Page 21 of The Winner's Kiss
Why would a Herrani woman be so insistent on her anonymity?
A servant, likely, in the imperial palace. Scared to be discovered. The emperor was a vengeful man.
Arin touched his scar. His fingers were sticky.
Could the Moth have been Deliah? But the Herrani dressmaker, who had sewn Arin’s face, had given him information directly. He didn’t understand why she would do that and go through an elaborate charade of being Tensen’s secret spy.
As if guessing the course of his thoughts, Sarsine said, “What about the messenger?”
“I spoke with him. Told him he could go home.”
“Arin. The borders are closed. He trekked through the mountains from Valoria. You can’t send him back. He has no home.”
Arin winced. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“That only happens to you when your heart gets in the way.”
He felt again that flutter of unease. He tried to remember the dream he had made himself forget. He stood, eager to get away from his cousin, who knew him too well—even though that was, he realized, why he had come. “The messenger can stay in my old rooms, then.”
Sarsine said, “I’ll let him know, if he hasn’t already left.”
Roshar was in the kitchen yard with his tiger, who’d just killed a chicken. The flagstones were strewn with bloody feathers. The tiger, though still small, had large paws. It lay in the yard, panting in the sun, paws over its prize, muzzle pink and wet.
The prince eyed Arin.
“Was that a laying hen?” Arin asked.
“I have news for you. Not about chickens.”
“The Valorian prisoners?”
Roshar sat at the edge of the well, his expression hard to read.
Arin’s heart dropped. “What kind of news?”
“Would you like the bad news first, or the news I’m not sure whether you will take as good or bad?”
“Bad news.”
“Your spymaster’s dead.”
“Tensen?” Arin had expected this, yet the stab of sorrow went as deep as if he’d been wholly unprepared.
“The dressmaker, too. The general killed Tensen—or at least, that’s what they say. Unclear about the dressmaker.”
Arin’s stomach was hollow. He remembered looking up at Deliah through the veil of his own blood and thinking, for a moment, that she looked like his mother.
“Do you want the other news?” Roshar tentatively asked.
No. Arin was suddenly sure that he did not want to hear it, would not be able to bear it. He felt a sinking dread.
“Your . . .” Roshar stumbled.
A chicken feather lifted in a sudden breeze and eddied along the base of the well.
“Arin, Kestrel’s dead.”
His ears were ringing. He felt as if he’d fallen into the well. He heard Roshar’s voice from far away. The words tumbled down to him. “It was recent,” Roshar said. “A disease. While she was away from the capital, traveling with the prince. The whole empire is in mourning.”
