchens.
“. . . you don’t understand. The piece of meat must be the finest, cut from the loin, seasoned with this spice, not that one . . .”
Arin excused himself, told the woman he’d discuss jams later, and followed the prince’s voice.
“. . . and it must be well roasted on the outside, almost charred, yet bloody inside. Bright pink. Listen. This is crucial. If anything goes wrong, the banquet will be ruined.”
Arin entered the main kitchen to find the prince haranguing the head cook, who slid a half-lidded look of annoyed sufferance at Arin.
“There you are.” Roshar beamed. “I need your help, Arin.”
“For the preparation of meat?”
“It’s very important. You must impress this importance upon your cook here. The fate of political relations between my country and yours hangs in the balance.”
“Because of meat.”
“It’s for his tiger,” said the cook.
Arin palmed his face, eyes squeezed shut. “Your tiger.”
“He’s very particular,” said Roshar.
“You can’t bring the tiger to the banquet.”
“Little Arin has missed me. I will not be parted from him.”
“Would you consider changing his name?”
“No.”
“What if I begged?”
“Not a chance.”
“Roshar, the tiger has grown.”
