The Winner's Curse(50)
Arin shut the book, gripped it between rigid fingers. He nearly threw it into the fire.
I will have you torn limb from limb, the general had said.
That wasn’t why Arin stayed away from her. Not really.
He forced his thoughts from his head. He hid the book where it had been. He busied himself with quiet work, heating iron and charcoal in a crucible to produce steel.
It took some time before Arin realized he was humming a dark tune. For once, he didn’t stop himself. The pressure of song was too strong, the need for distraction too great. Then he found that the music caged behind his closed teeth was the melody Kestrel had played for him months ago. He felt the sensation of it, low and alive, on his mouth.
For a moment, he imagined it wasn’t the melody that touched his lips, but Kestrel.
The thought stopped his breath, and the music, too.
24
When no one was looking, Kestrel practiced walking around her suite. She often had to rest a hand against a wall, but she could make it to the windows.
She never saw what she wanted, which made her wonder whether this was mere chance or if Arin was avoiding her so completely that he took other paths across the grounds than those that passed through her view.
She couldn’t handle the stairs, which meant that a visit to the music room on the ground floor was impossible unless she consented to be carried, and she didn’t. Yet Kestrel caught her fingers playing phantom melodies on the furniture, on her thighs. The absence of music became an ache inside her. She wondered how Arin could bear not to sing, if he was indeed a singer.
Kestrel thought of the long flights of stairs, and forced her weak muscles to work.
She was standing in her visiting room, hands holding the carved back of a chair, when her father entered.
“There’s my girl,” he said. “On her feet already. You’ll be a military officer in no time with an attitude like that.”
Kestrel sat. She gave him a slight, ironic smile.
He returned it. “What I meant to say is that I’m glad you’re better, and that I’m sorry I can’t go to the Firstwinter ball.”
It was good that she was already sitting. “Why would you want to go to a ball?”
“I thought I would take you.”
She stared.
“It occurred to me that I have never danced with my daughter,” he said. “And it would have been a wise move.”
A wise move.
A show of force, then. A reminder of the respect due to the general’s family. Quietly, Kestrel said, “You’ve heard the rumors.”
He raised a hand, palm flat and facing her.
“Father—”
“Stop.”
“It’s not true. I—”
“We will not have this discussion.” His hand lifted to block his eyes, then fell. “Kestrel, I’m not here for that. I’m here to tell you that I’m leaving. The emperor is sending me east to fight the barbarians.”
It wasn’t the first time in Kestrel’s memory that her father had been sent to war, but the fear she felt was always the same, always keen. “For how long?”
“As long as it takes. I leave the morning of the ball with my regiment.”
“The entire regiment?”
He caught the tone in her voice. He sighed. “Yes.”
“That means there will be no soldiers in the city or its surroundings. If there’s a problem—”
“The city guard will be here. The emperor feels they can deal with any problem, at least until a force arrives from the capital.”
“Then the emperor is a fool. The captain of the city guard isn’t up to the task. You yourself said that the new captain is nothing but a bungler, someone who got the position because he’s the governor’s toady—”
“Kestrel.” His voice was quelling. “I’ve already expressed my reservations to the emperor. But he gave me orders. It’s my duty to follow them.”
Kestrel studied her fingers, the way they wove together. She didn’t say Come back safely, and he didn’t say I always have. She said what a Valorian should. “Fight well.”
“I will.”
He was halfway to the door when he glanced back and said, “I’m trusting you to do what’s right while I’m gone.”
Which meant that he didn’t trust her—not quite.
Later that day, Lirah brought Kestrel’s lunch. The slave wouldn’t look at her. She set the tray down on a low table near the divan where Kestrel rested, and her movements were hurried, shaky. She spilled some tea.
“There’s no need to rush,” Kestrel said.
The girl’s hands quieted, but her breath became uneven and harsh. A tear slipped down her cheek.