Page 94 of The Winner's Kiss
But when she stopped speaking, the silence lasted longer than it should have.
“Alis,” said the officer, “where are you from?”
She pretended to misunderstand the question. “Sir, I came from the rebels’ camp.”
“That’s not what I mean. Where are you from?”
Her confidence vanished. He suspected her. She didn’t know anything of the scout’s history. Kestrel had taken the token and the map and had left as quickly as she could.
Carefully, Kestrel told the officer, “I thought you already knew.”
“Remind me.”
The lamplight was strong enough that he’d see if she began to inch a hand toward her dagger. She stayed still. Gambling, she told him, “I’m a colonial girl.” The odds were with her; almost all of Valoria was a colony.
“But from where, exactly?”
She coughed again, making the sound murky and wet, and tried to think. “From here.” Scouts deployed in Herran would have to know the language. Ideally the terrain, too. The scout—Alis—had been young, Roshar had said. Green, to be so easily caught. If the general chose someone with little experience to gather intelligence on the enemy, it must be because she had advantages that outweighed her inexperience, such as familiarity with the country.
“I’m from here, too,” the officer said softly.
“Yes, sir.” Her heart sped.
“I spent my youth on a farm west of here.” He took a step closer. She held her ground. He wasn’t close enough yet to see her clearly; she couldn’t see him clearly. But she caught, now, the slight accent in his voice. She would have had a colonial accent, too, if her father hadn’t ordered her tutors to hammer any sign of it from her voice. In Valorian, she possessed the voice of a capital courtier, polished and pure.
“I want my home back,” the officer said.
“So do I.” She kept her voice low, rough from coughing, but added a subtle lilt—just enough that he might think the accent had been there all along, and that he’d somehow missed it. “What are my orders?” She tried to keep the question steady. Her pulse was relentless.
“Return to your post. I’ll inform the general of your report.”
“Yes, sir.” The words came out in a relieved rush.
“Not quite yet.” The officer set the lamp down on the forest floor and backed away. “Pick up the lamp.”
Dread mounted in her throat. “Sir?”
“Pick up the lamp and show me your face.”
“But.” She swallowed. “The infection.”
“I want to see it. I’ll keep my distance.”
“The risk—”
“Soldier. Pick up the lamp. Show me your face.”
Trust me, she’d told Arin. She remembered the strength in her voice and tried to summon that strength again. She thought, fleetingly, that this must be what memory was for: to rebuild yourself when you lose the pieces.
Slowly, Kestrel walked toward the lamp. She kept her head down, though she didn’t think he could see her face yet—she’d seen nothing of his during the moment after he’d set the lamp at his feet, just before he’d backed away. She closed one eye: an old trick her father had taught her for night-fighting that involved torches or lamps. One eye adjusted to see by torchlight. One eye kept in reserve, to see in total darkness if the light went out.
“I don’t want anyone to see me,” she told the officer. “The disease has ruined my face.”
“Show me. Now.”
She grabbed the lamp and smashed it against a boulder.
He swore. Her dagger was in her hand. She heard him draw his sword.
