Page 86 of The Winner's Kiss
She shucked her clothes onto the grass. She needed to feel the water on her skin.
It was freezing. She ducked under, opened her eyes, and looked up through the wavering water at the blue and yellow sky. The cold made her remember that her father must have held her once the way Arin had held the baby. She held her breath and treaded hard to keep her weight below the surface.
It was cold, but the light was beautiful: broken and blurred by the water’s rippled silk, as if the sky wasn’t simply the sky but a whole other world. Magic, possible. Just within reach.
She washed her clothes and didn’t wait for them to dry fully before putting them back on. She wrung out her hair and braided it.
Wending between the trees, she stepped noiselessly, finding moss or dirt or stone for her feet, never leaves or twigs.
You walk well, her father had said once.
Being quiet is hardly a requisite skill for battle, Father.
You could be a Ranger, he’d insisted, but this was after a spectacularly bad training session he’d watched. Her with a sword. The captain of her father’s personal guard screaming at her. She knew her father didn’t believe his own hope.
His voice echoed in her head, and her heart cramped. It felt as if she were underwater again, with someone holding her below the surface.
She shoved the memory away. There was only so much she could bear to remember.
A game. Make a game of it. How silently can you walk? Let’s see.
Toe, not heel. Tree root. This patch of earth, darker and therefore soft. Spears of sun pierced through the trees. Her damp braid bounced between her shoulder blades.
But there was no one to witness her silence. No one to say You walk well. Although Kestrel understood the plea sure of doing something for herself alone, had played the piano for hours for her own ears and to feel the stretch and jump of her fingers, the reach of her long arms, she also knew what it was like to play for someone. It makes a difference. It’s hard not to want to be heard, seen. To share.
A twig lay in her path. She paused, then deliberately stomped it. Crack.
“Pity.” The voice echoed in the quiet clearing. “You were doing so nicely.”
Roshar. Her eyes found him several paces away, leaning against a tree, watching her. She approached. There was blood on him.
“Sometimes, little ghost, you remind me of my sister,” he said.
Her brows shot up.
He laughed. “Not that one.”
Kestrel wasn’t sure what connection he saw between her and Risha. Because his younger sister was a hostage in the imperial court? Maybe.
“Whose blood?” She tipped her chin in the direction of his spattered forearms.
“A Valorian scout. About your size. I came looking for you, thought you might like to try her armor. Stylish. Light. Very Valorian. Good condition. Nary a scratch in the leather.”
“What about the scout?”
“Hard to catch. Harder to subdue.”
She gave him a level look.
Roshar tugged a cropped ear. “She’s alive.”
“When that scout doesn’t report back, the general will know we’re here.”
“All the more reason to find out what she knows.”
“Don’t . . . press her.”
“Kestrel,” he said quietly, “the blood is from the fight when we captured her. Not torture.”
