Page 14 of The Winner's Kiss
Prob ably.
Arin had no power to overrule him anyway. Few of his people were in any condition to fight. He had no troops to command. He was lucky to have the eastern queen’s help.
Yes, lucky.
The queen, however, was no fool. She must have heard of Xash’s resentment at being ignored by Arin in the planning of a key battle.
Arin was glad Roshar was here, but it was nonetheless clear that he had been sent to put Arin in his place.
Arin braced an arm against the casement, resting his forehead against his wrist. The night curled around him. He’d lit no lamp. He wondered if one of the reasons Valorians trained to get by on little sleep was so that they could feel the way he did right now: like there was no difference between him and the darkness. He heard the sough of trees. He thought of the general landing on Herran’s shore. The muscles in his arm hardened. He’d never sleep now. He kept seeing the cliffs. They rose, white and sparkling, in his mind.
Kestrel wouldn’t be able to resist those cliffs.
If she were mustering an invasion, she’d like the looks of the beach at Lerralen, but she’d love the cliffs. The cunning of it would be its own attraction. And the results . . . if even a small force got up those cliffs and came south to meet the Valorians already massed on the beach, Herran’s defenses would be easily broken. The Valorians would take the countryside and work their way to the city, whose bay was now too well defended to take by sea.
If Kestrel were the general, that’s what she’d do.
If Arin were Kestrel, that’s what he’d do.
Arin found that his loose hand had become a fist.
He remembered the golden, oiled line that had marked Kestrel’s brow as the sign of an engaged woman, and how much he’d hated it. One evening in the palace, Arin had slowly nudged Kestrel up against the wintered windows of a closed balcony door. He’d felt her slender length against him. He’d kissed her mark. Later, he tasted the cosmetic oil on his lips. It had been bitter. He’d touched his tongue to it again.
Arin had had to struggle so hard for clarity. The things he had believed! He thought about the night the spell had finally broken. He’d sailed from the east. He’d risked everything to creep into the palace. He saw her again: the dismay on her face, the cold irritation, the way she’d rubbed her hands against the skirts of her blue silk dress, the sleeves belled and fastened tight at the wrist. That deep blue poured around her as she’d sat at the piano and tried to ignore him and played a laughing little melody. When he refused to leave, she’d turned cruel.
It wasn’t entirely true that Arin felt nothing when he thought of Kestrel. He felt shame. He shuddered to think of his godsforsaken questions. He couldn’t believe he’d asked them.
What did you do for that treaty?
It gave me my country’s freedom. It saved my life. What did you do to make the emperor sign it?
Did you . . . are you . . . marrying the prince because of me? Was it . . . part of some kind of deal you made with the emperor?
He still heard her cutting replies.
He thanked the god of chance he’d stopped short of asking whether she was Tensen’s Moth—yet another of the fantasies he’d entertained about her in his compulsion to transform her into the person he longed for her to be. This, despite Tensen’s loyalty to him, his honesty. Tensen had already told him the identity of his anonymous spy: Risha, the eastern princess held hostage in the imperial court.
Arin straightened. His shoulders ached. He’d been standing in one position for too long. He sat on the wide windowsill, spine against the frame. He was aware of feeling both inside and outside. He let himself enjoy the balance of it. It cleared his head.
What happened with Kestrel hadn’t been for nothing. He’d gotten a feel for the way her mind worked. He’d caught her weakness for a sly move. He’d seen just how much she was her father’s daughter.
Arin wondered how many people he’d need to handle Valorian Rangers coming up the western cliffs.
He wondered if he, too, was tempted by cunning. Maybe he was drawn as well to the biggest gamble.
The first morning bird sang.
The Herrani god of games had once been mortal. Arin knew the tale. She’d gambled her way into immortality, then wreaked merry havoc. The gods were not pleased. They began to lose treasured possessions—a pair of gloves that let the wearer touch colors and sounds, a ring that contained a whole other world within its circle, the god of night’s favorite cat. When she won the sun, every one lost their patience. The god of war was sent to deal with her. But nothing is ever simple between the gods, and the stories of the gods of war and games were many . . . and took certain sensual twists and turns that Arin hadn’t been allowed to hear as a child.
Arin shut the window. He took his sword, which had been his father’s and forged with beautifully tempered steel. For almost ten years after the invasion the sword had hung on a wall in this house like a corpse on display. It felt good against his palm, and for a moment it felt as if he weren’t holding the sword but his father’s hand. Then the hilt became steel again.
He made his way (quickly, it was almost dawn) to his stables. He saddled Javelin—Kestrel’s horse, Arin’s now. The animal was strong and smart and fast.
Arin rode the stallion out into the gray morning. He thought that a commander of any army had better pray to both the gods of war and games. No battle is won without a good gamble.
As the ground sped beneath Javelin’s hooves, Arin had a fleeting thought of the messenger who’d come to see him.
Later, he decided, and spurred his horse.
