Page 161 of The Winner's Kiss
“That’s not why.”
“Why you’ll miss me? I admit that the impending absence of my keen wit would make anyone sad.”
“Not exactly.”
“Now I’m getting sad, just thinking about how it would feel to be parted from my sweet self. Lucky me: I will always have my own company.”
“What you said at the banquet was true.”
“Every thing I say is true.”
“That I love you.”
Roshar’s face went still. “I said that?”
“You know that you did.”
“That was more for the drama of the moment.”
“Liar.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Roshar said slowly. “I really am. Arin.” His voice roughened. “You’ll see me again.”
“Soon,” Arin told him, and embraced him. Then they broke away and maybe some would have thought that the sun was a little cruel, for how its brightness allowed no subterfuge in their expressions, and every thing that could be seen was shown. But Arin thought that it was a kindness. He wanted to be a mirror, to reflect what Roshar was to him.
A launch waited in the water below. Arin wished him fair tides. He watched until the launch reached Roshar’s ship, then watched as the ship, with the rest of the entire Dacran fleet, left his city’s bay.
He glimpsed Sarsine as he walked through the city. She had a laden basket—it dragged at her arm, making its weight known even from far away. Her faintly harried expression softened at the sight of him.
Arin took the basket from her. “Coming or going?”
“I’ve an errand here, and won’t be home until late.”
“Shall I guess what brings you to town?”
“You can try.”
He peeked in the basket. Bread, still warm from the oven. A bottle of liquor. Long, flat pieces of wood. Rolls of gauze. “A picnic . . . with a wounded soldier? Sarsine,” he teased, “is it true love? What’s the wood for? Wait, don’t tell me. I’m not sure I want to know.”
She swatted him. “The cartwright’s oldest daughter has a broken arm.”
It dropped ice to the bottom of his stomach. He thought of the ruined bodies he’d seen, including the ones he himself had ruined. He realized that he had somehow expected that he’d never have to think again about the way people damage other people.
The night of the invasion. Kestrel’s back. His own. Roshar’s scarred face. His own. The way a body on the battlefield could look as if it had never been human, and that was exactly what Arin had wanted to do to Kestrel’s father, who was in this city, his city, in a prison made to be comfortable, when no comfort could return the man’s arm, and no walls could imprison Arin’s knowledge of what he had done and wanted to do and couldn’t regret.
Yet he did regret.
He could not.
He did.
“Arin, are you all right?”
“How?” he managed. “How did her arm break?”
“She fell off a ladder.”
He must have visibly relaxed, because his cousin raised her brows and looked ready to scold.
